Some had called her exile a death sentence.
Cosmina knew better. Regardless of the fear and uncertainty, her expulsion had been her salvation. Instead of death that dark day, she’d gained her freedom. From servitude inside the temple and a High Priestess that craved her gift, but cared naught for her. From the realization that no matter how much she believed—or how hard she tried—she would never measure up to Ylenia’s twisted standards.
Just as well.
She hadn’t been made for music and poetry. For prayer and ceremony either. She preferred her knives to quill and parchment. Had been made for a battlefield, not a ballroom. The years away had only strengthened her resolve and honed her ability. And yet, even in the face of confidence—of sure skill and certain knowledge—her dread refused to fade. She must do the goddess proud. She mustn’t spoil the ancient rite.
She must remember the words . . .
Or die trying.
Arms and legs pumping, Cosmina vaulted onto the first step. Wasting no time, she took the treads two at a time. Her satchel banged against the outside of her thigh. An ache bloomed at the base of her skull, clanging like a warning bell. Cosmina ignored its seductive pull. She didn’t have time for nonsense, never mind another vision. She was close. So close now. Twenty feet at most, and she would skirt the altar and slide to a stop in front of the wall carvings. The pictographs told the history of White Temple, but also served as a ruse. The intricate design rose in an impressive sweep, colorful images camouflaging the keyhole that unlocked the door into the Chamber of Whispers.
The ball of her foot connected on the top tread. A difficult jump. A quick shift in midair, and she leapt over the iron railing. With the quiet grace of a cat, she landed on the other side. Boot soles slapping against tarnished marble, she flipped her cloak over her shoulders. Raising her chin, she reached beneath her leather hauberk and pulled out the silver disc she wore on the end of a delicate chain. Engravings on one side, raised metal on the other, the ancient key settled in her palm as she sighted the identical indentation hidden in the wall design. She came even with the gilded corner of the huge altar.
A whisper of sound slithered through the quiet.
Cosmina’s attention snapped left, but—
A man appeared in her path, materializing out of thin air.
“Gods!” Her shout rippled, slamming through the rotunda.
Arms and legs churning, she reversed course, trying to stay out of range. But it was too late. Locked on, the warrior moved in for the kill. With a quick stride and even faster hands, he fisted the front of her mantle. He growled. She squawked as he lifted her off the floor. Fear spun her around the lip of insanity. By the gods, where had he come from? A good question. One that left her head the instant her attacker spun around and let go, launching her through the air.
Breath locked in her throat, Cosmina braced for impact. Oh goddess. She was in for a terrible tumble, a hard landing, one that wasn’t going to be—
She collided with the top of the altar.
Whiplashed into a death skid, she spun across the golden surface. Dust flew. Panic shrieked, banding around her rib cage. Chest tight, heart throbbing against her breastbone, Cosmina grasped for purchase. Too little, too late. She was already falling. With a gasp, she hurtled over the edge and slammed into the floor on the other side.
CHAPTER FOUR
Henrik cursed as he lost his grip on the intruder. He heard the gasp of alarm. Saw the pint-size body whirl through the air and the dark cloak billow around the hat on the boy’s head. All without him moving a muscle to help. Mayhap ’twas the shock of losing control. Mayhap ’twas the idea he no longer knew his own strength. Mayhap ’twas the god-awful magic coursing through his veins. Or the combination of the three, but . . . ah hell. The reasons didn’t matter. Only one thing held true . . .
He shouldn’t be standing around watching it happen.
Some sort of action seemed necessary. Chief among the options included intervening to stop the scamp’s violent tumble. A good plan, but for one considerable problem. The second the realization took root, the boy rotated into a death skid and plummeted off the other side of the altar. A vicious thud echoed, ricocheting through the rotunda.
A soft groan followed.
Henrik winced, feeling the boy’s pain, hating that he’d caused it. Lovely. Just terrific. Completely idiotic too. Empathy wasn’t his usual fare. Neither was regretting something he couldn’t change.
Not that his newfound conscience cared.
