Knight Avenged (17 page)

Senses screaming, he listened to the clamor. Chaotic sound rippled—the hammer of multiple footfalls, the demonic snarls, and the zing of weapons being drawn—painting a clear picture. Goddamn it. He needed more time. Was just moments away from the iron gate and high stone wall. The west side and above-ground crypts lay just beyond. A mere fifty feet from slipping into labyrinth-like streets that would provide cover, bu
t . . .

The bastards were already too close.

Three, mayhap four, aisles away, running parallel tracks, trying to get ahead of them.

Tombstones sliced past as he pushed himself harder, sprinting for the end of the laneway. Shay cursed behind him. Henrik veered right and slid on slippery ice. Fighting the fall, using his momentum, he skidded sideways. Cosmina yelped, grappling for purchase as she bounced on his shoulder. He strengthened his hold, swung into the next aisle, and—

Fire streamed into view, streaking across the night sky.

Heat went cataclysmic. Snow melted into pools. Water evaporated, throwing mist into the air. Eyes on the unholy blaze, Henrik dropped and rolled. Tucking Cosmina close, he pressed her head beneath his chin and tumbled across the turf. Right on target, the fireball struck the ground. Dirt and ash erupted, blowing sky-high. Enemy assassins shouted as the blast picked Henrik up and threw him sideways. Cosmina screamed. Limbs tangled with hers, Henrik held on tight, trying to control the spin mid-flip. He landed with a thump and slid, smashing into a cemetery wall. He heard a curse, felt the secondary heat wave hit, and—

Shay slammed into stone next to him. His apprentice groaned. “Hellfire.”

Uh-huh. Literally, ’cause Jesus knew Tareek wasn’t fooling around.

Thankfulness split Henrik wide open. He took it back a moment later when another fireball roared across the night sky. More deadly than the first, flames spilled, splashing up and out like lava flow. Trees caught fire, throwing ash into the air as tombstones whirled end over end, taking enemy assassins out at the knees. Breathing hard, Henrik searched the trail of smoke overhead. Any moment now. Another few seconds an
d . . .

Green eyes aglow, Tareek shot through the acrid swirl.

Spotting Henrik on the ground, his friend tucked his wings. He dropped out of the sky like a stone. Huge talons thumped down. Bloodred scales rattled, glinting in the blaze as Tareek slid sideways on scorched earth. Time slowed, warping perception. Ignoring Cosmina’s “Oh gods!” Henrik watched in awe as Tareek’s razor-sharp claws tore into the ground, ripping wide trenches in the dirt. Goddamn, the male was huge and all kinds of vicious. Thank Christ. He couldn’t ask for a better self-appointed protector, bu
t . . .

Henrik shook his head. No matter how many times he witnessed the transformation, the shift startled him. How Tareek went from a man to, wel
l . . .
that
. ’Twas downright amazing.

Coming to a sudden halt in front of him, Tareek glanced over his shoulder. Shimmering eyes met his. The dragon bared his fangs.
“Run.”

The snarl slammed into his mind. Henrik didn’t hesitate. Scooping Cosmina off the ground, he spun around the high wall and made for River’s Bend. He hated to do it. Would rather stand and fight alongside Tareek, but that wouldn’t work. Not tonight. Cosmina had endured enough. The faster he got her to safety, the better. The quicker he’d acquire answers too, ’caus
e . . .
no question. ’Twas time to do the unthinkable. No matter how much it chaffed him, he must shelve his grudge and summon the Goddess of All Things. Otherwise he wouldn’t get what he neede
d . . .

The secret to killing Halál and the band of unnatural bastards he led.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Perched atop the high wall overlooking the Jiu River, Cristobal Torres watched the ripple from eleven hundred feet up. Winter winds dove deep, then rose hard, tugging at his shirttail, caressing him like a lover as starry skies tossed brilliance like well-honed dice. Illumination tumbled, glimmering across the surface of the Jiu. His gaze on the ebb and flow, he shook his head. He shouldn’t be here, outside in the cold, atop the parapet that protected Drachaven, the mountain fortress he now shared with his brothers-in-arms.

Not that it wasn’t a pretty sight. Far from it.

The view was magnificent, the brutal drop to the river’s edge even more so. ’Twas almost enough to tempt him. A quick spin. An even faster fall, and he’d be hanging off the outer wall by his fingertips, moments from feeling the rush as he free-climbed the icy stone face to reach the sheer cliffs upon which Drachaven sat. A dangerous endeavor—one that required supreme skill to achieve and most would call insane. Cristobal huffed. Call him mad, then, and get it over with, ’caus
e . . .
hell. He’d already made the clim
b . . .
twice. Once from the river’s edge up. The second time from the high wall down alongside Xavian.

A race to the bottom.

A fun one that had ended with bragging rights and a lot of backslapping. Which was why he shouldn’t be here. Xavian—his best friend and commander of The Seven—would kick his arse if he knew. Would tell him to go back to bed and get some rest, bu
t . . .

He couldn’t sleep. For the fifth moonrise in a row.

