Knight Avenged (10 page)

As she trailed off, Henrik stayed silent, employing patience, waiting her out, hoping she would continue. A secret lay inside the charged pause. Something so devastating she turned away, refusing to speak of it. Henrik understood the tactic well. ’Twas a call to arms, a way to protect herself from the past and avoid the pain. Not a bad strategy. He’d used it a time or two himself, enough to know avoiding the truth never made the hurt go away. And as he watched myriad emotions flash across Cosmina’s face, he sensed the burden she carried. ’Twas heavy. So cumbersome she struggled beneath its weight.

His throat went tight. Another person in pain. A kindred spirit in need of comfort—the kind he’d never gotten. And as he brushed the hair away from her face, something strange happened. A chasm opened inside him. Tenderness surged through the gap, flooding him with the need to protect her. To give Cosmina what he’d never received. To lighten her load, if only for a little while.

“Who hurt you, Cosmina?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Fingers flexing in his cloak, she pressed her knuckles against the front of his shoulder. “’Tis naught but ancient history now—over and done.”

The strain in her voice told a different tale. It mattered. A whole helluva lot. At least to her. But Henrik refused to push. He understood the nature of secrets and the underbelly of lies. Both took time to dismantle, s
o . . .
aye. He had time and more to gather clues and solve the puzzle—days, mayhap weeks, before her vision returned and he let her go. Until then, he would do his duty, ensure her safety, and—

“I saw you, you kno
w . . .
in one of my visions.”

His gaze sharpened on her face.
Saw him
?
Had she really? “When?”

“As I entered High Temple tonight.” Succumbing to fatigue, she swayed. He caught her on the backward glide. With a gentle tug, Henrik drew her in his arms, encouraging her to lean on him. “’Twas just a flash. A mere slice of time. I thought you might hurt me.”

“I did.” Shifting to sit on the dais, Henrik settled her in his lap. Cheek pressed to his chest, bottom against his groin, she relaxed, letting him hold her, making him feel worthy for once. “I sent you flying, remember?”

“Didn’t hurt. Not really,” she said, words coming slow. “I was playing possum back there.”

“You tried to stab me.”

“You deserved it.”

Henrik snorted, amusement circling into enchantment. Plucky hellion. Way too adorable. Brash and bold when necessary. Soft and sweet when warranted. ’Twas an alluring combination. A dangerous one he needed to resist before his attraction to her ran wild. Aye, he wanted to know more about her, but that didn’t involve losing his head. Getting tangled in her witchy web would only land him neck-deep in troubl
e . . .

With no way out.

Never a good place for an assassin to find himself.

Sex was all fine and good. But not with someone like Cosmina. She wasn’t his usual fare. He liked down and dirty. Fast and furious. No strings attached. The women he slept with never complained. Each understood the rules going in. Wanted the pleasure he provided, not his presence in their lives. But Cosmina didn’t qualify. Wasn’t in the same category, never mind on his wish list. So nay, no matter how compelling, the woman in his arms needed to remain off-limits.

’Twas quite simply the honorable thing to do.

But even as certainty sank deep, a pang throbbed inside his heart, making his chest hurt. Given half a chance, he would’ve spent time with her. Pleased her well. Taught her mor
e . . .
and enjoyed the doing. Some things, however, weren’t meant to be. So, no time like the present. He needed to grab Shay and—

“The Druinguari are still out there, aren’t they?”

He frowned. “Who?”

“The men with flames in their eyes.” Pressing closer, she burrowed in, seeking more of his heat. Henrik obliged, raising his head to make room beneath his chin. She murmured in thanks. He gathered her up, and cradling her close, pushed to his feet. “The ones who want me dead.”

“Druinguari?” Done repacking the kit, Andrei slung the leather satchel over his head. As the wide strap settled across his chest, he stepped alongside Henrik. Bumping shoulders with him, his friend drilled him a look.

Henrik seconded his friend’s concern. “Who are they, Cosmina?”

“Creatures.” Her eyelashes flickered, playing butterfly against his throat. She shook her head, the movement sluggish and wane. “Servants to the Prince of Shadows.”

