Knight Avenged (24 page)

Not really. And certainly not here. “Later.”

Stepping in close, Xavian thumped him on the chest. “How long has it been going on, brother?”

He sighed. Wonderful. Just great. Trust Xavian to catch on more quickly than most. Not surprising. His best friend didn’t miss much and never dropped the ball. Which meant he needed to take the time and explain no
w . . .
or find a way to stall. Putting it off sounded better than baring all. At least, for the moment. He wasn’t ready. Didn’t know how to talk about the changes, never mind explain them. Each step away from normal made him feel like a freak—one who stood outside nature’s law and his comrade’s fold. A stupid reaction? Probably, but admitting it didn’t change how he felt. And honestly, he didn’t want an audience for the unveiling. Cruz and Xavian would be the only ones invited when he unburdened himself and revealed the truth.

“It’s complicated,” he murmured, skin itching beneath the steel cuffs. “I’ll explain, but not—”

“Five days,” Cruz said, giving him a verbal shove.

Son of a bitch. He glared at the dragon-shifter. “Traitor.”

“Pansy.” Refusing to back down, Cruz drilled him with a look. “Take the hardware off, Cristobal. Let’s have a look.”

Gaze steady on his, Xavian tipped his chin. “The sooner you do, the faster we can start tracking Henrik.”

“
Ma rahat
,” he growled through clenched teeth.

Talk about unwanted attention and bad timing. All right, so no one was in immediate danger. The graveyard stood empty. Extrasensory perception and his messed-up vision told him that much, tracking the unique heat signatures before tucking each one into the nonthreatening category. Still he never should have opened his big mouth. Too bad Xavian was right. Avoidance never helped. Naught but facing a problem head-on ever did, s
o . . .

Time to come clean. In front of way too many witnesses.

Damn Cruz to hell and back.

With a flick, Cristobal undid the clips holding one of his cuffs in place. Tiny hinges squeaked. Cold air seeped through the steel crack. Goose bumps spread across his forearm, making the ink react and pain pinch as he drew the protective gear off. Fisting his hand, he held his arm up for inspection and waited. For the horror. For the revulsion. For his friends to back away as the tattoo undulated across his forearm, thin lines becoming thicker, an invisible quill drawing in black on his skin.

“Jesu,” Xavian said, leaning closer to examine the tattoo. “What is that?”

Feeling like a mutant, Cristobal shifted in discomfort. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Holy hell. ’Tis incredible.” Reaching out, Cruz grabbed his wrist. With a gentle tug, he tilted his arm this way, then that. Dark eyes shimmering, he studied the incomplete pattern. “Garre
n . . .
come look at this. Is it what I think?”

Magic flared as Garren shifted into human form and stepped alongside him. Cristobal tensed. Garren exhaled in a rush, wonder in his expression. “Hellhounds.”

Cristobal blinked. “What?”

Violent eyes met his. “Do you have similar marks on your other arm?”

“Aye.”

“Twin hellhounds,” Garren said, awe in his tone. His mouth curved a second before he nodded. “You’ve been given a great gift, Cristobal. I thought Xavian and Henrik were the only ones affected by magic, bu
t . . .
the marks on your skin tell a different tale. The tattoos are incomplete, but once finished, you will be able to call on the beasts.”

He frowned. “
Call
on them?”

“’Tis the Goddess of All Things at work. She has bound the hellhounds to you.”

Eyes trained on the ink, Garren reached out. Cristobal tensed, but stayed still. The dragon-shifter might be lethal, but wel
l . . .
hell. The warrior was now on his side, a brother-in-arms, not an enemy that needed guarding against. So no need to overreact, never mind freak out.

Watching him, Garren touched a fingertip to the ink. The tattoo reacted, shimmering on his skin. “Hristos, that is amazing.”

“Amazing.” Cristobal frowned. Really? Not exactly what he liked to call it.

“Embrace the change,
fratele
. Can you not see the beast taking shape and form?” His touch featherlight, Garren traced the design. “The eye
s . . .
here. And gods, the fangs and teet
h . . .
there. Incredible.”

