Soothing even, a gentle touch delivered by unseen hands.
Brow drawn tight, Cristobal unfurled his fists. Open. Close. Flex and release. Taut muscle moved, making the tattoo dance across his skin. He stared at the pattern, examining the fine lines and all the detail. All done, naught left to complete . . . the last line drawn in black ink. And as the invisible hand fell away, taking the magical quill with it, his gaze bounced from one tattoo to the next. Rahat, would you look at that? He could see the hellhounds now—coarse fur, sawtooth spikes rising like jagged fins along each spine, sharp fangs bared beneath slanted eyes. Mesmerized by the design, he traced the thickest line, stroking a fingertip over the bridge of the beast’s nose, then behind its blunt ear.
A growl echoed inside his head.
Pain clawed at his temples. Cristobal shook his head, but it was too late. The pressure built and his mind unhinged, opening a fissure into the unknown. Into something greater. Into a vast space filled with majesty and magic. As the chasm grew, twin entities stepped through the breech, one behind the other, huge claw-tipped paws leading the way as—
“Cristobal.” Familiar and deep, the voice drifted from the trail behind a rock face.
Ah hell. Xavian. Talk about bad timing.
Choking on magic, Cristobal coughed, fighting to find his voice. He needed to warn Xavian. Tell him . . . he frowned . . . what exactly? Stay away? Put his arse in gear and get him help? Jesus, he couldn’t decide. Not while the beasts circled inside his head and his muscles screamed. Absorbing the agony, insight struck. Oh God. The pair was trying to get out—to leave the confines of his mind and take physical form.
Razor-sharp teeth bared, the pair paced—back and forth, round and round—urging him to set them free. The click of claws tapped against his eardrums. Soft snarls pressed in, amplifying the sound, making his skull throb as the two grew in size, lethal presence expanding by the second. The pain increased. The pressure swelled into cerebral burn, threatening to geyser and . . . rahat, here it came . . .
His stomach heaved.
Bile touched the back of his throat. Swallowing the bad taste, Cristobal retreated and, head bowed, slid backward onto one knee. Away from the cliff’s edge. Toward the trailhead and his best friend. Probably not the best move. Cristobal didn’t care. He needed help. Right now. Couldn’t contain the hellhounds much longer, much less—
The tattoos shifted.
One moment, the ink sat on his forearms. The next, the pair came alive, leaping off his skin, streaking into black blurs. The duo took physical form mid-jump. Huge paws thumped down on the plateau in front of him, kicking up stone dust. Cristobal froze, becoming a living statue as the twin hellhounds—each movement in perfect accord—pivoted toward him. Heads low, ears back, glossy pelts and bladed spines glinting in the sunlight, the beasts roared at him. The shrieks obliterated the quiet, rising in a deafening wave, bombarding the sheer cliff face behind him. Chips of shale came loose and tumbled, cascading down to slam into the base of the stone wall.
“La dracu,” Xavian said as he stepped off the narrow trail, onto the plateau.
Huge fangs bared, the beasts’ focus snapped toward his best friend.
“Don’t move.” Still on one knee, his gaze locked on the hellhounds, Cristobal raised his hand, backing up word with deed. The second Xavian moved—drew his weapons or tried to back away—the beasts would give chase. Stood to reason. Predators, after all, enjoyed the thrill of the hunt. “Stay perfectly still.”
Hands gripping his knife hilts, Xavian froze, obeying without question.
Cristobal shifted to the balls of his feet, drawing the hellhounds’ ire. Two sets of eyes settled back on him. The pair sidestepped, huge paws padding softly in stone dust. Covered by black fur, interlocking scales clicked as they moved, the body armor sending an ominous message through the quiet. Lethal accord. Duel purpose. The beasts shared common intent—one grounded in a prospect called unfriendly. Bladed tails twitching, the duo met his gaze. Cristobal drew a deep breath, then exhaled long and slow. Calm. Cool. And collected. He must epitomize all three. Otherwise his attempt to tame the twins wouldn’t end well, never mind . . .
Nay, scratch that. Not twins. Not exactly.
