“I mean it, girl. Come down. Right now or I—”
“You’ll what?” Indignation surged. Determination picked up the gauntlet, accepting the challenge. So what. She’d been discovered. Adam didn’t have the keys. Not yet anyway. Which meant she still had a chance. Still possessed some time. Enough, mayhap, to save herself and stay true to her purpose. Adam—along with everyone else inside the silk house—could go to the devil. She would not lie down. Or crumble beneath the pressure. Her eyes narrowed, she grabbed a second handhold and heaved herself upright. Lifting one leg over the spikes, she planted her foot on the thin lip on the other side. Crouched like a cat atop the high gate, she looked down at the guard. “Take away my freedom? Punish me by locking me away? Too late for that, Adam. You’ve done that from the start.”
Surprise winged across his face. A moment later, his brows furrowed. He opened his mouth—no doubt to threaten her again.
She cut him off. “I’m sorry, Adam. I’ve no wish to cause you trouble, but I cannot stay. I am going home. I need to go home.”
“Your place is here.”
“You’re wrong,” she whispered, navigating the thorny barbs. “I never belonged here. My calling has always been much greater.”
The truth of it gave her added courage. Saying it aloud granted her power. Treating the guard to a defiant look, Nairobi slid her second foot over. Adam cursed. She kept climbing, descending the opposite side of the gate as he yelled again, demanding the keys. The rapid beat of footfalls scrambled the quiet, rushing toward her as the moon winked in the clear sky. Halfway down, she let go and jumped to the ground. Her boots slammed into the cobblestones, making her teeth rattle. Pain stung her temples. Ignoring the discomfort, she spun, grabbed the satchel strap, and slung it over her shoulder.
The guard snarled at her from behind the swirling ironwork.
“Fair thee well, Adam.”
“God’s grace, Nairobi,” he said, the threat of violence in this voice. “You will need it when I find you.”
More promise than threat, his words sent a chill down her spine.
Feet churning through the thin skin of snow, she ran for the end of the alleyway. Another of the guards shouted, organizing the others. Keys jingled, sound rising on a rapid gust of frosty air. Skidding into the next laneway, Nairobi sprinted for the mouth of another, making certain each footfall landed on a clear patch of cobblestone and stayed out of the snow. Leaving a trail for Adam amounted to a bad idea. The guard wasn’t stupid. He knew how to hunt women. Had proved it on more than one occasion when he returned an escapee to the less reputable section of the silk house—a place created for one purpose: a client’s comfort and pleasure.
Disgusting practice. Especially considering many in the harem didn’t want to be there.
Revulsion moved behind her breastbone. Goddess forgive her, she hated to leave all those women behind. Ought to be helping each one find a way out of hellish circumstances. A noble intention. A task in desperate need of doing. But not right now. Tonight belonged to her own freedom. Liberation would come for those inside Saul’s Silk Emporium, but first she must evade Adam and get out of Ismal. Otherwise she wouldn’t be able to save anyone, least of all herself.
Surrounded by thick cloud and frosty air, Cristobal looped the leather strap tethering him to Cruz around his fist. A wise move. A dragon shifted fast in flight. His comrade was no exception, angling his wings, slicing between steep cliffs as condensation beaded his chilled skin and his friend’s black, bronze-tipped scales. Banking into another tight turn, Cruz dipped low and ducked his horned head. Tucked in tight, the wall of his chest against the back of the dragon’s neck, Cristobal watched a weathered stone arch sail overhead.
Eying the rocky ridge on the flyby, he grinned. Jesus. Talk about close—less than a foot—solid stone mere inches above his head. To be expected. Cruz loved to fly and wasn’t careful in its execution. Each turn the dragon-warrior made was insane—wing tips inches from jagged outcroppings, velocity muscle-clenching brutal, little light to see or fly by. And the wind? Mother of God. Nature howled, picking up speed, throwing snow like fistfuls of confetti as they hopscotched across the Carpathians, leaving one mountain pass only to blast into another.
Not that he was complaining.
Cristobal loved the wildness, the elemental fuck-you of a clenched fist and raised middle finger. So aye, shrug off the chill. Forget the mind-bending speed. Dragon flight was the absolute best—fast, furious, efficient. Right up his alley, a method of travel he embraced with relish . . . even if his flying companion was a touch nuts and boatloads of brave.
