Knight Awakened (Circle of Seven #1)

by Coreene Callahan

  As he secured the last buckle, she came up behind him. Still using him as a shield, she set her small hand on his shoulder. He closed his eyes. Shivers chased a tremor down his spine as her warmth seeped into him.

  “What’s going on?” The question, quietly spoken, held an edge of uncertainty that made his stomach ache.

  He tried to ignore the urge, but the need to reassure her hung on and he murmured, “’Tis all right, love.”

  Chewing on her bottom lip, her focus shifted to Henrik. “Why is he so angry?”

  Xavian inhaled, filling his lungs to capacity. Thank Christ...a distraction in its purest form; the kind he needed to keep his hands off Afina. And it came with an added bonus—retribution. Though Xavian couldn’t help but admire Henrik’s methods. Knocking over the crate had been a stroke of genius. Still, he wasn’t feeling magnanimous. The need to do his friend a little damage was too much to resist.

  “You going to tell her, H? Or am I?”

  “Not now.”

  “Here. Now.”

  Henrik scrubbed his hand over the back of his head. “Shit.”

  Good at waiting, Xavian stayed quiet. His gaze steady on his friend, he reached for Afina’s hand. Little shocks grabbed at his forearms as he made contact and pulled her out from behind his back. As soon as she stood alongside him, he let go. She held on, slipping her pinky between his index and middle fingers. Her palm met his. His heart kicked at his chest as she leaned into him—body against his, her cheek against his upper arm.

  Henrik turned to face them, something desperate in his eyes.

  Xavian almost felt bad. Almost. But his friend deserved what he got. If he hadn’t wanted to be messed with, he should have left well enough alone. He tipped his chin in Henrik’s direction, prompting him.

  “Afina, I, ah...” Henrik frowned and glanced away. He stared out to the cliff face rising out of the river, concentrating hard on the rough wall. “I tried to tell you...at the cave, but...”

  “Tell me what?” Afina gripped Xavian’s hand harder.

  Xavian squeezed back, not liking her fear. Hell, mayhap he shouldn’t have pushed it. Mayhap forcing Henrik to spill his secret wasn’t the best idea. Mayhap Afina wouldn’t welcome the news she had a brother. She’d been through so much in such a short time. Had nearly died and—

  “Please tell me...what is so wrong?”

  “Naught is wrong,” Xavian said, giving her hand another pump. “H, mayhap—”

  “We are kin, Afina,” Henrik blurted, his chest rising and falling in fast bursts. “I...I am your brother.”

  Afina jerked then went stiff against him. Her mouth opened once, twice, a third time as she stared at Henrik. The tears, though, were terrible, and unable to stop himself, Xavian hooked his arm around her back, offering comfort with his body. She didn’t take it. He tightened his hold, willing her to relax, to breathe and lean on him.

  “Draga—”

  She shook free of his hold, planted her palms on his chest, and pushed. Xavian sucked in a quick breath and unlocked his arms. It almost killed him to let her go, but he refused to draw her back. He couldn’t protect her from the truth.

  “Show me,” she said, voice unsteady.

  Henrik went rigid, the muscles in his arms and neck standing out in relief. “Listen, ’tis—”

  “I won’t believe you unless you show me. I want to see it.”

  “Christ.” Henrik hesitated a heartbeat, dark brows drawn, face expressionless before his hands went to the lacing on his tunic. Yanking the knot free, he loosened the ties, pull by slow pull. His jaw clenched, he lifted the leather over his head in one strong movement.

  Afina’s hand flew over her mouth.

  Xavian went stock still, his eyes on his friend’s chest. The moon-star was still there—the same size, shape, and color as Afina’s mark. The difference? Afina’s sat on the front curve of her shoulder. Henrik’s was stamped directly over his heart.

  Why his friend had tried so hard to hide it, Xavian didn’t know, but—

  “Hell,” Xavian murmured, understanding hitting him sideways.

  It had never been about Henrik, but something more important.

