Knight Avenged (Circle of Seven #2)

by Coreene Callahan

  It was about collision.

  His with Cosmina. A meeting set in motion by the Goddess of All Things.

  Henrik bit down on a snarl. Goddamn her. She never stopped. Was always meddling, pulling cosmic strings, making others dance to her tune. And right now? Well, it was his turn. A cog in her wheel, the deity spun him round, throwing obstacles in his path, rousing his protective instincts to achieve her own ends. He frowned. Damn it to hell and back. The goddess knew him too well. Had sent the one thing guaranteed to get under his skin . . .

  A woman. A redheaded hellion in need of his protection. An alluring combination Henrik couldn’t resist. Which meant he couldn’t walk away. Not yet. Not while his attraction to her simmered and honor whispered in his ear, telling him Cosmina wouldn’t survive long without him.

  Swallowing a curse, he dragged his gaze away from her. He glanced at his apprentice. Quick to comprehend what Henrik wanted, Shay fisted his hands in Cosmina’s tunic and lifted her off her knees. Her feet landed in the middle of a puddle. The soft splash echoed. One of her legs buckled, refusing to hold her. She gasped and, reaching out, grabbed hold of Shay to keep from stumbling sideways.

  Shay steadied her. “Ready, H?”

  “For what?” she asked, alarm in her tone.

  Henrik didn’t answer her. He nodded at Shay instead, knowing silence was the best strategy. The moment he explained, ’twould be over. Cosmina would fight the plan. He would insist on seeing it through. And Shay would end up causing her more pain while he put it into action. So aye, keeping her in the dark might not be nice, but ’twas necessary.

  Henrik took a step forward. Boots planted on solid ground a foot from the rotten floorboards, he tipped his chin. “Take a deep breath, Cosmina.”

  Her brows collided. “Why?”

  Her suspicious tone made Henrik tense. Christ, she was a quick study. So smart, he could practically see the wheels turning inside her head as she hunted for the truth.

  “What are you—”

  “Now, Shay.”

  Grip tightening on her tunic, Shay lifted her off the floor. She yelped. Henrik blocked out her cry of distress. It couldn’t be helped. Neither could what came next. Widening his stance, he flexed his hands and got ready. Movements quick, timing impeccable, Shay whirled full circle and—

  “Oh gods . . . nay. Don’t—”

  At the apex of the turn, Shay let go, launching her through the air.

  Cosmina cursed as she went airborne. Up and across. A smooth, well-executed toss. Dark cloak flying around her, she sailed over the jagged floorboards. Andrei shifted, providing support as he controlled the fire and held the light steady. Counting out the seconds, Henrik plotted her trajectory. She stopped going up and started to come down. An instant before her boots connected with stone, he plucked her out of midair.

  A quick tug. A controlled pivot, and he spun her into his arms.

  Wrapping her up tight, he tucked her close. She didn’t fight. Instead, she settled like she belonged—head nestled beneath his chin, body pressed to his, her good arm wrapped around his waist. A violent shiver racked her. She snuggled in, seeking his warmth and, mayhap, the comfort of his embrace.

  Henrik huffed. Cosmina seeking comfort from him. The notion sounded absurd. An idea without substance or mooring. Probably naught but wishful thinking. Still, he couldn’t deny the allure. He liked that she depended on him. Enjoyed that she trusted him enough to allow him so close. But even as he chastened himself for the reaction, the need to soothe her rose on a dangerous wave. Ah Christ. Not again. True connection belonged in the category called bad ideas times ten. Emotion held no place in his world. Neither did a pretty redhead with a stubborn streak a mile wide.

  Another tremor rolled through her. He hugged her tighter.

  “’Tis all good, iubita,” he murmured as she trembled in his arms. Her shivers set off an awful chain reaction, making his heart thump hard and remorse rise in a devastating wave. Goddamn it. She deserved so much better than this . . . better than him, a man incapable of true connection. Throat gone tight, he drew circles down her spine, caressing her with a gentle touch. “’Tis all right. The worst is over.”

  “Liar.”

  “Probably.”

  “Blast and damn . . .” Her voice broke. His stomach dipped, clenching hard as she shivered again. “Y-you are . . . are . . .”

  “Wonderful?” he said, filling in the blank when she trailed off. Bad plan or excellent strategy, Henrik didn’t know. Teasing her might not be the right tack to take, but, well . . . hell, it couldn’t hurt. Might even distract her long enough to settle her down. “Brilliant? The best tactician ever?”

