Knight Avenged (22 page)

God-awful memory. It refused to let him go.

“My thanks, Kazim,” he whispered, forcing air into his lungs, giving the assassin his due. ’Twas only fair. The male deserved the praise. As much as Tareek could throw his way. Sure, Kazim might like to tease, but the assassin was solid when it counted. “I owe you a—”

“Nay, do not.” Kazim shook his head and held out his hand. Tareek hesitated a moment, then took it, allowing the male to pull him to his feet. “We’re family now, remember? Brothers look after one another,
fratele
.”

Unable to find his voice, Tareek nodded.

Kazim slapped him on the shoulder. “Better?”

“All good,” he said, even though it wasn’t true. At least, not yet. Mayhap in a minute or two when the tension cramping his muscles loosened. Night vision pinpoint sharp, Tareek glanced toward the forest’s edge. Magic coalesced into an entity, staring out of the darkness. Revulsion shivered through him. He swallowed the bad taste in his mouth. Well, so much for hoping for a moment of relaxation. Loosening up wasn’t possible inside the enchanted forest. “How long do we need to be here?”

“A while.” Frozen leaves crackled as Henrik walked his warhorse forward. Hazel-gold eyes met Tareek’s a moment before his friend tipped his chin, sending a silent inquiry. One that asked “you all right?” without him saying a word. “Enough time to rest and regroup.”

The undertone put Tareek on high alert. His gaze narrowed on Henrik as suspicion rose out of experience. He swallowed a snort. Wee whelp.
Rest and regroup
, his arse. The male was up to something. Something important. Something he wanted to hide from the others. Tareek could tell. Aye, Henrik looked calm enough, but Tareek knew he churned beneath the surface. He detected the upheaval in his emotional grid. Understood the doubt, dread, and pain that drove his friend.

Even as a lad, he’d been that way—reckless and volatile. Passionate as well, far too intense for his own good.

Which meant Tareek had work to do. Cracking through the male’s guard wouldn’t be easy. Nor could he do it here, in plain view of his fellow assassins. Respect deserved its day, and caring equal measure. No way would he challenge Henrik in front of the others. If he tried, the whelp would dig in and he wouldn’t learn a thing.

Certainly not enough to help with whatever Henrik had planned.

Rolling his shoulders to combat the tension, Tareek strode across the low bluff. With a hop, he leapt off the edge. Icy turf crunched beneath his soles as he touched down in front of Henrik. “Got a spot to rest in mind?”

Henrik nodded. “A cottage. Three, mayhap four, hours from here.”

Interesting. The information, sure, but mostly Henrik’s knowledge of the Limwoods. How the hell had his friend come by it? Good question. Particularly since he knew Henrik had never been inside the forest before. Hm
m . . .
another mystery to solve. One that fed into an even larger one. Sidestepping, Tareek came alongside his friend and—

Jesus.

He blinked, realizing two things at once. The first? Henrik wasn’t alone atop his horse. And the second? He really needed to pay more attention. No way he should’ve missed the small form in Henrik’s arms. Or the strong female energy surrounding his friend. Leaning right, he peered around the curve of the hood covering her head. A ringlet of red hair peeked out, looking lush and thick against her smooth skin. Fast asleep, auburn lashes made half-moons against her pale cheeks an
d . . .
ah hell. Here they went again. Despite his rough beginning—and the fact he’d never been accepted by the fairer sex inside White Temple—Henrik loved women.

Evidence of it pervaded the male’s life.

Especially while visiting Ismal, the marketplace nestled at the foot of the Carpathians.

Females threw themselves at Henrik. Not surprising. Most women coveted a strong male. And Henrik? Hell, he had it all—good looks, a menacing vibe, and more charisma than any male ought to possess. But ’twas his reputation more than anything that made him so popular. Generous to a fault, skilled in the sexual arena, he liked to take his time with a female. His renown preceded him wherever he went. Females talked and word spread quickly, giving rise to the rumor
s . . .

Go to bed with Henrik. Never leave unsatisfied.