His eyes narrowed. The twosome looked alike—almost identical—but not quite. Slight though the differences might be, he identified individual characteristics. Without moving a muscle, he looked them over again. The hellhound on his right stared at him through unblinking yellow eyes. The beast on the left, however, possessed a unique pair—one yellow eye, the other bright blue. The variance didn’t stop there either. Blue Eyes sported a single snow-white paw while her sibling was black from head to the tip of her tail. Both female. Both huge, standing at least five hands at the withers . . . species not of this world. Razor-sharp teeth set alongside jagged fangs. Lethal claws tipping enormous paws. Blunt ears rising from enormous heads that resembled a cat’s with some wolf thrown in for good measure.
He should be afraid. Or, at the very least, wary.
Cristobal was neither. Instead something akin to pride surfaced, urging him to explore the bond he sensed between him and them. One that became stronger by the moment, infusing him with a power not his own. Magic flowed. His senses sharpened and came alive, allowing him to hear, see, and smell everything—just like he had at the cemetery. He hummed, the sound half purr, half snarl. The hellhounds responded, returning the hostile sound. Which made perfect sense. Felt right too. The twins had come from somewhere inside him, leaping off his skin to take physical form. So aye, as lethal and angry as the pair appeared, the hellhounds belonged to him.
Instinct his guide, Cristobal pushed to his feet.
The hellhounds tensed, growling in unison.
“Ah, Cristobal?”
“Relax, Xavian,” he said, reassuring his friend. No reason to be alarmed. Well, at least, not yet. Raising his arms, Cristobal turned his hands, palms up, and approached the hellhounds on silent feet. “I’ve got them under control.”
“Jesu, I hope so. I’ve no wish to be eaten by . . .” Hands gripping the hilts, but blades still sheathed, Xavian dragged his focus from the twins. Pale eyes full of unease, his commander threw him a meaningful look. “Well, whatever the hell they are.”
“Hellhounds.”
“If you say so.”
His lips twitched. “Trust me.”
“Uh-huh.”
Ignoring the skepticism, Cristobal continued to advance. Blue Eyes bared her fangs and, white paw crossing over black, sidestepped, readying for attack. The show of aggression didn’t faze him. He reached for her instead, holding his hand out, encouraging her to catch his scent, while Yellow Eyes circled around behind him. Enchantment rose. The wind died down. He murmured, using his voice to soothe her. The hellhound at his back came in close and . . .
Bumped him from behind.
Her touch unlocked a floodgate inside his mind. Knowledge washed in, bringing insight and understanding. Wrought by magic, the bond between them snapped into place. A name streamed into his head. Lowering his arm, he laid his hand atop her large head—felt the hard scales beneath soft fur—and stroked his palm over the back of her neck.
Allowing his touch, Yellow Eyes nudged him again.
His mouth curved. “Hello, Thrax.”
Acknowledging his greeting, Thrax purred. The loud rumble made him smile as she pushed her snout into his hand, asking for more. Cristobal gave it to her, petting Thrax without hesitation while he waited for her sister to come forward and receive the same. It took a while. Moments tipped into more, but he didn’t push her. He waited instead, allowing the hellhound the time she needed. After what seemed like forever, but was no more than a minute, she bridged the distance, set her chin in his palm, allowing the bond to take shape and form.
“Vicars,” he said, calling her by name, scratching behind one of her ears. She growled and, tipping her head to one side, leaned into his touch. Giving her what she wanted, he rubbed a little harder, th
en glanced over his shoulder. “We’ve some new playmates, Xavian.”
His friend huffed. “Helluva pair to own. Lethal one moment, naught but kittens the next.”
Cristobal grinned. True enough. But in the best possible way. Aye, the hellhounds were dangerous, but they could be controlled and leashed . . . by him. Proof positive lay in the fact they obeyed him on command. Hell, Thrax even rolled over, exposing her belly when he asked. Praising her with his touch, he held her in place—back pressed to the ground, four legs up in the air—and, pivoting toward Vicars, asked for her paw. Mismatched eyes full of trust, she set it in his hand and . . . huh. Interesting. Seven claws instead of the usual five—razor-sharp, bladelike, at least five inches long, with a hooked tip.
Incredibly lethal. Death with one forceful swipe.
“Hey, Xavian?”
“Aye?”
“Come here a moment.”
“No way in hell.”