’Twas the damnedest thing. Most nights he slept like the dead. But times changed, and now he suffered the effects. Tension ate at him, pricking along his spine, pulling worry to the surface. He needed to sleep. Felt the draw and tug of fatigue even now—while brisk winds bit and the moon shone bright—but everything he tried failed. Warm milk with honey before bedtime? Nothing. A ball-busting training session after supper? No results. Reading ancient texts until his eyes grew gritty and his mind numbed from boredom? A big fat zero on the sliding slumber scale. ’Twas beyond frustrating.

Particularly since he knew the cause. Or at least, thought he did. And still couldn’t do a thing about it.

Flexing his fingers, Cristobal glanced down at the back of his hand. His knuckle points stared back at him. He debated a moment, then gave into the urge, and shoved at his shirtsleeve. Butter-soft linen slid up his forearm an
d . . .
rahat
. No change. The lines were still there. Weren’t getting any better either. Fine and precise, an invisible hand drew on his skin, weaving black lines in and out, creating a pattern that, as of yet, remained incomplete. A conclusion based in presumption? Probably. He couldn’t be certain, after all, the tattoo lay unfinished. But then, he didn’t need to be sure.

Instinct never lied. Neither did the truth. Or the fact he hadn’t asked for the black ink.

He’d woken from a deep sleep six nights ago, the sting almost unbearable, to discover the tattoo starting on the backs of both hands. Now it crawled like creeping vines, staining his skin, burning deep into flesh until he felt it in his bones.

Strange. Painful. Scary as hell.

And clearly not done yet.

His lip curled as the lines slid over his right forearm. With a rough yank, he checked his left arm. Same design. Identical marks forming twin patterns. No deviation in contour as each headed for his elbows. Cristobal blew out a shaky breath. Not normal. Hell, no wonder he couldn’t sleep. Forget the agony—the constant sting of the unnatural tattoos. Put aside his resistance to, wel
l . . .
whatever the hell was happening to him. He’d already buried the fear six feet under. ’Twas the voice inside his head he couldn’t stand. Like a gong being struck, the witchy whisper beat against his temples. Over and over. Again and again. Always the same word
s . . .

Find her. Find her. She needs yo
u . . .
find her.

Cristobal yanked his shirt cuff back down. The rough movement raked along his forearm. Anguish scraped across his skin. Balanced on the balls of his feet, he snarled at the mountain peaks rising in the distance.

“
Ma rahat
,” he said through clenched teeth.

None of it made any sense. Not the burn of creeping tattoos. Not the words shredding the inside of his skull. Not the urgency he felt either. He didn’t even know
her
name. Who the hell was she? And why in God’s name did she need him? The annoying chant came again.
Find her. Find her. She needs yo
u . . .
find her.
More questions circled. Per usual, answers refused to follow. He snorted. Like he should expect anything less? Nothing ever came easy. Solutions to problems enjoyed playing coy and never arrived out of the blue. The world didn’t work that way. A mystery required legwork and razor-sharp intellect to solve. S
o . . .

Time to stop stewing and step up his game.

Avoiding the inevitable wasn’t his thing. Neither was panic. And honestly, he’d never been the idle sort. Trained to kill, the most talented tracker in an order full of elite assassins, he preferred to be on the move—hunting, shadow walking, taking down his prey. Which meant he needed to tell someone. His gaze on the snaking current of the river, Cristobal frowned. Mayhap he should talk to Xavian and reach out to Afina. A magic wielder and High Priestess to the Order of Orm, she possessed a direct line to the Goddess of All Things, the deity he now served. Mayhap if he shared the problem—showed her the ink and incomplete tattoos—she would know what to do. Or at the very least, explain what the hell was happening to him.

Nerves got the better of him.

He shoved the angst aside. Hiding the ink was foolhardy. He needed help. Could no longer deny the pain or contain his worry, s
o . . .
aye, despite the need to solve his own problems, ’twas past time he sought aide from his best friend. With a quick shift, Cristobal pivoted atop the wall. His boots brushed against stone. Sound whispered, drifting on frigid air as he—

A door slammed open. Wood banged against stone, shredding the silence.

Cristobal’s focus snapped toward the main entrance.

Eyes aglow, Garren roared over the threshold, then down the stairs, heading for the wide-open space of the inner bailey. Hot on his heels, Cruz, the youngest of the dragon-shifters, made tracks in his commander’s wake. Cristobal went on high alert.
Rahat
. Not good. Calm, cool, and collected most of the time, not much upset the dragon-shifter. But as he scanned Garren’s face and read his expression, he knew—just
knew
—the warrior carried bad news. Taut muscle rippling, Cristobal leapt from his perch. His feet touched down on the rampart. Garren looked up from the bottom step and nailed him with shimmering violet eyes.

Cristobal tipped his chin. “What?”

“Trouble.” His deep voice rose on a wave of magic, making Cristobal’s skin prickle in warning. Massive shoulders rolling, Garren broke eye contact and jogged across the inner bailey. His destination: the blacksmith’s shop. Or more precisely, the bedchamber hidden behind it. “I will rouse Xavian. Find Razvan. We fly for White Temple as soon as all are assembled in the courtyard.”