Gritting his teeth, he hung on hard as Cruz flipped in midair, avoiding a lopsided stone tower in the center of the gorge. Cold air burned across his cheeks, blowing the hair off his face. His mouth curved as pleasure thrummed through him. Astride a dragon’s back, fast and free in flight. Who would’ve thought it possible? He huffed. Not him. Not until a month ago, anyway. But oh how quickly things changed—in both good and bad ways. Good equated to a midnight flight and his bird’s-eye view. And bad? Well now, that came with a smell, an acrid one that rose on winter-borne wind, leaving a trail along with a terrible taste in his mouth.
Not a good sign, considering he and his comrades flew toward it.
With a frown, Cristobal leaned into another turn as his mind raced ahead, over landscapes he’d yet to cross to settle in the Valley of the Blessed. He shook his head. White Temple—the holy city shrouded in mystery and steeped in unfortunate history. A place he’d never visited, yet disliked already. No rhyme. Even less reason, but something about approaching the goddess’ domain put him on edge. Cristobal snorted. Right. He should probably rephrase the statement. On edge didn’t begin to describe what he felt. ’Twas more dangerous than that. Far more volatile too. Even from a distance, he sensed the magic. Smelled the discord as well, the bitter smell of—
Rahat. He didn’t know. But God, the scent wouldn’t leave him alone. No matter how deeply he inhaled, he couldn’t acclimate. Or lessen the sensory burn.
’Twas as though something foreign had entered his body, triggering a primal reaction. An animalistic one that amplified everything—sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch. Now his skin crawled and instinct hissed, overloading him on all fronts. Tightening his grip on Cruz, he examined his reaction and new abilities. The uptick in visceral perception made little sense. He sensed the fracture between normal and what he experienced now—a great divide that widened by the moment, branding him an entity he didn’t recognize. Now he grappled with the changes, fighting to understand. To put the shattered pieces of himself back together like a potter might the broken shards of a clay pot.
More than worrisome. ’Twas downright alarming.
Reaching out, he grabbed one of the prongs that rose behind Cruz’s horns with his free hand. Heat rolled off his friend and into his palm. The protective cocoon deflected the windchill, enclosing him in a warm bubble.
The temperature shift didn’t help.
Naught did. He couldn’t control the influx of awareness. Or shut down the bombardment of sensation. God be merciful, the smell. The awful ceaseless stench. It overpowered him even as his vision sharpened. Cristobal winced. Another unsettling change. No way should he be able to see in the dark, never mind the individual crystals inside the snowflakes. Or the ridged lines on each evergreen needle as Cruz left the foothills and leveled out over the forest.
Total mind-twist territory.
One heightened by the fact his forearms still throbbed.
Cristobal fisted one of his hands. He stared at the white points of his knuckles a moment, then shook his head. Jesus help him. He didn’t understand. Couldn’t begin to sort it out, never mind put a name to the oddity. Not that it mattered. An explanation wasn’t in the offing. The invisible hand didn’t talk—or offer an ounce of solace—as it continued to draw, elevating pain to new heights, marking his skin with black ink beneath the steel sleeves he wore. Swallowing a curse, he
glanced down at the hardware encasing his arms from wrist to elbow. Crafted by the blacksmith at Drachaven, the clever cuffs sported three bladed fins along the outer edges, allowing him to block a blade thrust while turning his forearms into weapons.
A nice pair, but for one thing.
Cristobal wasn’t wearing the cuffs to help him fight. He was wearing the pair to hide the unfinished tattoos. From Xavian. From Cruz. From anyone who would ask the questions he held no answers to, which—Jesus grant him grace—made him a first-class fool, considering he’d already decided he needed help. Well either that or to be put down. Planted six feet under. Covered in topsoil and left to rot. Too bad every time he opened his mouth, he clammed up, then shut down. A normal reaction? Not really. Xavian was his best friend, for Christ’s sake. An elite assassin with supreme skill, a keen mind and solid heart, so . . .
He needed to come clean soon. Before the others discovered the change in him on their own. Before Xavian kicked his arse for hiding the truth.
