Knight Awakened (Circle of Seven #1) (21 page)

The fire needed another log, but Afina couldn’t make herself move. Yellow eyes, ever watchful, stared from beyond the circle of stones. Razor-sharp teeth no doubt sat beneath the feral gazes, awaiting a taste of her blood. She tightened her grip on Xavian’s dagger. The leather-bound hilt bit into her palm, making her hand ache. She rotated her wrist to release the tension, her gaze jumping from shadow to flickering shadow.

She couldn’t stay here, crouched in the cave entrance. If the flames grew any smaller, she would lose her opportunity, but...

The wolves.

What if her movement made them bold, and they leapt over the standing stones? If she died, Xavian wouldn’t stand a chance.

A full day had come and gone, and still he lay unconscious. No matter what she tried, his fever raged and the nightmares came. Her heart broke each time he lashed out, cursing her attempts to comfort him as he fought demons Afina couldn’t see, much less imagine. Were they real or was the venom inventing stories? Either way, he was suffering, and none of her medicine was working.

Afina swiped at her eyes. She needed help, but that wasn’t going to happen. Xavian’s men were miles away, and Ismal wasn’t an option. She’d never make it back to the marketplace. Her sense of direction wasn’t, well, truth be told, she didn’t have one.
Could hardly tell the hind-end of a horse from a fetlock, never mind point the beast in the right direction.

No, she couldn’t go back. The only choice was to move forward.

Her legs shook as she pushed to her feet. She took a moment to still the trembling. It wouldn’t do. Animals sensed a person’s unease, counting it as weakness. If the pack felt her fear, they would tear her apart then turn on Xavian. She must protect him—had promised not to leave him, and death was simply another form of abandonment.

“Get ready, you mangy mongrels.” The strength in her voice steadied her, allowing her to step from the cave, into the firelight.

A snarl came from her left.

Afina stilled, spotting the beast from the corner of her eye. Almost completely white, he stood at the cornerstone: head low, ears back, fangs bared. She met his yellow gaze from beneath her brows. If she gave an inch, he would pounce and bring the others with him.

Staying low, she set her balance and, dagger raised, moved toward the fire pit.

A vicious growl came from between his teeth.

She shook her head. “Not today, my friend. Go find your meal elsewhere.”

He blinked and, nose twitching, angled his head to the side.

Goliath.

The name whispered through her mind. Afina’s heart shuddered. The voice again. Who was that? She wanted to look over her shoulder—to check if a woman stood behind her—but didn’t dare. Real or imagined, the voice could wait. Every moment counted. One wrong move would seal her fate.

The pack leader inched forward, around the tall stone column.

“Goliath,” she said, uncaring whether the name was a figment of her imagination. It suited him; made him seem more like a pet and less like a beast. Tame, she could handle. Wild and unmanageable, she could not. “I know you are hungry, but you cannot have me or the one I protect.”

He snorted and, muzzle crinkled, took a step back. Then another.

Her jaw went slack. Impossible. He was retreating, inch by precious inch.

Dagger at the ready, she scuttled sideways until she reached the pit. A branch, free of fire at one end, pointed heavenward, as though begging for divine intervention. Afina echoed the sentiment, grabbed the stub, and swung left, placing the flames between her and the wolf.

Panting now, he stared at her, ears forward, a perplexed look on his furry face. Perplexed? Good goddess. Her imagination was definitely getting the best of her.

Slow and steady, she set the burning branch on the ground between them. “Off you go, then. The moon is high, Goliath. You still have time to hunt tonight.”

Goliath made a sound she thought might be disgust.

Afina bit her bottom lip. She shouldn’t feel like laughing. The wolf could still come over the rocks and tear her apart. But she didn’t think he would. They had come to an understanding...insane as that seemed. But then, she refused to quibble. Crazy sounded better than dead.

The wolf pivoted, took two steps, and swung back. A death grip on the knife, Afina held her breath and waited. Goliath
gazed at her, head tilted. Time hung like smoke in the air before he dipped his snout and yipped.

