No panicking allowed. Duty demanded she stay the course.
Supporting her injured arm, she shuffled toward the narrow opening. Patience. Almost there. But gods, she wished the door would open faster. Slower than molasses in winter, the slab retreated to one side, old gears working hard to pull the heavy stone across the floor. Heart beating so hard it hurt to breathe, Cosmina counted the seconds. She bumped the arrow tip by mistake. Pain ripped through her. Clinging to her goal, she watched the door slide open another inch. With a gasp, she grabbed the stone edge and pulled, lending her strength to the slow glide, but . . .
It didn’t help.
She had no strength left to give and . . . oh gods. Her arm hurt. And her strength? Nothing but a distant memory. Cosmina groaned as she raised her injured arm and, smearing blood across the wall, pushed at the door again. Her vision dimmed. Combating the blur, Cosmina shook her head. No quitting allowed. No matter how desperate the situation, she refused to give in to the weakness. ’Twould be all right. She would be all right. The wound might look bad, but despite the blood loss, it was actually the best kind: a through and through, a clean strike that would no doubt respond to proper tending and—
“Goddamn it,” Henrik growled from beside the high altar. The concern in his voice carried, making her want to turn toward him instead of away. A weak reaction, one propelled by foolishness. No matter his willingness to protect her, she must rely on herself, not him. “Cosmina, move to your left.”
Nay. No way. She couldn’t do as he asked. Moving left would put her out of range—too far away from the door opening. Even so, she wanted to listen. To let Henrik lead while she followed. She quelled the urge and, forcing her limbs into compliance, slid toward the Chamber of Whispers.
The movement gouged at her muscles.
Ignoring the anguish, Cosmina bit down on a groan and glanced toward the pictographs. Her gaze found the key still embedded in the wall. Reaching up, she wrenched it from its mooring and looped the necklace over her head. The key bounced against her breastbone. The arrow caught in her cloak, twisting the shaft. Anguish bit. Tears gathered in her eyes, but she didn’t stop. Tucking her elbow against her side, Cosmina wedged her knee against the door edge and, setting her good shoulder against the jamb, tried to squeeze through the opening. The second it opened wide enough—the moment she could slip through—she’d slam the key home on the other side and, with a quick twist, close it behind her.
Ensure the Druinguari stayed out. Keep the faith while doing her duty. Block Henrik so he couldn’t—
Heat exploded behind her.
Cosmina sucked in a quick breath. Surprise made her glance over her shoulder. Fear kept her staring as the door widened another inch. Heaven help her—fire. An inferno of blue flame streaked across the floor near the top of the steps. Screams of agony echoed against the high dome. The stench of burning flesh rolled into the open air. She gagged. The slab continued to slide. She followed suit, angling her shoulders, breathing through the pain, pushing through the narrow space and . . . dry heaved again.
Movement flashed to her left.
Halfway through the opening, Cosmina flinched. Distress tightened its grip, snaking around her rib cage. Her heart hopped hard, thumping the inside of her breastbone. Blood dripped from her fingertips, landing beside her on the mosaic tile. Baring her teeth, she reached down with her good arm. Her knife. She needed it in her hand before the enemy arrived on her blindside. Her middle finger brushed the leather-wrapped grip. She stretched harder, twisting in a bid to grab her weapon, but . . . gods. She kept missing the hilt. Couldn’t secure a good enough grip to pull the blade free.
Henrik slid to a stop beside her. Hazel-gold eyes met hers. With a quick flick, he sheathed one of his swords and reached for her.
“Don’t touch me,” she said, wincing as pain knifed through her upper arm. “D-do not—”
“Easy.”
“Get back. Stay away.”
He shook his head. “I cannot do that, iubita.”
Stupid endearment. And heaven help her . . . his tone. So soft. Too low. Completely apologetic, as though he felt her pain and would take it away if he could. His obvious regret did her in. Tears rolled over her bottom lashes. Drat the man. He’d bullied her earlier, using his voice and the endearment to get a rise out of her. To pull her off-balance. To taunt and tease while he gauged her reaction and gained the upper hand. Now, though, he sounded concerned . . . and looked the part too. She saw the worry in his eyes, heard the sincerity in his voice and . . . blast and damn.
There she went again, wanting to believe in him.
Under normal circumstances, Cosmina would never have considered it. Strangers were dangerous creatures. Self-serving. Untrustworthy. More harmful than helpful. The past had taught her that well enough. But as she held Henrik at bay, Cosmina recognized futility when she saw it. Resisting wasn’t the smartest move. She needed help and had very little time left. The ritual wouldn’t wait, so like it or nay, Henrik had just become her only hope . . . the only way to achieve her goal and end up inside the Chamber of Whispers.
Which meant asking for his help. Before the moon reached its apex and time ran out.
“Henrik, I need to get inside.” Elbow still pressed to her side, Cosmina twisted a little. The arrowhead banged against the jamb. Air left her lungs, escaping her throat on a low whimper. “Help me. Please help me inside. I have to—”
He yelled at his comrades, then turned back to her. The inferno blazed into a wall of flame. Heat blasted through the rotunda as Henrik settled next to her. He raised his hands. She tried not to flinch. Avoiding the arrow and her injury, he grabbed the edges of her leather tunic. His fingers curled inward, pressing against her shoulders. He jostled her a bit, seeking a better grip. Another round of pain streaked down her arm. She moaned. He cursed, but didn’t apologize. Cosmina didn’t expect him to. All she wanted was for him to lift her clear and shove her through.
“On the count of three, all right?”
She nodded.
He started to count. “One.”
“Two,” she said through clenched teeth.
“Three.”
With a grunt, he heaved her upward. Her feet touched down with a thud, but her legs refused to hold her. As her knees buckled, Henrik held on, keeping her upright, and set his shoulder against the stone edge. With a snarl—and more strength than any man ought to have—he pushed the door open another foot. His comrades appeared over his shoulder, blurring into one as Cosmina’s vision wavered. Tightening his grip, Henrik lifted and sidestepped, moving them through the half-open door and . . .
She was through the opening. And one step closer to fulfilling her promise to the goddess.
Half-dead on her feet, she clung to Henrik as his friends followed him over the threshold. Fire hissed from beyond the chamber. Heart pounding behind her breastbone, Cosmina clutched the key and tugged on the chain. The silver clasp resisted the effort, refusing to release against the nape of her neck.
“Blast.” Out of strength, she sagged against Henrik.