“Aye.” Lifting his head, he broke her hold. “We need to move.”
She nodded and, injured arm tucked to her side, rolled to her knees. “Let’s go. I can run for a while if you need me to.”
The offer leveled him. Christ, she was something. Far too brave for her own good. Brushing tendrils of hair from her face, he caressed her cheek. She shivered and leaned in, turning into his touch instead of away, making his chest go tight and his heart pound hard. “You’ll only slow me down. Conserve your strength, Cosmina. ’Twill be better for you in the—”
The scrape of footfalls rose from the other side of the tombstone.
Henrik glanced right. Blown clean by the wind, a sheet of ice reflected a flash of movement. With a snarl, he palmed his sword hilt and drew hard. Steel whined against leather as he shoved Cosmina backward. Her back thumped against stone. Air left her lungs in a rush. Ignoring her gasp of surprise, he leveled his blade and pivoted on the balls of his feet. Magic crackled, attacking the chill around him. Tightening his grip, he strengthened the cloak of invisibility, deepening the shadows and— Andrei skidded around the edge of the tombstone.
Shay spun around the other side, sliding to a stop in the narrow aisle. Brows drawn tight, he scanned the terrain, gaze skipping over Henrik without registering his presence. Henrik’s mouth curved. Excellent. A good sign. As much as he disliked the magic, the invisibility shield worked for him. Particularly if it ensured he stayed hidden . . . from everyone, brothers-in-arms included. Gaze narrowed on Shay, Henrik dropped his sword tip and, with a murmur, widened the scope of his spell. Both warriors slid inside his web, disappearing into thin air alongside him.
Shay jumped backward. “Jesu!”
“Merde.” Andrei threw him a startled look. “I knew you were over here somewhere. I could feel you, but . . .”
“Couldn’t see me?”
Low flames flickered, cascading over Andrei’s shoulders. “Nifty trick.”
“Only if it keeps us alive.” Reaching up and over, Henrik re-sheathed his sword. He crouched in front of Cosmina. His gaze slid over her face. Goddamn, she was pale. Far too cold—sliding fast into fatigue too. With a quick flick, he unbuckled his cloak. Wool snapped as he threw the fur-lined mantle around her shoulders. “Here, love.”
“Nay, Henrik.” Lashes shielding her eyes, she shoved at his hands. “’Tis too cold. You need it.”
“Not as much as you.”
“I’m all right. Don’t—”
“No arguing.”
Finished bundling her into his cloak, he threaded the clasp and pulled it tight. Eyes riveted to her face, he debated a moment. Should he or shouldn’t he? Getting any closer was no doubt a bad idea. Still temptation called and he couldn’t deny the urge to touch her. Just a bit more. What could it possibly hurt? Not much, considering he already stood neck-deep in infatuation. Past the point of no return—responsible for her care, in charge of keeping her safe, yearning to provide comfort even as he called himself a first-class fool. So . . .
Forget about doing the right thing. Wrong sounded a helluva lot better.
Hand shaking a little, he reached out again. Her hair caressed his palm, then tangled between his fingertips, whispering over his skin as he sank into her curls. He breathed deep, playing in the thick strands, gathering up the tendrils, twisting until the mass settled against the nape of her neck, and . . .
Desire burned a heated trail south. His body tightened. His heart throbbed. His mind went sideways inside his head, and Henrik swallowed. So inappropriate. Not even close to advisable, but . . . holy God. She had gorgeous hair. So soft and thick. So rich a red he wanted to get lost for a while and just . . .
Linger.
In her warmth. In her beauty. In the trust she showed by allowing him so close. Him. An assassin with little honor and even less worth.
The thought set him straight. Regret hit hard. He withdrew, untangling his hand from her tresses, distancing himself even as he mourned the separation. ’Twas stupid. Abject idiocy to want something more. Something pure and right. Something untouched by violence and the harsh reality he lived every day. She wasn’t his. He didn’t want her to be.
Case closed. Slam the lid, block it out, and let it lie.
Releasing a pent-up breath, he dragged his gaze from her face. Intense blue eyes met his, then ping-ponged, moving from him to Cosmina, then back again. Andrei raised a brow. Henrik almost cringed. He caught himself at the last moment. Smart son of a bitch. His comrade didn’t miss much and understood even more.
Henrik nailed his friend with a warning look. “Don’t say it.”