Normally the axiom wasn’t a problem for Tareek. The lad deserved his fun, after all. But as suspicion opened the door to possibility, his instincts served up the facts. His friend wanted the female sharing his saddle. Tareek smelled it on him—the yearning, the need, the desire for closeness that brought most males low. Unprecedented. Unsettling. Troublesome too. Henrik wasn’t prone to entanglements of any kind. He liked to play, not commit. But as his gaze met and held his friend’s, the truth couldn’t be denied. Henrik was wildly attracted to her. Was already invested in her well-being. Which meant he was going to get burned in a big way, ’caus
e . . .

Tareek huffed. Aye, without a doubt. She represented a huge problem.

For him as well as Henrik.

The Druinguari wouldn’t quit. Were even now sniffing around the edge of the Limwoods, tracking, hunting, searching for the best way to bring them down. How did he know? His sonar kept pinging—bringing back traces of magic, gauging distances, assessing the danger. Even from deep inside the enchanted forest, tendrils of black magic teased, making his skin crawl and his dragon senses scream.

All of which pointed to one inescapable truth. Her close proximity would distract his friend. Not good. Or anywhere near advisable. With the battle lines drawn and war coming, no mistakes could be made. He needed Henrik focused and battle ready, not distracted by a redheaded dove with a pretty face and a curvy body.

Dropping his hand, Tareek tipped his chin. “Picked up a passenger, I see.”

“’Tisn’t what you think.”

“Really.” He raised a brow. “Where have I heard that before?”

A muscle twitched along Henrik’s jaw. “I couldn’t leave her there. She—”

“Of course you couldn’t.” Made perfect sense. When, after all, had Henrik ever been able to deny a female anything?

“Is one of the Blessed.”

Tareek blinked. He frowned as the new detail sank in. “Confirmed?”

“Aye.”

“Shit.”

“Exactly.”

One word. Big impact. Tareek sighed. No need to explain further.

Message received and accepted.

The female couldn’t be left behind. More’s the pity. Terrible, in fact.

Ditching her somewhere along the way would’ve made things easier in the long run. Particularly since
true
believers
—those who served the Goddess of All Things
—
tended to be fanatics. But no matter his aversion to all things White Temple, Tareek refused to walk away. No way would he abandon his vow along with his principles. Henrik was right. She was too valuable, an asset to the goddess, a member of the Order both he and others had promised to protect. So only one thing left to do: mount up and get movin
g . . .

While he filled Henrik in on the way.

Dragging his focus from his friend, Tareek glanced at Andrei. Quick to react, the warrior tugged on the lead in his hand. Horse hooves cracked against the brittle leaves. Twin streams of air puffing from its nostrils, the enormous roan tossed his head and stepped forward. As the beast came abreast of him, Tareek murmured, reached out, and stroked his muzzle with a gentle hand. The second the roan accepted his touch, he took the reins and swung into the saddle.

Leather creaked. Tareek settled in, making himself at home. “I reached out to Garren.”

Shay glanced his way. “Is he en route with Xavian?”

“And the others.”

“Good. I have an idea of where Halál will try to intercept us. We’ll need the others to help set the trap and lure him in,” Henrik said, nudging his warhorse into a walk.

The forest reacted to the movement, rustling the underbrush an
d . . .
Tareek flinched. Hristos, talk about eerie, and, well, mayhap the tiniest bit alluring too. The Limwoods might be a violent anomaly, but as the vines parted—opening to reveal a trail across the clearing, one that reached deep into the forest, showing Henrik the way—Tareek realized something important. As an enemy, the magical entity was a brutal force to be avoided at all costs, but as an ally? The possibilities became not only infinite, but interesting as well.

As though able to read his mind, Henrik met his gaze. “Impressive, isn’t she?”

Tareek frowned.
Impressive?
Well that was one way of looking at it. Terrifying might be another. “She?”

“Thea,” Kazim said, a hint of awe in his tone. “Beautiful creature.”

“Yet to be determined,” Tareek said, clinging to prejudice.