  She snorted. “Not what I was going to say.”

  Henrik clenched his teeth to keep from smiling. “What then?”

  “You’re out of your ever-loving m-mind. A complete m-madman.”

  “Mayhap.” Losing the battle, amusement seeped into his tone. “But I got you over the hole without causing you more pain, now didn’t I?”

  She scowled against the side of his throat.

  His mouth curved. Little hellion. Such a bad attitude. She wouldn’t give an inch. A lovely trait, but one best saved for another time. Along with his reaction to her, but . . . Christ help him. He couldn’t contain the admiration. His attraction to her grew by the moment, compromising his control, making him ache and yearn and . . .

  Want.

  A serious problem. One he’d never encountered before now. Before her. Anything but ordinary, Cosmina pushed him up against the limits of his control. Which meant he needed to do one of two things: hand her off to Shay or pick up his feet and get a move on. The first option chaffed, rubbing him the wrong way. Stupid as it seemed, he didn’t want anyone else touching her. So instead of handing her off, Henrik picked her up—one arm supporting her back, the other cradling her knees, a precious bundle in his arms.

  She murmured in protest.

  Ignoring her, Henrik glanced over his shoulder. “Make the jump, Shay. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Oui, let’s.” Andrei frowned at his hands. Blue flame flickered, twirling between his fingers without burning him. “What the hell, Henrik?”

  “I’ll explain,” he said, feeling his friend’s confusion. Magic-less one day, full of power the next. He’d been there, done that . . . over a month ago. “But not here.”

  Andrei studied him a moment. “But you know.”

  “Aye.”

  “Move, H.” Boots scraping stone, Shay retreated a few steps. “You’re in the way.”

  With a nod, Henrik backpedaled, giving Shay the room he needed.

  Eyes narrowed, Shay unleashed his speed and sprinted for the edge. He found a toehold. His feet left the ground. Black cloak rippling behind him, he leapt over the trap, landing with a thump on the other side.

  Andrei met the younger assassin’s gaze, opened his mouth, and—

  “Do not.” Stepping in close, Shay slapped Andrei on the shoulder. The sharp sound rippled, ricocheting down the length of the tunnel. “Naught to worry about, Andrei. I’m singed, but otherwise intact.”

  “All right, then.” Blowing out a breath, Andrei flexed his fingers. The blaze reacted, burning hot and bright, painting the stone walls in a blue wash. Fisting one hand, Andrei snuffed out the flames. Smoke swirled, rising from his fingertips. Using his other palm like a torch, he raised it high and turned to search the tunnel for pitfalls ahead of them. “I’ll lead.”

  “Go.” With a gentle shift, Henrik adjusted his grip on Cosmina.

  She flinched. “I can walk.”

  “I know,” he said, lying through his teeth. She could no more walk than he could grow wings and fly. But pride was a fragile thing, and for some reason, he wanted to preserve hers. “But we’ve a ways to go yet. Save your strength, Cosmina. Sleep if you can. ’Twill be a hard ride once we reach the horses.”

  “We won’t make it that far, unless . . .”

  “Unless what?”

&
nbsp; “It’s going to sound crazy.”

  Her eyelashes flickered, revealing pure white irises. His senses sharpened as her eyes started to shimmer. Dipping his head, he pressed his jaw to her temple and nudged her. She got the message and tipped her chin up, giving him a better view of her face.

  “What are you seeing?”

  She shook her head, apprehension clouding the air around her.

  He bumped her again, then changed course and brushed his mouth over her temple. As she sighed, he prompted her again. “What is it, iubita?”

  “You’ll make fun.”

  “Nay, I won’t,” he murmured against her cheek.

  Hmm, her skin was so warm. So soft. So goddamn touchable his fingertips tingled, making him want to press the advantage of their proximity. A small sip. A little taste. A gentle kiss—naught more, just enough to satisfy his curiosity and put an end to his craving. Henrik huffed. Talk about base instincts . . . and all-consuming want. Yearning played a part too—one Henrik knew he shouldn’t indulge. His desire for her wasn’t right. ’Twas, in truth, all wrong. He shouldn’t be wondering what she tasted like, never mind contemplating the best way to find out. So aye, no question. He needed to pull himself together. Bury his need six feet under. Right now. Before he did something stupid . . . like lose his head and kiss her senseless.