Incredible.
Huh. Another word he wouldn’t use to describe it.

Cristobal angled his forearm anyway and studied the incomplete tattoo, struggling to see what the dragon-shifter did. After a moment of staring, a pattern started to immerge and—

Holy God. He saw it—the slanted eyes with vertical pupils, the razor-sharp fangs and claws, the shaggy coat, spiked spine, and bladed tail. Jesus. No wonder he felt out of sorts. All the radical changes. All the worry. Each prickle of unease over the last few days. He understood his new abilities now, along with his aversion. ’Twas instinctual, a natural reaction to the magic invading his body. The kind that came with beasts, an animalistic nature, and enhanced capabilities.

“How does it work?” Tearing his gaze from the tattoo, Cristobal refocused on Garren. All of a sudden, he needed to know. Curiosity was a powerful force, awakening the first thrum of excitement. A pair of hellhounds. Twin killing machines under his control. The possibilities surpassed interesting, roaring into open territory called
fascinating
. “How do I call them?”

“When the ink is complete, they will make themselves known,” Garren said. “Be prepared. The first meeting is the most important.”

First impressions usually were, but that didn’t answer his question. Needing more information, Cristobal opened his mouth and—

“You’ll figure it out.” Garren slapped him on the shoulder. The harsh sound echoed, drifting on smoke and across the cemetery as his comrade pivoted. Violet eyes narrowed, he eyed Razvan, then raised a brow. “Xavian’s gift I know about. You, however, remain a mystery. Got something to tell me, assassin?”

Razvan flinched and backed up a step.

Quick to back up his commander, Cruz stepped around Cristobal. Footfalls silent, he walked between the tombstones toward Razvan. “Show us.”

“There is naught to—”

“Now, Razvan,” Garren said, hemming his comrade in from the opposite side.

“Bloody hell.” The growl drifted. Razvan’s gaze bounced from Garren to Xavian, then back again.

Cristobal nodded, encouraging his brother-in-arms. He understood the hesitation—the unwillingness to bare all and expose a perceived flaw. He huffed. Hell, another understatement. He’d just suffered the same reaction. But Garren was right. Secrets were dangerous things. Especially among warriors who fought side by sid
e . . .
day after day, night after night. Trust wasn’t optional. Understanding the warrior who stood at your back—both his strengths and weaknesses—was more than just advisable. ’Twas an absolute must.

“Come on, brother,” Xavian said.

Razvan sighed and raised his hand. Tombstones groaned, broken edges scraping together. His comrade flicked his fingers. Stone levitated, rising off the turf. With a murmur, Razvan made them fly. As they whirled through the air, spinning into a circle ten feet off the ground, his friend shrugged. “I can move things just by thinking it. A kind of mind control.”

Cristobal grinned. “Nice.”

“Better than nice,” Xavian said, returning his smile.

Cruz chimed in. “Downright fantastic.”

“Tremendously useful, but I sense something else in you. Another skill just as powerful.” Taking a step closer, Garren bumped Razvan with his elbow. “What is it?”

Razvan hesitated a beat, then gave up the information. “When I am still of body and calm of mind—like while in meditation—I can travel across great distances with my mind.”

Surprise winged across Garren’s face. “Astral projection?”

“All I need to do is hold the place in my mind’s eye. Once I’ve fixed upon it, I can will myself there an
d . . .
” Razvan paused, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Tombstones followed suit, wobbling in midair. “Sometimes ’tisn’t just my mind that travels.”

“You’ve appeared in the places you envisioned?” Cristobal asked.

“Once.”

Shock rippled through each warrior as he stared at Razvan. The ability to move across time and space with naught more than a thought. Ho
w . . .
incredible. Unprecedented. More than just
useful
too. Why? If Razvan could harness his power—wield it to maximum effect—he could go anywhere he wanted with both mind and body. Be the inside man, one capable of providing them with information before they reached the point of no return and walked into an ambush.