“Explains a lot,” Andrei said from behind him.

Hell, it explained more than
a lot
. Cosmina’s claims helped him put the pieces together—the hows and whys of Halál’s miraculous return to youth along with the reason Al Pacii assassins didn’t die in the usual fashion. All of it led to one inescapable truth. The enemy was no longer human. Henrik bit down on a curse. The Order of Al Pacii, now minions to the Prince of Shadows. Christ. He’d been right to worry. Halál’s absence the past month signaled a serious shift in a dark direction.

War on the earthly plane.

Battle lines drawn between two powerful deities fighting for territory and ultimate control.

Which meant he needed answers. Ones that would give a method to the madness and show him how to kill the Druinguari. There must be a way. Some implement of destruction to not only wreak havoc on the enemy but also ensure the bastards stayed dead.

Putting his boots to good use, he pivoted toward the megaliths. “We need to go home.”

“To Drachaven?” Footfalls soundless, Andrei followed in his wake.

“Aye. I need to talk to my sister.” A good plan. An even better start. Afina might know something about the Druinguari. Or, at least, be able to find out. As new High Priestess to the Order of Orm, she shared a direct link with the Goddess of All Things. Not that Henrik liked it. He loved his little sister but didn’t trust the goddess. The deity was selfish. Brutal. Without conscience or mercy. Which made her more than just untrustworthy. It made her as much his enemy as Halál. A fact Henrik never forgot, even though his sister often did. “Afina might—”

“Home.” Cosmina hummed, the sound full of longing. “Will you take me?”

“Where is home,
iubita
?”

“The Limwoods,” she said, head bobbing against his chest. “Not far from Gorgon Pass.”

The news stalled his forward progress. Slowing to a stop between two megaliths, Henrik absorbed the information—the tidbit at the edge of Cosmina’s secret. Mind churning, his eyes narrowed on the symbols carved on the face of the stone uprights.

She lived inside the Limwoods. Intriguing.

Rumored to be enchanted, the ancient woodlands frightened people the same way wolves did rabbits. Then again, common folk spooked easily—lords and ladies too—refusing to speak of the dark forest for fear of revenge and warrior fairies. Complete nonsense. Superstitious drivel. But an effective deterrent nonetheless. No one entered the Limwoods, much less followed another soul over its threshold, and returned unscathed. So aye. All things considered, it made for an excellent place to hide.

Especially for someone who didn’t want to be found.

More secrets. Another mystery to solve. One with Cosmina’s name written all over it. And knowingly or not, she’d just given him another piece of the puzzle.

“Hey, H,” Shay said, frustration in his tone.

“Any luck?”

“Nay,” A frown on his face, Shay glanced over his shoulder. “I cannot find another passageway. The pictographs hide all trace of another keyhole.”

“
Merde
.” With a growl, Andrei strode into the wide aisle ringing the megaliths. “No escape.”

Turning sideways to avoid bumping Cosmina’s feet, Henrik stepped between two uprights and followed his comrade. Boots brushing over mosaic tiles, he scanned the wall carvings and clenched his teeth.
Escape
. He despised that word. It signaled retreat. Meant evasion, backpedaling instead of facing the enemy head-on, an
d . . .

Ah hell. He hated to do it.

Didn’t want to turn tail and run. Would prefer to fight his way out. But with Cosmina injured and half-conscious in his arms, no better option existed. Not while outnumbered with a pack of undead stalking her. He couldn’t keep her safe—never mind alive—if he didn’t find another way out. Halál wouldn’t miss a second time, s
o . . .
nay, Shay’s assessment of the situation wasn’t welcome news. Which left him with little choice. Time to trust that Cosmina knew White Temple better than he did.

“Cosmin
a . . .
wake up,
iubita
.” She grumbled in protest. He crouched, lowering to one knee in the middle of the aisle. Ridged stone pressed into his shin. Balancing Cosmina on his thigh, he jostled her, needing her conscious enough to answer his question. “I need your help.”

“With what?”

