The bond snapped into place. One moment fell into the next, then—
“You all right?” The deep voice slammed into his head, cracking through mind-speak like a battering ram. Tareek winced, but went with it anyway. ’Twas forever the same. Quick on the trigger, Garren linked in fast and always talked first. “What is going on?”
“Naught good.”
“Shit.” His commander paused. Meaning coalesced in the silence, thumping the inside of his skull. Tareek didn’t say a thing. Words weren’t necessary. Not while Garren cherry-picked the problem off the front of his brain. “It’s back.”
“Aye.”
“How bad?”
“Bad. More lethal. Stronger than before,” Tareek said, feeling his commander’s unease rise along with his own. “The stench of black magic is thickening.”
Garren growled. “Christ. ’Tis as we feared. It has begun.”
Little doubt.
The Goddess of All Things was right. Armand, Prince of Shadows, was out, exerting his influence, already wreaking havoc and spreading his stink. Tareek knew the scent well. Had lived with it for twenty years while trapped in dragon form and imprisoned deep in the mountain near Grey Keep. God, how he wished for something different. A new memory to replace the old. A way to right the wrong and erase the past. Wipe it clean by going back to that cursed day and slaying Ylenia when he’d had the chance.
But time didn’t bend for just anyone. He couldn’t go back. Or undo his mistake.
Shame grabbed him by the throat, making his chest ache. “Garren . . .”
“I know.” A thump echoed. The scrape of rapid footfalls followed, coming through mind-speak. “But ’tis over and done, zi kamir. You need to let it go.”
If only it were that easy. If only guilt would loosen its grip. “The smell is getting stronger.”
“Back off. You need backup. Don’t go in until I reach you.”
“I cannot wait.” Angling his wings, Tareek banked into a tight turn. “Henrik didn’t show at the rendezvous point.”
“Troublesome brat,” Garren said, tone full of affection.
No kidding. Tareek couldn’t disagree. Didn’t want to either. Aye, he might be a pain in the arse, but it was hard to find fault with Henrik. The lad always landed in the most interesting situations. Ones that started with a good fight and ended in a lot of bloodshed. Right up his alley. Exactly the way Tareek liked it. At least, under normal circumstances. These, however, didn’t qualify as normal. Messed up with a healthy helping of oh Jesus. Aye. Absolutely. And as black magic seethed and the north wind howled, Tareek’s instincts screamed, urging him to fly faster.
“Garren . . . I think he’s in trouble.”
“Nothing new about that.”
Tareek huffed.
His commander growled. A moment later, metal clicked and hinges creaked. Something slammed against stone. A door, mayhap? Tareek tilted his head, listening to the sound of heavy footfall through the cosmic link. Aye. Definitely. Garren was on the move.
“Hold tight.” A thud sounded as Garren jumped from somewhere high. “Don’t do anything stupid. I will gather the others and come for you.”
“I’m going in now.”
“Tareek—”
“No choice,” he said, refusing to back down. No easy task. One of the oldest of their kind, his commander sat at the top of the food chain. Hard. Strong. Cold and merciless when needed. The kind of warrior another wanted at his back. Few disobeyed Garren on a good day. And no one tangled with the male and lived to tell of it. “I have to go. You would do the same for Xavian.”
Garren cursed. Not much else the male could do. His commander understood his dilemma. The bond he shared with Xavian, after all, rivaled his with Henrik. “Go after him, then get out. No fooling around. Until we know exactly what we’re dealing with, we err on the side of caution.”
“Agreed.” The wind picked up. The stench of decay grew stronger. Another round of unease rolled through him, making muscles tighten and his scales itch. Tareek shook off the discomfort. ’Twas no time for distraction. He neared the apex . . . was less than three miles from the outer marker buried beneath White Temple. Mere minutes from the Valley of the Blessed. “Come when you can. I’m just west of—”
“I know where you are,” Garren said, mining the unique energy signature Tareek carried like a scent to pinpoint his location. “Fucking White Temple. I hate that place.”
Didn’t they all?
Without a doubt. But hatred didn’t change the facts.
Or what he must do.
