Authors: Coreene Callahan
Perfect timing. Counterattack launched. Plan 100 percent successful. The enemy had nowhere to go and nothing to d
o . . .
but die.
With a battle cry, Henrik let the shield of invisibility go. As it snapped, making him visible to the enemy, chaos ensued. Horses screamed, then bolted. Druinguari shouted and scrambled, looking for a way out. Too little, too late. Henrik loosed another arrow. As accurate as the first, it slammed home. Another enemy assassin fell as the arrowhead pierced muscle and bone, rupturing the empty space behind his breastbone. Black magic spilled out, clouding the air as the capsule exploded, severing the bastard’s connection to the demon realm. Like fuel, the contents of the capsule kept the Druinguari alive, feeding each from the source, binding them to their master: Armand, the Prince of Shadows. Once cut, however, the tie lost its power and the bastards ceased to exist.
In any way, shape, or form.
Excellent information to possess. The sole reason he’d put Cosmina in Thrall.
With a snarl, Henrik launched a third arrow. And then another. Fast and furious. One after the other, each flying with more fury than the last—protecting Xavian, hemming the enemy in, pushing the bastards into the center of the canyon—as he tried to blot out the memory. Goddamned bastards. He wanted to obliterate every last one. Forget his vow along with his allegiance to the Goddess of All Things. Set aside his past and Halál’s crimes. Her
e . . .
right no
w . . .
vengeance had naught to do with it, and duty even less. His rage stemmed from another source. One that struck far too close to home. He’d betrayed Cosmina’s trust, unleashing his magic, using it against her with singular purpos
e . . .
To find the Druinguari’s weakness.
Now he possessed the knowledge. Had the bastards in his sights and on the run. All thanks to Cosmina, s
o . . .
No mercy.
He’d meant every word.
Stowing his bow, Henrik palmed the hilts rising over his shoulders. With a hard draw, he pulled the blades free. Steel zinged from the twin scabbards strapped to his back. Swords in hand, he leapt over the rock barricade. Free-falling to the canyon floor, he roared at the enemy. Fast strides took him across Gorgon Pass and into the thick of the fray. His sword tasted steel. Three Druinguari turned to repel his attack. Whirling beneath an enemy blade, Henrik spun, feet churning in the dirt, cloak whipping around him. His blade found flesh. Jamming it home, he cut through bone, bringing death as black blood flew. The enemy disintegrated beneath his sword. He shifted left. A quick jab. A lethal thrust. Another Druinguari down, one more to engage, and—
Christ. Halál.
The enemy leader lay within reach, just ten feet of hard fighting away. The distance, though, didn’t matter. Neither did the assassins standing in his path. He needed to reach his former sensei. Yearned to feel the tip of his blade thrust into the bastard’s chest. Before Xavian reached him first. Before his friend’s blade struck home, and Xavian took what Henrik wanted most.
Halál’s non-beating heart on a platter.
Moving with precision, Henrik kept ahead of his comrades. Two more Druinguari fell. Hemmed in on all sides, Halál pivoted and, swords raised, turned toward Henrik. Flame-orange eyes met Henrik’s over the heads of the soldiers surrounding him. Henrik bared his teeth. The bastard’s mouth curved a second before he sheathed one sword and fisted his hand. Time stretched. Perception warped. Frigid air heated as Halál cranked his arm back and, opening his palm, threw a burst of black mist out in front him. Thick as smoke, fog frothed into the canyon, obliterating his line of sight. Henrik paused mid-swing. Thunder boomed overhead and—
Halál disappeared into thin air, taking the mist and soldiers along with him.
Blade poised mid-strike, Xavian cursed. “Son of a bitch.”
“What the hell?” Andrei muttered from behind him.
“Goddamn it.” Turning full circle, Henrik scanned the canyon. Empty. No Druinguari in sight. Just black blood splattered on the ground. “The bastard retreated.”
“Using an excellent trick.”
“Not so excellent, Razvan. Black magic. Bad enough, bu
t . . .
” Trailing off, Cristobal sheathed his swords and stepped into the circle, flanked by two huge beasts. Paws the size of dinner platters, the pair growled, the guttural sound eerie in the silent aftermath of battle. Wariness slithered down Henrik’s spine. Raising sword tips stained with Druinguari blood, he threw his friend a look full of
what the hell
. With a shrug, Cristobal stroked his hands over the beast’s head and met his gaze. “I’ll explain later. We’ve got a bigger problem.”
