Knight Avenged (6 page)

Cosmina blinked.
Iubita
? Really? The gall of the man, trying to soothe her with an endearmen
t . . .
and a misplaced one at that. Her eyes narrowed on him. “Don’t call me ‘sweetheart.’”

“It suits you.”

“Does not.”

“Would you prefer hellion?” Hazel-gold eyes flashed in amusement, making her tingle, before his gaze left her. His muscles flexed, rippling in warning. Hands steady on his weapon, he swiveled and faced forward once more. “Then again, mayhap
vrăjitoare
fits you better.”

His deep voice stroked her, leaving a heated trail along her spine. Cosmina sucked in a quick breath. The big dolt. Idiotic clod. Call her a witch, would he? Raising her knives, she leveled the razor-sharp blades at his back.

“All right, then,” he said, without looking at her, a teasing lilt in his tone. “
Mica
vrăjitoare
it is.”

The insult lit a fuse on her temper. “You—”

“Hush now, Cosmina.” Drawing his bowstring a notch tighter, he leveled his arrow, all his focus on the other side of the rotunda. “Put your blades to better use. Aim them at the enemy, not at my back.”

“Not my enemy.”

“Very soon,” he whispered, “they will be.”

She opened her mouth to argue the point. He cut her off.

“Do not distract me again,
iubita
,” he said, using the endearment, ignoring her objections, acting like a jackass. “’Twill only leave you vulnerable. Accept the protection I am willing to provide.”

The hard edge in his voice made her quiver. “At what cost?”

“Stay close,” he said, refusing to answer her question. “When I unleash the arrow, they will be able to see and hear us. Move with me. Stay behind me. You’ll live longer.”

They will be able to see us.

The statement cranked her tight. What in God’s name did that mean? Could the assassins not see them? She scanned the rotunda again. Swords drawn, a group of three approached, coming across the center of the chamber. Almost beneath the golden dome now, the trio searched the shadows, looking for a target, sweeping the open expanse with keen eyes and brutal intent. And yet, even though he stood in plain view, none saw Henrik. Or her. Each enemy gaze skipped right over them.

Impossible, and yet, absolutely true.

Magic. She knew it existed. Had lived with the consequences of it all her life. Naught else explained her
gift
—the ability to see bits and pieces of the future. Or the fact she’d seen Henrik with her Seer’s eye moments before he appeared in front of her. But a
man
who wielded magic? One capable of masking his movements by gathering the gloom? ’Twas unheard of in her circle. A dangerous skill, one Cosmina didn’t want any part of.

She glanced at the stained-glass windows again. Higher now, the moon pushed light across the tiled floor.

Her throat tightened. So little time left. So much danger to avoid. Not the least of which was Henrik. Despite his assurances, she knew not to trust him. Men changed their minds like the wind, one moment gentle, the next naught but brutal. So nay, his willingness to release her earlier—and protect her now—didn’t mean his thoughts wouldn’t turn carnal in the aftermath of the coming violence.

Which meant she needed to withdraw. Get as far away from him as possible. This instant.

Gaze glued to him, Cosmina retreated toward the wall behind her.

Henrik shifted, widening his stance. Winter cloak thrown over wide-set shoulders covered in a black leather hauberk, the muscles roping his bare arms flexed. Wood creaked as his bow stretched another inch. The chill surrounding her deepened, along with the shadows. Harried breaths coming on white puffs, she backed up another step. And then another. Stay clos
e,
her foot! She needed to go. Must unlock the chamber door and slip inside before Henrik unleashed the arro
w . . .

And his enemy attacked.

Halfway between Henrik and the keyhole, she slid into a crouch. Balanced on the balls of her feet, she sheathed one of her blades inside her boot and grasped the key. A solid tug released the clasp at the nape of her neck. The delicate links rattled, tinkling against her palm and—

“Goddamn it, Cosmina.” Henrik’s low growl curled around her, scraping her senses raw. Her already frayed nerve endings twitched as panic vied for prominence. “Whatever you think you are doin
g . . .
stop. Right now.”

