Slam-bang. His feet rammed into stone.
The hard landing sent his knees rebounding into the wall of his chest. Bone cracked against bone. Air rushed from his lungs and pain struck, decimating rational thought as he doubled over. As he wheezed, struggling to breathe, the Limwoods rose with predatory intent. Crouched in a ball, Tareek listed to one side, knocking into Kazim’s legs.
Creepers curled around his forearms, Kazim widened his stance, supporting his sideways slide. “Stay still, Tareek.”
Excellent advice. Music to his ears. Especially since he couldn’t catch his breath, never mind move. Which meant Kazim better think fast and work smart. Otherwise the Limwoods would strike and he wouldn’t stand a chance. But as the thought circled and worry expanded, something miraculous happened. The vines withdrew, releasing the assassin one tendril at a time before retreating toward the edge of the dell.
Exhaling long and slow, Kazim raised his head. Eyes as dark as midnight met Tareek’s. A moment later, the Persian’s mouth curved. “One beast tamed. One scaly arse saved.”
Levity lived in the words. The kind of teasing designed to do one thing: lessen the tension and break the stranglehold of unease. Normally, Tareek would’ve appreciated the effort. But not right now. The frivolity didn’t belong. Hristos, that had been close. Far too close. And as the wind picked up and storm clouds rolled in to hide the moon, deepening the night shadow, Tareek fisted his hands to keep them from shaking.
God-awful memory. It refused to let him go.
“My thanks, Kazim,” he whispered, forcing air into his lungs, giving the assassin his due. ’Twas only fair. The male deserved the praise. As much as Tareek could throw his way. Sure, Kazim might like to tease, but the assassin was solid when it counted. “I owe you a—”
“Nay, do not.” Kazim shook his head and held out his hand. Tareek hesitated a moment, then took it, allowing the male to pull him to his feet. “We’re family now, remember? Brothers look after one another, fratele.”
Unable to find his voice, Tareek nodded.
Kazim slapped him on the shoulder. “Better?”
“All good,” he said, even though it wasn’t true. At least, not yet. Mayhap in a minute or two when the tension cramping his muscles loosened. Night vision pinpoint sharp, Tareek glanced toward the forest’s edge. Magic coalesced into an entity, staring out of the darkness. Revulsion shivered through him. He swallowed the bad taste in his mouth. Well, so much for hoping for a moment of relaxation. Loosening up wasn’t possible inside the enchanted forest. “How long do we need to be here?”
“A while.” Frozen leaves crackled as Henrik walked his warhorse forward. Hazel-gold eyes met Tareek’s a moment before his friend tipped his chin, sending a silent inquiry. One that asked “you all right?” without him saying a word. “Enough time to rest and regroup.”
The undertone put Tareek on high alert. His gaze narrowed on Henrik as suspicion rose out of experience. He swallowed a snort. Wee whelp. Rest and regroup, his arse. The male was up to something. Something important. Something he wanted to hide from the others. Tareek could tell. Aye, Henrik looked calm enough, but Tareek knew he churned beneath the surface. He detected the upheaval in his emotional grid. Understood the doubt, dread, and pain that drove his friend.
Even as a lad, he’d been that way—reckless and volatile. Passionate as well, far too intense for his own good.
Which meant Tareek had work to do. Cracking through the male’s guard wouldn’t be easy. Nor could he do it here, in plain view of his fellow assassins. Respect deserved its day, and caring equal measure. No way would he challenge Henrik in front of the others. If he tried, the whelp would dig in and he wouldn’t learn a thing.
Certainly not enough to help with whatever Henrik had planned.
Rolling his shoulders to combat the tension, Tareek strode across the low bluff. With a hop, he leapt off the edge. Icy turf crunched beneath his soles as he touched down in front of Henrik. “Got a spot to rest in mind?”
Henrik nodded. “A cottage. Three, mayhap four, hours from here.”
Interesting. The information, sure, but mostly Henrik’s knowledge of the Limwoods. How the hell had his friend come by it? Good question. Particularly since he knew Henrik had never been inside the forest before. Hmm . . . another mystery to solve. One that fed into an even larger one. Sidestepping, Tareek came alongside his friend and—
Jesus.