“You know this place.” Cupping her nape, he lifted her head from his chest. His gaze on her face, he held her upright, refusing to allow her to fall back asleep. “Is there another way out of here?”

Her brows puckered. “Dragon statue. Beside the poo
l . . .
back of the chamber. Where’s my key?”

Henrik regained his feet. “Shay?”

Footfalls quiet, his apprentice turned away from the wall. Reaching into the pouch at the small of his back, he pulled out the round key. The necklace rattled, metal links tinkling as Shay jogged past them. Without a word, Andrei followed, allowing the younger assassin to lead. Eyes scanning the space, Henrik turned and headed for the rear of the room. Three steps down and he stood in a small alcove. Circular in shape, the chamber looked more like a chapel—or mayhap the nave of a church—with high walls arching up to meet the vaulted ceiling.

Water splashed in the silence.

Henrik glanced right. Impressive. Beautiful even. A bathing pool, clear blue water lapping at the stone sides, the golden dome above it reflecting its rippling surface. The smell of stale jasmine in the air, grey ash lay in the incense holder next to the tub’s fluted lip. Keepers of time, protectors of White Temple, seven stone dragons looked on, standing sentry at equal intervals around the water, holding up half columns that rose in an impressive sweep against the back wall.

Henrik glanced at the woman he cradled. “Which dragon?”

“Middle one.”

“The lock?”

“Inside its mouth.” Reacting to the deepening chill, she shivered in his arms. With a curse, Henrik caught his comrade’s eye. Andrei nodded and, sidestepping the pool, stopped in front of him. A quick flick. A firm tug, and Andrei loosed the tie of his cloak. Henrik shifted his hold on Cosmina, allowing his friend to tuck the heavy wool around her slight frame. “Henrik?”

“Aye?” Gaze glued to Shay, Henrik watched him peer into the dragon’s open mouth.

“Careful with the combination,” she said, her voice wavering as sleep threatened to pull her under. “Five clicks to the right, three to the lef
t . . .
twelve back the other way.”

Shay nodded in acknowledgment. “What’s beyond the doo
r . . .
a tunnel?”

“Aye. Narro
w . . .
dark, but good.”

Andrei breathed out in relief. “Where does it lead?”

“The mausoleum.”

“North end of the cemetery?” Henrik asked.

Closing her eyes, Cosmina dipped her chin.

“Perfect.”

And it was—except for one thing. Henrik disliked tight spaces. A throwback to his mother’s cruelty and White Temple’s burning secre
t . . .
and the Order of Orm’s hatred of men. But even as the brutal memories circled—and he remembered being locked in the dungeon—he refused to back down. His aversion to dank passageways didn’t matter. The hidden tunnel was the only way out. A better option than heading back into High Temple, where Halál and the Druinguari awaited.

Particularly since the mausoleum sat outside the city walls.

Surrounded by massive trees and row upon row of tombstones, the crypt possessed thick walls, a single entrance, and the possibility of multiple vantage points across rough terrain. His eyes narrowed as he drew a mental map inside his head. Tareek and Kazim stood sentry to the west, watching the mountain passes. He needed to reach the pair. Kazim’s sword would be welcome. And Tareek? Hell, a fire-breathing dragon with a bad attitude constituted an excellent asset.

Enough of one to scatter the enem
y . . .
and buy him time.

A fantastic strategy. Wonderful and brash. Now all he needed to do was stick to the plan. And pray his fear of tight spaces didn’t rise up to swallow him whole.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The wall wasn’t giving up its secrets. The pictographs hid every sign of entry. All trace. Leaving Halál no trail to follow. Flexing his fists around dual knife hilts, he took a step back. And then several more, retreating until he stood inches from the top step next to the altar. Destroyed by the firestorm, tiny flames still ate its wooden frame. Smoke swirled, rising to meet the vaulted ceiling, sending an acrid smell across the rotunda.

Caught fast by the slow burn, he stared at the fire, then shook his head. Devil take him, the heat had been horrifying. A real flare-up. One that had left scorch marks on the marble tiles and caused the gold altar to liquefy. Upper lip curled off his teeth, he watched a yellow rivulet flow past the tip of his boot. He swallowed the snarl. Frustration served no purpose. Neither did worry, bu
t . . .