“Right,” Shay grumbled, pocketing his throwing stars. “Because disappearing Druinguari just isn’t enough.”
“What kind of problem, Cristobal?” Henrik asked, ignoring his apprentice’s sarcasm.
“There weren’t enough Druinguari here.”
“
Rahat
.” Pale eyes nearly colorless in the daylight, Xavian joined the party. “How many individual boot prints did you track from the cemetery?”
“Twenty-one,” Cristobal said, expression grim.
“Only fifteen sets here.”
“Aye, Andrei, not nearly enough. We’re six short,” Cristobal said, a growl in his voice. The beasts snarled in reaction, bladed tails swishing, fangs bared, claws clicking as the pair paced a circle around him. “I lost the enemy’s trail in the rocks before we reached the Mureş River, bu
t . . .
rahat
. I mistook the signs. I thought they were simply covering their tracks, but—”
“Christ.” Hands flexing around his sword hilts, Henrik frowned. Mind churning over the facts, he put two and two together. The news signaled disaster. If Cristobal was right, a group of Druinguari had backtracked, avoiding detection—and his friend’s supreme tracking skills—with singular purpose. “The Blessed have been recalled to White Temple. What if six broke from the pack and circled back, intending to—”
Kazim cursed. “Set up shop inside the holy city.”
“Lay in wait,” Xavian said, sheathing his blades. “And kill them all.”
“A move worthy of Halál.” With a growl, Razvan shook his head. “One that will ensure the Prince of Shadows’ victory.”
No question. Excellent conclusion. And exactly what Henrik thought too. Halál sought to end the war—and eliminate the threat to his master—before it began. All hope rested with the Blessed and his sister, High Priestess of Orm. As servants to the Goddess of All Things, the rituals each Blessed performed would ensure the deity gained strength in the earthly realm. More worship meant greater power. The prayers fed the goddess, and the stronger she grew, the harder it would be for Armand to gain a foothold. Which was where he and his comrades came in. His mission was simple, his goal straightforward: Decimate the enemy before they assembled in great numbers. Ruin all chance for evil to take root and grow. Provide what the goddess needed to secure her hold and protect mankind through her magic.
As the goddess’ conduit, Afina played the go-between, providing the bridge between worlds, spreading the healing energy that touched all living things, ensuring the planet thrived. His sister’s role was an important one. Now so was his. But as Henrik stood in the rising silence, wind whistling through the canyon, the Druinguari’s true intent struck hard. He’d missed a vital fact while pursuing his thirst for vengeanc
e . . .
and Halál’s death. Had failed to see the enemy’s real plan. Should’ve realized sooner all of the Blessed—not just Cosmina—had become targets. His heart picked up a beat. And then another, slamming into his breastbone as realization bloomed and all the nasty possibilities rose. Each played like a bloody piece of theater set on a real-life stage.
Sweet Christ. Cosmina was once again in serious danger.
Her intentions were no secret. He knew she planned to return to the holy city. She’d told him as much while they’d lain in bed talking. The ancient rite she’d performed days ago held sway. The magical tether tugged, urging her home—the draw so strong it couldn’t be denied. Which mean
t . . .
God help him. Cosmina might already be on her way back to White Temple.
“Tareek!” Spinning on his heel, Henrik searched the bluff behind him.
Magic snapped in the chilly air as Tareek uncloaked. Red scales and horned head glimmering in the sun, his friend tipped his chin. “What?”
“How long a flight is it to White Temple?”
“Balls out, no holds barred?”
Sliding his swords into the scabbards on his back, Henrik nodded.
“Three hour
s . . .
minimum.”
“Let’s move.” Violence in his tone, his command rippled through the canyon.
His comrades obeyed without hesitation.
Multiple footfalls rang out, obliterating the quiet as his friends sprinted for Garren and Cruz, and he made for the bluff. But as Henrik climbed the rock face, reaching the top and Tareek in record time, worry rose and fear for Cosmina hit hard.
Please God, let her be all right. Keep her inside the Limwoods with Thea and out of harm’s way.
A plea filled with desperation? A losing roll in a game of chance? Naught more than a shot in the dark? Without a doubt. No question in his mind. He understood her well. Could practically hear her thinking from a hundred miles away.
Abandoned by him. Alone in her cottage. Angry and hurt.
’Twas a nasty combination.
One that made instinct rise and remorse circle. Three full days since he’d left her. She wouldn’t have waited. Not an extra hour, never mind an entire day. Cosmina was a fighter, prone to action, not wallowing. So aye, supposition be damned. ’Twas no longer a guessing game. Henrik knew she was already on the move, headed back to the holy city and into danger. And as he mounted up and Tareek took flight, Henrik sent a prayer heavenward, asking for help, pleading for merc
y . . .