“Sorry,” she whispered without knowing why. She owed him nothing, least of all an apology. Too bad her conscience didn’t agree. Her plan put him at risk. The second she broke cover, all hell would break loose, leaving him in the cross fire. And her safely on the other side of a thick stone wall. “But I have to go.”

“Don’t you—”

Dare
, she thought, finishing his sentence as she took flight. Boots scraping over stone, she scrambled toward her target. The round edges of the key bit into her palm. She sighted the keyhole within the stone pattern. With a snarl, Henrik loosed his arrow. Wood rasping against wood, the bowstring twanged. Frosty air rushed outward, burning her cheeks, pulling at her mantle, whipping its woolen tail. Time stalled. The chill around her flexed, then snapped. A sharp pop echoed. Pain flared at her temples as the cloak of invisibility burst, tearing wide open.

The arrow found its target. Cosmina cringed as an enemy assassin roared in agony.

A horrific battle cry throbbed through High Temple.

Oh gods. The enemy now had Henrik in their sights. She could tell by the way he shifted. Could see him in her periphery as he put himself between Al Pacii assassins and her. Aggressive, each movement sure, Henrik loosed another arrow. And then another. More screams of pain. More snarls of fury. Multiple scrapes of swords leaving scabbards, and the rapid fall of footsteps pounded through the rotunda. Remorse twitched its tail. Guilt joined in, making her skin crawl and her conscience scream. Feet crackling through old leaves, Cosmina shoved the shame aside. She refused to feel bad about doing what she mus
t . . .
keeping her word and seeing her duty done.

Delicate chain links rattled in her palm. Skidding to a halt at the base of the wall, she raised the key and—

Thunk!

A silver-tipped arrow struck the wall an inch above her head.

Cosmina flinched. She heard Henrik curse.

“The woman.” The feral growl rolled in on inhuman intonation. “Kill the woman!”

Fear caught at the back of Cosmina’s throat. Recognition sparked. The voice. Oh god
s . . .
that
voice
. Without warning, her Seer’s eye expanded. A channel opened inside her mind. One word streamed into her head:
Druinguari
. Minions to the Prince of Shadows, not Al Pacii assassins at all.

“Cosmina—get behind me.”

Ignoring Henrik’s command, she slid the rest of the way on her knees. Leather trews slipping over marble tiles, eyes on the pictographs, she searched for the keyhole, but—drat and damn. She couldn’t find it. Up close, the lock disappeared into the pattern. Lines looped and crisscrossed. Colorful figures blurred together. Intersections whirled into more. With a curse, hands sliding over stone, Cosmina shuffled sideways—

“Goddamn it. Andrei, Shay,” Henrik yelled, swords flashing as the first wave of Druinguari struck. Steel met steel. The terrible clang rose, washing over the altar as demonic snarls burned away the chill. “Fighting triangle—now!”

Weapons drawn, two warriors slid to a stop beside Henrik.

Cosmina’s fingertips dipped into a round depression in the stone. Her heart throbbed, threatening to pound its way out of her chest. Thank the gods. About blasted time.

Secret keyhol
e . . .
dead ahead.

Flipping the disc over in her hand, she fit the key into the lock. Something whistled by her head, tearing at her hair. Pain lanced her temple. Blood welled. A thin droplet trickled down the side of her face. She cringed, but refused to acknowledge the nick. Or think too hard about the weapon that had just grazed her. Cosmina turned the key instead. Click by slow click, she counted off each tick. Five to the right. Now, seven to the left. One more number in the combination to go.

Each breath clawing at the back of her throat, Cosmina swiped at the sweat on her brow, then wiped her damp palms on her dirty trews. One more right turn. Just four clicks.
Do not hurry. Do it right.
She must go slow. Respect the sequence and the timed pauses between each rotation. Otherwise the door wouldn’t open and she wouldn’t make it out of High Temple alive.

CHAPTER FIVE

An arrow whizzed toward his head.