  “I understand magic, Cosmina. I have lived with the knowledge of it all my life. You need to tell me.”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it again. God grant him patience. She was stuck, mired in mistrust. So afraid to share her ability, she refused to speak of it. Or mayhap, couldn’t. Fear did strange things to people. Sometimes it made them run. Other times it shut them down. Like now with Cosmina. Which meant he was about to get his wish . . . and his first taste. A kiss would distract her long enough to help her fall into trust.

  The thought made his heart thump harder. Anticipation burned through him.

  Henrik rechecked his position. Andrei moved at a steady clip ahead of him, hand raised, blue flame flicking as he checked for more traps. Shay’s quick footfalls echoed behind him. Perfect. He had just enough time. Dipping his head, Henrik touched his mouth to the corner of hers. She inhaled in soft surprise. He flicked his tongue over her bottom lip. She hummed. His heart hopped like a jackrabbit, leaping all over the place inside his chest and—

  Sweet Christ. Bad move.

  Henrik knew it the instant he made contact. One kiss would never be enough. She tasted so good, and he was too needy. He bit down on a groan. Goddamn it. What the hell had just happened? His plan had seemed brilliant moments ago. Misdirection via pleasure. Distraction dressed up in gentleness. Quick. Simple. Effective. An excellent strategy rooted in a noble goal: procuring the answers he needed. But as she whispered his name and opened her mouth wider, inviting him in, Henrik struggled to hold the line, never mind remember the reason he’d kissed her in the first place.

  The tip of her tongue touched his.

  Henrik delved deeper, giving her more and . . . oh God, ’twas beyond anything. Better than good. The heat scorched him. Her willingness revived him. Desire ignited in his belly, incinerating right, pushing him toward wrong, tempting him to find a private spot and strip her bare. Henrik growled. Just a touch more. Another heated taste. A little deeper this time. What could it hurt? With his comrades guarding his back, coherence wasn’t an absolute necessity. Not right now. So . . .

  To hell with wrong.

  He kissed her again. And then again. As he came back a third time, Shay cleared his throat. The sharp sound of disapproval slapped, dragging him back to reality.

  With a silent curse, Henrik lifted his mouth from hers. “Sorry.”

  “Wrong thing to be sorry for.” She licked her bottom lip as though seeking more of his taste. Which—God forgive him—cranked him a notch tighter. Now all he wanted to do was kiss her again. “Apologize for having me tossed like a sack of grain, not for the kissing.”

  Her teasing tone loosened his tension. His mouth curved. “Duly noted.”

  Her lips twitched a second before her expression smoothed back into serious lines. “Promise you won’t scoff . . . or laugh . . . and I’ll tell you.”

  “Cross my heart.”

  Her throat worked as she swallowed. Henrik stayed silent, trying to be patient. Such a difficult thing to do. Time was running out. Colder now, fresh air blew in on wind gusts, flicking at his wet clothes. The tunnel walls flared too, widening by the moment, telling him they neared a junction. Soon the passageway would either change direction or end. Which meant he needed to know about Cosmina’s vision.

  Now. Before it ended up being too late.

  “Cosmina—”

  “A dragon. I saw a dragon. Red scales. Green gaze.” Her eyes drifted closed, cutting off the soft glow of white irises. As the shimmer winked out, she turned her face into his shoulder. “He awaits your call.”

  Henrik blinked. His call. Well now, that cinched it. Cosmina wasn’t lying. She was a powerful oracle, one able to predict and see what others could not. Naught else explained how she knew of Tareek . . . and the special bond he shared with the dragon-shifter. The magical connection allowed him to relay messages, summoning Tareek when needed. History stood as a painful reminder—of that day, the moment he’d finally understood how much his mother hated him as she handed him to Halál and Al Pacii.

  The memory made him cringe. The aftereffects made him hurt.

  Not for himself, but for Tareek and the awful price the dragon-shifter had paid. Imprisonment for flying to his rescue. Damned for years for trying to protect him. Taken down by black magic alongside his brethren, Garren and Cruz, for doing his duty to White Temple and the Order of Orm. Only then had his mother delivered him into slavery. Into the hell of Grey Keep and Halál’s brutal guardianship.

  Until Afina had come along.