A good grudge, after all, never went out of style. Neither did caution. Both kept a male alive longer. But as Henrik galloped onto the trail, disappearing into shadowed recesses of the forest, Tareek followed in his wake. No sense being a pansy about it. Or denying his curiosity now that he was on the ground. He wanted to know more about the Limwoods. Press up against her boundaries and see where it led him. Had the forest truly accepted them or was she playing a game of wait and see? Would she allow them to leave when the time came or imprison them instead? Forever friend or cunning foe? All excellent questions, ones that needed to be explored and answere
d . . .
in a hurry. Otherwise he and his comrades wouldn’t make it out of the Limwoods alive.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Blood rushing in her ears, Nairobi sped past the garden’s T-shaped wading pool. Iced over, skiffs of snow gathered along its edges as the slap of her footfalls echoed out to reach the fountain at its center. Devoid of water, bare-breasted mermaids stood frozen in time, unable to lure sailors to their doom without the usual sea of blue surrounding them. She scowled at the marble statues on the way by.

Stupid Persian design.

Beautiful, symmetrical, annoying mess. At least, right now. The fountain along with the garden layout provided almost no cover. No hedgerows or high walls in the middle. Just colorful mosaic tiles on wide pathways and barren flowerbeds set in geometric patterns. Not even the multitude of trees helped. Planted at equal intervals next to the outer wall, the tall, thin cypress threw little shadow, leaving her exposed as the moon bathed the garden in winter-borne light.

Stars above, she was in trouble.

One false move, a touch of bad luck, and she’d be done. Lost to circumstance and consequence. Panic clogged her throat. Sucking in a desperate breath, feet flying over slippery stone, she descended the shallow steps next to the sunken pool. The heavy satchel she carried bounced against her lower back, throwing her off-balance. As she stumbled forward, fighting to stay upright, moonlight mocked her, growing brighter by the moment. A figment of her overstimulated senses? Pure imagination? Fear-induced paranoia? Nairobi didn’t know, bu
t . . .

Call her foolhardy and be done with it.

She should’ve taken the clear sky into account while planning her escape. A cloudy night would’ve lessened the risk and increased her chances of reaching the iron gate at the far end of the first courtyard. Not that it mattered now. ’Twas far too late to lament her lack of foresight. She was neck-deep in it. No room for doubt. Little chance of going back either.

Nairobi glanced over her shoulder anyway. The former palace turned silk house loomed large behind her. Arabic archways and dark windows stared out from behind a wide balcony. So far, so good. No one stood watching her flight. Which meant Adam had yet to discover her missing from the weaving room.

Making a tight turn, she skirted a star-shaped flowerbed. Her conscience panged. Silly to feel bad. Ridiculous to allow guilt to win. She had naught to feel contrite about and even less choice. Freedom didn’t exist in the grey areas. It lived in black and white; a person either possessed it or not. And yet, even knowing no other recourse remained, remorse found a home inside her heart. The guard didn’t deserve what she was about to give him—derision, punishment, or worse from the owner of the silk house.

A nasty outcome. One no one in his right mind wanted to face, never mind endure.

Her sense of fair play nudged her. Regret dug its claws in, cutting through, elevating her self-reproach to new levels. An ache bloomed behind her breastbone. Nairobi ignored it, and arms pumping, sprinted toward freedom. It stood just ahead, a quick jump and hard climb up the garden gate. Designed to keep others out, and the weavers in, ’twas a thing of beauty, intricate ironwork melding into immaculate design. The result? Impenetrable twin panels that ascended twelve feet, falling just shy of the outer wall’s upper lip. Anxiety made her heart pound harder. Climbing in icy conditions would be challenging—no question. But the true worry lay at the top of the gate. Steel thorns crowned the crosspiece, ruling with timeless efficiency, setting the tone as each spike lorded over the entrance.

By no means optimal. Even less encouraging.

Hurrying between two low-lying shrubs, Nairobi descended the last set of stairs and entered the courtyard. Her footfalls slowed as she approached the high gate and, eying the thorny deterrents at its top, reached into the front pocket of her satchel. With a tug, she pulled out a pair of leather gloves. Tearing her gaze from the spikes, she studied the ironwork and plotted her course—handholds, footholds, the best places to find a good grip, the smaller spaces to avoid. Up one side. Down the other. No problem. She could do it. Keep the fear at bay long enough to win her freedom and find her way home.

Each breath naught but a harsh rasp, she pulled on the protective hand-wear and approached on silent feet. Almost there. One more obstacle. A fast climb, a quicker descent, and she’d be standing outside the outer wall, running for her life, looking over her shoulder, navigating the streets of Ismal to reach the forest’s edge. From there, she knew the way: due north to White Temple. The only place she’d ever truly belonged.