The thing kept poking at him, squawking when he least expected. A problem. A serious one, considering he’d never felt guilty about anything until a few months ago. The fact he’d somehow grown a conscience in so little time annoyed the hell out of him. Assassins didn’t care. His kind killed. Obliterated. Maimed and eviscerated. Concern didn’t come into it. Neither did second-guessing himself. Somehow, though, the killer he kept caged—and unleashed on a regular basis—cared far too much now.
With a sigh, Henrik shoved the hood of his heavy cloak off his hair. As the wool folded around the base of his neck, he shook his head. There was something wrong with him. No way should he feel bad about the rough treatment. Particularly since the boy was inside the holy city, a place he shouldn’t be anywhere near. White Temple wasn’t for the masses. Or wayward boys who wanted a taste of adventure, but . . . goddamn it. Even as he told himself the interloper deserved his skull thumped, contrition struck, knocking the wind out of an excellent argument.
Sweet Christ. Talk about bad timing. And untapped strength. He hadn’t meant to toss the boy, but well . . . hell. He’d expected a boy of that size to weigh a lot more.
Another low moan rose from behind the altar.
“Brilliant, H.” Tone hushed, the French accent crept up the wide-faced staircase. Andrei followed, stepping from the shadows flanking the base of a massive column. “Taken to brutalizing infants now, have you?”
“Stow it, Andrei.” Glancing over his shoulder, Henrik tossed his friend an annoyed look, then switched focus. The boy still hadn’t gotten up. His brows collided as a list of potential injuries streamed into his head. Had the scamp hit his head on the edge of the altar? Had he broken a bone upon impact? Was he even now bleeding all over the marble floor? Angst tightened Henrik’s chest. “Keep your eyes open.”
“The bastards are here somewhere,” Shay said, his quiet voice drifting down from somewhere high. Henrik scanned the narrow architectural frieze situated at the top of the pillars. He found his apprentice on the first go-around. Henrik huffed. He should’ve guessed. The young assassin preferred heights—enjoyed scaling monster cliffs most skilled climbers would never attempt. “The city stinks of them.”
Leather rasped against steel as Andrei palmed his throwing stars.
“I sense them. ’Tis like an uncomfortable prickle, a buzz between my temples,” Henrik murmured, feeling the strange slither of sensation. The zing made his skin tighten, awakening senses he hadn’t known he possessed. ’Twas as though his magic reacted to another kind . . . a darker presence within the holy city. “Do you feel that?”
Andrei shook his head. “Non, but footprints in snow never lie.”
“Neither does Henrik’s gut,” Shay said, speculation in his gaze. “I don’t feel it either, H. Can you track it?”
“Unclear.” Henrik frowned. “I feel it, but the connection is weak. I don’t know if I can follow the trail.”
“Allow me.” Blue eyes narrowed, Andrei stepped back into the shadows. “I will go—”
“Nay. We stay together.” The hum inside Henrik’s veins intensified. He tuned in, tracking the slither and slide, trying to understand. He’d never felt anything like it. Another new skill? A symptom of all the goddess’ meddling? Excellent questions. Ones best left for another time. The sensation kept shifting, becoming a pulse of warning, telling him Al Pacii assassins closed the gap, heading their way. “Strength in numbers.”
As his comrades murmured in assent,
Henrik strode around the end of the altar. He needed to get the boy moving toward the nearest exit. The sooner he left, the better. No way he wanted the scamp anywhere near the coming battle. The enemy wouldn’t care that he was an innocent caught in the cross fire. Regardless of his tender age, the Al Pacii bastards would gut and leave him to bleed out on the temple floor.
No mercy. No second chances. Just a slow, hard death.
Henrik gritted his teeth. Christ help him if that happened. He had enough to feel guilty about without tossing that mess onto the ever-growing pile. Gold glimmered in the low light as he cleared the corner of the altar and stepped around—
Steel glinted in the gloom.
A six-inch blade sliced toward him.
Reflexes kicked in. His muscles coiled. Henrik leapt sideways, away from the threat. The razor-sharp tip grazed his thigh, cutting through his trews. Surprise made him stare at the gash in the leather even as he shifted into a fighting stance. He frowned. What in God’s name did the boy think he was doing? Well, besides ruining his favorite pair of goddamned trews.