Nervousness rattled his cage. Cristobal shoved his angst aside. Desirable or nay, he couldn’t deny the changes in his body any longer. Honor dictated the way forward and set him on the right path. Xavian deserved the truth. His comrades needed to know—just in case. The ink and heightened awareness might not be a good thing. It could land them all in a world of trouble instead. Which meant ’twas time to buck up and lay his fears on the table. Before the malevolent force he felt growing inside him usurped his will and spiraled out of control. Otherwise he might end up harming those he considered his brothers instead of aiding the cause.
The thought sent a chill through him.
Fighting the internal deep freeze, Cristobal glanced over his shoulder. His gaze landed on Xavian, then bounced over to Razvan. Both astride Garren, just off Cruz’s left wing, the pair seemed none the worse for wear. Excellent in every way, but for one. The awful smell didn’t appear to be bothering either of his comrades while he . . .
Cristobal’s stomach rolled. He swallowed, fighting the urge to gag. “Rahat.”
“What’s wrong?” Cruz turned his head. Wind changed direction, curling over his horns, causing white streaks to stream from the jagged tips. Dark eyes with vertical pupils met his a moment before his friend raised a scaly brow. “You sense something?”
Sense something? Jesus. A total understatement. The perfect opening too—a clever segue that invited him to disclose the truth. To talk about the tattoos and changes in sensory perception. Cristobal hesitated. Should he? Or shouldn’t he? He’d thought to discuss the problem with Xavian first, but . . .
He frowned. Mayhap Cruz was the better choice.
Despite being the youngest dragon-shifter, Cruz understood magic. Hell, the male lived with it every day—dealt in the fantastical each time he shifted into dragon form. Toss in the fact the warrior was whipcord smart, more observant than most, and, well aye, it could work. Might even be prudent considering Cruz watched him like a hawk, shadowing him everywhere he went, refusing to allow him to leave Drachaven unescorted.
A surprising turn of events. One Cristobal appreciated, even if he found it a touch strange. He was, after all, a breed apart, a trained assassin accustomed to his own company. A man who shunned emotional attachment along with constant companionship. Something about Cruz, though, put him at ease. He didn’t mind having the warrior around. ’Twas a comfortable relationship based in mutual respect and similar skill. Acceptance rooted in brotherhood; no judgment or burden of expectation.
Not unlike the one Garren shared with Xavian.
“Cristobal, do not hide from me. I sense the difference in you,” Cruz said. “Tell me what ails you.”
No doubt the best plan. Better to get it out in the open now, before things went from bad to worse. The thought made his heart pound harder. Cristobal struggled past his unease, forcing himself to think straight, ’cause, aye, no question. If Cruz felt the shift in him, it wouldn’t be long until the others picked up on it too. “I’m undergoing a few . . . ah, changes.”
“Heightened senses—sight, sound, smell?” Cruz asked. “Trouble sleeping?”
“Aye. All those.”
“What else?”
“Twin tattoos. The first line appeared five nights ago.”
His friend glanced at one of the finned cuffs. “Forearms?”
Cristobal dipped his chin, answering without words.
Wings spread wide, Cruz settled into a fast glide. Stars winked through the cloud cover, taking turns playing peekaboo with the moon. “You will show me when we are on the ground.”
“If there is time,” he said, his eyes on the horizon. He had a bad feeling. Something wasn’t right. An odd vibration hung in the air, the unfriendly kind that packed a punch, then came back for more. Which meant time was of the essence and Cruz would have to wait. His problem would be solved—sooner or later. The one he approached, however? Cristobal breathed in through his nose, filling his lungs, filtering the assortment of scents. The stench remained front and center as other odors rose—smoke, charred wood, the scent of spilled blood. Rahat . . . not good. Particularly since the forest was set to drop away and toss them into the unknown—into the valley that cradled the holy city. “How close are we?”
“Three miles out. White Temple lies just ahead.”
Shifting on his seat of scales, Cristobal palmed one of the hilts rising over the tops of his shoulders. With a smooth draw, he unsheathed the curved blade. Steel glinted in weak light, slicing through the cold air. “Cruz . . .”
“I feel it. Hold on, but be ready.”
One hand wrapped in the tether, the other gripping his sword, Cristobal leaned in as his friend banked left, then dipped low, catapulting them over the rim of the treetops. The forest dropped away. Barren fields surrounded by crooked fences took its place, rushing to meet the deep ditches abutting the main road. Wings spread, Cruz hung in midair a moment, the glow of a golden dome in the distance, then shot over the frozen landscape toward soaring stone walls. Eyes narrowed, Cristobal scanned the terrain. Naught so far. No one on the ground. Nothing to consider a threat, but . . .