  His younger sister had changed everything, undoing Ylenia’s spells, restoring order to the earthly plane, wielding kindness instead of cruelty to right the wrongs of the past. Each correction continued to bring peace, knitting the fabric of a broken world back together, soothing nature, allowing all living things to grow and thrive. As the fractures created by his mother healed under the force of his sister’s hand, so did his relationship with Tareek.

  Time and trust. Important commodities. Both of which took effort to rebuild. And even though he and Tareek worked hard to mend it, problems still cropped up. The biggest one of all—at least, right now? He didn’t know how to call Tareek. Twenty years was a long time for a skill to go unused. He wasn’t a child anymore. His mind was no longer that pliable, and his faith? Hell, it wasn’t nearly as strong.

  “Henrik, we need him,” Cosmina whispered. “Otherwise the Druinguari will—”

  “We’re here.” Andrei stopped short in front of him.

  “Where?” Shay asked.

  His comrade looked around a blind corner. “Stairs leading up.”

  “To the mausoleum?” Leather rasped against steel as Shay unsheathed his twin daggers.

  “’Tis my guess.” Palming his throwing stars, Andrei paused, and boot poised on the bottom step, threw Henrik a questioning look. “You still tuned in, H?”

  He nodded.

  Andrei raised a brow. “Picking up anything?”

  Eyes narrowed, Henrik reached for his magic. He knew what Andrei wanted: clues along with confirmation of the threat outside. Easy enough to do. Thrall allowed him to sense things others did not. His comrades might not be able to perceive the enemy, but he could. Sinking into the swell of his gift, he retuned his senses. A buzz lit off between his temples. The clawing sensation raked the inside of his skull, sending a clear message.

  “We’re not clear yet,” he said, holding his friend’s gaze. “The Druinguari lay in wait.”

  Andrei grunted.

  Shay cursed. “How close are they?”

  “Close enough.” Hitting one knee, he balanced Cosmina on his thigh and, reaching around, gripped the dagge
r snug against his lower back. Smaller than the rest, the five-inch blade would fit better in Cosmina’s hand. He needed her to understand. Things were about to get nasty again. Cupping the back of her hand, he set the hilt in her palm. Her fingers tightened around the grip, accepting the weapon without hesitation. Murmuring in approval, Henrik pulled his favorite knife from a sheath on his chest and, resettling Cosmina, pushed to his feet. “We make a run for it. The sooner we reach the horses, the better.”

  Turning her head, Cosmina set her mouth to his ear. “Call your dragon.”

  The whispered words echoed inside his head.

  Easy enough to say. Nowhere near as simple to see accomplished.

  But as Henrik followed his comrades, taking the stairs two at time, he cleared his mind and tried anyway. Cosmina was right. Three swords against twenty weren’t good odds. They were deadly ones. So to hell with his pride. Like it or nay, he needed backup. Tareek would provide the sort his enemy wouldn’t see coming, never mind be able to thwart. An excellent plan, but . . .

  First things first.

  He turned inward and, unleashing his magic, summoned his friend. He hoped like hell Tareek got the message. Otherwise the Druinguari would tear them apart piece by bloody piece.

  Leaping up onto the parapet, Halál sank into a crouch. As he settled on the balls of his feet, using the stone teeth along the city wall for cover, he looked over the terrain again. Jagged mountain peaks rose in the distance, then swept down, rushing into the Limwoods. A long way off. Naught to catch his attention. Even less to worry about. His gaze narrowed on the thick stretch of forest anyway. Dark with shadow, deep with intrigue, ancient trees stood sentry, thick limbs spread, skeletal tops unmoving even though winter ruled and the wind howled.

  Haunted, some said. Majestic, others argued. Unnatural, all agreed.

  A prickle ghosted down his spine.

  His nostrils flared. No doubt in his mind. ’Twas where Henrik would head when he exited the tunnel—straight into the depths of the forbidden forest.

  A problem. More than a touch vexing. Particularly since instinct screamed, warning him to stay clear of the Limwoods. The same thing had happened on his trek from Grey Keep to the holy city. Severe aversion. Catastrophic delay as he took the long way around, refusing to traverse the eerie stretch of forest. It had always been that way. Why? Halál shook his head. No rhyme or reason. He couldn’t place the feeling. Or put his finger on the cure. But something told him the woodlands disliked him. Then again, mayhap dislike was too mild a word. Despised was a better one. Alive with murderous intent might be a phrase worth using too. Not that the descriptor mattered. Intuition spoke volumes, and Halál remained convinced . . .