He couldn’t quell either.

Two of his men lay dead, burned to death by magical blue flame. A serious cause for concern. Particularly since Andrei was responsible for the blaze. Aye, he’d seen the flaming swords rise from the assassin’s hands. Hadn’t missed the look of surprise in Andrei’s glow-filled gaze either before leaping out of the firestorm’s path, down the stairs to safety. The skill represented a major shift, one—surprise, surprise—Armand hadn’t warned him about.

He should’ve expected it. Somehow, though, he hadn’t, trusting his new master to tell him all and prepare him in good faith. A mistake. A costly one. Arrogance and trust walked hand in hand with stupidity. His had just lost him two skilled fighters. Glancing left, he stared at the twin piles of black goo on the temple floor. ’Twas all that remained of the pair he’d chosen to initiate into the Druinguari—those he’d turned in the same way Armand had him.

Disappointment tightened his throat. Indestructible, his arse. Armand had lied. His kind could be killed. And now, Halál knew how. He’d seen the magical capsule behind his soldier’s breastbone burst while fire consumed his body and the black fog spill down his chest. Seconds later, the assassin had dissolved, liquefying onto mosaic tiles.

A quick death, but not the least bit painless.

Unease drifted through him. The turn of events—along with the chink in Druinguari armor—worried him. He must find a way around it, a way to protect his budding army. Magical breastplates mayhap, forged in the pit of hell, touched by Armand’s power and imbued with invincibility. As his eyes narrowed on the wall, Halál filed the idea away. Another thing to talk with his new master about, bu
t . . .

Not right now.

First things first. One obstacle at a time.

He refocused on the pictographs. Gaze skimming over the intricate carvings, he searched again for a seam in the stone. Nothing. No break in the design. No obvious keyhole either. Each symbol flowed into the next, burying secrets amid curving lines and intersecting loops. No chance he would find the hidden entrance and slip inside the chamber beyond. Which was—Halál flexed his fists—unacceptable.

Henrik stood mere feet away. His for the taking. His for the torturing. His for the killing.

Along with the betrayers who now fought alongside him.

He bared his teeth. Oh, how he wanted to eviscerate the bastard. An image flared in his mind’s eye—of Henrik strapped to the blue stone inside Grey Keep as his knife drew bloody patterns on the bastard’s skin. A mistake. An error that couldn’t be forgiven. He should’ve killed the assassin when he’d held the chance. He’d known Henrik was dangerous—too skilled, too volatile, a wild card in an organization with room for none.

Now he paid the price.

Assassins he’d trained now stood as his enemy.

Halál shook his head. The irony. ’Twas upside down and backward. The exact opposite of what he’d expected. And yet, even as he told himself to let the past go, he held on tight. Smart or nay, he yearned to make Henrik pay. To exact his revenge and send a message to Xavian and the others. To cut deep with his blades, strip flesh from bone, and take his due. An unbecoming reaction. A dangerous one too. Emotion didn’t belong in the equation. Neither did personal vendettas. Or holding a grudge.

All posed serious problems. Particularly since his mission had shifted. He no longer served the human world and the requests of its kings. Somehow, though, as he stood in the dim light of High Temple, it didn’t matter. The parameters might have changed, but he had not. He still believed in the cause, in the Order of Assassins, and what he’d spent a lifetime building. He’d simply added another dimension, choosing power and youth, deciding to serve two masters: himself and the Prince of Shadows.

And speaking of whic
h . . .

Time to do what his new master expected. He must open a hole in the wall. Or at the very least, find a way around it.

Halál frowned as the thought prompted another. An idea sparked to life. With a quick pivot, he turned toward his men. Lined up behind him, each stood ready, awaiting his orders, eager to serve, the orange flame flickering in their eyes matching his own. The perfect storm. A team of skilled assassins full of dark forces and cruel intent. Satisfaction surged. He’d been proud of his men before, but no
w . . .
Hmm. He reveled in the power each exuded, wallowing in it like a vampire in blood.