  His gaze left the birthmark to meet Henrik’s. The truth lay in his friend’s eyes: the reason he’d stay with Al Pacii, all the times he’d done Halál’s bidding without complaint, why he’d never fought being strapped to the blue stone or the old man’s knife.

  Henrik had been protecting his family.

  The noble sacrifice made Xavian feel even dirtier. Henrik was lily white—a killer with righteous cause. Xavian couldn’t say the same. He’d killed and maimed not to protect a loved one, but to shield himself. And that kind of selfishness came at a cost.

  What he’d done in the name of Al Pacii couldn’t be undone. The blood on his hands couldn’t be washed off. The stain inside him would never come clean. Aye, he flirted with absolution and saved as many boys as he could, but that would never be enough. ’Twas his penance—a cross he bore to ensure each lad had a childhood—but an equal amount was about revenge. About depriving Al Pacii of the fresh blood it needed to replenish its numbers and continue. About his hatred for Halál.

  He wasn’t an altar boy with a pure motive. Didn’t go to church or pray or expect God to look upon him with favor. ’Twas too late for forgiveness.

  The realization tore him in two, and as he listened to Afina sob, watched her launch herself at her brother and Henrik embrace her in return, he realized he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t take her before a priest and contaminate her with his filth. He was less than half the man Afina needed him to be, and as his hungry gaze devoured her he knew what he had to do.

  He had to let her go.

  No matter how much it hurt, he needed to find another capable of easing her when the magic became too much and...find the strength to let her go.

  If he didn’t, he would kill her spirit as surely as Halál had killed his.

  A cold draft blew through the long, narrow chamber. Chased by a chill, the wind batted at the candle flames and the light wavered. Oddly shaped shadows flickered across the face of Halál’s page. Drawing his hand over the text, he smoothed the parchment flat before adjusting the wolf pelt around his shoulders. The fur blocked out the cold, protecting old bones from the bitter mountain air.

  Fat candles, seven strong and grouped in a half-circle, bent sideways as another gust found its way around the leather covering stretched over the sole window and swirled into the room. Two went out, their black wicks standing like skeletons in liquid pools as the scent of beeswax suffused the air around him. Picking up a thin stick, he relit the tapers and returned to the tome.

  A gift from his men, the leather-bound book was a prized possession. Like the many scattered across the wooden surface of the table and discarded on the floor at his feet, its value lay in its content. The topic dipped into the darkness, into the fascinating world of the occult.

  This one, though, was special.

  Stamped into black leather, its face bore the image of a goat’s head. Horns twisted up from its skull almost touching the thick circle surrounding it. Halál didn’t know why, but he loved the emblem. There was something about it...something otherworldly, almost alive as its eyes stared out from the leather.

  But more than all that, it was the book’s origin that gave him a thrill. Taken from the Vatican, the ancient text belonged to the pope—or rather, had. No longer. One of his assassins had stolen it from a locked vault deep beneath the walled city. No doubt the arrogant bastard had thought it obscene. To most, it would be, but not to Halál. To him, it was a thing of beauty, to be protected from those who would destroy it and all the knowledge it contained.

  His lips curved as he flipped a page. The soft rustle and smell of old parchment rose as he read through another spell. He shook his head. No, that one wouldn’t do. He needed something stronger—specific—to break the incantation.

  Shay—that clever bastard—had made sure the spell would
hold. The only way to regain control of The Three was to get close enough to counteract it. But he needed the right incantation, and time was running out.

  The beasts were exceptional hunters. Exquisite killers with single-minded purpose—find Xavian and see their duty done. Once sworn, the spell would bind them to Xavian for all time. The melding would be irrevocable and they would not only kill to protect him, but do his bidding without question.

  That kind of firepower would tip the scales in Xavian’s favor. Make him bolder and his goals bigger. And Al Pacii would be his number one target.

  Not that Grey Keep was in any danger. The enchanted wards buried deep beneath the ancient castle would keep the beasts at bay, but Xavian could do serious damage to his assassins once they stepped outside the circle the wards provided. In truth, he had already done damage, intercepting some of the lads he required to replenish the Al Pacii ranks. Even Qabil, his next apprentice, hadn’t been safe from Xavian.