Fists raised and brows drawn, Henrik scowled at the little bastard. Huge green eyes met his over the points of twin daggers and . . .
Henrik sucked in a quick breath. He took a step back. “Jesus Christ.”
Not the most elegant response. Then again, neither was his reaction. But both were warranted, not to mention appropriate, ’cause . . . shit. He didn’t know to react—had never . . . ah hell. Another mistake on his part. He’d missed the obvious. The scamp staring him down was not a boy, but a woman dressed as one.
Unable to believe his eyes, his gaze skimmed over her again. A pretty good disguise, all things considered. Without her hat, though, the smoke screen dissipated. No one would ever mistake her for a boy with all that thick red hair. Tumbling in loose curls, the cascade reached well past her shoulders, framing her pretty face, giving her a disheveled look that only increased her appeal. Instant attraction sparked, blazing into an inferno, making his heart thump and his body tighten. Christ take him. Even dressed as a boy—trews, leather tunic, short boots, and a heavy woolen cloak—she presented an enticing picture.
One he appreciated, even though she held him at knifepoint.
The observation should’ve alarmed him. Her bravery charmed him instead. Not many had the balls to threaten him. Most turned tail and ran when faced with the possibility of taking him on. But not her. Courage out in full force, she stood firm, weapons raised with the wherewithal to use them. He could tell by the way she leveled the twin blades at him. Hands steady. Grip sure. Dagger tips pointed at just the right angle. His mouth curved. Incredible. A sight to behold. A warrior wrapped up in a small package.
He shifted toward her.
She adjusted her fighting stance. “Stay back.”
Her hushed tone reached out to stroke him. Pleasure ghosted down his spine. Henrik quelled the reaction. No matter how appealing he found her, he must stay even. Desire was all fine and good, but not here. She felt threatened—with very good reason. So nay, ’twas no time to give the traitor behind the lacing of his trews free reign. He needed his head screwed on straight and a solid plan to disarm her. If he didn’t do it right—or fast enough—he’d cause her pain. And the last thing he wanted to do was hurt her. Again.
Gaze steady on his, her back to the altar, she stepped to her right. He mirrored each of her movements, pressing the advantage of his position while weakening hers.
Not liking his proximity, she bared her teeth. “Move away.”
“No need for alarm.” Holding his arms out to the sides, Henrik flipped both hands palm up. The move was designed to reassure her. She didn’t take the bait, keeping her guard high and him at bay. Boots sliding over marble tile, he kept pace with her and, dancing the dance, searched for an opening between her blades. He didn’t have much time. The buzz between his temples told the tale, sending up a serious warning. The enemy was approaching, which meant . . . time to disarm the little hellion and send her to safety. “I mean you no harm.”
“Liar.”
“Leave. I will not stop you.”
“I belong here. You do not . . .” She twisted a blade in her hand, leveling one at him. “Get out.”
Her territorial tone rubbed him the wrong way. The words whispered through his mind. I belong here. Hell in a handbasket. She couldn’t mean . . . wasn’t admitting to . . .
Suspicion took an ugly turn, raising internal alarms bells. As the clang got going inside his head, Henrik raked her with his gaze. He clenched his teeth. Please let him be wrong. He’d hoped never to see her kind again. Didn’t want anything to do with blind faith, never mind those who held it in high regard. And yet even as he hoped for the best, instinct told him to expect the worst. Swallowing the bad taste in his mouth, he tabled his hunch. Intuition was all fine and good, but facts were better. Mayhap he was just being paranoid. Mayhap she’d simply made White Temple her home when everyone else deserted the holy city. Henrik stifled a snort. And mayhap he would grow two heads on the morrow.
Her assertion—and the steely tone that carried it—left little doubt.
His eyes narrowed on her. “You are one of the Blessed.”
