“Not my enemy.”
“Very soon,” he whispered, “they will be.”
She opened her mouth to argue the point. He cut her off.
“Do not distract me again, iubita,” he said, using the endearment, ignoring her objections, acting like a jackass. “’Twill only leave you vulnerable. Accept the protection I am willing to provide.”
The hard edge in his voice made her quiver. “At what cost?”
“Stay close,” he said, refusing to answer her question. “When I unleash the arrow, they will be able to see and hear us. Move with me. Stay behind me. You’ll live longer.”
They will be able to see us.
The statement cranked her tight. What in God’s name did that mean? Could the assassins not see them? She scanned the rotunda again. Swords drawn, a group of three approached, coming across the center of the chamber. Almost beneath the golden dome now, the trio searched the shadows, looking for a target, sweeping the open expanse with keen eyes and brutal intent. And yet, even though he stood in plain view, none saw Henrik. Or her. Each enemy gaze skipped right over them.
Impossible, and yet, absolutely true.
Magic. She knew it existed. Had lived with the consequences of it all her life. Naught else explained her gift—the ability to see bits and pieces of the future. Or the fact she’d seen Henrik with her Seer’s eye moments before he appeared in front of her. But a man who wielded magic? One capable of masking his movements by gathering the gloom? ’Twas unheard of in her circle. A dangerous skill, one Cosmina didn’t want any part of.
She glanced at the stained-glass windows again. Higher now, the moon pushed light across the tiled floor.
Her throat tightened. So little time left. So much danger to avoid. Not the least of which was Henrik. Despite his assurances, she knew not to trust him. Men changed their minds like the wind, one moment gentle, the next naught but brutal. So nay, his willingness to release her earlier—and protect her now—didn’t mean his thoughts wouldn’t turn carnal in the aftermath of the coming violence.
Which meant she needed to withdraw. Get as far away from him as possible. This instant.
Gaze glued to him, Cosmina retreated toward the wall behind her.
Henrik shifted, widening his stance. Winter cloak thrown over wide-set shoulders covered in a black leather hauberk, the muscles roping his bare arms flexed. Wood creaked as his bow stretched another inch. The chill surrounding her deepened, along with the shadows. Harried breaths coming on white puffs, she backed up another step. And then another. Stay close, her foot! She needed to go. Must unlock the chamber door and slip inside before Henrik unleashed the arrow . . .
And his enemy attacked.
Halfway between Henrik and the keyhole, she slid into a crouch. Balanced on the balls of her feet, she sheathed one of her blades inside her boot and grasped the key. A solid tug released the clasp at the nape of her neck. The delicate links rattled, tinkling against her palm and—
“Goddamn it, Cosmina.” Henrik’s low growl curled around her, scraping her senses raw. Her already frayed nerve endings twitched as panic vied for prominence. “Whatever you think you are doing . . . stop. Right now.”
“Sorry,” she whispered without knowing why. She owed him nothing, least of all an apology. Too bad her conscience didn’t agree. Her plan put him at risk. The second she broke cover, all hell would break loose, leaving him in the cross fire. And her safely on the other side of a thick stone wall. “But I have to go.”
“Don’t you—”
Dare, she thought, finishing his sentence as she took flight. Boots scraping over stone, she scrambled toward her target. The round edges of the key bit into her palm. She sighted the keyhole within the stone pattern. With a snarl, Henrik loosed his arrow. Wood rasping against wood, the bowstring twanged. Frosty air rushed outward, burning her cheeks, pulling at her mantle, whipping its woolen tail. Time stalled. The chill around her flexed, then snapped. A sharp pop echoed. Pain flared at her temples as the cloak of invisibility burst, tearing wide open.
The arrow found its target. Cosmina cringed as an enemy assassin roared in agony.
A horrific battle cry throbbed through High Temple.
Oh gods. The enemy now had Henrik in their sights. She could tell by the way he shifted. Could see him in her periphery as he put himself between Al Pacii assassins and her. Aggressive, each movement sure, Henrik loosed another arrow. And then another. More screams of pain. More snarls of fury. Multiple scrapes of swords leaving scabbards, and the rapid fall of footsteps pounded through the rotunda. Remorse twitched its tail. Guilt joined in, making her skin crawl and her conscience scream. Feet crackling through old leaves, Cosmina shoved the shame aside. She refused to feel bad about doing what she must . . . keeping her word and seeing her duty done.
Delicate chain links rattled in her palm. Skidding to a halt at the base of the wall, she raised the key and—
Thunk!
A silver-tipped arrow struck the wall an inch above her head.
Cosmina flinched. She heard Henrik curse.
“The woman.” The feral growl rolled in on inhuman intonation. “Kill the woman!”
Fear caught at the back of Cosmina’s throat. Recognition sparked. The voice. Oh gods . . . that voice. Without warning, her Seer’s eye expanded. A channel opened inside her mind. One word streamed into her head: Druinguari. Minions to the Prince of Shadows, not Al Pacii assassins at all.
“Cosmina—get behind me.”
Ignoring Henrik’s command, she slid the rest of the way on her knees. Leather trews slipping over marble tiles, eyes on the pictographs, she searched for the keyhole, but—drat and damn. She couldn’t find it. Up close, the lock disappeared into the pattern. Lines looped and crisscrossed. Colorful figures blurred together. Intersections whirled into more. With a curse, hands sliding over stone, Cosmina shuffled sideways—
“Goddamn it. Andrei, Shay,” Henrik yelled, swords flashing as the first wave of Druinguari struck. Steel met steel. The terrible clang rose, washing over the altar as demonic snarls burned away the chill. “Fighting triangle—now!”
Weapons drawn, two warriors slid to a stop beside Henrik.
Cosmina’s fingertips dipped into a round depression in the stone. Her heart throbbed, threatening to pound its way out of her chest. Thank the gods. About blasted time.
Secret keyhole . . . dead ahead.
Flipping the disc over in her hand, she fit the key into the lock. Something whistled by her head, tearing at her hair. Pain lanced her temple. Blood welled. A thin droplet trickled down the side of her face. She cringed, but refused to acknowledge the nick. Or think too hard about the weapon that had just grazed her. Cosmina turned the key instead. Click by slow click, she counted off each tick. Five to the right. Now, seven to the left. One more number in the combination to go.
Each breath clawing at the back of her throat, Cosmina swiped at the sweat on her brow, then wiped her damp palms on her dirty trews. One more right turn. Just four clicks. Do not hurry. Do it right. She must go slow. Respect the sequence and the timed pauses between each rotation. Otherwise the door wouldn’t open and she wouldn’t make it out of High Temple alive.
CHAPTER FIVE
An arrow whizzed toward his head.
Senses keen, Henrik dodged right. The bolt blew by his ear, ruffling his hair. The razor-sharp tip hammered the wall behind him. A violent crack exploded through the rotunda. Stone dust flew. Cosmina cursed. With a snarl, he launched another arrow. And then three more in quick succession. The enemy scattered, diving behind High Temple’s massive pillars to avoid the lethal volley. Adjusting his stance, he shifted to the left, putting himself between Cosmina and the enemy.