Instinct guiding her, she whispered back, “Good-bye.”

White fur became a silhouette then passed from shadow into nothingness. Clawed feet scraped against stone as the pack followed Goliath’s retreat. Muscles gone liquid, Afina’s knees gave out. She landed on her behind with a bump. The bone-deep chill came next, blowing through her like an ice storm. Releasing the knife, she held out her hands. Her fingertips trembled, casting long shadows on the dirt.

She should be stronger than this. Shouldn’t be so afraid, especially after...

What was happening to her? The whole mind-throwing-the-hatchet incident along with the headaches and strange voice were terrible enough. Now she talked to animals. And they understood. How was that possible?

Sorcery.

The dark word slithered up her spine, dragging a shiver in its wake. Her mother had often spoken of black magic. She’d been adamant—obsessed—telling the awful stories with relish, as a warning to her and Bianca. What had her mother known but not shared? Had she tested the darkness she loved to lecture about and been drawn too deep? It would explain the violent outbursts at the end, along with her mistake. No one in her right mind would believe Vladimir fit to rule Transylvania.

So many questions.

Her mother’s love of secrecy had left her ill prepared. She wanted to believe her new skills were expected of a high priestess, desired even. But the opposite side of the equation must be examined. Good could not exist without evil.

“Well done, lass.” The deep voice came from the shadows, just beyond the circle of stones. “I have a liking for wolves and had no wish to destroy him.”

With a gasp, Afina reached for the knife and shot to her feet. Her bruised ankle protested, upsetting her balance. Right boot planted to compensate, she recovered from the wobble and spun to face the intruder. He paused at the cornerstone, a bow notched with an arrow in one hand, the reins of his horse in the other.

Dagger raised, Afina stepped right, placing herself between the stranger and the cave entrance. “Stay back.”

Stepping into the light, he frowned, his focus straying to her leg. “Are you hurt?”

“Do I look injured?” Afina adjusted her stance. Pain ghosted up her calf. She ignored it, refusing to show weakness. This man was more dangerous than the wolves. He bled power, the same kind Xavian and his men did. Was he one of them?

Afina toyed with the possibility. He looked like them: dark hair cropped short, dressed in black, his muscular build and towering height, the directness of his gaze, and the amount of weaponry. All spoke to an aggression they wore like armor. She bit the inside of her cheek. Could she trust him? Xavian lay helpless just behind her. If she made the wrong decision, he would never wake up.

“Be at ease,
sora
.”

Sora?
Had he just called her sister? Afina didn’t know much, but one thing was certain, she didn’t look like a nun. Not in a ripped gown and covered in day-old blood. She tightened her grip on the knife and turned the blade sideways, warning him she wasn’t a weakling.

Tugging on the reins, he brought his warhorse forward to tuck his weapon into a quiver behind the saddle. Hands free, he
held them out to the side, palms up. “See? I’ve no intention of hurting you.”

“And Xavian?”

His gaze sharpened. “Ram is here?”

“Who are you?” She wasn’t a fool. His bow might be stowed, but the daggers sheathed on his chest were within easy reach and his big hands were no doubt lethal. “One of his men?”

“Henrik, at your service.”

Afina breathed a little easier. He knew Xavian. Even so, she needed more information before she dropped her guard. “What brings you here?”

One corner of his mouth curved up. “You do not trust easily.”

“Answer the question.”

“’Tis one of our hidey-holes, lass. A place to rest before continuing on to Drachaven.”

She stared at him. He wasn’t lying—exactly—but something wasn’t quite, well...right.

“Take a look around.” He swept one hand out to the side. “Do you think the wood piled itself? Or the pallets inside and the trunks filled with foodstuffs appeared by magic?”

Afina huffed. He was teasing her. The dolt. Of course she’d seen the supplies. She’d been using them to treat Xavian and feed herself.

“You’ve naught to fear,” he said, taking a step closer. His horse followed, frosting the air over his shoulder. “Not from me or anyone else who comes here. ’Tis a hidden place, one that’s secret is well-guarded.”