  All of a sudden, the game he played didn’t seem so amusing.

  Halál sat back against the thickly cushioned armchair. Ruffling the tome’s parchment, he flicked the page corner with the tip of his finger then flipped the heavy volume closed. The thump echoed in the cavernous chamber, nothing but vaulted ceilings, stone walls, and rows of wooden shelves to muffle the sound.

  The door creaked open at the far end of the chamber. Halál’s gaze narrowed on the opening, displeasure a cold void inside his chest. A thick shadow loomed on the threshold.

  “What?” His voice was soft, like Beauty’s hiss and just as deadly as her poison.

  “I knocked, master,” Valmont said, tone hesitant, his body backlit by the torchlight streaming in from the corridor. “When you did not answer, I...”

  As the assassin trailed off, Halál smiled. He smelled Valmont’s fear. The reaction appeased him enough to let the disrespectful entrance slide. For now. Later, when he had finished his report, Halál would make him pay for his sin. The blue stone hadn’t been used today, and he was itching to take out his knives.

  He flicked his fingers, and Valmont came forward. He stopped on the other side of the table and, no more than three feet away, bowed, laying the back of his neck vulnerable to a blade. Halál wanted to unsheathe his, but stilled the need. He would get to play soon enough.

  “The high priestess?”

  “Gone, master.”

  Halál’s hand curled into a fist on top of the goat head. The witch had been his last hope. His precious tomes had yielded little. He needed stronger magic to bring The Three home, but without the high priestess...

  He uncurled his hand and laid it flat against the tome’s face. The cool leather calmed him. Rage would gain him nothing. It was a weak emotion, a precursor to defeat. A quick mind required a still spirit...A good plan was only possible with both. “What else?”

  “Ylenia is dead and her daughters are gone,” Valmont said, words rushing one over the other like water over river rock. “The Blessed have abandoned the temple. No one has been seen there for almost two years.”

  Interesting. The Blessed were rumored to be servants of the goddess. Led by the high priestess, they observed the ancient traditions, performing the rituals that brought balance to the earth. Not that he believed in such things. But for them to have abandoned their station an event close to cataclysmic had taken place.

  Halál ran a fingertip over one of the goat horns, following the twisted lines.

  “There is more, master,” he said, shuffling his feet. His boots rasped against the stone floor as Halál’s gaze left the tome and returned to Valmont. “Vladimir Barbu is not at Castle Raul. He left with a full contingent, some flying the grand master’s colors.”

  “Stein?” When Valmont nodded, he almost smiled. Those two had a long history. Stein liked young boys and Barbu had once been one. “Anything else?”

  “Rumor has it Barbu hunts the young high priestess.”

  “Of course,” he murmured, the piece of the puzzle falling into place nicely. The ambitious bastard wanted to be voivode of Transylvania, but without the high priestess’s blessing he couldn’t claim the throne.

  Eyes narrowed, he turned the new information over in his mind. Power-hungry men were useful. Perhaps he should enter the fray. Find Ylenia’s whelp and extract a heavy price from Barbu. Mayhap it was time to call Henrik home. He’d been in Poland long enough, and Halál enjoyed a tragic twist. It was poetic, really. Imagine, sending a brother out to hunt his sister only to deliver her into the hands of the enemy.

  His spirit lifted at the thought, but that was for another time. First things first. He must deal with Xavian.

  Another gust washed over the candles. Halál watched the flames battle to stay alive, a plan forming as the seven righted themselves. “I have another task for you, Valmont.”

  “Anything, master.”

  “Our next shipment...” Unable to stop himself, his hand made another pass over the goat’s head. “When are the lads due to arrive?”

  “At the end of next month.”

  Halál nodded, his hands still caressing black leather. “Send word out they will be here sooner...within the next fortnight.”

