Hell, it explained more than a lot. Cosmina’s claims helped him put the pieces together—the hows and whys of Halál’s miraculous return to youth along with the reason Al Pacii assassins didn’t die in the usual fashion. All of it led to one inescapable truth. The enemy was no longer human. Henrik bit down on a curse. The Order of Al Pacii, now minions to the Prince of Shadows. Christ. He’d been right to worry. Halál’s absence the past month signaled a serious shift in a dark direction.
War on the earthly plane.
Battle lines drawn between two powerful deities fighting for territory and ultimate control.
Which meant he needed answers. Ones that would give a method to the madness and show him how to kill the Druinguari. There must be a way. Some implement of destruction to not only wreak havoc on the enemy but also ensure the bastards stayed dead.
Putting his boots to good use, he pivoted toward the megaliths. “We need to go home.”
“To Drachaven?” Footfalls soundless, Andrei followed in his wake.
“Aye. I need to talk to my sister.” A good plan. An even better start. Afina might know something about the Druinguari. Or, at least, be able to find out. As new High Priestess to the Order of Orm, she shared a direct link with the Goddess of All Things. Not that Henrik liked it. He loved his little sister but didn’t trust the goddess. The deity was selfish. Brutal. Without conscience or mercy. Which made her more than just untrustworthy. It made her as much his enemy as Halál. A fact Henrik never forgot, even though his sister often did. “Afina might—”
“Home.” Cosmina hummed, the sound full of longing. “Will you take me?”
“Where is home, iubita?”
“The Limwoods,” she said, head bobbing against his chest. “Not far from Gorgon Pass.”
The news stalled his forward progress. Slowing to a stop between two megaliths, Henrik absorbed the information—the tidbit at the edge of Cosmina’s secret. Mind churning, his eyes narrowed on the symbols carved on the face of the stone uprights.
She lived inside the Limwoods. Intriguing.
Rumored to be enchanted, the ancient woodlands frightened people the same way wolves did rabbits. Then again, common folk spooked easily—lords and ladies too—refusing to speak of the dark forest for fear of revenge and warrior fairies. Complete nonsense. Superstitious drivel. But an effective deterrent nonetheless. No one entered the Limwoods, much less followed another soul over its threshold, and returned unscathed. So aye. All things considered, it made for an excellent place to hide.
Especially for someone who didn’t want to be found.
More secrets. Another mystery to solve. One with Cosmina’s name written all over it. And knowingly or not, she’d just given him another piece of the puzzle.
“Hey, H,” Shay said, frustration in his tone.
“Any luck?”
“Nay,” A frown on his face, Shay glanced over his shoulder. “I cannot find another passageway. The pictographs hide all trace of another keyhole.”
“Merde.” With a growl, Andrei strode into the wide aisle ringing the megaliths. “No escape.”
Turning sideways to avoid bumping Cosmina’s feet, Henrik stepped between two uprights and followed his comrade. Boots brushing over mosaic tiles, he scanned the wall carvings and clenched his teeth. Escape. He despised that word. It signaled retreat. Meant evasion, backpedaling instead of facing the enemy head-on, and . . .
Ah hell. He hated to do it.
Didn’t want to turn tail and run. Would prefer to fight his way out. But with Cosmina injured and half-conscious in his arms, no better option existed. Not while outnumbered with a pack of undead stalking her. He couldn’t keep her safe—never mind alive—if he didn’t find another way out. Halál wouldn’t miss a second time, so . . . nay, Shay’s assessment of the situation wasn’t welcome news. Which left him with little choice. Time to trust that Cosmina knew White Temple better than he did.
“Cosmina . . . wake up, iubita.” She grumbled in protest. He crouched, lowering to one knee in the middle of the aisle. Ridged stone pressed into his shin. Balancing Cosmina on his thigh, he jostled her, needing her conscious enough to answer his question. “I need your help.”
“With what?”
“You know this place.” Cupping her nape, he lifted her head from his chest. His gaze on her face, he held her upright, refusing to allow her to fall back asleep. “Is there another way out of here?”
Her brows puckered. “Dragon statue. Beside the pool . . . back of the chamber. Where’s my key?”
Henrik regained his feet. “Shay?”
Footfalls quiet, his apprentice turned away from the wall. Reaching into the pouch at the small of his back, he pulled out the round key. The necklace rattled, metal links tinkling as Shay jogged past them. Without a word, Andrei followed, allowing the younger assassin to lead. Eyes scanning the space, Henrik turned and headed for the rear of the room. Three steps down and he stood in a small alcove. Circular in shape, the chamber looked more like a chapel—or mayhap the nave of a church—with high walls arching up to meet the vaulted ceiling.
Water splashed in the silence.
Henrik glanced right. Impressive. Beautiful even. A bathing pool, clear blue water lapping at the stone sides, the golden dome above it reflecting its rippling surface. The smell of stale jasmine in the air, grey ash lay in the incense holder next to the tub’s fluted lip. Keepers of time, protectors of White Temple, seven stone dragons looked on, standing sentry at equal intervals around the water, holding up half columns that rose in an impressive sweep against the back wall.
Henrik glanced at the woman he cradled. “Which dragon?”
“Middle one.”
“The lock?”
“Inside its mouth.” Reacting to the deepening chill, she shivered in his arms. With a curse, Henrik caught his comrade’s eye. Andrei nodded and, sidestepping the pool, stopped in front of him. A quick flick. A firm tug, and Andrei loosed the tie of his cloak. Henrik shifted his hold on Cosmina, allowing his friend to tuck the heavy wool around her slight frame. “Henrik?”
“Aye?” Gaze glued to Shay, Henrik watched him peer into the dragon’s open mouth.
“Careful with the combination,” she said, her voice wavering as sleep threatened to pull her under. “Five clicks to the right, three to the left . . . twelve back the other way.”
Shay nodded in acknowledgment. “What’s beyond the door . . . a tunnel?”
“Aye. Narrow . . . dark, but good.”
Andrei breathed out in relief. “Where does it lead?”
“The mausoleum.”
“North end of the cemetery?” Henrik asked.
Closing her eyes, Cosmina dipped her chin.
“Perfect.”
And it was—except for one thing. Henrik disliked tight spaces. A throwback to his mother’s cruelty and White Temple’s burning secret . . . and the Order of Orm’s hatred of men. But even as the brutal memories circled—and he remembered being locked in the dungeon—he refused to back down. His aversion to dank passageways didn’t matter. The hidden tunnel was the only way out. A better option than heading back into High Temple, where Halál and the Druinguari awaited.
Particularly since the mausoleum sat outside the city walls.
Surrounded by massive trees and row upon row of tombstones, the crypt possessed thick walls, a single entrance, and the possibility of multiple vantage points across rough terrain. His eyes narrowed as he drew a mental map inside his head. Tareek and Kazim stood sentry to the west, watching the mountain passes. He needed to reach the pair. Kazim’s sword would be welcome. And Tareek? Hell, a fire-breathing dragon with a bad attitude constituted an excellent asset.