He blinked, realizing two things at once. The first? Henrik wasn’t alone atop his horse. And the second? He really needed to pay more attention. No way he should’ve missed the small form in Henrik’s arms. Or the strong female energy surrounding his friend. Leaning right, he peered around the curve of the hood covering her head. A ringlet of red hair peeked out, looking lush and thick against her smooth skin. Fast asleep, auburn lashes made half-moons against her pale cheeks and . . . ah hell. Here they went again. Despite his rough beginning—and the fact he’d never been accepted by the fairer sex inside White Temple—Henrik loved women.
Evidence of it pervaded the male’s life.
Especially while visiting Ismal, the marketplace nestled at the foot of the Carpathians.
Females threw themselves at Henrik. Not surprising. Most women coveted a strong male. And Henrik? Hell, he had it all—good looks, a menacing vibe, and more charisma than any male ought to possess. But ’twas his reputation more than anything that made him so popular. Generous to a fault, skilled in the sexual arena, he liked to take his time with a female. His renown preceded him wherever he went. Females talked and word spread quickly, giving rise to the rumors . . .
Go to bed with Henrik. Never leave unsatisfied.
Normally the axiom wasn’t a problem for Tareek. The lad deserved his fun, after all. But as suspicion opened the door to possibility, his instincts served up the facts. His friend wanted the female sharing his saddle. Tareek smelled it on him—the yearning, the need, the desire for closeness that brought most males low. Unprecedented. Unsettling. Troublesome too. Henrik wasn’t prone to entanglements of any kind. He liked to play, not commit. But as his gaze met and held his friend’s, the truth couldn’t be denied. Henrik was wildly attracted to her. Was already invested in her well-being. Which meant he was going to get burned in a big way, ’cause . . .
Tareek huffed. Aye, without a doubt. She represented a huge problem.
For him as well as Henrik.
The Druinguari wouldn’t quit. Were even now sniffing around the edge of the Limwoods, tracking, hunting, searching for the best way to bring them down. How did he know? His sonar kept pinging—bringing back traces of magic, gauging distances, assessing the danger. Even from deep inside the enchanted forest, tendrils of black magic teased, making his skin crawl and his dragon senses scream.
All of which pointed to one inescapable truth. Her close proximity would distract his friend. Not good. Or anywhere near advisable. With the battle lines drawn and war coming, no mistakes could be made. He needed Henrik focused and battle ready, not distracted by a redheaded dove with a pretty face and a curvy body.
Dropping his hand, Tareek tipped his chin. “Picked up a passenger, I see.”
“’Tisn’t what you think.”
“Really.” He raised a brow. “Where have I heard that before?”
A muscle twitched along Henrik’s jaw. “I couldn’t leave her there. She—”
“Of course you couldn’t.” Made perfect sense. When, after all, had Henrik ever been able to deny a female anything?
“Is one of the Blessed.”
Tareek blinked. He frowned as the new detail sank in. “Confirmed?”
“Aye.”
“Shit.”
“Exactly.”
One word. Big impact. Tareek sighed. No need to explain further.
Message received and accepted.
The female couldn’t be left behind. More’s the pity. Terrible, in fact.
Ditching her somewhere along the way would’ve made things easier in the lon
g run. Particularly since true believers—those who served the Goddess of All Things—tended to be fanatics. But no matter his aversion to all things White Temple, Tareek refused to walk away. No way would he abandon his vow along with his principles. Henrik was right. She was too valuable, an asset to the goddess, a member of the Order both he and others had promised to protect. So only one thing left to do: mount up and get moving . . .
While he filled Henrik in on the way.
Dragging his focus from his friend, Tareek glanced at Andrei. Quick to react, the warrior tugged on the lead in his hand. Horse hooves cracked against the brittle leaves. Twin streams of air puffing from its nostrils, the enormous roan tossed his head and stepped forward. As the beast came abreast of him, Tareek murmured, reached out, and stroked his muzzle with a gentle hand. The second the roan accepted his touch, he took the reins and swung into the saddle.
Leather creaked. Tareek settled in, making himself at home. “I reached out to Garren.”
Shay glanced his way. “Is he en route with Xavian?”
“And the others.”