  “But—”

  “Be sure to tell all we are transporting them via the north mountain trail.” Halál reached for another of his treasures and, pulling it into his lap, opened the thick volume. Leather creaked as the smell of musty parchment rushed into his face. He thumbed the edges of the vellum. “Xavian likes to steal Al Pacii boys. We will bait the trap and reel him in.”

  “An ambush?”

  He inclined his head. “Take the six plus twenty-one more. I want the betrayer dead before the next full moon.”

  A gleam in his dark eyes, Valmont bowed. “With pleasure, master.”

  Halál couldn’t help but approve. The blue stone and his knives would have to wait. His assassin needed to be strong for the mission ahead.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Two weeks at Drachaven and Afina wanted to tie Xavian to the nearest tree. Not that there were many around the great stone fortress. Still, if it meant keeping him in one place long enough to talk to him she would find one. At least then he wouldn’t be able to avoid her.

  Avoid. Now there was a word with resonance.

  She’d explored its meaning at length, turned it over in her mind, trying to understand why Xavian stayed away. She felt his gaze often—responded to the yearning as it stroked over her—but never saw him. He was a ghost, drifting around the castle, using Drachaven’s clever layout and its many rock ledges to hide from her.

  And that was before she even entered the keep.

  Inside the fortress was a complex warren, a rabbit hole of connecting tunnels and large chambers. Carved into solid rock, the castle’s facade hung like a portrait on the mountainside. Yet most rooms had natural light, small slits in the rock face in stairwells, larger windows in the third-level bedchambers, at least on the south side overlooking the cliffs. It was an impressive place, half the structure inside the mountain, half out, almost as though the mountain gods had swallowed a portion and left the rest to the elements.

  Crossing the courtyard, she scanned the thick outer walls, looking for any sign of Xavian. Nothing. Only the guards and...Cruz. Afina smiled a little. The lad loved high places. But then, that was no great surprise. He was half-dragon, after all. Despite that, she couldn’t help but like him. The other two shifters she would have gladly tossed into the Jiu River, but Cruz?

  Well, he was special. In spite of everything, he accepted her without question.

  As if sensing her presence, he shifted and glanced down. One hand shielding her eyes from the morning sun, she waved at him with the other. He tipped his chin, smiled, then returned to watching over the edge of the great wall. A plateau sat below him and, on it, the practice field. The faint rumble of horses’ hooves and the sound of steel hitting steel told her the men were in full swing, training in the lower bailey.

  Her attention dri
fted to the west gatehouse, one of only two entrances into Drachaven. A stone bridge lay on the other side of the high archway, sloping down to join the training area. She hesitated, her feet missing a beat as she wondered if Xavian was out on the field. So far she hadn’t found him there, but...

  No, she must stick to the plan. He was too good at evading her. The moment she stepped foot outside the porticos he would disappear, leaving her with nothing but disappointment and a boatload of frustration.

  Dratted man. He was driving her daft.

  Passing through the stable’s double-wide doors, Afina paused to scan the gloomy interior. The scent of fresh hay and horses kicked up along with twinkling dust motes as she searched the shadows, looking for the stable master. She didn’t want to run into Ritz. A battleaxe of a man, he always stuck his nose where it didn’t belong. And really, the last thing she wanted was to explain herself—or the reason she needed a rope.

  On her tiptoes, Afina crept down the wide center aisle, seeing Ritz in every shadow, around each corner, and behind piles of crates. The sound of her pulse throbbed in her ears—the relentless thump-thump-thump sounding more like horses’ hooves than her heartbeat. Pausing next to an empty stall, Afina pushed the half door open, ready for the stable master to jump out at her.

  She wouldn’t put it past him. Ritz was a wily old coot.

  Like everyone in Drachaven, he’d been stolen from somewhere. Xavian, for some reason, didn’t understand the word no. He took whatever he needed, including people. Mitza, the cook, had been kidnapped in Ismal; Ritz from some fancy lord’s stables; Carmen, the bee keeper and resident ale brewer, from a tavern near Constantinople; and Jersey, the smithy, from his bed inside the armory at Corvinesti Castle.