So nice to have adequate playmates for a change.

Sheathing his blades, he met Valmont’s gaze. Black blood coating his tunic, his lead assassin tipped his chin. The movement smacked of impatience. Valmont wanted a target, awaited his order in the hopes of finding something to hunt and kill. Halál’s mouth curved. Wonderful. Far be it from him to deny one of his best hunter-killers his fondest wis
h . . .

Henrik on a silver platter. Or rather, pinned beneath Al Pacii blades.

“We split up,” Halál said, rolling his shoulders. “Three groups.
V . . .
take five with you. Set up on the northeast portion of White Temple’s outer wall.”

Gaze roaming over his assassins, Halál’s eyes narrowed. ’Twas time, but he must choose wisely. He needed the best candidate, a killer of true skill and supreme intelligence. Valmont was a natural choice. Smart, talented, ruthless, the German-born assassin not only obeyed without question, but could also rally the rest. Which made him an excellent first in command. But not all his men were cut out to be captains. Most were sheep—meant to follow, not initiate. The task at hand, however, required a leader of men. Which meant he couldn’t delay his decision any longer. He must set the stage, establish the third pillar in the tripod of power, and propel one of his assassins up the Al Pacii ranks.

He focused on the last man in line. Face wiped clean of expression, the assassin met his gaze head-on. Pure viciousness. Unequaled malice. Perfection wrapped up in a lethal attitude and killer instinct. Halál hummed in appreciation. Aye, he would do.

“Beauvi
c . . .
do the same. Take your contingent and set up on the ramparts to the south.” As his newly appointed captain nodded, Halál turned and, footfalls fast, skirted the ruined altar. “The rest of you, come with me.”

“Hunting groundhogs, are we?” Beauvic asked, anticipation in his tone.

“Tunnels.” Baring his teeth, Valmont checked his weapons, ensuring each dagger slid free of its sheath with ease. “The bastards have found another way out.”

“Aye.” Rumored to be riddled with hidden passageways, White Temple was a veritable warren, full of entrance and exit point
s . . .
with only one way through the maze. Jogging down the stairs, Halál glanced over his shoulder. He met each captain’s gaze in turn. “Henrik holds the Keeper of the Key, and thereby certain knowledge of the maze beneath the city.”

“The woman.” A twang sounded as Beauvic restrung his bow. “Right hand to the High Priestess of Orm.”

Halál nodded, his mouth curving in approval. Trust Beauvic to know that. A bookworm with a real thirst for knowledge, the assassin read everything he could get his hands on, so the comment came as no surprise. Neither did the intelligent gleam in his eyes. Or the fact Beauvic understood the woman’s importance to the Order of Orm. As Keeper of the Key, she stood at the top of the hierarchy, helping the High Priestess lead the Blessed. Which meant she knew everything. Every bit of history. All the secrets. Was tasked with performing the ancient rituals as well as guarding the goddess’ sacred spells. Throw in the fact she possessed the key—and the combinations—that unlocked every door, hidden and otherwise, inside White Temple an
d . . .

Aye. Without a doubt. She was an excellent pawn to control.

An even better one to kill.

A frisson of excitement raced beneath his skin. Be damned, but he could hardly wait to get his hands on her. Although, now that he’d discovered her position within the Order, she wouldn’t die quickly. With agonizing precision, he would do what he did best—put his knives to good use and wreak maximum damage. Draw her death out. Make it last. Force-feed her pain until she gave him what he wanted: information, every last scrap of knowledge she secreted away inside her mind.

All while making her bleed.

Excellent incentive. An even better plan, but for one rather large wrinkle. Henrik. Taking what the betrayer protected would be no easy task.

One of the most exquisite hunter-assassins he’d ever trained, Henrik stood as a shining example of what was possible. Of Al Pacii prowess and skill. Of Halál’s ability to take a boy and turn him into a first-class killer. Although not as skilled as Henrik, fifteen of the same breed filed in behind him, footfalls silent on stone. Halfway across the rotunda, he paused beneath the golden dome, then looked back. His gaze found the pictographs once more.