Senses keen, Henrik dodged right. The bolt blew by his ear, ruffling his hair. The razor-sharp tip hammered the wall behind him. A violent crack exploded through the rotunda. Stone dust flew. Cosmina cursed. With a snarl, he launched another arrow. And then three more in quick succession. The enemy scattered, diving behind High Temple’s massive pillars to avoid the lethal volley. Adjusting his stance, he shifted to the left, putting himself between Cosmina and the enemy.

“H—duck,” Andrei growled behind him.

Henrik hit one knee. His comrade launched another assault. The bladed boomerang flew, whirling across the huge chamber. Caught out in the open, an assassin cursed as Andrei’s weapon clipped him. A thin line appeared at the bastard’s throat. A second later his head left his shoulders and fell, thumping into a lopsided roll across the mosaic floor.

Henrik nodded in approval. “Nice.”

“
Merci
.” Intense eyes met his. Andrei raised his hand, catching the boomerang as it came back around. “I aim to please.”

“And kill,” Shay said as he palmed his throwing stars.

Henrik snorted and, reaching up and over, stowed his bow in the quiver on his back. His hands found the twin hilts rising above his shoulders. Pushing to his feet, he drew hard, unsheathing his swords. The curved blades flashed in the low light. Aggressive. Efficient. Deadly. Henrik became all three as his comrades spread out, giving him room to work. Staying low, he spun on the balls of his feet. His black cloak whipped in his wake, blurring into a streak that stained the air around him. A dark warning in a holy place, one he barely noticed as the enemy swarmed up the step
s . . .

Toward him. Sights set on Cosmina. Intent on killing a member of the Order he’d sworn to protect.

More’s the pity.

Somewhere along the line, he’d lost his godforsaken mind. Or at least, taken a temporary leave of his senses. The theory made a lot of sense. ’Twas the simplest explanation—the likeliest excuse for allowing himself to become shackled to the Goddess of All Things. But an oath was just that: an
oath
. Binding. Unbreakable. The very definition of honor. He’d pledge himself alongside his brothers-in-arms. Promised the goddess his skill along with his sword. The conditions weren’t negotiable, and the parameters put Cosmina firmly in his camp.

His to shield. His to keep safe.

One hundred percent his responsibility.

Which meant no matter the obstacles, he must keep his word. It was, after all, the only thing of true value he had left. So forget walking away. Leaving her behind wasn’t in his immediate future. He refused to allow Cosmina to be taken. Or hurt. Aye, she might be a pain in the arse—a mouthy one with a lush body and a mind of her own—but he would do his duty. Defend in order to protect. Provide what she neede
d . . .

And get her out alive.

Shifting both sword hilts into one hand, Henrik palmed the dagger he kept sheathed against his lower back. Steel rasped against leather as he pulled the weapon free. Timing it to perfection, he waited for the lead assassin to crest the top step. Muscles coiled, he held his position a split second, then unleashed. The knife hurtled through the air an
d . . .

Thud! The blade found its home. In the center of the bastard’s throat.

Knife buried to the hilt, blood spilled down the enemy’s chest. The bastard teetered a moment, then buckled, falling backward into thin air. Cursing, the assassins behind the leader leapt, getting out of the way as their comrade tumbled down the steps. A few Al Pacii down, many more to go. Henrik didn’t care. Outnumbered didn’t mean defeated. It simply elevated the challenge. Anticipation streaked though him. He launched another dagger, then growled in satisfaction.

Bull’s-eye. Right on the mark. Another idiot down for the count.

Pulling another blade free, Henrik sighted the enemy while tracking Cosmina’s movements. Strange, but even over the din—the hammer of footfalls, the shouts of fury, the chorus of steel striking steel—he could hear her behind him. Senses pinpoint sharp, Henrik reached out with his mind. Magic coursed through his veins. Awareness explained, upping the intensity as he listened to her move. Sweet Christ, his fixation was odd. Locked onto her, he perceived everything—the slightest twitch of her muscles, the frantic thump of her heart, the rustle and slide as she shifted, small boots scraping over the marble floor.