Praying he arrived in time to shield and keep her safe.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Traveling through a cosmic corridor made of black magic and mist, Halál relished the roar of sensation. The whiplash of spine-bending speed clawed at his skin. He hummed, welcoming the rush even though it wasn’t as satisfying as fighting. But Lucifer love him, it came awfully close. A definite second in a powerful pull rife with ferocious velocity. The ability to transport himself—and those who served him—over great distances with the wave of his hand. An excellent trick. Quite the magical coup. A gift courtesy of Armand, Prince of Shadows, and an exceptional skill to possess. Except for one thin
g . . .
He couldn’t control where the mist transported him.
Not yet anyway.
Every time he unleashed it, the magic-filled fog always sent him straight home. To Grey Keep, the Al Pacii stronghold he shared with the other Druinguari. Disappointing in so many ways. Particularly since he didn’t want to go home. He’d wanted to stay and fight—to transport himself out of Gorgon Pass to a prime shooting position atop the ridge instead of deep into the Carpathian Mountain Rang
e . . .
and far from the enemy. Not that he was complaining. Not really. He’d been in a vulnerable position inside the canyon, moments from seeing his soldiers slaughtered, and his own death. The thought left a sour taste in his mouth. Damn Henrik along with the rest. His defeat at the hands of The Seven surpassed failure. It represented disaster, a debacle of epic proportions.
The realization tweaked his temper.
Fury spiraled deep, making him long to draw his swords and return to Gorgon Pass. He wanted another chance. Needed to strike a telling blow and assuage his pride. But not now. It wouldn’t happen today. Not while the vortex sped him through space, refusing to heed his request and change course. Halál swallowed a growl. Protesting was a waste of good breath. The facts remained. Until he learned to master the skill, the mist would do as it always did—determine the trajectory, control the velocity, set him down where it pleased instead of where he wanted. Which left him suspended in flight with nothing but time on his hands. Time to strategize. Time to imagine. Time to plot his revenge against the warriors who served the Goddess of All Things.
A beautiful death. One that included torture and eventual decapitation.
With a snarl, Halál twisted into a flip mid-flight, testing the confines of the vortex. The walls expanded around him, making room, adjusting its tempo, speeding him toward Grey Keep. Orange light flared along its curved sides, flashing into angry bursts, reminding him of falling stars. All without causing him any discomfort. ’Twas a marvel in many ways. A sight to behold. Just like the bastards at Gorgon Pass.
The thought sped through his head even as he tried to shut it down. He didn’t want to think about it anymore, bu
t . . .
devil take him. He couldn’t let it go. Or live with the humiliation. His lip curled off his upper teeth. What a catastrophe.
The Seven posed a serious threat. They were far too cunning for anyone’s good.
Not surprising. To be expected even. Each warrior had been raised by the Order of Assassins. Fostered inside Grey Keep. Trained by him to be formidable assassins without conscience or mercy. He’d succeede
d . . .
marvelously. Add that to the magic he’d seen the bastards wield an
d . . .
Halál frowned. ’Twas more than a problem. Set aside the combined viciousness of the group for a moment. Forget about Henrik’s vendetta and the warrior’s drive to make him pay for past pain. Combined, The Seven were impressive. But possessed of unlimited power derived from the Goddess of All Things? Well now, that signaled trouble. Throw a trio of dragons into the mix an
d . . .
Halál’s eyes narrowed.
Aye. Without a doubt. He needed to find a solution to the scaly beasts. The Seven’s alliance with The Three qualified as a huge advantage and a serious hurdle. One he must eliminate posthaste if he wanted to survive. And the Druinguari to thrive. Armand might accept an occasional setback, but not continued failure. Neither did Halál, under ordinary circumstances. These, though, were anything but
ordinary
. His former pupils knew his tactics well.
Proof positive lay in the aftermath of battle.
The betrayers had outmaneuvered him inside the gorge, turning his trap into their own. The ambush reeked of Henrik. The son of a bitch knew how to plan and execute, ensuring maximum damage in the process. A worthy adversary. On par with Xavian and just as lethal. He’d always liked that about Henrik. Until now. He’d lost three more Druinguari to the folly and the fight. Which meant he needed to rethink everything. All of his strategies along with how he implemented each one. Otherwise the assassins who now opposed him would gain more ground.