Still holding Vicar’s paw, Cristobal eyed his best friend. “You want to get eaten?”
Releasing the death grip on his weapons, Xavian grimaced.
“Then come here. I need to introduce you. Otherwise they won’t accept you.” Murmuring to his new pets, he issued a command. Both hellhounds leapt to obey, sitting on their haunches in front of him as Cristobal pushed to his feet. His face wiped of expression, Xavian stopped alongside him and, making a fist, offered his hand to the pair. The instant the hellhounds caught and accepted Xavian’s scent, Cristobal dismissed them both. As the twins went exploring, noses to the ground, he glanced sideways at his friend. “Anything from Henrik?”
Xavian nodded. “’Tis what I came to tell you. Tareek brought word.”
Cristobal tipped his chin, asking without words.
“’Tisn’t good.” Rolling his shoulders, his friend cracked his knuckles. Sound ricocheted, bouncing off rock, bringing the hellhounds’ heads around. Two sets of eyes narrowed on him. Seeing naught amiss, each went back to exploring. “Halál and Al Pacii have turned.”
“Into what? Magic wielders?”
“Not quite, but close. Druinguari . . . minions to the Prince of Shadows,” Xavian said. “We need to get up trail. Henrik’s got a plan.”
“Always interesting.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“Fill me in.” With a quick pivot, Cristobal strode for the mouth of the mountain trail. With a low whistle, he called Thrax and Vicars to attention. Twin snarls echoed in answer. He murmured a command. The pair transformed, dematerializing into black blurs, each leaping the distance to reach his forearms. Sharp pinpricks licked across his skin as the hellhounds became one with the tattoos. Shaking off the sting, he rounded a boulder and headed for camp. “I want details.”
Keeping pace alongside him, Xavian laid out the plan, providing Cristobal with the timeline. Less than an hour to get into position and ambush a pack of Druinguari. Excellent. A bold strategy that necessitated acting fast and being smarter. Not a problem under normal circumstances. The information relayed, however, didn’t inspire confidence. It felt thin, smacked of the unknown and all kinds of challenge.
Particularly if the enemy proved almost impossible to kill.
Then again, he now held an interesting advantage. Something as dangerous as the sorcery Xavian and his other comrades wielded. Two hellhounds. Monsters rooted in magic, packing a whole lot of vicious and even more lethal. A handy pair to own. An even better weapon to unleash when Henrik lit the fuse and the battle got under way.
Hidden within a copse of spruce overlooking the Carpathian foothills, Henrik rechecked his blades and studied the terrain. The winter wind blustered, blowing against his back. Granular snow whipped around tree trunks, leaving bare patches in some spots and piles in others. Not a problem. The day provided all he needed. Sunny afternoon, clear skies, no new snowfall, and all the high ground he needed to set the trap. Scanning the terrain through the spread of branches, he slid his last dagger into its sheath, then tested the tautness of his bow and slung it over his shoulder. Weapons at the ready—check, check, and triple check.
Optimal conditions heading into battle.
Excellent in every way.
The advantage should’ve made him happy. Halál and the Druinguari, after all, lay within striking distance. The buzz between his temples told the tale, helping him pinpoint the enemy’s location—a thousand yards downhill, lying in wait on either side of the narrow trail just over the next rise. Knowing he held the high ground and upper hand, however, didn’t improve his mood. Discontent circled instead, picking him apart, making him ache with the need to go back instead of move forward. Henrik clenched his teeth. ’Twas the height of stupidity. Distraction equaled trouble. Mistakes got made that way. So aye, his lack of focus was a problem—dangerous in more ways than one considering the killer he kept caged rattled his mental bars, begging for freedom . . .
Dying to get out.
The mere hint of battle—the pleasure of drawing his blades—always had the same effect. It invigorated him. Cranked the tension tight. Shoved the past back into the box where it belonged, allowing him to stay in the here and now. Except . . .
The usual wasn’t working today.
No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t put the last few days behind him. His mind remained fixed on Cosmina. On the way he’d left her. On the note and what it contained. On the hurt he imagined flaring in her eyes when she read it. Goddamn it. Not good. He was a bastard for doing that to her. For not making a clean break. For leaving her with the knowledge that she meant more to him than a fast fling over a few days.