Secret doorways and hidden passages. So many options. So many places for Henrik to pop his head up. Too many avenues to get the woman to safety.

Unsheathing the sword on his back, Halál strode on, his attention fixed on the high archway that served as High Temple’s only entrance. Steel glinted in the moonlight as he swung his blade full circle. “Bring me the woman.”

“Dea
d . . .
” Valmont cracked his knuckles. The sharp sound ricocheted, echoing across the vast space.

“Or alive?” Beauvic’s voice slithered in like a viper, deadly undertones hissing in warning.

“And kicking.” Increasing the pace, Halál bypassed the last pillar and trotted down the shallow staircase. He stepped off the last tread and into the corridor. Denied the light of the moon, the gloom thickened, descending from high ceilings. His senses sharpened, propelling him down the dark passageway. “Get to your positions on the wall. The instant Henrik sticks his head up, blow the horn, then shadow him until the rest of us catch up.”

Valmont murmured in assent.

“Strength in numbers.” Reaching over his shoulder, Beauvic slipped the bow back into the quiver on his back.

“Precisely,” Halál said, body tight, anticipation rising even as experience tempered his eagerness. “Until we know what the bastards are capable of, we fight together.”

A sound strategy.

Andrei and the blue fire made him wary. The fact he hadn’t seen or sensed Henrik upon entering High Temple doubled his usual caution. Something odd was afoot—the power play of deities chief among them. Armand had altered him, after all, gifting him with eternal youth and powers yet beyond his ken, so aye, little doubt remained. The Goddess of All Things had leveled the playing field, countering the Prince of Shadows’ move. Which mean
t . . .

No room for error. Even less for impatience.

He must proceed with extreme care. Tease out the truth. Assemble all the facts. Find the weakness in Henrik’s armor in order to exploit it. But as Halál split from the pack and led his group toward the western wall, the throb in his veins picked up a beat. And then another. As it beat a drum, thrumming inside his head, he admitted the truth. Impartiality wasn’t possible tonight. He wanted the Keeper of the Key. Couldn’t wait until he held her in his grasp.

Youth presented him with all kinds of possibilities: the power to enforce his will, do as he pleased, and make her his pet the more interesting among them. Halál pursed his lips. Or mayhap he wouldn’t do anything of the sort. Mayhap he’d present her as a gift to Armand, just to see what happened. A hum lit off in his veins, gripping his body until muscle tightened over bone.

A plaything inside Grey Keep with one purpose—his master’s pleasure.

Infinite possibility. Unending entertainment. Could prove to be very,
very
interesting.

Moving down the deserted corridor, Halál jogged around a blind corner. Deep in shadow, the entry to the corner tower beckoned. Not wasting a moment, he ran beneath the archway, and legs pumping, ascended the spiral staircase. Brisk night air turned frigid, washing over him as he reached the apex. The iron handle chilled his palm. Metal clicked against metal. He shoved the door wide and stepped onto the rampart atop the western wall.

Within seconds, he stood halfway down the narrow walkway. His assassins filed out behind him, taking up positions along the parapet. The wind whistled through the abandoned guardhouse, flicking at the hem of his cloak. Halál ignored the icy rush and scanned the terrain beyond the city walls. He glanced left, then right, and smiled in satisfaction.

The perfect vantage point.

From his position high above the dell, he saw everything—the wide, flat expanse of fields, the main road into White Temple, and the thin line of hedgerows on either side. The cemetery, though, captured and held his interest. North of the road, the grove possessed real possibility. A point of cover. Mayhap even a ready escape. Even stripped of foliage, the large beech trees surrounding the cemetery threw shadows, impeding his view, and—

The moon emerged from behind wispy clouds.

Illumination spilled, painting the terrain in winter white. His mouth curved. Beautiful. Light abounded. No cover in sight. Very little for Henrik to work with if he chose the boneyard as his means of escape. Gaze roaming over tombstones, Halál refocused on the front of the mausoleum and, giving a hand signal to his assassins, settled into a crouch. Nothing to do now but wait. And hope that whatever tunnel Henrik traveled exited on the western fron
t . . .