Cristobal tipped his chin. “You will show me sometime.”

“If you like,” Razvan said, still looking wary as stone whirled overhead.

“Count me in. I wish to be there when you mind travel.” Xavian waited until Razvan nodded, then flexed his fingers. Magic swelled, crackling through the cold. Pale eyes shimmering, Xavian smiled as a ball of lightning appeared in the center of his palm. Cristobal’s mouth fell open. His best friend didn’t bother to explain. He cranked his arm back and hurled the sphere instead. Heat sizzled through the air. Blue lightning streaked into a long tail behind the orb and—

Boom!

Light flared. One of the levitating tombstones exploded. Dust blew sky-high. Chunks of granite flew, raining down on those still embedded in the ground. Razvan flinched. The remaining headstones he held aloft with his mind tipped, then tumbled. Each slammed into the ground, cracking the silence wide open.

Xavian grunted in satisfaction. “I can conjure force fields as well.”

“Seems we all have our talents.” Glancing at the sky, Garren inhaled, filling his lungs. His brow creased a moment before he switched focus. Alarm bells clanged inside Cristobal’s head as the warrior met each of their gazes in turn. “But playtime is over. Time to go. Black magi
c . . .
unnatural forces are afoot.”

Re-buckling the steel cuff, Cristobal sheathed his sword. Flexing his hands, he reached for his daggers. “Black magi
c . . .
is that the awful stench I smell?”

Garren nodded.

Xavian palmed his favorite knifes. “Anything from Tareek?”

“Nay. I cannot reach him through mind-speak. There is too much interference.”

Pivoting toward the north end of the cemetery, Cristobal scanned the aisles between tombstones and statues. “I can track Henrik. The woman’s scent is strong.”

“Go.” Retreating ten feet, Cruz transformed into dragon form. Black, bronze-tipped scales glinting in the firelight, the dragon-shifter unfurled his wings. Webbing stretched wide, he leapt skyward. Scales rattling, Garren followed suit and shifted in a flash of dark blue. “Garren and I will scout the terrain from above.”

Good plan.

A bird’s-eye view was always helpful. Especially while on the trail of God only knew what. Black magic? A malevolent force full of bad intentions? The latter seemed like the better guess, ’caus
e . . .
aye, whatever had gone down in the cemetery hadn’t been pretty. More than just the physical devastation told him so. The hellhounds—animal instincts writhing—chimed in too, allowing him to see the whole picture. Unnatural black blood on the ground and splashed across stone. Abnormal heat signatures in the snow. Multiple footprints following Henrik and the others. It all pointed to one thin
g . . .

Unholy pursuit. Escape and evade.

An unusual tack for his comrades to take. Which meant one thing. Whatever hunted Henrik was powerful. Cristobal smelled it on the wind. Felt it gut deep as the tattoos on his skin throbbed in warning. S
o . . .

Time to put his tracking skills to the test. Find Henrik along with the others before death came calling, and he lost his friends in the fray.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Cosmina surfaced on a slow glide, skimming through layers of slumber, enjoying its fluffy confines and cocooning heat. Hmm, it felt so good to be warm. Comfortable too, as though she lay cushioned and safe, far from the dangers of the world. A strange thought. Yet one that made perfect sense too. Polar opposites attached to the same situation—difficult to understand, particularly when she didn’t want to come up for ai
r . . .

Or be bothered by the thornier side of reality.

Not right now.

Remaining adrift and warm, mind fuzzy in the fog of relaxation, seemed like a better plan. Eyes still closed, curled on her side, she burrowed deeper beneath a weighted warmth. Something soft brushed across her cheek. Rabbit’s fur, mayhap? Sure felt like it. And she should know. She’d spent all summer gathering rabbit pelts to make the warm throw that now graced the bed inside her cottage. ’Twas a luxury. An undeniable boon. One she was lucky to have, never mind slide beneath each night. The winter months would be more comfortable for it. Her mouth curved at the thought. The movement tweaked her temples and—huh. Another oddity to add to the pile.

For the first time in a long while, her head didn’t hurt.