Without looking, he knew Cosmina was on her knees in front of the wall carvings. Reaching up, she pressed something against a line etched in stone. Hand steady, she turned it, each movement slow and measured. A faint click echoed inside his head. Henrik frowned. Bizarre. Beyond anything he’d ever experienced before. His awareness of her was downright eerie. And yet, the whisper of sensation couldn’t be denied. He felt it like a heartbeat, the throb and tear as his mind connected with hers an
d . . .

He read her thoughts.

Ah hell. So much for controlling the situation. Cosmina was on a mission. Had a goal and was scrambling to make sure she completed it. Words like duty, honor, and redemption whirled inside her head.
Stay the course. Be strong. Get it finished.
The mental flash inside her mind exploded between his temples and—

Terrific. Just what he didn’t want. Another magic-driven skill to set at the goddess’ feet—mind reading, the gift of Thrall. Tareek had warned Henrik, explaining he possessed the ability to tap into another’s thoughts, bu
t . . .
goddamned son of a bitch. He despised the sorcery. Needed to shut it down. Faster than fast. Before Cosmina’s fear infected him and he lost his edge. And yet, even as he told himself to do just that, Henrik checked on her anyway, reading her like an open book. Heartbeat strong. Mind set. Focus fixed. Afraid, but not seriously injured. At least, so far. But not for long if he didn’t do somethin
g . . .

Like eliminate the threat.

Another assassin came within range. Weapons whirling, Henrik pinwheeled, ducking beneath razor-sharp swords. He lashed out with his own. His blades bit, cleaving through flesh to reach bone. The bastard roared. He rammed the steel tip deeper, punching through the enemy’s breastbone. Impaled on his blade, the warrior’s eyes widened in shock. Henrik raised his booted foot. A split second. A mere moment in time an
d . . .

Slam-bang. He kicked out, hammering the man in the chest.

Arms flailing, the assassin flew backward. With a yank, Henrik pulled his sword free of muscle and bone. Black blood arced through the air. Viscous liquid splattered across the top of the golden altar. Each movement sure, weapons flashing, Henrik took on another Al Pacii and whirled full circle. A quick flick. A brutal twist, and he sliced the enemy’s throat. The bastard’s head left his shoulders, spinning end over end.

More black liquid splashed across mosaic tiles. His gaze narrowed on the strange blood. ’Twas unnatural. Inhuman. Not normal at all. Aye, Al Pacii assassins might act demonic, but they always bled red. Always
red
. Like everyone else on earth.

Henrik dodged, avoiding another enemy blade, his eyes on the corpse. Excep
t . . .

The decapitated body moved. Hands flat against the floor, the dead man crawled toward his head. Incredulity rose. Incomprehension circled. With a quick shift, Henrik parried another thrust, body moving, mind mired in the mystery.

“
Merde
,” Andrei growled, severing an Al Pacii arm with one slice.

“Jesu.” With a sharp twist, Shay snapped his opponent’s neck. Body twitching, the assassin hit the floor, then tried to get back up. Wide-eyed in disbelief, Shay watched the body squirm and took a step back. “Hellfire,
H . . .
they’re not dying. The bastards keep getting up. I cannot—”

A hellish hiss slithered from beyond the altar.

Enemy assassins took a breath, pausing mid-fight.

Silence descended. Alive with mystical power, cold air heated and rose. The warm wave rolled up the stairs and slithered around the base of the altar. Stance set, Henrik’s focus narrowed on the lip of staircase. Blond head bent, a man mounted the steps, becoming visible a little at a time. As his boot touched down on the top tread, the assassin lifted his chin. Pulling the blade from the center of his throat, he tossed the dagger aside and met Henrik’s gaze. Orange irises flickered, bright color moving like fire and—

Henrik bared his teeth. Holy Christ. It couldn’t be. Just wasn’t possible. But as he shifted to meet the threat, the truth rose to greet him. He’d have recognized the bastard anywhere. Had spent years under his thumb, trying to survive his brutality inside Grey Keep. Halál, leader of the Al Pacii natio
n . . .
the aging assassin who wielded cruelty like a blade. Excep
t . . .

That wasn’t true. Not anymore.

