Knight Avenged (31 page)

The gods bless and keep her. She’d never imagine
d . . .
hadn’t though
t . . .

Cradling the note with both hands, she read the words again.

I love you.

She lost the battle. Tears fell, tumbling over her bottom lashes.

“Oh, Henrik.” Another tear escaped, rolling down her cheek. “I love you too.”

Foolish to admit, never mind say out loud.

Cosmina knew it the moment the words left her mouth. Giving them a voice only granted love more power. The kind that often hurt, and she could never take back. Not that it mattered. Love didn’t negotiate. Or allow its victims time to dodge. It aimed true, hit hard, and never backed down. S
o . . .
no help for it. ’Twas done, her heart given and her mind set on the man who’d kept her safe and taught her pleasure. On a warrior with a restless spirit, good heart, and gentle soul. No sense trying to fight it. She would forever be fixed on Henrik. Regardless of the manner of their parting.

Or the fact he’d been the one to walk away.

Ironic in a way. Symbolic to be sure. Especially since she planned to do the same.

This very day.

Shifting on the stool, Cosmina glanced around her cottage. It wasn’t much to look at it. Naught more than a bunch of sticks and stones, a collection of lopsided furniture scavenged from unwanted piles. More of a temporary way station than a real home. And yet, she’d found solace inside these walls. At least for a time. But that was behind her now. The goddess’ visit along with her decree couldn’t be ignored.

She must do her duty. Was a member the Blessed and belonged at White Temple. But as Cosmina pushed to her feet, pulled Henrik’s knife from the wall, and went about gathering her things, she longed for something more. Something better. Something richer than love words scrawled on parchment. She wanted the man who had written them returned to her.

Solid and strong in her arms. Less than a heartbeat away.

No doubt a foolish dream. And yet, it didn’t stop her. The goddess had given her hope. So aye, mayhap if she wished hard enough. If she proved strong enough. If she prayed often enoug
h . . .

Fate would heed the call and bring Henrik back to her.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Golden rays broke through thick mist, warming the tops of Cristobal’s shoulders as the sun rose, welcoming him into the light of a new day. His mouth curved. A rare reprieve. The gift of heat after hours spent crouched behind rock and amid shadow. Not that he suffered any discomfort. The north winds and the brisk cold didn’t bother him. The cramped conditions didn’t either, nor that he’d taken three watches in a row. Nearly six hours spent atop the cliff edg
e . . .

Watching. Waiting. Searching for the enemy and movement on the trail below.

He didn’t mind the long stretch of time. Or the fact his comrades slept while he remained awake. Xavian and the others needed rest. By some quirk of fate, he didn’t. Couldn’t close his eyes, never mind relax enough to fall asleep. How many days he’d gone without, he didn’t know. Eigh
t . . .
or was it nine now? Hard to tell. He’d lost track after the fifth sleepless night. Balanced on the balls of his feet, Cristobal shifted position. Shuffling along the plateau three hundred feet above the valley floor, he stayed low, hidden behind jagged rock, improving his vantage point, concern rising along with the winter wind. His inability to sleep made little sense. He should be exhausted, but for some reason, didn’t feel the least bit fatigued.

Scanning the rolling foothills opposite him, Cristobal clenched his teeth.
For some reason.
Right. Try again. He knew what plagued him: the stupid chant. The words spilled through his mind, pushing annoyance to new heights and making rest impossible. It wouldn’t leave him alone—always poking, forever prodding, the thrum of urgency unending. Now he throbbed with it, his heart keeping time to the command banging around inside his skull.

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

Damned frustrating. Particularly since he still didn’t know who the hell
she
was. No image to go by. Not a single clue to guide him. Just the words, the awful incessant stream of words. Oh and, aye, the twin tattoos. He couldn’t forget about those. The markings—along with the pain burning across his forearms—were as much a part of him now as breathing. An all-day, every night sort of thing, althoug
h . . .

For the first time in days, the sting was gone.

Cristobal frowned, then flexed both hands. Odd, bu
t . . .
nay, no discomfort whatsoever.

With a flick, he undid the bladed arm cuffs and drew both off. Cold air washed over his skin. Sensation followed, slithering up his arms and over his shoulders before changing course, dragging icy fingers down his back. Cristobal shook off the shiver. The ghosting swirl settled, looping into a circle, spinning like a top, chasing its tail against the nape of his neck. Round and round. Back and forth. He frowned, tracking the pinpricks across his skin. It didn’t hurt. Not exactly. In truth, ’twas almost pleasant.

Soothing even, a gentle touch delivered by unseen hands.

Brow drawn tight, Cristobal unfurled his fists. Open. Close. Flex and release. Taut muscle moved, making the tattoo dance across his skin. He stared at the pattern, examining the fine lines and all the detail. All done, naught left to complet
e . . .
the last line drawn in black ink. And as the invisible hand fell away, taking the magical quill with it, his gaze bounced from one tattoo to the next.
Rahat
, would you look at that? He could see the hellhounds now—coarse fur, sawtooth spikes rising like jagged fins along each spine, sharp fangs bared beneath slanted eyes. Mesmerized by the design, he traced the thickest line, stroking a fingertip over the bridge of the beast’s nose, then behind its blunt ear.