Ah hell. White Temple.

The location could only mean one thing. Henrik and the others were in danger. Which meant Tareek was in the thick of it. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. No wonder Garren smelled of unease and moved like the wind.

Urgency pumped through him.

Putting his boots to good use, Cristobal ran the length of the walkway. Footfalls hammering stone, he reached the door at his end, yanked it open, and crossed into a large chamber. Sprinting across Afina’s healing room, he skirted the huge table at its center and made for the double doors on the other side. The keep proper lay beyond, and his comrade’s chamber along the first corridor. He must move fast. No time to waste. The quicker he hauled Razvan out of bed, the sooner Henrik would have the help he needed.

Candlelight flickered, casting odd patterns across the white walls. Alone in the weaving room, sitting in front of her favorite loom, Nairobi Brue watched the eerie shadows dance and listened for the telltale creak of wooden floorboards. Naught yet. No low rumble of male voices. No scrape of footfalls or the soft rattle of weaponry. Naught but the chill of midnight and blessed silence. Thank goodness. She needed the extra time. Enough to find her courage and settle her nerves. She couldn’t afford any mistakes. Not tonight. Everything rested on the next few minutes.

On her ability to forge ahead and make something out of nothing.

Hands moving at a furious pace, she tied another knot in the makeshift cloth rope. Another few lengths of wool, and she would be on her way. A hop, skip, and a jump from tying one end to the window frame, climbing down to the pathway below, and running hard for the garden gate, bu
t . . .
not yet. She needed every advantage. Must wait a while longer even though fear circled, making her palms sweat and her want to flee now.

Sooner than
now
would be better.

Nairobi shook her head and finished knotting the last woolen strip.

“Patience,” she murmured. “’Tis a virtue for a reason.”

The whispered words made her lips twitch. Such sentiment. So much old-fashioned faith. Kind of ridiculous when she thought about it, but for some reason, hope didn’t seem out of place tonight. She’d made it this far, hadn’t she? Was due for some good luck, wasn’t she? Nairobi nodded. Without a doubt. ’Twas her turn, but as chance rolled the dice and she tugged on the cloth, testing the rope, nerves got the best of her. Shoving the makeshift cord beneath a pile of yarn, she glanced toward the arched entryway into the room. With the double doors folded open, she had a clear view into the hallway.

Usually her favorite spot. Too bad it afforded little comfort tonight. Any moment now, the whisper of footsteps would fall and the quiet creak would come, heralding the guard’s approach an
d . . .

Her eviction from the weaving room.

Not that she didn’t belong. She did. More than most, anyway. But the owner of Saul’s Silk Emporium liked rules as much as she enjoyed breaking them. Which meant it wouldn’t be long now. Hardly any time at all before Adam, head guard and colossal pain in her backside, rounded the corner and saw her sitting where she wasn’t allowed to be at night. In front of her loom. Colorful yarn bobbing on multiple spools along the top crosspiece.

Inhaling a calming breath, Nairobi exhaled in a rush, then reached out and picked up the threads. Under. Over. Weave, knot, cut, brush it down—start all over again. The familiar rhythm settled her, untangling tight muscles as she fell into the tried and true. Fingers working as hard as her mind, furious in the fray, one weaving a Persian rug, the other searching for an adequate excuse. She needed one in order to remain in front of her loom. And by extension, next to the long run of windows that made a home along one side chamber.

A lie spiked with the truth would work best.

It always did. And she should know. She’d spent the last two years lyin
g . . .
about everything. Who she was. Where she’d come from. Why she was alone in the world. Lies, lies, and more lies. Untruth stacked upon untruth. Curious thing, though, no one ever called her on it. Or investigated her sudden appearance in the town of Ismal. Fortuitous or disastrous? Nairobi couldn’t tell. Being found out—called a fraud and made to pay—would be easier than maintaining the front. And as moonlight spilled into the chamber, casting shadows across piles of yarn and tables littered with embroidery tools, she almost wished someone would grow a brain and get a clue.

Almost
, but not quite.

Danger, after all, lived inside her truth. The kind of knowledge others coveted. A secret so profound she would go to her grave to protect it. Knotting another thread, Nairobi bit down on her bottom lip.
Deat
h
. . .
a distinct possibility tonight. Especially if she escaped as planned. Not that anyone would agree she was a prisoner. She was paid, after all—given room and board along with a few coins each month for her efforts inside the silk house. Most would call that employment, not prison.

The truth was far more sinister.

She’d been trapped the moment she stepped inside the Emporium. Now she played the pawn in a ruthless game enjoyed by the rich and greedy.

Nairobi shook her head. Goddess be swift and merciful. Creativity could be a curse sometimes. Combine it, however, with supreme talent and the effect multiplied, setting her apart from the others. Her employer—or rather
jailer
—loved her for it. The other women she worked alongside each day? Not so much. Like venomous green thread, jealousy ran deep inside the silk house, individual weavers in constant competition to win the master’s favor. A pity, really, particularly since she didn’t want the distinction.