The bastard was changed in significant ways. Strong of body. Steady of hand. No longer an old man, but a young one with familiar features cast in demonic lines.

With a snarl, Henrik raised his blades.

His former sensei growled and, taking aim, loosed an arrow. The bolt roared from the bow. Time stalled, slowing perception as instinct sparked. Henrik’s heart paused mid-thump. The bowstring twanged. The air warped and realization struck. Halál hadn’t aimed at him. The bastard had found a narrow laneway instead. Had taken the shot and now—

On her knees behind him, Cosmina gasped.

The smell of blood infused the air. Her whimper of pain hit him like a body shot. Not wasting a moment, Henrik spun toward her. He needed to reach her—this instant. To assess the damage and pull her out of harm’s way. Before the charged pause ended and the enemy regained momentum. Before Halál loosed another arrow in her direction, bu
t . . .
Jesus help him. The enemy was so close. And he was still too far away.

Boot soles slipping against the floor, Henrik ramped into a run, trying to close the gap. Twelve feet. Now te
n . . .
then eight sat between him and Cosmina. No small distance. Not great odds that he’d reach her in time, either. Al Pacii assassins aimed well and always shot to kill. Which meant Halál’s skills had grown rusty with disuse. Thank God. Otherwise Cosmina would be dead—done in by an arrow to the heart—instead of injured.

The creak of a bow being drawn sounded behind him.

Henrik pushed himself harder. Goddamn it. She was too vulnerable right now. Sitting out in the open: hunched over on the floor, blood spilling down her side, a black feather-tipped arrow protruding from—

Sweet Christ. He couldn’t tell where she’d been hit. Not from this angle.

Sheathing his sword, Henrik lunged toward her. “Andre
i . . .
Sha
y . . .
”

“Go!” Green eyes flashing, Shay unleashed his throwing stars. Razor-sharp discs whistled through the air as his comrade shifted to protect his back.

Enemy assassins howled in pain.

Moving to intercept Halál, Andrei snarled and magic flexed. A river of blue flame streamed in behind Henrik. Heat blew toward the ceiling as the inferno snaked across mosaic tiles. Shaped like a viper, ravenous tendrils rose from the temple floor, and fangs bared, filled the chamber with venomous fumes. With a sidewinding shift, the fiery serpent struck. Flames blew outward, shooting over the altar, melting solid gold into liquid metal. As yellow rivulets poured onto the marble floor, the Al Pacii assassins closest to the blaze caught fire.

The stench of burning flesh rolled into the rotunda.

Almost at Cosmina’s side, Henrik stayed low and listened to the flames hiss. A voracious beast, the magical inferno ate the assassins, devouring the enemy with flaming fangs. He heard Halál curse. Glancing over his shoulder, Henrik watched the Al Pacii leader leap backward, away from the blaze, and retreat down the steps.

Breathing hard, Henrik blinked. What the hell? Where had the fire come from? Someone snarled in French. He shifted focus. His gaze landed on Andrei. Jesus be swift and merciful. Was the inferno coming from his comrade? It sure looked like it. Particularly since fire rose like twin swords in Andrei’s hands, the bright blue of the blaze the same color as his eyes.

Startling, but not much of a mystery.

Goddamn the Goddess of All Things. She never stopped meddling. Now she toyed with his comrade, infecting Andrei with magic just as she had him. Not that Henrik felt the need to complain at the moment. With the magical fire burning and Cosmina in trouble, he’d take what he could get and use the inferno for cover. He’d solve the riddle—and unearth the deity’s plan—another time. When the enemy wasn’t at his back. And the woman he’d sworn to protect wasn’t bleeding all over the temple floor.

Still counting each click of the key, Cosmina sheathed her second dagger. Not the smartest thing to do, considering a battle raged behind her. The clang of steel resonated in the rotunda, along with unholy snarls and the hammer of footfalls. Goddess keep her, it was all upside down and backward. So completely wrong. She should be moving toward the fight. Should be helping Henrik keep the enemy at bay. Not stowing her blades while she turned her back on the man standing between her and certain death.