A growl echoed inside his head.

Pain clawed at his temples. Cristobal shook his head, but it was too late. The pressure built and his mind unhinged, opening a fissure into the unknown. Into something greater. Into a vast space filled with majesty and magic. As the chasm grew, twin entities stepped through the breech, one behind the other, huge claw-tipped paws leading the way as—

“Cristobal.” Familiar and deep, the voice drifted from the trail behind a rock face.

Ah hell. Xavian. Talk about bad timing.

Choking on magic, Cristobal coughed, fighting to find his voice. He needed to warn Xavian. Tell hi
m . . .
he frowne
d . . .
what exactly? Stay away? Put his arse in gear and get him help? Jesus, he couldn’t decide. Not while the beasts circled inside his head and his muscles screamed. Absorbing the agony, insight struck. Oh God. The pair was trying to get out—to leave the confines of his mind and take physical form.

Razor-sharp teeth bared, the pair paced—back and forth, round and round—urging him to set them free. The click of claws tapped against his eardrums. Soft snarls pressed in, amplifying the sound, making his skull throb as the two grew in size, lethal presence expanding by the second. The pain increased. The pressure swelled into cerebral burn, threatening to geyser an
d . . .
rahat
, here it cam
e . . .

His stomach heaved.

Bile touched the back of his throat. Swallowing the bad taste, Cristobal retreated and, head bowed, slid backward onto one knee. Away from the cliff’s edge. Toward the trailhead and his best friend. Probably not the best move. Cristobal didn’t care. He needed help. Right now. Couldn’t contain the hellhounds much longer, much less—

The tattoos shifted.

One moment, the ink sat on his forearms. The next, the pair came alive, leaping off his skin, streaking into black blurs. The duo took physical form mid-jump. Huge paws thumped down on the plateau in front of him, kicking up stone dust. Cristobal froze, becoming a living statue as the twin hellhounds—each movement in perfect accord—pivoted toward him. Heads low, ears back, glossy pelts and bladed spines glinting in the sunlight, the beasts roared at him. The shrieks obliterated the quiet, rising in a deafening wave, bombarding the sheer cliff face behind him. Chips of shale came loose and tumbled, cascading down to slam into the base of the stone wall.

“
La dracu
,” Xavian said as he stepped off the narrow trail, onto the plateau.

Huge fangs bared, the beasts’ focus snapped toward his best friend.

“Don’t move.” Still on one knee, his gaze locked on the hellhounds, Cristobal raised his hand, backing up word with deed. The second Xavian moved—drew his weapons or tried to back away—the beasts would give chase. Stood to reason. Predators, after all, enjoyed the thrill of the hunt. “Stay perfectly still.”

Hands gripping his knife hilts, Xavian froze, obeying without question.

Cristobal shifted to the balls of his feet, drawing the hellhounds’ ire. Two sets of eyes settled back on him. The pair sidestepped, huge paws padding softly in stone dust. Covered by black fur, interlocking scales clicked as they moved, the body armor sending an ominous message through the quiet. Lethal accord. Duel purpose. The beasts shared common intent—one grounded in a prospect called unfriendly. Bladed tails twitching, the duo met his gaze. Cristobal drew a deep breath, then exhaled long and slow. Calm. Cool. And collected. He must epitomize all three. Otherwise his attempt to tame the twins wouldn’t end well, never min
d . . .

Nay, scratch that. Not twins. Not exactly.

His eyes narrowed. The twosome looked alike—almost identical—but not quite. Slight though the differences might be, he identified individual characteristics. Without moving a muscle, he looked them over again. The hellhound on his right stared at him through unblinking yellow eyes. The beast on the left, however, possessed a unique pair—one yellow eye, the other bright blue. The variance didn’t stop there either. Blue Eyes sported a single snow-white paw while her sibling was black from head to the tip of her tail. Both female. Both huge, standing at least five hands at the wither
s . . .
species not of this world. Razor-sharp teeth set alongside jagged fangs. Lethal claws tipping enormous paws. Blunt ears rising from enormous heads that resembled a cat’s with some wolf thrown in for good measure.

He should be afraid. Or, at the very least, wary.

Cristobal was neither. Instead something akin to pride surfaced, urging him to explore the bond he sensed between him and them. One that became stronger by the moment, infusing him with a power not his own. Magic flowed. His senses sharpened and came alive, allowing him to hear, see, and smell everything—just like he had at the cemetery. He hummed, the sound half purr, half snarl. The hellhounds responded, returning the hostile sound. Which made perfect sense. Felt right too. The twins had come from somewhere inside him, leaping off his skin to take physical form. So aye, as lethal and angry as the pair appeared, the hellhounds belonged to him.

Instinct his guide, Cristobal pushed to his feet.

The hellhounds tensed, growling in unison.

“Ah, Cristobal?”