What Henrik said made perfect sense. How would he know of the preparations inside the cave unless he helped maintain them? Afina lowered the dagger. She needed help, and holding Xavian’s man at knifepoint wouldn’t solve anything.

The warhorse bumped him with her nose. With a murmur, Henrik stroked the beast’s muzzle. “What is your name?”

“Afina.”

Henrik nodded and looked away. The horse nudged him again. He patted his steed one last time and unbuckled the halter before moving to the belly strap. Metal rattled as he lifted the saddle from the beast’s back and set it down beside the fire.

The strain of the last day pushed tears into her eyes. With a helpless shrug, Afina gestured with the knife. “Sorry about before, but...it’s just...Xavian is ill and I—”

“Ill?” Henrik glanced away from his saddlebags and raised a brow.

“Snakebite.” A pang hit her chest level, making her heart feel hollow. It was her fault. He wouldn’t be sick if she hadn’t taken a fall. “He was protecting me.”

“A viper?”

“H-how—”

“They are common in this area.”

“I am treating him, but it’s been a full day and he’s yet to awaken.” She kicked at the dirt, making a hole with the toe of her boot.

Crouched beside the pit, Henrik selected an enormous log and reset the fire. “If the venom went deep, ’twill take more than a day.”

To what? Kill him or for his body to expel the poison? Afina swallowed, praying it wasn’t the former. If Xavian died, she couldn’t...

No, she refused to acknowledge the possibility. He was strong and the medicine would work. It
had
to. Besides, Henrik was here now, and he would protect them.

Halál plucked the scrap of paper from the dead girl’s hand. Two fingers were missing, the ragged ends little more than shriveled stubs. The stench of human decay a living thing, she lay supine, eyes wide open, the horror in their vacant depths easy to read. His gaze drifted to the bars anchored in the cave walls. Twisted, the gate hung from one hinge, a visual reminder of the monsters it had imprisoned for almost twenty years.

Magnificent creatures. If only they would obey him. If only...

Halál returned his attention to the girl. He flicked at the shreds of her bodice. Dry blood drew interesting patterns on her skin, the gaping wounds astonishing even to him.

A day, mayhap two, since The Three had made a meal of her.

He shook his head and pushed from a crouch. Clever, clever Shay. He’d used the whore to save his own skin.

The realization lightened Halál’s mood. It was a worthy play, one only a full-blooded assassin would make. The brutality of the girl’s death was proof enough of that.

Halál ran his thumb over the piece of parchment. His skin stuck, blood and decay impeding its progress across the once-smooth surface. Using spit, he wiped the stickiness away to reveal the looping scrawl. Uneven words jumped into focus. Halál cursed. The handwriting was not his own; neither was the message.

He crushed the paper in his hand.

The bold bastard. Shay had altered the incantation. Now The Three were on the hunt and he was left with little choice.

Halál half-turned toward the cave entrance. “V.”

“Aye, master?” Valmont shifted from his position near the lip of the cavern, his height throwing long shadows on the jagged stone walls.

“Castle Raul...do you know it?”

“Vladimir Barbu’s keep.”

“Yes.” Halál smoothed the creases from the parchment. He would need it. Preserving the message was the only way to undo what Shay had set in motion. “Within his lands to the south lies the White Temple. Bring me the High Priestess of Orm.”

Boots whispering over stone, Valmont turned to leave.

“One other thing.”

Poised in the mouth of the cave, his new apprentice glanced over his shoulder.

“Choose six others to ride with you.”

“Seven,” Valmont murmured, quiet reverence in his voice.

Engrained in the hearts and minds of his men, the number seven symbolized the strength of their order. It was in everything: from the walled sides of the Pit and their crest to the number of daggers each wore, and the chronicles of Al Pacii. A mystic long ago had written about the group of seven...a divine force so brutal none could defeat them. Superstitious nonsense, mayhap, but Halál allowed his assassins their illusions.