“The woman.” A twang sounded as Beauvic restrung his bow. “Right hand to the High Priestess of Orm.”
Halál nodded, his mouth curving in approval. Trust Beauvic to know that. A bookworm with a real thirst for knowledge, the assassin read everything he could get his hands on, so the comment came as no surprise. Neither did the intelligent gleam in his eyes. Or the fact Beauvic understood the woman’s importance to the Order of Orm. As Keeper of the Key, she stood at the top of the hierarchy, helping the High Priestess lead the Blessed. Which meant she knew everything. Every bit of history. All the secrets. Was tasked with performing the ancient rituals as well as guarding the goddess’ sacred spells. Throw in the fact she possessed the key—and the combinations—that unlocked every door, hidden and otherwise, inside White Temple and . . .
Aye. Without a doubt. She was an excellent pawn to control.
An even better one to kill.
A frisson of excitement raced beneath his skin. Be damned, but he could hardly wait to get his hands on her. Although, now that he’d discovered her position within the Order, she wouldn’t die quickly. With agonizing precision, he would do what he did best—put his knives to good use and wreak maximum damage. Draw her death out. Make it last. Force-feed her pain until she gave him what he wanted: information, every last scrap of knowledge she secreted away inside her mind.
All while making her bleed.
Excellent incentive. An even better plan, but for one rather large wrinkle. Henrik. Taking what the betrayer protected would be no easy task.
One of the most exquisite hunter-assassins he’d ever trained, Henrik stood as a shining example of what was possible. Of Al Pacii prowess and skill. Of Halál’s ability to take a boy and turn him into a first-class killer. Although not as skilled as Henrik, fifteen of the same breed filed in behind him, footfalls silent on stone. Halfway across the rotunda, he paused beneath the golden dome, then looked back. His gaze found the pictographs once more.
Secret doorways and hidden passages. So many options. So many places for Henrik to pop his head up. Too many avenues to get the woman to safety.
Unsheathing the sword on his back, Halál strode on, his attention fixed on the high archway that served as High Temple’s only entrance. Steel glinted in the moonlight as he swung his blade full circle. “Bring me the woman.”
“Dead . . .” Valmont cracked his knuckles. The sharp sound ricocheted, echoing across the vast space.
“Or alive?” Beauvic’s voice slithered in like a viper, deadly undertones hissing in warning.
“And kicking.” Increasing the pace, Halál bypassed the last pillar and trotted down the shallow staircase. He stepped off the last tread and into the corridor. Denied the light of the moon, the gloom thickened, descending from high ceilings. His senses sharpened, propelling him down the dark passageway. “Get to your positions on the wall. The instant Henrik sticks his head up, blow the horn, then shadow him until the rest of us catch up.”
Valmont murmured in assent.
“Strength in numbers.” Reaching over his shoulder, Beauvic slipped the bow back into the quiver on his back.
“Precisely,” Halál said, body tight, anticipation rising even as experience tempered his eagerness. “Until we know what the bastards are capable of, we fight together.”
A sound strategy.
Andrei and the blue fire made him wary. The fact he hadn’t seen or sensed Henrik upon entering High Temple doubled his usual caution. Something odd was afoot—the power play of deities chief among them. Armand had altered him, after all, gifting him with eternal youth and powers yet beyond his ken, so aye, little doubt remained. The Goddess of All Things had leveled the playing field, countering the Prince of Shadows’ move. Which meant . . .
No room for error. Even less for impatience.
He must proceed with extreme care. Tease out the truth. Assemble all the facts. Find the weakness in Henrik’s armor in order to exploit it. But as Halál split from the pack and led his group toward the western wall, the throb in his veins picked up a beat. And then another. As it beat a drum, thrumming inside his head, he admitted the truth. Impartiality wasn’t possible tonight. He wanted the Keeper of the Key. Couldn’t wait until he held her in his grasp.
Youth presented him with all kinds of possibilities: the power to enforce his will, do as he pleased, and make her his pet the more interesting among them. Halál pursed his lips. Or mayhap he wouldn’t do anything of the sort. Mayhap he’d present her as a gift to Armand, just to see what happened. A hum lit off in his veins, gripping his body until muscle tightened over bone.
A plaything inside Grey Keep with one purpose—his master’s pleasure.
Infinite possibility. Unending entertainment. Could prove to be very, very interesting.
Moving down the deserted corridor, Halál jogged around a blind corner. Deep in shadow, the entry to the corner tower beckoned. Not wasting a moment, he ran beneath the archway, and legs pumping, ascended the spiral staircase. Brisk night air turned frigid, washing over him as he reached the apex. The iron handle chilled his palm. Metal clicked against metal. He shoved the door wide and stepped onto the rampart atop the western wall.
Within seconds, he stood halfway down the narrow walkway. His assassins filed out behind him, taking up positions along the parapet. The wind whistled through the abandoned guardhouse, flicking at the hem of his cloak. Halál ignored the icy rush and scanned the terrain beyond the city walls. He glanced left, then right, and smiled in satisfaction.
The perfect vantage point.
From his position high above the dell, he saw everything—the wide, flat expanse of fields, the main road into White Temple, and the thin line of hedgerows on either side. The cemetery, though, captured and held his interest. North of the road, the grove possessed real possibility. A point of cover. Mayhap even a ready escape. Even stripped of foliage, the large beech trees surrounding the cemetery threw shadows, impeding his view, and—
The moon emerged from behind wispy clouds.
Illumination spilled, painting the terrain in winter white. His mouth curved. Beautiful. Light abounded. No cover in sight. Very little for Henrik to work with if he chose the boneyard as his means of escape. Gaze roaming over tombstones, Halál refocused on the front of the mausoleum and, giving a hand signal to his assassins, settled into a crouch. Nothing to do now but wait. And hope that whatever tunnel Henrik traveled exited on the western front . . .
On Halál’s side of the wall.
CHAPTER NINE
The tunnel walls closed in, constricting until Henrik felt the squeeze. The lockdown caused a visceral chain reaction. Nothing new. Being underground did that to him, spinning him in dangerous directions, making it impossible not to relive his history inside White Temple. Like a brutal taskmaster, past experience rose, twisting the screws, building the pressure until his temples throbbed and his mind bled, force-feeding him the first seven years of his life.
All of it spent in hell. Under his mother’s thumb.
His arms flexed around Cosmina. She shifted in his embrace, tucking her head beneath his chin. Warm and soft in his arms, the feel of her helped center him. It wouldn’t be long now. Just a bit farther. The thought should’ve calmed him. It didn’t. He couldn’t ignore the walls. Like a closing vise, stone shifted, narrowing the tunnel with each step he took. Nonsense, he knew. An optical illusion brought on by irrational fear. The passageway wasn’t moving. The vertical slabs stood strong and still, as stalwart as ever. And yet . . .