A black plume of smoke rose beyond the walled city.
Twisting into a sidewinding flip, Cruz roared over White Temple. Snow blew up and out, streaming into a frosty swirl behind him. The ground blurred, making building outposts indistinguishable from narrow thoroughfares. Wind whistled in his ears as they came up over the west wall. Cristobal’s attention snapped north and—bingo. Ground zero. The site of the fight, once a cemetery now a bloody mess. Jesus, it looked as though an army of monsters had torn through the boneyard. Tombstones and statues lay askew—shattered, ripped from the ground, granite faces blown to bits. Huge trees stood ablaze, throwing flame and smoke into the air. Two massive craters dove into scorched earth, shallow pools of lava steaming at the north end of the cemetery.
“La dracu,” Xavian said, voice pushed forward by a gust of wind. “Tareek?”
“Aye,” Garren growled as he flew alongside Cruz. “His exhale packs a helluva wallop.”
Evidently. The damage was beyond vicious. ’Twas downright impressive.
“Cruz . . .” Gaze riveted to the carnage, Cristobal trailed off as his vision warped into colorful multi-dimensional arrays. The variant hues stained the ground, expanding, contracting, each shifting like a living net, helping him assess the danger and read heat signatures. He blinked, trying to clear the color away. His focus sharpened instead, intensifying perception. Talk about eerie. Not the least bit normal either. But even as unease pricked his skin, he wielded the ability as though he’d been born doing it. Now he knew what each pigment represented. Hot spots, fire and flame: red. Residual heat left by bodies and in footprints: orange and yellow. Cold, inanimate objects: blue, green, and grey. He shook his head, hoping to knock a few wits together, trying to understand.
Hell and a half. Another change. This one more unwelcome than the last.
Swallowing a snarl, he tapped his friend with the
butt of his sword hilt. Steel thunked against hard scales. Still circling above the scene, Cruz glanced over his shoulder.
He met the dragon-shifter’s gaze. “Land. Time to take a closer look.”
With a nod, Cruz swooped over a huge oak engulfed by flame. Smoke billowed up, swirling around them. Heat joined the rush, devouring snowflakes, wetting the air as he tucked his wings. His back paws thumped down. Razor-sharp dragon claws scraped over granite, turning tombstones into rubble. The second Cruz settled, Cristobal threw his leg over and leapt to the ground. Stepping around his friend, he walked between two headstones. Or, what was left of them. Stone stubs sticking out of the ground, a felled tree burned a few feet away. Magic joined the scent of burning grass as Cruz shifted into human form.
With a growl, Garren landed behind them. “No one here. Any sign of Henrik and the others?”
Cristobal shook his head. “Not yet.”
Jumping from the dragon’s back, Xavian cursed.
Ignoring the outburst, Cristobal tipped his chin up and inhaled. Senses seething, he sifted through the stench to unearth an underlying fragrance. His nose twitched. He breathed in again, drawing on the scent, and—
Ah, right there. Right on time too.
Faint, but familiar, the scent rose, turning him north toward the square crypts and a stone half wall. His eyes narrowed. Aye, definitely. Henrik and the others had been here, but not for long. And not alone either. A light perfume clung to Henrik. Wanting to be sure, he inhaled again, then exhaled on a huff. A woman. It figured. Everywhere Henrik went, the fairer sex followed, hoping for an hour—or five—of the assassin’s time.
Something about her scent, though, drew him tight.
The muscles bracketing his spine flickered. Her scent . . . that scent. Where had he smelled it before? With a frown, Cristobal tracked it and, with a quick pivot, strode toward two tall statues. Sword at the ready, he heard his comrades follow, boots crunching through snow and slush in his wake. The fragrance grew stronger. He stopped short and glanced left. Stone dragons glared down from their perch atop twin tombstones as he crouched next to boot impressions that glowed yellow. Ignoring the strange color shift, he reached out and touched one. Here . . . right here. Henrik had rested against the granite face beneath twin dragons while protecting the woman with his body.
Knight Avenged (Circle of Seven #2) Page 22
