“Precisely,” Halál said, body tight, anticipation rising even as experience tempered his eagerness. “Until we know what the bastards are capable of, we fight together.”
A sound strategy.
Andrei and the blue fire made him wary. The fact he hadn’t seen or sensed Henrik upon entering High Temple doubled his usual caution. Something odd was afoot—the power play of deities chief among them. Armand had altered him, after all, gifting him with eternal youth and powers yet beyond his ken, so aye, little doubt remained. The Goddess of All Things had leveled the playing field, countering the Prince of Shadows’ move. Which meant . . .
No room for error. Even less for impatience.
He must proceed with extreme care. Tease out the truth. Assemble all the facts. Find the weakness in Henrik’s armor in order to exploit it. But as Halál split from the pack and led his group toward the western wall, the throb in his veins picked up a beat. And then another. As it beat a drum, thrumming inside his head, he admitted the truth. Impartiality wasn’t possible tonight. He wanted the Keeper of the Key. Couldn’t wait until he held her in his grasp.
Youth presented him with all kinds of possibilities: the power to enforce his will, do as he pleased, and make her his pet the more interesting among them. Halál pursed his lips. Or mayhap he wouldn’t do anything of the sort. Mayhap he’d present her as a gift to Armand, just to see what happened. A hum lit off in his veins, gripping his body until muscle tightened over bone.
A plaything inside Grey Keep with one purpose—his master’s pleasure.
Infinite possibility. Unending entertainment. Could prove to be very, very interesting.
Moving down the deserted corridor, Halál jogged around a blind corner. Deep in shadow, the entry to the corner tower beckoned. Not wasting a moment, he ran beneath the archway, and legs pumping, ascended the spiral staircase. Brisk night air turned frigid, washing over him as he reached the apex. The iron handle chilled his palm. Metal clicked against metal. He shoved the door wide and stepped onto the rampart atop the western wall.
Within seconds, he stood halfway down the narrow walkway. His assassins filed out behind him, taking up positions along the parapet. The wind whistled through the abandoned guardhouse, flicking at the hem of his cloak. Halál ignored the icy rush and scanned the terrain beyond the city walls. He glanced left, then right, and smiled in satisfaction.
The perfect vantage point.
From his position high above the dell, he saw everything—the wide, flat expanse of fields, the main road into White Temple, and the thin line of hedgerows on either side. The cemetery, though, captured and held his interest. North of the road, the grove possessed real possibility. A point of cover. Mayhap even a ready escape. Even stripped of foliage, the large beech trees surrounding the cemetery threw shadows, impeding his view, and—
The moon emerged from behind wispy clouds.
Illumination spilled, painting the terrain in winter white. His mouth curved. Beautiful. Light abounded. No cover in sight. Very little for Henrik to work with if he chose the boneyard as his means of escape. Gaze roaming over tombstones, Halál refocused on the front of the mausoleum and, giving a hand signal to his assassins, settled into a crouch. Nothing to do now but wait. And hope that whatever tunnel Henrik traveled exited on the western front . . .
On Halál’s side of the wall.
CHAPTER NINE
The tunnel walls closed in, constricting until Henrik felt the squeeze. The lockdown caused a visceral chain reaction. Nothing new. Being underground did that to him, spinning him in dangerous directions, making it impossible not to relive his history inside White Temple. Like a brutal taskmaster, past experience rose, twisting the screws, building the pressure until his temples throbbed and his mind bled, force-feeding him the first seven years of his life.
All of it spent in hell. Under his mother’s thumb.
His arms flexed around Cosmina. She shifted in his embrace, tucking her head beneath his chin. Warm and soft in his arms, the feel of her helped center him. It wouldn’t be long now. Just a bit farther. The thought should’ve calmed him. It didn’t. He couldn’t ignore the walls. Like a closing vise, stone shifted, narrowing the tunnel with each step he took. Nonsense, he knew. An optical illusion brought on by irrational fear. The passageway wasn’t moving. The vertical slabs stood strong and still, as stalwart as ever. And yet . . .
Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades.