No ache. No persistent sting. No sign at all of the god-awful throb that often plagued her. She frowned. The shift pulled her brows together an
d . . .
naught. Still nothing. The pain really was gone. ’Twas more than odd. Its absence signaled a new day. Something other than the continuous barrage of the unwelcome. Confusion circled a moment before acceptance sank deep. Her chest went tight, pulling at her heartstrings. Gods, it had been so long. Eons since she’d woken without a headache. Or felt so well rested.

Usually she tossed and turned, fighting the ever-present pressure inside her skull. All the imagery. The slither of whispered words spoken by strange voices inside her head. The coil and pang of premonition that never left her alone.

But not today.

Or was it night? Good questio
n . . .
and probably something she should know. Which meant she needed to open her eyes and get her bearings. The realization made her grimace. Of all the rotten luck. She didn’t want to leave the comfort of her cozy haven. Given her druthers, she’d ignore the call to action and stay put. Preference, however, had little to do with it. Necessity dictated the course, shoving the sticky cobwebs of sleep aside, piling on mental acuity, forcing her to pay attention. Without moving a muscle, Cosmina fine-tuned her senses and assessed the situation.

No movement. No one talking. All quiet, but for the crackling of a well-laid fire.

Cracking her eyes open, Cosmina stared out into an open space. Soft light filtered in. Pain lanced her temples. Her eyelashes flickered as her vision warped. Blurry shapes expanded, then contracted, making objects dance in her line of sight. She blinked. Once. Twice. The third time brought everything into focus. Relief snaked through her, banding around her rib cage. Thank the gods. She could see agai
n . . .

Everything in stunning clarity.

The low table situated across the room. The trio of rickety stools gathered around it. The compact dirt floor and rough handwoven rug in front of the lopsided stone fireplace. Each finger of flame as fire licked between the logs, throwing heat into the room. Turning her head on the pillow, she glanced up at the ceiling. A mobile made from falcon feathers hung from the thatched ceiling, its bob and sway all too familiar.

Tears tightened her throat. Everything just as she had left it. So grateful she could hardly breathe, Cosmina allowed her eyes to drift closed again. Home. Praise the goddess. She’d somehow found her way home. To safety and solace. To her tiny cottage inside the Limwoods.

The realization gathered inside her head and unearthed another. A picture rose in her mind’s eye, one of hazel eyes and a too-handsome face. She sighed, the soft exhale half appreciation, half apprehension. Henri
k . . .
the warrior with unequalled strength and a gentle touch. No other explanation fit. Especially since she remembered falling asleep in his arms—head tucked beneath his chin, body curled around his, desperately seeking his warmth as her chill ran marrow deep.

The memory should’ve embarrassed her. Made her squirm in discomfort and want to forget her need for him in the wee hours. Helplessness, after all, was not a girl’s best friend. More often than not, it landed a woman in trouble—the kind from which many never recovered. She’d seen it time and again. Had crept through the streets of Ismal on her yearly visits, ghosting in, stealing supplies, then getting out without anyone being the wiser. So aye, she knew all about men. About sex too, and the ways they procured it. Men preyed on the vulnerable. Experience and a lifetime spent watching told her that much, bu
t . . .

Focused on the mobile bobbing on its thin string, Cosmina shook her head. ’Twas odd, but she didn’t feel that way about Henrik. She couldn’t put her finger on the reason, but despite her natural caution—the mistrust she carried around like a blade—she trusted him not to hurt her. Or take undue advantage. Wishful thinking? A by-product of her infatuation with him? The stir of attraction she felt for him, her need to explore it and know more? She pursed her lips. Mayhap. Mayhap not. But one thing for certain, she refused to be embarrassed for relying on him. Despite her helplessness, she knew Henrik didn’t perceive her as weak. Like recognized lik
e . . .
and the strong welcomed strength. She acknowledged his, and intuition told her he saw hers.

Something to celebrate, not ignore.

So forget the vulnerability. Never mind the embarrassment.