His aversion didn’t matter. Neither did the history. Or that he wanted to turn tail and fly in the opposite direction—avoid the fortress of the Order of Orm at all costs. Tareek snorted. Sparks flew from his nostrils, glowing like fireflies as he shook his head. Talk about an understatement. He’d gone to great lengths to do that very thing—refusing to venture into White Temple with Henrik—and yet, here he was, flying into the teeth of his past anyway.
“Later, Garren.”
“Make sure of it,” his commander said, concern melding with menace.
Tareek’s mouth curved. Flipping male. No one else could show love and threaten him at the same time . . . from over a hundred miles away.
With a quick twist, Tareek severed mind-speak and went wings vertical, slicing between two high cliffs. Rock rumbled. Shale rolled, cascading into an avalanche of jagged stone. The Limwoods rose, stretching into a black carpet beneath him. Eyes narrowed and night vision sharp, he mapped the terrain. His sonar pinged, gathering details, sifting through facts, fueling his flight. Banking right, he rose hard, then dropped low, swooping in over the lip of the dell. The valley dipped, then spread, opening up into a large web. The holy city rose at its center, pale stone walls shining in the gloom, the golden dome of High Temple a beacon in the dark and . . .
Black magic frothed in a wave of orange energy.
The impure aura throbbed, seething across the ground. Dragon senses alight, Tareek tracked the glow. His focus snapped to the right. He snarled, baring his fangs. There. On the main road. A lethal fighting force composed of . . .
His gaze narrowed. Nay. Not men at all.
The large pack was something else. Something more. A something he’d never encountered before. Still too far away to strike, he watched them move across the frozen landscape. Too fast to be human, the group ran like a pack of wolves, closing the distance between the outer wall and the cemetery with uncanny speed. Tareek exhaled on a growl. Creatures of immense power fueled by unnatural forces. Minions to the Prince of Shadows. An army to do his bidding. Servants sent to kill them all.
Rage rose in a ravenous wave.
As it bubbled up through the cracks in his guard, the buzz between his temples morphed into something more concrete. The signal lit off inside his head. Tareek sucked in a quick breath. Henrik. His friend was calling, laying down a cosmic trail for him to follow. Magic tightened its grip, narrowing his focus. His gaze swung toward the graveyard north of the high walls. Aboveground crypts and tombstones stood at odd angles, sharing the terrain with huge oaks and towering beeches, creating visual interference and a plethora of places to hide.
Good lad.
Henrik knew what he was doing. The stone monuments would not only provide cover but also buy them both time. Mayhap enough for him to intervene—to become Henrik’s shield before the pack reached him and the assassin Tareek loved like a son died an excruciating death.
Senses pinpoint sharp, Henrik sprinted beneath the canopy of a huge oak. Leafless and cold, brittle limbs swayed overhead, gnarled branches creaking in the quiet. The eerie rattle joined the throb inside his head. Painful now, the sting jabbed at his temples, killing hope along with comfort.
Gritting his teeth, Henrik flipped a mental switch and tried again.
The distress call spiraled out.
Nothing came back. No static swirl. No hint of connection. Just silence on the other end of a cosmic line.
&
nbsp; Goddamn Tareek. Where the hell was he?
The question thumped against the inside of his skull. Henrik ignored the pain and leapt over a downed tree trunk. Slung over his shoulder, bottom up and head down, Cosmina bounced, then slid sideways in his hold. He shrugged, heaved her back into place, and upped the pace. She gasped, the sound of distress coming through clenched teeth. God bless her. No matter how hard he ran—or how rough the treatment—she refused to complain. A marvelous trait. Particularly since he couldn’t slow down. Or stop to make her comfortable. His speed meant continued safety, so . . .
No help for it. Much as it pained him, he had to keep running. And Cosmina needed to hold on. Bear down and stay strong . . . just a little longer.
Boots churning over icy ground, he took a tight turn into a narrow aisle. Thin skiffs of snow slithered underfoot. Twin crypts rose in the distance, blocking his view and—
He lost his footing and slid sideways.