“Good. I have an idea of where Halál will try to intercept us. We’ll need the others to help set the trap and lure him in,” Henrik said, nudging his warhorse into a walk.
The forest reacted to the movement, rustling the underbrush and . . . Tareek flinched. Hristos, talk about eerie, and, well, mayhap the tiniest bit alluring too. The Limwoods might be a violent anomaly, but as the vines parted—opening to reveal a trail across the clearing, one that reached deep into the forest, showing Henrik the way—Tareek realized something important. As an enemy, the magical entity was a brutal force to be avoided at all costs, but as an ally? The possibilities became not only infinite, but interesting as well.
As though able to read his mind, Henrik met his gaze. “Impressive, isn’t she?”
Tareek frowned. Impressive? Well that was one way of looking at it. Terrifying might be another. “She?”
“Thea,” Kazim said, a hint of awe in his tone. “Beautiful creature.”
“Yet to be determined,” Tareek said, clinging to prejudice.
A good grudge, after all, never went out of style. Neither did caution. Both kept a male alive longer. But as Henrik galloped onto the trail, disappearing into shadowed recesses of the forest, Tareek followed in his wake. No sense being a pansy about it. Or denying his curiosity now that he was on the ground. He wanted to know more about the Limwoods. Press up against her boundaries and see where it led him. Had the forest truly accepted them or was she playing a game of wait and see? Would she allow them to leave when the time came or imprison them instead? Forever friend or cunning foe? All excellent questions, ones that needed to be explored and answered . . . in a hurry. Otherwise he and his comrades wouldn’t make it out of the Limwoods alive.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Blood rushing in her ears, Nairobi sped past the garden’s T-shaped wading pool. Iced over, skiffs of snow gathered along its edges as the slap of her footfalls echoed out to reach the fountain at its center. Devoid of water, bare-breasted mermaids stood frozen in time, unable to lure sailors to their doom without the usual sea of blue surrounding them. She scowled at the marble statues on the way by.
Stupid Persian design.
Beautiful, symmetrical, annoying mess. At least, right now. The fountain along with the garden layout provided almost no cover. No hedgerows or high walls in the middle. Just colorful mosaic tiles on wide pathways and barren flowerbeds set in geometric patterns. Not even the multitude of trees helped. Planted at equal intervals next to the outer wall, the tall, thin cypress threw little shadow, leaving her exposed as the moon bathed the garden in winter-borne light.
Stars above, she was in trouble.
One false move, a touch of bad luck, and she’d be done. Lost to circumstance and consequence. Panic clogged her throat. Sucking in a desperate breath, feet flying over slippery stone, she descended the shallow steps next to the sunken pool. The heavy satchel she carried bounced against her lower back, throwing her off-balance. As she stumbled forward, fighting to stay upright, moonlight mocked her, growing brighter by the moment. A figment of her overstimulated senses? Pure imagination? Fear-induced paranoia? Nairobi didn’t know, but . . .
Call her foolhardy and be done with it.
She should’ve taken the clear sky into account while planning her escape. A cloudy night would’ve lessened the risk and increased her chances of reaching the iron gate at the far end of the first courtyard. Not that it mattered now. ’Twas far too late to lament her lack of foresight. She was neck-deep in it. No room for doubt. Little chance of going back either.
Nairobi glanced over her shoulder anyway. The former palace turned silk house loomed large behind her. Arabic archways and dark windows stared out from behind a wide balcony. So far, so good. No one stood watching her flight. Which meant Adam had yet to discover her missing from the weaving room.
Making a tight turn, she skirted a star-shaped flowerbed. Her conscience panged. Silly to feel bad. Ridiculous to allow guilt to win. She had naught to feel contrite about and even less choice. Freedom didn’t exist in the grey areas. It lived in black and white; a person either possessed it or not. And yet, even knowing no other recourse remained, remorse found a home inside her heart. The guard didn’t deserve what she was about to give him—derision, punishment, or worse from the owner of the silk house.
A nasty outcome. One no one in his right mind wanted to face, never mind endure.
