Knight Avenged (23 page)

Rahat
. He didn’t know. But God, the scent wouldn’t leave him alone. No matter how deeply he inhaled, he couldn’t acclimate. Or lessen the sensory burn.

’Twas as though something foreign had entered his body, triggering a primal reaction. An animalistic one that amplified everything—sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch. Now his skin crawled and instinct hissed, overloading him on all fronts. Tightening his grip on Cruz, he examined his reaction and new abilities. The uptick in visceral perception made little sense. He sensed the fracture between normal and what he experienced now—a great divide that widened by the moment, branding him an entity he didn’t recognize. Now he grappled with the changes, fighting to understand. To put the shattered pieces of himself back together like a potter might the broken shards of a clay pot.

More than worrisome. ’Twas downright alarming.

Reaching out, he grabbed one of the prongs that rose behind Cruz’s horns with his free hand. Heat rolled off his friend and into his palm. The protective cocoon deflected the windchill, enclosing him in a warm bubble.

The temperature shift didn’t help.

Naught did. He couldn’t control the influx of awareness. Or shut down the bombardment of sensation. God be merciful, the smell. The awful ceaseless stench. It overpowered him even as his vision sharpened. Cristobal winced. Another unsettling change. No way should he be able to see in the dark, never mind the individual crystals inside the snowflakes. Or the ridged lines on each evergreen needle as Cruz left the foothills and leveled out over the forest.

Total mind-twist territory.

One heightened by the fact his forearms still throbbed.

Cristobal fisted one of his hands. He stared at the white points of his knuckles a moment, then shook his head. Jesus help him. He didn’t understand. Couldn’t begin to sort it out, never mind put a name to the oddity. Not that it mattered. An explanation wasn’t in the offing. The invisible hand didn’t talk—or offer an ounce of solace—as it continued to draw, elevating pain to new heights, marking his skin with black ink beneath the steel sleeves he wore. Swallowing a curse, he glanced down at the hardware encasing his arms from wrist to elbow. Crafted by the blacksmith at Drachaven, the clever cuffs sported three bladed fins along the outer edges, allowing him to block a blade thrust while turning his forearms into weapons.

A nice pair, but for one thing.

Cristobal wasn’t wearing the cuffs to help him fight. He was wearing the pair to hide the unfinished tattoos. From Xavian. From Cruz. From anyone who would ask the questions he held no answers to, which—Jesus grant him grace—made him a first-class fool, considering he’d already decided he needed help. Well either that or to be put down. Planted six feet under. Covered in topsoil and left to rot. Too bad every time he opened his mouth, he clammed up, then shut down. A normal reaction? Not really. Xavian was his best friend, for Christ’s sake. An elite assassin with supreme skill, a keen mind and solid heart, s
o . . .

He needed to come clean soon. Before the others discovered the change in him on their own. Before Xavian kicked his arse for hiding the truth.

Nervousness rattled his cage. Cristobal shoved his angst aside. Desirable or nay, he couldn’t deny the changes in his body any longer. Honor dictated the way forward and set him on the right path. Xavian deserved the truth. His comrades needed to know—just in case. The ink and heightened awareness might not be a good thing. It could land them all in a world of trouble instead. Which meant ’twas time to buck up and lay his fears on the table. Before the malevolent force he felt growing inside him usurped his will and spiraled out of control. Otherwise he might end up harming those he considered his brothers instead of aiding the cause.

The thought sent a chill through him.

Fighting the internal deep freeze, Cristobal glanced over his shoulder. His gaze landed on Xavian, then bounced over to Razvan. Both astride Garren, just off Cruz’s left wing, the pair seemed none the worse for wear. Excellent in every way, but for one. The awful smell didn’t appear to be bothering either of his comrades while h
e . . .

Cristobal’s stomach rolled. He swallowed, fighting the urge to gag. “
Rahat
.”

“What’s wrong?” Cruz turned his head. Wind changed direction, curling over his horns, causing white streaks to stream from the jagged tips. Dark eyes with vertical pupils met his a moment before his friend raised a scaly brow. “You sense something?”

Sense something?
Jesus. A total understatement. The perfect opening too—a clever segue that invited him to disclose the truth. To talk about the tattoos and changes in sensory perception. Cristobal hesitated. Should he? Or shouldn’t he? He’d thought to discuss the problem with Xavian first, bu
t . . .