With a yank, she tugged the hem of her short jacket down, then tightened the leather strap across her chest. All good. Despite its weight against her back, the bag would hold. Now so must she. Flexing her fingers, she reached out, grabbed her first handhold, and searched for the next. Slow and steady, calm and sure, she started to climb. Nairobi huffed and wiggled her foot, wedging the toe of her boot into a small crevice.
Calm
. Right. ’Twas all an illusion. She was nowhere near steady. Shaky, full of panic, about to lose her grip on the icy ironwork—goddess, all true, but she refused to stop now.

Inhaling hard, she forced her lungs to expand. Hanging four feet off the ground, she exhaled in a rush, then repeated the process. White puffs pushed from her mouth, painting the metal with frost. In. Out. Catch her breath, then release it. The influx of air helped, allowing her to look for the next handhold, helping her go on, soothing her nerves even as her muscles trembled and her courage shook. Just a bit farther. Six feet to her goal. Now three. So close. All she needed to do was hold the line, make it to the top, pick a path over the spikes, and—

“Nairobi!”

The shout echoed across the garden. Her focus snapped to the right, then traveled up the path next to the outer wall. Oh nay. Oh god
s . . .
Adam. He’d spotted her the moment he’d rounded the blind corner next to the row of cypress trees. Time lengthened and stilled as she met his gaze. Her grip tightened on the finger holds. The astonished look on his face vanished as his brows collided. The second he shifted to the balls of his feet, Nairobi reacted, finding another handhold, peddling her feet, climbing upward faster than was prudent, an
d . . .

Her toe slipped off metal.

One boot knocked into the next. Her right foot joined the left, dangling in the air as she swung sideways. With a cry, she dug in and held on hard, fighting to get her feet back under her. She heard heavy footfalls rush across the courtyard behind her. Fear roared through her, infusing her muscles with strength. Gritting her teeth, she found a foothold and clambered higher, eyes glued to the multi-headed spikes. Adam yelled, raising the alarm, shattering all hope of a clean getaway as he called for more guards and the keys to the gate.

“Nairob
i . . .
” More growl than word, her name swirled on the cold air. Adam slid to a stop below her. “For the love of God, woma
n . . .
get down. You’ve nowhere to go.”

Untrue. She had a home. One that beckoned. A place unlike any other where she would be loved, accepted, and safe—just like before.

Heart pounding so hard her chest hurt, Nairobi grabbed the base of an iron thorn cluster. Feet planted against steel, dangling by a single handhold twelve feet from the ground, she lifted the leather strap over her head. With a huff, she tossed the satchel over. Leather groaned in protest before landing with a thud in the deserted laneway.

“I mean it, girl. Come down. Right now or I—”

“You’ll what?” Indignation surged. Determination picked up the gauntlet, accepting the challenge. So what. She’d been discovered. Adam didn’t have the keys. Not yet anyway. Which meant she still had a chance. Still possessed some time. Enough, mayhap, to save herself and stay true to her purpose. Adam—along with everyone else inside the silk house—could go to the devil. She would not lie down. Or crumble beneath the pressure. Her eyes narrowed, she grabbed a second handhold and heaved herself upright. Lifting one leg over the spikes, she planted her foot on the thin lip on the other side. Crouched like a cat atop the high gate, she looked down at the guard. “Take away my freedom? Punish me by locking me away? Too late for that, Adam. You’ve done that from the start.”

Surprise winged across his face. A moment later, his brows furrowed. He opened his mouth—no doubt to threaten her again.

She cut him off. “I’m sorry, Adam. I’ve no wish to cause you trouble, but I cannot stay. I am going home. I need to go home.”

“Your place is here.”

“You’re wrong,” she whispered, navigating the thorny barbs. “I never belonged here. My calling has always been much greater.”