Cosmina whimpered. He cursed and, fighting for balance, tightened his grip on the backs of her thighs. One moment shifted into the next. His feet found traction. Henrik sprang forward, slicing between two high tombstones. Almost there. Just a few more twists and turns. The instant he found a safe spot, he’d stop. See to Cosmina while he took stock and plotted his next move. The square crypts at the north end of the cemetery were the best bet. Good cover. Lots of alleyways and high walls to hide behind. Eyes scanning the terrain, he judged the distance, then glanced over his free shoulder. No Druinguari yet. No Halál either. Just violent wind gusts blowing snow into a white wall behind him. Thank Christ. Everything else might be wrong, but at least the weather cooperated, raging in his wake, helping to cover his tracks.
“Henrik . . .”
“Almost there,” he said, trying to ignore her discomfort, but . . . hell. It was hard. He didn’t like the weakness in her voice. Or the pain that drove it. “Not much farther.”
Cheek pressed to his back, a shiver rippled through her. “I don’t feel well.”
“I know.”
“Can we rest for a moment? Just a moment . . . please.”
“In a while. Hang on a bit longer.”
“How c-close . . .” Another shiver racked her, making her teeth chatter. “How c-close are they?”
Excellent question. One he didn’t want to answer. He mined the signal anyway, hunting for black magic, following the trace Halál threw into the air. The buzz inside his head intensified. Goddamn it. Not good news. The bastard was less than a mile away and closing fast.
Henrik swallowed a snarl. “We’ll make it.”
A half-truth. One with a fifty-fifty chance of being right.
Henrik knew it, but refused to take the lie back. Frightening her wouldn’t help. Misdirection, however, might. He needed her calm and thinking—able to run, hide, escape into the Limwoods while he protected her back—not terrified. Dwelling on what might happen never solved a problem. Or helped formulate a plan. His mind didn’t care, churning his mental wheels, burying him under an avalanche of what-ifs as he sprinted for the aboveground crypts. What if Halál caught up? What if Cosmina’s strength gave out and she couldn’t run? What if he failed to shield her?
Torture. Rape. Murder. In that order too.
Halál would show no mercy. The bastard never did. His former sensei always struck fast, finding a man’s weakness to inflict maximum damage. Physical. Mental. Emotional. Nothing was off-limits. And like it or nay, Halál knew exactly how to hurt him. Fear for Cosmina wound him tight. Dread joined the party, serving up a memory he longed to forget. But even as he shut recall down, blue eyes full of terror—full of tears—came back to haunt him.
Ah God. Not her. Again.
He hated when she invaded his thoughts. Shit, he didn’t even know her name, and yet, she refused to leave him in peace. To be expected. He didn’t deserve any. Not after what he’d done and she’d endured. The girl had been so young . . . so very innocent. A small slip of a thing who’d never hurt a soul and hadn’t deserved to die. Halál hadn’t cared. An order given was one meant to be followed . . . without question. Henrik had understood too late. Halál had made him pay for his hesitation, stripping the girl of dignity, ensuring she died hard to make a point, punishing Henrik for refusing to kill her.
It had been a test. One he’d failed. On his twelfth birthday.
His age shouldn’t have mattered. Youth was no excuse. Five years at Grey Keep had taught him well. He’d understood how to kill—quick and clean—even then. But by refusing his first kill, he’d made things worse. For himself certainly. But especially for her. Had he done as instructed and used his knife, she would’ve died with dignity. Instead she’d suffered . . .
Endless torment. Needless violence. Terrible pain.
All things at which Halál excelled.
But not tonight. This time would be different. What little honor he had left dictated the course. He would not fail Cosmina as he had the girl.
His boots crunched over an icy patch. Sound rippled, pinging off stone, rising beneath weak moonlight in the frosty air. Veering right, Henrik ducked behind a massive tombstone and slid to a halt. With a huff, he swung Cosmina off his shoulder. She clung to him for a moment, then let go. The second her feet touched down, her knees buckled. Quick reflexes allowed him to catch her. Cupping her shoulders, he helped her sit down. White puffs escaped between her lips, joining his, frosting the air between them as she struggled to catch her breath.
He cupped her cheek, anchoring himself, trying to comfort her. “All right?”
“A little seasick.”