He frowned. Mayhap Cruz was the better choice.

Despite being the youngest dragon-shifter, Cruz understood magic. Hell, the male lived with it every day—dealt in the fantastical each time he shifted into dragon form. Toss in the fact the warrior was whipcord smart, more observant than most, and, well aye, it could work. Might even be prudent considering Cruz watched him like a hawk, shadowing him everywhere he went, refusing to allow him to leave Drachaven unescorted.

A surprising turn of events. One Cristobal appreciated, even if he found it a touch strange. He was, after all, a breed apart, a trained assassin accustomed to his own company. A man who shunned emotional attachment along with constant companionship. Something about Cruz, though, put him at ease. He didn’t mind having the warrior around. ’Twas a comfortable relationship based in mutual respect and similar skill. Acceptance rooted in brotherhood; no judgment or burden of expectation.

Not unlike the one Garren shared with Xavian.

“Cristobal, do not hide from me. I sense the difference in you,” Cruz said. “Tell me what ails you.”

No doubt the best plan. Better to get it out in the open now, before things went from bad to worse. The thought made his heart pound harder. Cristobal struggled past his unease, forcing himself to think straight, ’cause, aye, no question. If Cruz felt the shift in him, it wouldn’t be long until the others picked up on it too. “I’m undergoing a fe
w . . .
ah, changes.”

“Heightened senses—sight, sound, smell?” Cruz asked. “Trouble sleeping?”

“Aye. All those.”

“What else?”

“Twin tattoos. The first line appeared five nights ago.”

His friend glanced at one of the finned cuffs. “Forearms?”

Cristobal dipped his chin, answering without words.

Wings spread wide, Cruz settled into a fast glide. Stars winked through the cloud cover, taking turns playing peekaboo with the moon. “You will show me when we are on the ground.”

“If there is time,” he said, his eyes on the horizon. He had a bad feeling. Something wasn’t right. An odd vibration hung in the air, the unfriendly kind that packed a punch, then came back for more. Which meant time was of the essence and Cruz would have to wait. His problem would be solved—sooner or later. The one he approached, however? Cristobal breathed in through his nose, filling his lungs, filtering the assortment of scents. The stench remained front and center as other odors rose—smoke, charred wood, the scent of spilled blood.
Raha
t
. . .
not good. Particularly since the forest was set to drop away and toss them into the unknown—into the valley that cradled the holy city. “How close are we?”

“Three miles out. White Temple lies just ahead.”

Shifting on his seat of scales, Cristobal palmed one of the hilts rising over the tops of his shoulders. With a smooth draw, he unsheathed the curved blade. Steel glinted in weak light, slicing through the cold air. “Cru
z . . .
”

“I feel it. Hold on, but be ready.”

One hand wrapped in the tether, the other gripping his sword, Cristobal leaned in as his friend banked left, then dipped low, catapulting them over the rim of the treetops. The forest dropped away. Barren fields surrounded by crooked fences took its place, rushing to meet the deep ditches abutting the main road. Wings spread, Cruz hung in midair a moment, the glow of a golden dome in the distance, then shot over the frozen landscape toward soaring stone walls. Eyes narrowed, Cristobal scanned the terrain. Naught so far. No one on the ground. Nothing to consider a threat, bu
t . . .

A black plume of smoke rose beyond the walled city.

Twisting into a sidewinding flip, Cruz roared over White Temple. Snow blew up and out, streaming into a frosty swirl behind him. The ground blurred, making building outposts indistinguishable from narrow thoroughfares. Wind whistled in his ears as they came up over the west wall. Cristobal’s attention snapped north and—bingo. Ground zero. The site of the fight, once a cemetery now a bloody mess. Jesus, it looked as though an army of monsters had torn through the boneyard. Tombstones and statues lay askew—shattered, ripped from the ground, granite faces blown to bits. Huge trees stood ablaze, throwing flame and smoke into the air. Two massive craters dove into scorched earth, shallow pools of lava steaming at the north end of the cemetery.

“
La dracu
,” Xavian said, voice pushed forward by a gust of wind. “Tareek?”

“Aye,” Garren growled as he flew alongside Cruz. “His exhale packs a helluva wallop.”