“Not even thinking it,” Andrei said, a glint of amusement in his gaze. Henrik gritted his teeth. Andrei’s lips twitched, then smoothed into serious lines. Unclipping his bladed boomerang from his belt, he tested its weight. As the weapon bobbed in his hand, he peeked around the edge of the tombstone. “Game plan?”
“Need one fast.” Crouched to his left, Shay threw him a sidelong look. “How much time before they reach us?”
“Minutes.” His eyes narrowed, Henrik tuned back into the unique signature Halál emitted. The signal sizzled, helping him estimate time and distance. “The bastards have split into three packs.”
Andrei grunted. “Multiple points of attack.”
“Even more ways to hem us in.” Expression grave, Shay sheathed twin daggers in favor of throwing stars. As the razor-sharp discs settled in his hands, he scanned the aisle opposite him. “They’ll have trouble finding us, though.”
“Not much,” Henrik said. “We left footprints in the snow.”
“Nay, we haven’t.”
Gaze steady on Shay’s, Henrik raised a brow, asking without words.
His apprentice shrugged. “Snow is made of water.”
Cosmina drew a soft breath. “You’re covering our tracks.”
“One snow drift at a time.”
“Good. Keep it up,” Henrik said. “Time to go.”
Pushing to his feet, Andrei circled around behind him. “Any chance you can hide our movements?”
If only. He wished. Too bad wishing and wanting never counted. He’d spent the last month fighting the magic in his blood, not exploring it. An unwise decision. Practice, after all, made perfect. “I cannot gather the gloom while on the run yet, so as soon as we move . . .”
Shay cursed. “The bastards will see us.”
“Aye.”
“Merde.”
“Head for the crypts on the west side. Higher ground.” Focus narrowed, Henrik reached for Cosmina. As she settled in his arms, he sent out another ping. Magic spiraled outward. Nothing came back. No answer from Tareek. No cosmic signal of any kind. Tension crawled along his spine. He brushed it aside. It couldn’t be helped, and he couldn’t wait any longer. “If we get separated, rendezvous at River’s Bend.”
His comrades nodded.
He glanced at Andrei. “On my mark . . .”
Andrei tensed, preparing to break cover.
“And Shay?”
“Aye.”
“Rear flank. Watch our backs.” Giving Cosmina a gentle squeeze, Henrik tightened his grip and dipped his head. She nodded, telling him to go. Muscles flexing around her, he lifted her off the ground. The curve of her belly connected with his shoulder as he flipped her upside down. She settled with a gasp. He pushed to his feet and got ready to move. “Go.”
Boot treads scraping over ice, Andrei lunged into the aisle between tidy rows of tombstones. The air expanded, then contracted, slamming into the cloak he held with his mind. Magic snapped, then recoiled. Henrik bore down, struggled to hold on, but . . .
A sharp pop exploded through the silence.
The invisibility shield shattered. Andrei materialized out of thin air. Henrik leapt after his friend, racing across the narrow laneway. A shout rang out, rising on the midnight air. An answering yell echoed across the cemetery as the call went up. Henrik cursed under his breath. Enemy message sent and received. So much f
or covert movement and silent escape.
He’d been spotted. Now the Druinguari converged on his position.
Senses screaming, he listened to the clamor. Chaotic sound rippled—the hammer of multiple footfalls, the demonic snarls, and the zing of weapons being drawn—painting a clear picture. Goddamn it. He needed more time. Was just moments away from the iron gate and high stone wall. The west side and above-ground crypts lay just beyond. A mere fifty feet from slipping into labyrinth-like streets that would provide cover, but . . .
The bastards were already too close.
Three, mayhap four, aisles away, running parallel tracks, trying to get ahead of them.
Tombstones sliced past as he pushed himself harder, sprinting for the end of the laneway. Shay cursed behind him. Henrik veered right and slid on slippery ice. Fighting the fall, using his momentum, he skidded sideways. Cosmina yelped, grappling for purchase as she bounced on his shoulder. He strengthened his hold, swung into the next aisle, and—
Fire streamed into view, streaking across the night sky.