Sucking in a shallow breath, Henrik gave himself a pep talk. Stay steady. Stay true. Be strong. The words and reassurance didn’t help. Neither did the constant pump of his chest. No matter how much air he forced into his lungs, he couldn’t get enough. ’Twas too thin. Too musty. Too damp with winter chill and the weighted claw of warning. Henrik drew another lungful anyway and, forcing one foot in front of the other, followed Andrei’s lead.
Not that he could see his friend.
Hell, he couldn’t see past the end of his own nose, never mind along the length of the narrow passageway. No torches to use. No light to rely upon. Just total darkness, the kind of blackness that consumed everything.
His stomach pitched. Henrik exhaled hard, then drew in another breath. Pressure tightened its grip, banding around his rib cage. More sweat bloomed, wetting the hair at the nape of his neck. Like a snake, the beads slithered down his spine, raising gooseflesh on his damp skin. Gritting his teeth, Henrik stared straight ahead. He needed to stay calm. Refused to break down now. He’d survived far worse than a tight corridor deep underground.
Being stuffed into the murder hole each night qualified as worse.
Eyes straining in the darkness, Henrik dragged his mind away from the past. As it settled back on the present, he slowed the pace. Walking now, he listened for his comrades. Andrei was still in front of him . . . up there . . . somewhere. Shay moved behind him, bringing up the rear of their unhappy little procession through the bowels of White Temple. Rhythmic splashes of quick footfalls through the trench of water underfoot offered up clues. Each noise added to the next, amplified in the small space, allowing him to gauge distances.
A thump echoed five feet behind him.
“Jesu,” Shay said, sounding set upon. The sound of brisk rubbing ensued as his apprentice tried to soothe whatever part of him had struck stone. “Where the hell are the torches? Anyone with half a brain knows to equip an escape route with torches, for God’s sake.”
Andrei grunted in agreement.
Wood groaned an ominous warning.
Henrik tensed and . . . oh shit. Not good. The high-pitched creak signaled trouble. The kind no one needed in cramped quarters and a dark corridor. Wood groaned again. Henrik listened harder, waiting for telltale signs and his friend to fill him in. He needed to know what the hell was going on. If Andrei didn’t—
Cosmina stirred against him. “What is it?”
Henrik shook his head, then realized the absurdity of the action. She couldn’t see him. Not while surrounded by darkness, never mind blind. “Not sure. Give Andrei a moment. He’ll—”
“Merde,” Andrei muttered, sliding on something underfoot. Like a low snarl in the dark, another creak drifted, skimming the stone walls. “Stop. Back up. I just stepped on—”
Crack! Timber snapped, obliterating the quiet.
Andrei cursed. Steel clanged against stone. A loud splash echoed. The harsh rasp of breath and the sound of flailing followed, beating the air around them.
“Son of a—Mon Dieu, I’m in a well of some kind.” Water slapped against something hard as Andrei swiveled. “Henrik, I fell. Mayhap twenty feet. It’s a trap. Full of water. Wide mouth, smooth sides, and—”
“Are you injured?” Shay stepped alongside him, crowding Henrik in the corridor.
“Non, but . . .” Nails scraping against the side walls, Andrei paused. “I’m not a strong swimmer.”
“Hold on.” Heart beating triple time, Henrik tried not to think about the trap. Or the fact he might have to go down to get his frie
nd. “Let me put Cosmina down and—”
“We need light.” Eyelashes fluttered against the side of his throat. Cosmina raised her head, bumping the underside of his chin. Henrik flinched. Hell, she was more than just awake. She was coherent—mind focused and voice strong even though her body remained weak, nestled against him, still in need of his support. “Andrei . . . use your fire.”
Silence greeted that command, then . . .
“I don’t know how. In the temple, when I saw Halál take aim at Henrik, I . . . it just happened,” Andrei said, a thread of panic in his voice. “I cannot control it, Cosmina.”
“Aye, you can. I can see your ability in my Seer’s eye. ’Tis a gift from the goddess, one you can control, so . . .” She trailed off, using the pause for effect. “Concentrate, Andrei . . . make the fire grow in your palm.”
“But—”
“Do it, Andrei,” she said, her tone soft, yet somehow full of command. “And Shay?”
“Aye, my lady?”
“Use your talent . . . control the water to keep him buoyant.”
“You are mistaken.” Unease drifted on the denial, calling Shay a liar. “I have no such talent.”