Evidently. The damage was beyond vicious. ’Twas downright impressive.

“Cru
z . . .
” Gaze riveted to the carnage, Cristobal trailed off as his vision warped into colorful multi-dimensional arrays. The variant hues stained the ground, expanding, contracting, each shifting like a living net, helping him assess the danger and read heat signatures. He blinked, trying to clear the color away. His focus sharpened instead, intensifying perception. Talk about eerie. Not the least bit normal either. But even as unease pricked his skin, he wielded the ability as though he’d been born doing it. Now he knew what each pigment represented. Hot spots, fire and flame: red. Residual heat left by bodies and in footprints: orange and yellow. Cold, inanimate objects: blue, green, and grey. He shook his head, hoping to knock a few wits together, trying to understand.

Hell and a half. Another change. This one more unwelcome than the last.

Swallowing a snarl, he tapped his friend with the butt of his sword hilt. Steel thunked against hard scales. Still circling above the scene, Cruz glanced over his shoulder.

He met the dragon-shifter’s gaze. “Land. Time to take a closer look.”

With a nod, Cruz swooped over a huge oak engulfed by flame. Smoke billowed up, swirling around them. Heat joined the rush, devouring snowflakes, wetting the air as he tucked his wings. His back paws thumped down. Razor-sharp dragon claws scraped over granite, turning tombstones into rubble. The second Cruz settled, Cristobal threw his leg over and leapt to the ground. Stepping around his friend, he walked between two headstones. Or, what was left of them. Stone stubs sticking out of the ground, a felled tree burned a few feet away. Magic joined the scent of burning grass as Cruz shifted into human form.

With a growl, Garren landed behind them. “No one here. Any sign of Henrik and the others?”

Cristobal shook his head. “Not yet.”

Jumping from the dragon’s back, Xavian cursed.

Ignoring the outburst, Cristobal tipped his chin up and inhaled. Senses seething, he sifted through the stench to unearth an underlying fragrance. His nose twitched. He breathed in again, drawing on the scent, and—

Ah, right there. Right on time too.

Faint, but familiar, the scent rose, turning him north toward the square crypts and a stone half wall. His eyes narrowed. Aye, definitely. Henrik and the others had been here, but not for long. And not alone either. A light perfume clung to Henrik. Wanting to be sure, he inhaled again, then exhaled on a huff. A woman. It figured. Everywhere Henrik went, the fairer sex followed, hoping for an hour—or five—of the assassin’s time.

Something about
her
scent, though, drew him tight.

The muscles bracketing his spine flickered.
Her scen
t . . .
that scent.
Where had he smelled it before? With a frown, Cristobal tracked it and, with a quick pivot, strode toward two tall statues. Sword at the ready, he heard his comrades follow, boots crunching through snow and slush in his wake. The fragrance grew stronger. He stopped short and glanced left. Stone dragons glared down from their perch atop twin tombstones as he crouched next to boot impressions that glowed yellow. Ignoring the strange color shift, he reached out and touched one. Her
e . . .
right here. Henrik had rested against the granite face beneath twin dragons while protecting the woman with his body.

More of her scent drifted. Sweet. Sultry. Touched by wildflowers an
d . . .

Something else. Something more.

A
something
he’d not smelled before, a kind of—
rahat
. He didn’t know. Couldn’t place it either. Odd considering his new talents. But one thing for certain? Henrik had taken her with him. Which meant she must be importan
t . . .

Somehow. Some way. For some reason.

“They’ve picked up a passenger.” Pushing to his feet, Cristobal met his best friend’s gaze. Pale eyes narrowed, Xavian came alongside him and raised a brow, asking without words. He pointed to the impressions in the snow. “A woman.”

“How do you know that?” Blond brows furrowed, Razvan stared down at him from Garren’s back.

Focusing on footprints in the narrow alleyway, Cristobal shrugged. “I can smell her.”

“You ca
n . . .
” Razvan’s mouth opened, then closed. A second later, he jumped down from his perch. His feet hit the ground with a crunch. Boots planted beside Garren’s huge talons, his comrade threw him an incredulous look. “What the hell, Cristobal? All I smell is smoke.”

“
Smell
her?” Xavian said, speculation in his pale eyes. “Care to explain that?”