Heat went cataclysmic. Snow melted into pools. Water evaporated, throwing mist into the air. Eyes on the unholy blaze, Henrik dropped and rolled. Tucking Cosmina close, he pressed her head beneath his chin and tumbled across the turf. Right on target, the fireball struck the ground. Dirt and ash erupted, blowing sky-high. Enemy assassins shouted as the blast picked Henrik up and threw him sideways. Cosmina screamed. Limbs tangled with hers, Henrik held on tight, trying to control the spin mid-flip. He landed with a thump and slid, smashing into a cemetery wall. He heard a curse, felt the secondary heat wave hit, and—
Shay slammed into stone next to him. His apprentice groaned. “Hellfire.”
Uh-huh. Literally, ’cause Jesus knew Tareek wasn’t fooling around.
Thankfulness split Henrik wide open. He took it back a moment later when another fireball roared across the night sky. More deadly than the first, flames spilled, splashing up and out like lava flow. Trees caught fire, throwing ash into the air as tombstones whirled end over end, taking enemy assassins out at the knees. Breathing hard, Henrik searched the trail of smoke overhead. Any moment now. Another few seconds and . . .
Green eyes aglow, Tareek shot through the acrid swirl.
Spotting Henrik on the ground, his friend tucked his wings. He dropped out of the sky like a stone. Huge talons thumped down. Bloodred scales rattled, glinting in the blaze as Tareek slid sideways on scorched earth. Time slowed, warping perception. Ignoring Cosmina’s “Oh gods!” Henrik watched in awe as Tareek’s razor-sharp claws tore into the ground, ripping wide trenches in the dirt. Goddamn, the male was huge and all kinds of vicious. Thank Christ. He couldn’t ask for a better self-appointed protector, but . . .
Henrik shook his head. No matter how many times he witnessed the transformation, the shift startled him. How Tareek went from a man to, well . . . that. ’Twas downright amazing.
Coming to a sudden halt in front of him, Tareek glanced over his shoulder. Shimmering eyes met his. The dragon bared his fangs. “Run.”
The snarl slammed into his mind. Henrik didn’t hesitate. Scooping Cosmina off the ground, he spun around the high wall and made for River’s Bend. He hated to do it. Would rather stand and fight alongside Tareek, but that wouldn’t work. Not tonight. Cosmina had endured enough. The faster he got her to safety, the better. The quicker he’d acquire answers too, ’cause . . . no question. ’Twas time to do the unthinkable. No matter how much it chaffed him, he must shelve his grudge and summon the Goddess of All Things. Otherwise he wouldn’t get what he needed . . .
The secret to killing Halál and the band of unnatural bastards he led.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Perched atop the high wall overlooking the Jiu River, Cristobal Torres watched the ripple from eleven hundred feet up. Winter winds dove deep, then rose hard, tugging at his shirttail, caressing him like a lover as starry skies tossed brilliance like well-honed dice. Illumination tumbled, glimmering across the surface of the Jiu. His gaze on the ebb and flow, he shook his head. He shouldn’t be here, outside in the cold, atop the parapet that protected Drachaven, the mountain fortress he now shared with his brothers-in-arms.
Not that it wasn’t a pretty sight. Far from it.
The view was magnificent, the brutal drop to the river’s edge even more so. ’Twas almost enough to tempt him. A quick spin. An even faster fall, and he’d be hanging off the outer wall by his fingertips, moments from feeling the rush as he free-climbed the icy stone face to reach the sheer cliffs upon which Drachaven sat. A dangerous endeavor—one that required supreme skill to achieve and most would call insane. Cristobal huffed. Call him mad, then, and get it over with, ’cause . . . hell. He’d already made the climb . . . twice. Once from the river’s edge up. The second time from the high wall down alongside Xavian.
A race to the bottom.
A fun one that had ended with bragging rights and a lot of backslapping. Which was why he shouldn’t be here. Xavian—his best friend and commander of The Seven—would kick his arse if he knew. Would tell him to go back to bed and get some rest, but . . .
He couldn’t sleep. For the fifth moonrise in a row.
’Twas the damnedest thing. Most nights he slept like the dead. But times changed, and now he suffered the effects. Tension ate at him, pricking along his spine, pulling worry to the surface. He needed to sleep. Felt the draw and tug of fatigue even now—while brisk winds bit and the moon shone bright—but everything he tried failed. Warm milk with honey before bedtime? Nothing. A ball-busting training session after supper? No results. Reading ancient texts until his eyes grew gritty and his mind numbed from boredom? A big fat zero on the sliding slumber scale. ’Twas beyond frustrating.
