Oh shit. The landing wasn’t going to be pleasant.
Shoulders leading the way, he hit the floor with a thud. His swords clanged, digging twin furrows into his back. With a grunt, Henrik tucked his arms and, working with velocity instead of against it, spun into the skid. Using his boot heels for traction, he dug in and rotated full circle. Mosaic tiles sped past, sliding underneath him. The wall rose to meet him. Gritting his teeth, he pressed his forearms into the floor. Skin squealed against stone, burning twin tracks up his arms. Agony seared him. He barely noticed. Legs poised to absorb the brunt, he slammed feetfirst into the wall.
His knees rebounded, hammering him in the chest. Air left his lungs in a rush. He wheezed, but stayed still and—legs spread, arms splayed wide, senses throbbing—stared up at the vaulted ceiling. Clumps of plaster fell, the fine grains sprinkling him like fairy dust as he struggled to catch his breath. After a moment of extreme concentration, his rib cage unlocked and his chest expanded.
Thank Christ. Good God. What the hell had just happened?
Twin groans echoed across the chamber.
With a grumble of his own, Henrik flipped over. His shoulder squawked in protest as his stomach touched cold tile. Ignoring the chill, his gazed lit on Andrei. Lying belly down, his friend cursed and, pressing his hand to the floor, pushed himself upright. Half-standing, half-bent-over, he wobbled a second, then gave in and fell backward, ass-planting himself on the floor. Head bowed, angry-sounding French peppering the air, Andrei cupped the sides of his head, and Henrik switched tack. Bruised but all right. His friend would survive, but . . . where the hell was Shay?
A nasty curse turned his attention.
Henrik’s focus snapped left and . . . well, hell. Talk about bad luck and—he grimaced—an unfortunate position. Shay was tangled up with a statue. Pinned down by stone, his apprentice yanked on his leg, struggling to free himself from the marble clampdown. Which meant . . . two down, one to go. He couldn’t see Cosmina. Or the dais. Not from his vantage point behind the megaliths.
Alarm hammered him, making his heart thump harder.
It was too quiet. So still, silence reigned, making concern rise and dread follow. A boatload of self-recrimination whispered through him. He was an idiot for listening to her. For allowing Cosmina to sway him. For respecting her wishes when she’d asked him to back away. God help him. She’d been at the center of the blast. Smack-dab in the kill zone with nowhere to hide. Now she was probably hurt . . .
Or worse.
The thought made Henrik pop to his feet. His brain went sideways, sloshing inside his skull. Off-balance, he stumbled and . . . goddamn it. He should’ve realized. The slam-bang of the blast—along with the magic—had messed with his equilibrium. Now he struggled to walk a straight line. Not that it mattered. He didn’t have time to fool around. Forget the discomfort. Discard the pain—the ringing in his ears too. Cosmina needed him and, despite his aversion to her kind, he wanted to protect her. Give her his all. Become her shield. Do whatever was necessary to get her on her feet again.
The sentiment smacked of serious attachment. Of deep-seated feeling and the sort of sappiness he avoided at all costs. Henrik didn’t care. He knew without examining it too closely that she was different. Somehow. Some way. For some reason. Mayhap ’twas her history with White Temple. Mayhap ’twas her skill with a blade and the spunk she showed him. Mayhap ’twas the fact he enjoyed the look of her. Henrik huffed. She surpassed beautiful with her red hair and razor-sharp wit. The reasons for his interest in her didn’t matter. Not right now. And as he limped toward the megalith closest to him, Henrik prayed she was all right. That her status as a member of the Blessed had protected her somehow. That despite the force of the shock wave, she’d come through unscathed.
“Cosmina,” he said, voice ringing in the silence.
No answer. Not even a rustle of movement from beyond the great stones.
Trepidation swept in, then ricocheted as he tallied the likelihood of her survival. Twenty to one. Mayhap more. The odds weren’t good. She was no doubt dead, lying lifeless on the dais: body broken, blood flowing, and spirit crushed. Henrik upped the pace anyway. So witless to hope. So ridiculous to want. More foolish to pray. Even so, Henrik sent a word heavenward, allowing faith to lead the way even as his fear for her burned a hole in the center of his chest.
***
The magic loosened its grip one brutal talon at a time. As the band of pressure downgraded, allowing her lungs to expand, Cosmina fell into a sideways slump. Her shoulder touched down on the stone. The chill kicked up, slipped over her skin, then delved deep to reach muscle and bone. Squeezing her eyes closed, she shivered in the quiet and tucked her legs in tight, desperate to hold on to her body heat.
The curl-up-and-stay-quiet routine didn’t help.
Not this time.
Usually the position calmed her after suffering an attack. But luck wasn’t with her tonight. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t slow the escalation of sensation—the throb kicking against her temples—never mind get her bearings. She knew she was somewhere inside the Chamber of Whispers, but . . . Cosmina frowned. Was she still on the dais? Blown halfway across the room? Stuck atop one of the megaliths? Her breath rasped on a painful wheeze. Blast it all, she didn’t know. With reality blurring into the mist of aftermath, her mind remained foggy and her thoughts jumbled. Now her head not only hurt, but hope drained away, leaving her with one certainty . . .
The blindness had returned.
Cosmina swallowed a sob. So much for the power of her gift. Per usual, it worked against her, leaving her to take the brunt alone. In the black hole of premonitory overload. Tears welled behind her eyes. Refusing to give in, she refused to let them fall. Crying wouldn’t help. And the pain? Well, she was accustomed to it—almost immune to the terrible headaches that always accompanied her visions. And yet, even as she reminded herself of the facts, desolation crept in.
Gods, how she hated the darkness.
Releasing a shaky breath, Cosmina cracked her eyes open. Denying the truth never served a person well. No matter how adverse to the blindness, she must assess the extent of the damage and determine the best course of action. Mayhap this time she would get lucky. Mayhap the magic had only taken her peripheral vision. Mayhap some light would seep through. Clinging to hope, she raised her lashes. A whimper escaped her. No luck. Not a sliver of illumination either. The darkness was absolute, so overwhelming she saw nothing but a black void, unending isolation, powerlessness its bitter sidekick.
With a panicked cry, she tucked her knees in tighter. Her arm squawked. Agony ripped over her shoulder, then reached down to squeeze her heart. “Goddess help me, I hate this. I hate this. I—”
“Cosmina!”
The shout made her flinch. Self-preservation made her turn toward it. “Henrik?”
The rush of footfalls echoed, coming closer by the second. Relief struck like a mailed fist. Praise the goddess. She wasn’t alone. For the first time in a long while, she had help—a lifeline in the dark and someone to guide her through. Henrik’s voice told the truth. He would aid her if she let him. Not that she enjoyed the idea. Stronger than most, she always looked after herself. Self-reliance. Independence. Zero trust in men. All three served her well, ensuring she stayed out of trouble. Well, under normal circumstances anyway. But tonight didn’t qualify as ordinary. Which meant she needed to let go of her pride. At least, for the time being. She required protection and a way out.
Henrik had just become both.
“Henrik,” she whispered.