Cosmina refused to entertain either notion. Or allow shame to grow. She flexed her hand, tweaking her sore muscles, feeling her injured arm throb, and indulged in gratitude instead. She’d needed him. He’d provided all she required without hesitation—holding her, warming her, enduring discomfort so she wouldn’t suffer. Add that to the fact he’d saved her life and—aye, pride could go hang itself. Courage deserved equal measure. His had ensured her survival and safety, so no other way to look at it. The situation held no room for humiliation, just heartfelt thankfulness.

Which meant she needed to find and thank Henrik before he left her for good.

Bracing herself, Cosmina gripped the edge of the fur-lined throw. Time to leave the warm comfort of her bed, face the chilly room, and the rest of the day. Not that there was much left of it to conquer. The lone window across the cottage told the tale. Covered by shutters she’d woven from small saplings and leather strips, light crept around its edges and over the sill, allowing her to gauge the time. The end of the day, early evening in all probability. She cringed. Goodness, she’d been asleep for hours. Much longer than usual after suffering a vision.

Or dealing with magic.

A point of concern? Or normal after performing the goddess’ ritual? Excellent questions. Ones best left for another day. She needed to stay focused and on task. Job one equated to finding the man who’d risked his life to keep her safe. After that, there would be plenty of time to figure out what the goddess expected from her next. Once Henrik was gone. Once things returned to normal, and she found herself alone in the Limwoods once more.

The thought sent a pang straight to her heart.

Regret followed. Cosmina swallowed the lump in her throat.
Alone.
Forever on her own. In the world, but not of it. Strong. Tough. Self-reliant to the point of isolation. She’d played that role for five years, stayed on the fringes, and embraced obscurity. It had seemed fine to her—a true necessity—until last night. Until Henrik. Meeting him inside White Temple had done something strange to her. Poked at her soul. Awakened a yearning. Dragged need to the forefront, forcing her to acknowledge the deprivation she lived with day in and day out. Now her life no longer seemed good enough. It felt bland and colorless, making her long for more. Something better. Something only boldness and a wild sense of adventure would cure.

With a quick flick, she flipped the covers back and pushed herself upright. Cold air rushed in, chasing goose bumps across her skin. She stared down at her bare legs for a moment. Her brows collided. Oh dear. Great heavens. A complete surprise too considering she was half-dressed—no stockings or trews, no sign of her leather tunic or the binding she always wrapped over her breasts either. Just her short braes beneath a too-big linen shirt that didn’t belong to her an
d . . .

She blinked. Good goddess. Henrik. He’d undressed her while she slept.

The realization should’ve set her back a step. Or, at the very least, lit the fuse on her temper. Somehow, though, it didn’t. Ire remained suspiciously absent. In its place, curiosity bloomed. Had he liked what he’d seen? Did he find her beautiful? Silly questions. Ones that meant naught in the grand scheme of things. He’d been kind and gentle, nothing more—removing damp clothing, seeing to her comfort, tucking her in without waking he
r . . .
caring for her when most men wouldn’t have bothered.

All lovely gestures that didn’t mean a thing.

Anyone with two wits to rub together would realize it. Naught good would come from romanticizing Henrik. Or reading anything into the way he cared for her. Honorable men treated women with respect. ’Twas protocol, a rule among warriors or something, s
o . . .
aye, fantasy needed to stay where it belonged, in the realm of impossibility. Pragmatism owned the here and now. Was as much a part of her life as eating and sleeping. But even as she reminded herself of that, Cosmina pressed her nose to the collar of Henrik’s shirt and took a deep breath.

His scent invaded her scenes.

Pleasure prickled through her. She hummed in reaction. Goddess, he smelled good, like man and musk—of decadence, heat, and perfect summer afternoons. She inhaled again, filling her lungs with him, and called herself a fool as a chasm opened deep inside her. Yearning stepped into the breech, spilling through her until she could no longer deny the truth. She desired him. Wanted to spend a night—hell, strike that, make it a few days—coming to know him as a woman did a man. No holds barred. No shyness. No regret in the aftermath. Just him, her, and an avalanche of satisfaction before they went their separate ways.