“Relax, Xavian,” he said, reassuring his friend. No reason to be alarmed. Well, at least, not yet. Raising his arms, Cristobal turned his hands, palms up, and approached the hellhounds on silent feet. “I’ve got them under control.”

“Jesu, I hope so. I’ve no wish to be eaten b
y . . .
” Hands gripping the hilts, but blades still sheathed, Xavian dragged his focus from the twins. Pale eyes full of unease, his commander threw him a meaningful look. “Well, whatever the hell they are.”

“Hellhounds.”

“If you say so.”

His lips twitched. “Trust me.”

“Uh-huh.”

Ignoring the skepticism, Cristobal continued to advance. Blue Eyes bared her fangs and, white paw crossing over black, sidestepped, readying for attack. The show of aggression didn’t faze him. He reached for her instead, holding his hand out, encouraging her to catch his scent, while Yellow Eyes circled around behind him. Enchantment rose. The wind died down. He murmured, using his voice to soothe her. The hellhound at his back came in close an
d . . .

Bumped him from behind.

Her touch unlocked a floodgate inside his mind. Knowledge washed in, bringing insight and understanding. Wrought by magic, the bond between them snapped into place. A name streamed into his head. Lowering his arm, he laid his hand atop her large head—felt the hard scales beneath soft fur—and stroked his palm over the back of her neck.

Allowing his touch, Yellow Eyes nudged him again.

His mouth curved. “Hello, Thrax.”

Acknowledging his greeting, Thrax purred. The loud rumble made him smile as she pushed her snout into his hand, asking for more. Cristobal gave it to her, petting Thrax without hesitation while he waited for her sister to come forward and receive the same. It took a while. Moments tipped into more, but he didn’t push her. He waited instead, allowing the hellhound the time she needed. After what seemed like forever, but was no more than a minute, she bridged the distance, set her chin in his palm, allowing the bond to take shape and form.

“Vicars,” he said, calling her by name, scratching behind one of her ears. She growled and, tipping her head to one side, leaned into his touch. Giving her what she wanted, he rubbed a little harder, then glanced over his shoulder. “We’ve some new playmates, Xavian.”

His friend huffed. “Helluva pair to own. Lethal one moment, naught but kittens the next.”

Cristobal grinned. True enough. But in the best possible way. Aye, the hellhounds were dangerous, but they could be controlled and leashe
d . . .
by him. Proof positive lay in the fact they obeyed him on command. Hell, Thrax even rolled over, exposing her belly when he asked. Praising her with his touch, he held her in place—back pressed to the ground, four legs up in the air—and, pivoting toward Vicars, asked for her paw. Mismatched eyes full of trust, she set it in his hand an
d . . .
huh. Interesting. Seven claws instead of the usual five—razor-sharp, bladelike, at least five inches long, with a hooked tip.

Incredibly lethal. Death with one forceful swipe.

“Hey, Xavian?”

“Aye?”

“Come here a moment.”

“No way in hell.”

Still holding Vicar’s paw, Cristobal eyed his best friend. “You want to get eaten?”

Releasing the death grip on his weapons, Xavian grimaced.

“Then come here. I need to introduce you. Otherwise they won’t accept you.” Murmuring to his new pets, he issued a command. Both hellhounds leapt to obey, sitting on their haunches in front of him as Cristobal pushed to his feet. His face wiped of expression, Xavian stopped alongside him and, making a fist, offered his hand to the pair. The instant the hellhounds caught and accepted Xavian’s scent, Cristobal dismissed them both. As the twins went exploring, noses to the ground, he glanced sideways at his friend. “Anything from Henrik?”

Xavian nodded. “’Tis what I came to tell you. Tareek brought word.”

Cristobal tipped his chin, asking without words.

“’Tisn’t good.” Rolling his shoulders, his friend cracked his knuckles. Sound ricocheted, bouncing off rock, bringing the hellhounds’ heads around. Two sets of eyes narrowed on him. Seeing naught amiss, each went back to exploring. “Halál and Al Pacii have turned.”

“Into what? Magic wielders?”

“Not quite, but close. Druinguar
i . . .
minions to the Prince of Shadows,” Xavian said. “We need to get up trail. Henrik’s got a plan.”

“Always interesting.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“Fill me in.” With a quick pivot, Cristobal strode for the mouth of the mountain trail. With a low whistle, he called Thrax and Vicars to attention. Twin snarls echoed in answer. He murmured a command. The pair transformed, dematerializing into black blurs, each leaping the distance to reach his forearms. Sharp pinpricks licked across his skin as the hellhounds became one with the tattoos. Shaking off the sting, he rounded a boulder and headed for camp. “I want details.”

Keeping pace alongside him, Xavian laid out the plan, providing Cristobal with the timeline. Less than an hour to get into position and ambush a pack of Druinguari. Excellent. A bold strategy that necessitated acting fast and being smarter. Not a problem under normal circumstances. The information relayed, however, didn’t inspire confidence. It felt thin, smacked of the unknown and all kinds of challenge.