The truth of it gave her added courage. Saying it aloud granted her power. Treating the guard to a defiant look, Nairobi slid her second foot over. Adam cursed. She kept climbing, descending the opposite side of the gate as he yelled again, demanding the keys. The rapid beat of footfalls scrambled the quiet, rushing toward her as the moon winked in the clear sky. Halfway down, she let go and jumped to the ground. Her boots slammed into the cobblestones, making her teeth rattle. Pain stung her temples. Ignoring the discomfort, she spun, grabbed the satchel strap, and slung it over her shoulder.

The guard snarled at her from behind the swirling ironwork.

“Fair thee well, Adam.”

“God’s grace, Nairobi,” he said, the threat of violence in this voice. “You will need it when I find you.”

More promise than threat, his words sent a chill down her spine.

Feet churning through the thin skin of snow, she ran for the end of the alleyway. Another of the guards shouted, organizing the others. Keys jingled, sound rising on a rapid gust of frosty air. Skidding into the next laneway, Nairobi sprinted for the mouth of another, making certain each footfall landed on a clear patch of cobblestone and stayed out of the snow. Leaving a trail for Adam amounted to a bad idea. The guard wasn’t stupid. He knew how to hunt women. Had proved it on more than one occasion when he returned an escapee to the less reputable section of the silk house—a place created for one purpose: a client’s comfort and pleasure.

Disgusting practice. Especially considering many in the harem didn’t want to be there.

Revulsion moved behind her breastbone. Goddess forgive her, she hated to leave all those women behind. Ought to be helping each one find a way out of hellish circumstances. A noble intention. A task in desperate need of doing. But not right now. Tonight belonged to her own freedom. Liberation would come for those inside Saul’s Silk Emporium, but first she must evade Adam and get out of Ismal. Otherwise she wouldn’t be able to save anyone, least of all herself.

Surrounded by thick cloud and frosty air, Cristobal looped the leather strap tethering him to Cruz around his fist. A wise move. A dragon shifted fast in flight. His comrade was no exception, angling his wings, slicing between steep cliffs as condensation beaded his chilled skin and his friend’s black, bronze-tipped scales. Banking into another tight turn, Cruz dipped low and ducked his horned head. Tucked in tight, the wall of his chest against the back of the dragon’s neck, Cristobal watched a weathered stone arch sail overhead.

Eying the rocky ridge on the flyby, he grinned. Jesus. Talk about close—less than a foot—solid stone mere inches above his head. To be expected. Cruz loved to fly and wasn’t careful in its execution. Each turn the dragon-warrior made was insane—wing tips inches from jagged outcroppings, velocity muscle-clenching brutal, little light to see or fly by. And the wind? Mother of God. Nature howled, picking up speed, throwing snow like fistfuls of confetti as they hopscotched across the Carpathians, leaving one mountain pass only to blast into another.

Not that he was complaining.

Cristobal loved the wildness, the elemental fuck-you of a clenched fist and raised middle finger. So aye, shrug off the chill. Forget the mind-bending speed. Dragon flight was the absolute best—fast, furious, efficient. Right up his alley, a method of travel he embraced with relis
h . . .
even if his flying companion was a touch nuts and boatloads of brave.

Gritting his teeth, he hung on hard as Cruz flipped in midair, avoiding a lopsided stone tower in the center of the gorge. Cold air burned across his cheeks, blowing the hair off his face. His mouth curved as pleasure thrummed through him. Astride a dragon’s back, fast and free in flight. Who would’ve thought it possible? He huffed. Not him. Not until a month ago, anyway. But oh how quickly things changed—in both good and bad ways. Good equated to a midnight flight and his bird’s-eye view. And bad? Well now, that came with a smell, an acrid one that rose on winter-borne wind, leaving a trail along with a terrible taste in his mouth.

Not a good sign, considering he and his comrades flew toward it.

With a frown, Cristobal leaned into another turn as his mind raced ahead, over landscapes he’d yet to cross to settle in the Valley of the Blessed. He shook his head. White Temple—the holy city shrouded in mystery and steeped in unfortunate history. A place he’d never visited, yet disliked already. No rhyme. Even less reason, but something about approaching the goddess’ domain put him on edge. Cristobal snorted. Right. He should probably rephrase the statement.
On edge
didn’t begin to describe what he felt. ’Twas more dangerous than that. Far more volatile too. Even from a distance, he sensed the magic. Smelled the discord as well, the bitter smell of—