Her sense of fair play nudged her. Regret dug its claws in, cutting through, elevating her self-reproach to new levels. An ache bloomed behind her breastbone. Nairobi ignored it, and arms pumping, sprinted toward freedom. It stood just ahead, a quick jump and hard climb up the garden gate. Designed to keep others out, and the weavers in, ’twas a thing of beauty, intricate ironwork melding into immaculate design. The result? Impenetrable twin panels that ascended twelve feet, falling just shy of the outer wall’s upper lip. Anxiety made her heart pound harder. Climbing in icy conditions would be challenging—no question. But the true worry lay at the top of the gate. Steel thorns crowned the crosspiece, ruling with timeless efficiency, setting the tone as each spike lorded over the entrance.
By no means optimal. Even less encouraging.
Hurrying between two low-lying shrubs, Nairobi descended the last set of stairs and entered the courtyard. Her footfalls slowed as she approached the high gate and, eying the thorny deterrents at its top, reached into the front pocket of her satchel. With a tug, she pulled out a pair of leather gloves. Tearing her gaze from the spikes, she studied the ironwork and plotted her course—handholds, footholds, the best places to find a good grip, the smaller spaces to avoid. Up one side. Down the other. No problem. She could do it. Keep the fear at bay long enough to win her freedom and find her way home.
Each breath naught but a harsh rasp, she pulled on the protective hand-wear and approached on silent feet. Almost there. One more obstacle. A fast climb, a quicker descent, and she’d be standing outside the outer wall, running for her life, looking over her shoulder, navigating the streets of Ismal to reach the forest’s edge. From there, she knew the way: due north to White Temple. The only place she’d ever truly belonged.
With a yank, she tugged the hem of her short jacket down, then tightened the leather strap across her chest. All good. Despite its weight against her back, the bag would hold. Now so must she. Flexing her fingers, she reached out, grabbed her first handhold, and searched for the next. Slow and steady, calm and sure, she started to climb. Nairobi huffed and wiggled her foot, wedging the toe of her boot into a small crevice. Calm. Right. ’Twas all an illusion. She was nowhere near steady. Shaky, full of panic, about to lose her grip on the icy ironwork—goddess, all true, but she refused to stop now.
Inhaling hard, she forced her lungs to expand. Hanging four feet off the ground, she exhaled in a rush, then repeated the process. White puffs pushed from her mouth, painting the metal with frost. In. Out. Catch h
er breath, then release it. The influx of air helped, allowing her to look for the next handhold, helping her go on, soothing her nerves even as her muscles trembled and her courage shook. Just a bit farther. Six feet to her goal. Now three. So close. All she needed to do was hold the line, make it to the top, pick a path over the spikes, and—
“Nairobi!”
The shout echoed across the garden. Her focus snapped to the right, then traveled up the path next to the outer wall. Oh nay. Oh gods . . . Adam. He’d spotted her the moment he’d rounded the blind corner next to the row of cypress trees. Time lengthened and stilled as she met his gaze. Her grip tightened on the finger holds. The astonished look on his face vanished as his brows collided. The second he shifted to the balls of his feet, Nairobi reacted, finding another handhold, peddling her feet, climbing upward faster than was prudent, and . . .
Her toe slipped off metal.
One boot knocked into the next. Her right foot joined the left, dangling in the air as she swung sideways. With a cry, she dug in and held on hard, fighting to get her feet back under her. She heard heavy footfalls rush across the courtyard behind her. Fear roared through her, infusing her muscles with strength. Gritting her teeth, she found a foothold and clambered higher, eyes glued to the multi-headed spikes. Adam yelled, raising the alarm, shattering all hope of a clean getaway as he called for more guards and the keys to the gate.
“Nairobi . . .” More growl than word, her name swirled on the cold air. Adam slid to a stop below her. “For the love of God, woman . . . get down. You’ve nowhere to go.”
Untrue. She had a home. One that beckoned. A place unlike any other where she would be loved, accepted, and safe—just like before.
Heart pounding so hard her chest hurt, Nairobi grabbed the base of an iron thorn cluster. Feet planted against steel, dangling by a single handhold twelve feet from the ground, she lifted the leather strap over her head. With a huff, she tossed the satchel over. Leather groaned in protest before landing with a thud in the deserted laneway.
Knight Avenged (Circle of Seven #2) Page 21