Unable to help herself, she drew in his scent again.

“Hm
m . . .
” She hummed, the sound all kinds of wrong. ’Twas madness. The claw and pull of attraction. Her cresting arousal. The ludicrous way she breathed him in, needing some part of him—any part of him—deep inside her, feeling foolish even as her enjoyment grew. “Henrik.”

Something moved beside her bed. “Here,
iubita
.”

Cosmina yelped in surprise and skittered backward. The web of ropes beneath her mattress swayed. Her bottom collided with the crooked log posing as a footboard. Rough wood scraped the side of her leg. “Ouch!”

“Christ.”

Arm muscles flexing, Henrik sat up. Sleepy eyes met hers a moment before he tossed a wool blanket aside. Firelight bounced off his leather tunic as he rolled off the floor and shifted to sit on the edge of her bed. The mattress dipped. She peered over the side and around him, focusing on the thin pallet spread out on the dirt floor. Good goddess. He’d been asleep beside her the whole time. Just a few feet away while she’d fantasized about touching hi
m . . .

About
being
with him.

Running a hand through his messy hair, he stared at her. “Are you hurt?”

“Nay.” Stroking the outside of her thigh, Cosmina rubbed the sting away. “You startled me, ’tis all.”

“Seems to be a running theme with me.”

“Scaring people?”

“Aye.”

“There are worse things.” Like lust. And overwhelming need and crazy, ridiculous desire for the man seated a few feet away. Take your pick. No matter how she sliced it, each one signaled disaster. The kind good girls didn’t come back from in one piece. Another excellent observation. One big problem. Cosmina didn’t give a wit about the danger surrounding him. She wanted to be brave instead—to explore, claim new territory, and conquer it. Or mayhap she should sa
y . . .
conquer him
. “You don’t scare me.”

He raised a brow. “Nay?”

Holding his gaze, she shook her head. The corners of his mouth tipped up in the beginnings of a smile. ’Twasn’t much, the twitch of his lips, a mere hint of amusement, but it unleashed something inside her. Now she wanted to reach out, bridge the distance and touch him. Run her fingers through the messy strands of his hair. Smooth each lock back into place, discover its softness, and mayhap even—goddess strike her dead for lustful thoughts—revisit his kiss and come to know his taste.

Wicked in so many ways. But oh so tempting too.

Heat bloomed in her cheeks. “Sorry I woke you.”

“You didn’t.” Eyes steady on her, he raised his hand. Flipping it palm up, he invited her to take it and come closer. Her breath caught as she accepted his invitation and slid her hand into his. With a murmur, he laced their fingers together and tugged. She didn’t resist the pull and, knees skimming over the sheet, settled alongside him. “I woke the instant you moved.”

“Oh,” she whispered, warming under his touch, enjoying his scrutiny.

Not hard to do. She liked his gaze on her. Enjoyed the attention and the way he looked at her, with eyes full of appreciation, bu
t . . .
gods. As much as she relished his nearness, the weight of his regard made her nervous too. The worst kind of needy, a condition she found difficult to explain. ’Twas unholy and delicious, curious and complex, bedeviling yet oh so compelling. The intensity of it picked her up, swept her along, tightening the muscles over her bones until her skin felt two sizes too small an
d . . .

Panic prickled through her.

Drat it all. Desire came with all kinds of complications. Not the least of which was instigation. Some sort of action, after all, was required. Let angst win and back away, or be brave and forge ahead. Option two appealed much more. She wanted him. Despite the craziness. Despite her nervousness. Despite everything. Her need for him wasn’t based in logic. Common sense had naught to do with it. ’Twas more of a feeling, the claw and rip of her Seer’s eye. Which begged a question, didn’t it? Was it premonition driven by her gift? Or instincts gone awry? Cosmina didn’t know. But as the silence expanded and she held his gaze, the pressure built inside her head, urging her forward into the uncertain, toward Henrik instead of away.