Particularly since he knew the cause. Or at least, thought he did. And still couldn’t do a thing about it.
Flexing his fingers, Cristobal glanced down at the back of his hand. His knuckle points stared back at him. He debated a moment, then gave into the urge, and shoved at his shirtsleeve. Butter-soft linen slid up his forearm and . . . rahat. No change. The lines were still there. Weren’t getting any better either. Fine and precise, an invisible hand drew on his skin, weaving black lines in and out, creating a pattern that, as of yet, remained incomplete. A conclusion based in presumption? Probably. He couldn’t be certain, after all, the tattoo lay unfinished. But then, he didn’t need to be sure.
Instinct never lied. Neither did the truth. Or the fact he hadn’t asked for the black ink.
He’d woken from a deep sleep six nights ago, the sting almost unbearable, to discover the tattoo starting on the backs of both hands. Now it crawled like creeping vines, staining his skin, burning deep into flesh until he felt it in his bones.
Strange. Painful. Scary as hell.
And clearly not done yet.
His lip curled as the lines slid over his right forearm. With a rough yank, he checked his left arm. Same design. Identical marks forming twin patterns. No deviation in contour as each headed for his elbows. Cristobal blew out a shaky breath. Not normal. Hell, no wonder he couldn’t sleep. Forget the agony—the constant sting of the unnatural tattoos. Put aside his resistance to, well . . . whatever the hell was happening to him. He’d already buried the fear six feet under. ’Twas the voice inside his head he couldn’t stand. Like a gong being struck, the witchy whisper beat against his temples. Over and over. Again and again. Always the same words . . .
Find her. Find her. She needs you . . . find her.
Cristobal yanked his shirt cuff back down. The rough movement raked along his forearm. Anguish scraped across his skin. Balanced on the balls of his feet, he snarled at the mountain peaks rising in the distance.
“Ma rahat,” he said through clenched teeth.
None of it made any sense. Not the burn of creeping tattoos. Not the words shredding the inside of his skull. Not the urgency he felt either. He didn’t even know her name. Who the hell was she? And why in God’s name did she need him? The a
nnoying chant came again. Find her. Find her. She needs you . . . find her. More questions circled. Per usual, answers refused to follow. He snorted. Like he should expect anything less? Nothing ever came easy. Solutions to problems enjoyed playing coy and never arrived out of the blue. The world didn’t work that way. A mystery required legwork and razor-sharp intellect to solve. So . . .
Time to stop stewing and step up his game.
Avoiding the inevitable wasn’t his thing. Neither was panic. And honestly, he’d never been the idle sort. Trained to kill, the most talented tracker in an order full of elite assassins, he preferred to be on the move—hunting, shadow walking, taking down his prey. Which meant he needed to tell someone. His gaze on the snaking current of the river, Cristobal frowned. Mayhap he should talk to Xavian and reach out to Afina. A magic wielder and High Priestess to the Order of Orm, she possessed a direct line to the Goddess of All Things, the deity he now served. Mayhap if he shared the problem—showed her the ink and incomplete tattoos—she would know what to do. Or at the very least, explain what the hell was happening to him.
Nerves got the better of him.
He shoved the angst aside. Hiding the ink was foolhardy. He needed help. Could no longer deny the pain or contain his worry, so . . . aye, despite the need to solve his own problems, ’twas past time he sought aide from his best friend. With a quick shift, Cristobal pivoted atop the wall. His boots brushed against stone. Sound whispered, drifting on frigid air as he—
A door slammed open. Wood banged against stone, shredding the silence.
Cristobal’s focus snapped toward the main entrance.
Eyes aglow, Garren roared over the threshold, then down the stairs, heading for the wide-open space of the inner bailey. Hot on his heels, Cruz, the youngest of the dragon-shifters, made tracks in his commander’s wake. Cristobal went on high alert. Rahat. Not good. Calm, cool, and collected most of the time, not much upset the dragon-shifter. But as he scanned Garren’s face and read his expression, he knew—just knew—the warrior carried bad news. Taut muscle rippling, Cristobal leapt from his perch. His feet touched down on the rampart. Garren looked up from the bottom step and nailed him with shimmering violet eyes.
Knight Avenged (Circle of Seven #2) Page 16