“Of course you do, Shay,” Cosmina said, pressing the issue, leaving the younger assassin nowhere to hide. “Like all of your brethren, you now control an element. Yours is water . . . the goddess decrees it. The magic has already been set in motion.”
Light flickered up ahead, painting the walls in blue light. It glowed bright a moment, making Henrik squint, then petered out. His comrade cursed. A cacophony of splashing joined the colorful litany, as though Andrei punched the surface of the water.
“Shay,” Cosmina whispered. “He needs your help.”
“Hellfire.” Each breath naught more than rasps, Shay shook his head. Henrik tracked the movement, registering the rush of stale air as his apprentice stepped back. His hearing pinpoint sharp, he listened to Shay retreat in the narrow passageway. He didn’t go far—mayhap a step or two—before his back collided with the wall behind him. The twin blades Shay wore scraped across stone. “I don’t know how. I . . .”
“Try,” Henrik said as his apprentice trailed off. He hated to push. Understood the shock that came with the sudden surge of magical ability. ’Twas like being possessed and taken over, free will usurped by the goddess’ gift while being thrust into foreign terrain without a weapon or map for guidance. And yet, he knew the territory. Had spent weeks struggling with the slow migration . . . the unnatural shift into magic. So like it or nay, he held a road map. Enough of one, mayhap, to ease his apprentice into acceptance. “Think it. Hold it in your mind’s eye to make it happen.”
Another burst of blue lit up the darkness. It held a moment, flickering like fire and . . .
Shay bowed his head and, inhaling hard, fisted his hands.
The light went out again. Palms slapping against the well’s smooth sides, Andrei swore in French, his panic echoing through the starkness.
Shay exhaled. The water flow underfoot increased. The narrow stream gushed, frothing into a current around their boots. Henrik’s senses sharpened. His magic rolled, honing his perception and heightening awareness.
For once, he didn’t fight it.
Instead, he assessed Shay in the dark, searching for signs, weighing the magic to ferret out the truth. Enchantment whispered, floating in on musty air. Shay shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He shuffled sideways, moving with the flow of water. The shift brought him closer to Henrik. As the younger assassin’s shoulder bumped his, certain knowledge grabbed hold. Henrik drew a shaky breath. Christ help him, Cosmina was right. The goddess had not only tampered with him, but his comrades as well.
The realization rushed through him. Relief swelled, then bubbled up, relieving the strain while infecting him soul deep. Henrik cringed. But his reaction to the news didn’t change the facts.
Or how he felt.
He was glad. So relieved his brothers-in-arms suffered the same affliction, his throat went tight. And as he stood, cradling Cosmina, heart pounding and gratefulness rising, he experienced true shame. What did his reaction say about him? That he was self-centered? An egomaniac beyond the pale of decency for wishing magical misery on another—especially those he considered his friends? Turning his head, Henrik set his cheek atop Cosmina’s hair. Soft tendrils brushed his mouth. The sweet scent of her soothed him, opened his lungs, helped him take a full breath as he wrestled with each question.
The truth rose to condemn him.
No question. Without a doubt. Selfish described him to perfection.
And yet, even as he despised himself for it, his gratitude deepened. He wasn’t alone. Wasn’t the only one . . . the singular freak cursed by the Goddess of All Things. Not anymore. As awful as it seemed, the terrible gifts forced upon his friends made hope rise hard and him feel normal.
For once. For the first time in life.
“Dieu, it’s working,” Andrei rasped, the relief in his voice telling. A faint gurgle pushed back the quiet, lapping like waves on a shoreline. “The water level is rising.”
“Good.” Careful not to knock Shay off-balance, Henrik left his side. Frozen in concentration, his apprentice murmured but didn’t move. Sliding his foot along the floor, Henrik turned sideways in the passageway and inched forward in the dark. Bit by bit, he tested the ground, looking for the spot stone stopped and wooden floorboards began. He knew the break couldn’t be much farther ahead. Andrei sounded close now, mere feet in front of him. “Andrei, try again. Light the fuse . . . give us some light.”