“What I am is none of your affair.” Eyes glittering with mistrust, her fingers flexed around the knife hilts as she sidestepped again. Her mistake. The slight shift unbalanced her for a split second, giving him an opening. “Get the hell—”
Lightning quick, he struck. She cursed as he slipped through her guard. She spun, trying to counter. But it was too late. He’d already invaded her space, moving in so tight she couldn’t maneuver. A precise strike. A quick twist, and he blocked each of her thrusts. She lost her grip on her weapons. Steel whirled through the air. The twin blades clattered against the floor and slid, colliding with the wall behind him as he surrounded her with his body.
She lashed out. Her small fist came toward his head. Henrik dodged the blow and tightened his hold. Using gentle pressure, he spun her around, lifted her off the ground, and took a step forward. She gasped in outrage. He pressed his advantage, trapping her between him and the lip of the altar. Her hip bones pressed to the edge, he bent her forward and pinned her down: bottom up, breasts pressed to the golden surface, his thigh lodged between her own as her feet dangled inches from the floor.
“Let go!” Fighting like a wildcat, she bucked beneath him. “Get off me!”
“Little hellion, calm down.” Shackling both her wrists with one hand, he immobilized her. Her breath hitched as she vibrated beneath him. Fear. A cartload of it. He smelled it on her and . . . remorse hit him chest level. Goddamn it. He was scaring the hell out of her. Which made him feel an inch tall. Particularly since he respected women too much to ever hurt one. But desperate times called for rougher methods. He needed to know. Couldn’t let her go until she answered his question. So like it or nay, he would play the ruffian until she did. “I meant what I said. I am no threat to you. But tell me true, or I’ll see for myself.”
“Nay,” she said, gritting the denial between clenched teeth. “You have no right—”
“Have it your way.”
“Don’t!”
He ignored her and, backing off a bit, wrenched her cloak from beneath her hips. As he held her down and tossed the thick wool to one side, she threatened to kill him . . . with a battle-axe . . . to the head. Henrik almost grinned. Almost, but not quite. He was too busy staring at the curves he’d uncovered. Christ, she was well put together, sweetly rounded in all the right places. Which—damn it to hell and back—was the wrong thought to be thinking.
Especially right now. With her pinned beneath him.
But that didn’t stop him. His grip firm, he unsheathed one of his daggers and sliced the lacing running up the back of her leather tunic. The binding gave way, parting to reveal a linen undershirt. She reared, kicking out with her legs. Re-sheathing his blade, he pushed her back down and, with a sharp tug, pulled the fabric from the waistband of her trews
.
She snarled at him. Henrik swallowed hard. Oh God. Christ be merciful. So soft. So sweet. A beautiful expanse of smooth, pale skin.
Desire licked through him.
He put a leash on the errant urges and clung to self-discipline. To hell with his reaction to her. He was stronger—more experienced—than that. No way would he allow baser needs to get in the way. Answers. He wanted some. Right now. Needed to see the mark and confirm her status without a shadow of a doubt. But as he shoved at the linen, pushing it up her torso—uncovering the incredible curve of her waist, the fine indent of her rib cage, seeing goose bumps spread on her skin—Henrik struggled to control his lust. All of a sudden he wanted to touch, to taste, to slip between her thighs and find the heart of her, instead of discovering the truth.
Dumb. Reprehensible. So wrong in every way.
And yet, he refused to stop. Or let her go.
Another shove. The linen rose another six inches, catching beneath her arms. She twisted, quivering with fear, raging beneath him, revealing the side of her breast. Henrik blew out a long, slow breath. Call him a wretch, then call it a night, ’cause . . . God. She was beautiful. All smooth skin, tempting curves, the taut curve of her breast so enticing, his imagination took flight and filled in the blanks, supplying an image of her in his bed. Bowed in supplication beneath him. Legs spread and lips parted as she begged for his possession.
Henrik cursed. Wrong thought. Again.
“You bastard.”
Without a doubt. He qualified as the worst sort. But as he uncovered the expanse between her shoulder blades, Henrik knew he’d taken the correct tack. Been right to check because—aye, there it was—the moon-star, the symbol of the Goddess of All Things burned into her back. Literally. Unlike him, she hadn’t been born with the mark. Hers had been seared into her skin the moment she’d been born inside White Temple.
Knight Avenged (Circle of Seven #2) Page 4