Henrik huffed at the analogy. ’Twas an apt description. Especially since she’d just suffered a serious bout of bob-and-weave atop his shoulder. “We’ll rest here a moment. ’Twill help settle your stomach.”
“Gods, I hope so.” Auburn lashes flickered a moment before she looked right at him.
He frowned. “Cosmina . . . your eyes.”
“Is the color returning?”
Brushing his thumb over her eyebrow, he leaned closer. Thin fissures of dark green bled in from the outer edge of each iris, eating at the white, reaching for her pupils. It wasn’t much. Barely anything at all, but it gave him hope. If she could see, she could run. “Can you see anything?”
“Naught much. Just shadows, but ’tis a good sign.” Pushing her arms through the front fold of her cloak, she set his knife in her lap and cupped her hands. Both shook as she blew on her cold fingers. “A day, mayhap two, and my vision will return.”
“Good news.”
“’Twould be better if it happened faster.”
No question. But beggars couldn’t be choosers. He needed to work with what he had, not what she hoped would happen.
“How far away are we?” she asked, flexing her fingers to work blood back into the tips, making him wish he had gloves to give her.
“A league from the edge of the Limwoods.”
“Your dragon?”
“Not answering.”
“Try again, Henrik.” Sightless gaze fixed on him, she reached out and found his face. She fumbled a moment, fingertips sliding over his jaw before her palm settled against his cheek. “You can do it. Even while imprisoned, he was never far from you. A bond like that never dies.”
True enough. He’d felt it all his life. “Christ, ’tis eerie how much you know.”
“The curse of my gift,” she whispered, raising her other hand. Cold fingers touched the side of his throat a second before she pressed her thumb to his pulse point. “Try again.”
The north wind howled, pushing against his back.
Henrik didn’t fight it. Instead, he leaned in, feeling the warmth as her skin heated against his, and touched his forehead to hers. She murmured. He took the encouragement and opened his mind wide. She thought he could do it. He was willing to try—again and again—if only to keep her safe, far from harm’s way. Filling his lungs to capacity, he exhaled long and slow. Her thumb drifted over his jugular. Back and forth. A
soft glide coupled with a smooth return. ’Twas hypnotic, a rare drift that helped him go with the flow. He sank deeper into her embrace.
Magic sparked.
The gloom gathered, enclosing them in a cloak of invisibility.
Hidden from view, safe for the moment, Henrik relaxed into the stream that housed enchantment and rose whenever he fought. A blast of frigid air shoved at him again, tearing at his hair, pulling the hood from Cosmina’s head. A riot of curls, her hair tumbled, brushing his temples, and—
The signal whiplashed, reaching across distance and mental space.
Henrik bared his teeth, and holding the message in his mind, threw it like a dagger. It whirled end over end, then struck home. Static hissed, slithering in, then out, as it gathered speed inside his head. A growl came through the cosmic weave.
His breath hitched. “Tareek.”
“Airborne. On my way.”
Henrik flinched as the voice punched through, raking the inside of his skull. Cosmina shifted, pressing her cheek to his, helping ground him, but . . . sweet Christ. Talk about bizarre. It was working. He could hear his friend. Was communicating through—
Well hell, he didn’t know what to call it.
“How close?” he asked, testing the link, struggling to stay connected.
“Five minutes out.”
“Too long. We’re under attack.”
“I know.” Scales rattled as wind whistled through the connection. “Hold tight. I’m circling around. Head for high ground.”
Henrik frowned. High ground meant he needed to move west, not toward the northern rim as planned. “Where’s Kazim?”
“Riding hard for River’s Bend. Edge of the—”
Heavy static washed in as the storm moaned overhead. Snow blew in, swirling thick and white around him. Fisting his hands in Cosmina’s cloak, he dipped his head and pressed his forehead to the top of her shoulder, desperate to hang on to Tareek’s voice. The cosmic tether whiplashed, then snapped, whirling out into empty space, severing the connection.
“Goddamn it.”
“Did you reach him?” Cosmina asked, the urgency in her voice telling. Her palm slid across the nape of his neck and into his hair. Fingers buried in the short strands, she flexed her hand. “Did you—”
Knight Avenged (Circle of Seven #2) Page 15