Blue flame shot through an opening in the floor. Light consumed the darkness as fire roared, curling over jagged floorboards to lick along slimy stone walls. Heat exploded through the tunnel. The blast hit Henrik in the face. He spun, turning his back to protect Cosmina from the flare-up. After a moment, the blaze subsided, but continued to burn, filling the underground corridor, and Henrik got his first look at the passageway. Long, narrow, mayhap three feet across. Blackened stone walls. Low ceiling that came dangerously close to the top of his head.
Close quarters. Too tight. Far too constrictive.
Henrik’s windpipe closed. God, he couldn’t breathe. The walls were closing in again and—
“Almost there.” Eyes shut tight, boots planted in the gushing stream underfoot, Shay unfurled his hands, then made twin fists again. Open. Closed. White knuckles to open palms. Over and over . . . and over again. “Can you see him yet? Is he—”
Water bubbled against the top of the well. Andrei shouted and reached for one of the broken board edges. His hand caught hold. Wood crumbled, disintegrating into decay, sending Andrei splashing back into the well. The light sputtered, weakening into a flicker. Damp air sizzled, pop-pop-popping until . . .
Andrei tried and failed again.
Henrik dropped Cosmina’s feet to the floor. He needed to move. Right now. His friend was in trouble. The wood refused to hold and Andrei was losing strength.
A quick pivot, a gentle nudge, and he pressed Cosmina’s shoulder blades to the wall. “Stay here.”
She nodded.
But as he turned, searching for Andrei in the dim light, his senses contracted. The tunnel narrowed, dragging his aversion to the forefront. Real? Imagined? Henrik couldn’t tell, but—Christ. Everything seemed smaller all of a sudden, as though the walls and ceiling crept inward, closing with malicious intent.
’Twas too narrow. The passageway was too goddamned tight.
Unease morphed into full-blown panic. He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t force his feet to obey his mind and move. Chest working like a billows, Henrik shook his head. Go. Move. Take charge. His body shut down instead, tying him in a web of nightmares, shoving him back to his childhood. Back into hell. Back to her. Back to a place full of pain and betrayal. As he struggled against the onslaught, fear won, sliding into something more: phobia. His lungs contracted, pushing the air from his chest. Gritting his teeth, Henrik slammed himself i
nto reverse. Boot soles scraped over stone. His quiver of arrows rattled, wooden shafts clicking together as his back collided with the wall.
“Henrik.”
Cosmina’s quiet tone arrested his flight.
Gripping his cloak, she stepped in front of him. Ignoring her injury, she planted her palm in the center of his chest. She cupped the side of his neck with the other. He twitched. She settled him with a murmur and, rhythm sure, stroked over his pulse point. Back and forth, a soft drift, a warm, whispering weight on his skin. “’Tis all right. You are all right. Breathe. Fill your lungs and . . . breathe.”
His muscles obeyed, unlocking on command, allowing his chest to expand.
Thumb pressed to his jugular, she circled, applying steady pressure. For some reason, the gentle touch helped ground him. The panic receded, and she nodded. “Good. Now go. Help your friend.”
Her voice added to the soothing effect, heating him through. The past faded, and as reason took hold, he calmed under her hands. His mind cleared, slamming back into his skull. Thank Christ. That was more like it. Much better and more his style. So was the power pumping through his veins. His strength returned in a rush. With a snarl, he broke away from Cosmina and spun toward the well.
Andrei coughed, the hack wet and sloppy.
Three strides, and Henrik leapt the jagged hole. His feet connected with stone on the other side. As he turned back to the well, blue flame sputtered. The light winked out, then came back on, rippling beneath the surface. He slid onto the wooden cantilever. The tips of the rotten floorboards crumbled, hampering his ability to maneuver. Lying belly down, he assessed the seven-foot drop between the boards and the lip of the well. His gaze narrowed on the blue glow beneath the surface of the water.
With a quick shift, Henrik jumped down. His feet found a foothold on slick stone. Legs spread wide, back wedged against rotten wood, he plunged his hand into the icy swirl. He was in it now—in a vulnerable position without the possibility of retreat. Nothing left to do but pray. Well, that, and hope like hell Andrei didn’t panic and pull him off-balance—into the hole and under—as Henrik tried to haul him out.
Knight Avenged (Circle of Seven #2) Page 11