Unacceptable. Nowhere near optimal. Circumstances in need of change.
Mind churning, Halál flipped up and over, getting into position as his flight slowed. The vortex contracted around him. A pinprick of light expanded in the gloom, widening into a circle. Gaze locked on the opening, he spotted familiar terrain beyond the mist. A thinning forest, icy branches reaching for sunny skies. Jagged rock jutting from sheer cliff faces. Sloping valleys rising to meet snowcapped mountain peaks. Thick castle walls came into view. Muscles tense and body ready, he braced, preparing for impact. Any moment now. Just a few more seconds and—
The vortex funneled into a curve over the inner bailey and set down.
His feet thumped against slick cobblestone.
Hitting one knee, Halál bowed his head and waited for the fog to retreat. He heard his soldiers land behind him. Black tendrils released him one finger at a time, leaving him kneeling in the center of Grey Keep’s courtyard. High winds buffeted his back. As it blew across the nape of his neck, he pushed to his feet and scanned the battlements rising beyond the Keep. No one stood on the high wall, awaiting him. Which meant Valmont had yet to return home. Halál nodded in satisfaction. His first in command’s absence was an excellent sign. Adept at carrying out orders—even better at covert missions—Valmont must still be at White Templ
e . . .
Executing members of the Blessed.
The knowledge reassured him. The sudden urge to return to the holy city almost overwhelmed him. He cursed the vortex again. If only the magic would listen. If only he could find the key to controlling it. If only he could transport himself to White Temple and assist Valmont in the killings. But wishing and wanting never made a thing so. Practice coupled with the mind-ease of meditation, however, just might, s
o . . .
Time to put the day’s disappointment behind him. And start making plans for the future.
Rolling his shoulders to work out the tension, Halál glanced over his shoulder. Flame-orange eyes met his. He nodded, acknowledging his second in command.
Beauvic tipped his chin. “Your orders?”
“Gather the eleven-year-olds,” Halál said, the need for violence rising. He yearned for it more than an opium addict wanted a fix. Brutality always evened him out, and after today, he required peac
e . . .
if not quiet. Watching the boys battle in the fighting pit would smooth out the rough edges left by a bad day. Well that, and something else too. Aye, he might owe his allegiance to Armand now, but Grey Keep and its traditions lived on. Boys would continue to be captured, kept, and trained as assassins, but for a new aim: filling Druinguari ranks instead of Al Pacii, ensuring his army grew. “Put them through their paces.”
“Hand-to-hand?”
A kernel of excitement bloomed. Halál’s mouth curved. “Round shields and short knives.”
Silent per usual, Beauvic didn’t say a word.
“Time to cull the wheat from the chaff, Beauvic,” Halál said, holding his second in command’s gaze. “Let us see who deserves to remain among us.”
With a nod, Beauvic turned toward the barracks and the boys. Halál strode in the opposite direction, toward the Keep and his bedchamber. He longed to see Beauty. Needed to stroke her fine scales and feel her weight as he watched the fight from the rooftop overlooking the pit. Combat would begin within the hour. He wanted to assess each fledgling. Determine their strengths. Assess the weaknesses. Watch every move and knife slash. Witness all the damage done and each blood droplet fall, bu
t . . .
First things first.
He must send out the call, request an audience with Armand. Probably not the wisest thing to do, but Halál refused to hide the day’s setback. Or avoid his new master. Naught but disaster lay in that direction. The truth must be told. Questions needed to be asked and answered. Insight, after all, led to information. Knowledge equaled understanding, which precipitated power. The kind that toppled kingdoms and brought great men to their knees.
Nothing different there.
He’d lived long enough to understand every man possessed a fatal flaw. A weak spot, whether rooted in the collective interests or individual defects. He must discover each one to ensure he inflected maximum damage. Armand would supply what he required—insight and guidance, power and increased skil
l . . .
all the spells Halál requested. An advantage to be sure, except for one thin
g . . .
Armand would punish him for his failure.
A great deal of agony would ensue. Halál shrugged off the certainty along with the threat. Pain wasn’t the problem. He could handle anything the dark one threw at him. But as he mounted the steps, he left nothing to chance, practicing what he would say to his new master. Bad news first. Good news second. Aye, ’twas no doubt the best strategy. Particularly since relaying the news that Valmont sat at the heart of the enemy—inside White Temple, doing exactly what Armand expected, decimating the Blessed to ensure the goddess lost ground—would improve Armand’s mood. Which without a doubt would see Halál’s punishment reduced a hundredfold.