For telling her that he loved her.
He never should’ve done that. Never should have opened his heart, never mind admit how he felt about her. But it was too late. He couldn’t go back and unwrite the note. And honestly, Henrik wasn’t sure he wished to anyway. Which made him worse than a bastard. It qualified him as a first-rate fool. Acknowledging the truth, however, didn’t stop the ache. It simply made it worse. Now he throbbed with it, the pain so persistent errant urges rose to taunt him. He wanted to go back. Right now. Say to hell with it, mount up, ride off, and return to her. If only to hold her one more time.
Henrik huffed. God, he was an idiot . . . for so many reasons. Not the least of which included—
“Henrik.” Boots crunching through crusty snow, Andrei stopped alongside him. His friend threw him a measured look. “Pull your head out of your arse. We need you focused.”
True enough. “I’m good.”
Disbelief in his expression, Andrei’s gaze bore into his.
“No need to worry,” he said, meeting the death stare head-on while he lied to his friend. Andrei’s eyes narrowed. Henrik ignored the perusal and, rolling his shoulders, glanced behind him. Kazim stood at the ready, dark eyes sharp, body loose. Shay, on the other hand, took a different approach. Wet stone in hand, he sharpened one of his blades. The familiar rasp of stone against steel settled Henrik down, calming him in ways naught else could. Dragging his gaze from his comrades, he met Andrei’s. “We all set?”
“The horses are ready.”
Henrik nodded and went over the plan one more time. Pictured the terrain in his mind’s eye. Thought about each move. Visualized how Halál would react and marshal his assassins when he realized the horses galloped into the bottleneck on the narrow trail. By then, it would be too late. Henrik would already be in position, at the enemies flank, weapons drawn, lethal at the ready while Xavian moved in from the opposite direction. Tareek and the other dragons would seal the deal, cutting off any chance of Druinguari retreat.
A good plan. One that would get him what he most wanted . . .
Halál dead. And the Druinguari six feet under alongside him.
“Just so you know . . .” Henrik paused to check his blades one more time. Staring at spruce needles half-buried in snow, he palmed individual knife hilts, sliding each from its sheath, then back in again. Steel whispered against leather. He threw Andrei a
sidelong look. “When this is done, I plan to go back for her.”
“And you wish me to know this . . .” As he trailed off, Andrei raised a brow. “Why?”
Henrik shrugged. He didn’t know. Feelings weren’t his forte. Neither was admitting to having any, never mind sharing them. Years spent in isolation had taught him well. He knew the rules. Had accepted the curse of his kind long ago. Never show fear. Never surrender. Never allow anyone close enough to hurt him. All excellent entries in a belief system that kept him detached . . . out of harm’s way in the emotional realm. With Cosmina, though, he didn’t want to keep his distance. Instinct urged him to get closer instead. To claim her while opening himself up for her to do the same.
Odd in many ways. True in even more.
Which meant he couldn’t walk away. Not yet. Not until he knew for certain. He wanted to give what he felt for her a chance. The why of it didn’t matter. Happiness. Need. Desire. All took a turn, digging in, twisting him tight as hope collected inside his heart, making all the what-ifs stream into his head. What if she loved him back? What if she missed him as much as he did her? What if she forgave what he’d done and accepted him back into her arms . . . into her life?
Excellent questions. Every one of them in need of answering.
“’Tisn’t a good idea, H.”
Of course it wasn’t. Henrik glared at his friend anyway.
“I do not say this to hurt you, brother,” his friend murmured, his accent floating like a fragrance on the north wind. “There is no harm in wanting her. A dalliance is one thing, but claiming her?” Andrei paused for effect, the silence driving the point home before he shook his head. “You are chasing heartache, Henrik. She is a member of the Blessed, meant to serve at White Temple. You are one of us. Your home is Drachaven. ’Twill end badly . . . for both of you.”
Polar opposites. Black and white. Her light colliding with his dark.
Henrik didn’t care. Despite their differences, he wanted her anyway. Staring at the snow swirling between his boots, he sighed. Andrei was no doubt right. ’Twas madness to yearn for a woman he would only hurt in the end.
Knight Avenged (Circle of Seven #2) Page 31
