Time and trust. Important commodities. Both of which took effort to rebuild. And even though he and Tareek worked hard to mend it, problems still cropped up. The biggest one of all—at least, right now? He didn’t know how to call Tareek. Twenty years was a long time for a skill to go unused. He wasn’t a child anymore. His mind was no longer that pliable, and his faith? Hell, it wasn’t nearly as strong.
“Henrik, we need him,” Cosmina whispered. “Otherwise the Druinguari will—”
“We’re here.” Andrei stopped short in front of him.
“Where?” Shay asked.
His comrade looked around a blind corner. “Stairs leading up.”
“To the mausoleum?” Leather rasped against steel as Shay unsheathed his twin daggers.
“’Tis my guess.” Palming his throwing stars, Andrei paused, and boot poised on the bottom step, threw Henrik a questioning look. “You still tuned in, H?”
He nodded.
Andrei raised a brow. “Picking up anything?”
Eyes narrowed, Henrik reached for his magic. He knew what Andrei wanted: clues along with confirmation of the threat outside. Easy enough to do. Thrall allowed him to sense things others did not. His comrades might not be able to perceive the enemy, but he could. Sinking into the swell of his gift, he retuned his senses. A buzz lit off between his temples. The clawing sensation raked the inside of his skull, sending a clear message.
“We’re not clear yet,” he said, holding his friend’s gaze. “The Druinguari lay in wait.”
Andrei grunted.
Shay cursed. “How close are they?”
“Close enough.” Hitting one knee, he balanced Cosmina on his thigh and, reaching around, gripped the dagger snug against his lower back. Smaller than the rest, the five-inch blade would fit better in Cosmina’s hand. He needed her to understand. Things were about to get nasty again. Cupping the back of her hand, he set the hilt in her palm. Her fingers tightened around the grip, accepting the weapon without hesitation. Murmuring in approval, Henrik pulled his favorite knife from a sheath on his chest and, resettling Cosmina, pushed to his feet. “We make a run for it. The sooner we reach the horses, the better.”
Turning her head, Cosmina set her mouth to his ear. “Call your dragon.”
The whispered words echoed inside his head.
Easy enough to say. Nowhere near as simple to see accomplished.
But as Henrik followed his comrades, taking the stairs two at time, he cleared his mind and tried anyway. Cosmina was right. Three swords against twenty weren’t good odds. They were deadly ones. So to hell with his pride. Like it or nay, he needed backup. Tareek would provide the sort his enemy wouldn’t see coming, never mind be able to thwart. An excellent plan, but . . .
First things first.
He turned inward and, unleashing his magic, summoned his friend. He hoped like hell Tareek got the message. Otherwise the Druinguari would tear them apart piece by bloody piece.
***
Leaping up onto the parapet, Halál sank into a crouch. As he settled on the balls of his feet, using the stone teeth along the city wall for cover, he looked over the terrain again. Jagged mountain peaks rose in the distance, then swept down, rushing into the Limwoods. A long way off. Naught to catch his attention. Even less to worry about. His gaze narrowed on the thick stretch of forest anyway. Dark with shadow, deep with intrigue, ancient trees stood sentry, thick limbs spread, skeletal tops unmoving even though winter ruled and the wind howled.
Haunted, some said. Majestic, others argued. Unnatural, all agreed.
A prickle ghosted down his spine.
His nostrils flared. No doubt in his mind. ’Twas where Henrik would head when he exited the tunnel—straight into the depths of the forbidden forest.
A problem. More than a touch vexing. Particularly since instinct screamed, warning him to stay clear of the Limwoods. The same thing had happened on his trek from Grey Keep to the holy city. Severe aversion. Catastrophic delay as he took the long way around, refusing to traverse the eerie stretch of forest. It had always been that way. Why? Halál shook his head. No rhyme or reason. He couldn’t place the feeling. Or put his finger on the cure. But something told him the woodlands disliked him. Then again, mayhap dislike was too mild a word. Despised was a better one. Alive with murderous intent might be a phrase worth using too. Not that the descriptor mattered. Intuition spoke volumes, and Halál remained convinced . . .
The Limwoods would kill him the instant he set one foot inside its lair.
He scanned the edge of the forest again. Revulsion churned in the pit of his stomach. Ridiculous. Completely foolish. Superstitious twaddle believed by dullards and soothsayers, naught more. And yet even from leagues away, he sensed the violence. Felt the unreserved menace as the ancient trees stared back at him, daring him to tempt fate and come within easy reach.
Disquiet rose on a dread-filled wave.
Halál dragged his gaze away. He refocused on the boneyard. Aged by weather, tombstones stood in neat rows, rising like blunt teeth from bleak earth beyond old oaks and bleached beeches. Greyed by the cold, moss feathered the top of each headstone, awaiting the promise of spring and the return of summer sun. Not that anyone would see it. He’d given his word and intended to keep it. The Blessed would die along with the Goddess of All Things. White Temple would never be resurrected. But first, he must see to Henrik. Where the devil was he? What the hell was taking the bastard so long to—
Metal squeaked. Carried by cold air, the soft squeal rolled on the brisk wind.
Halál’s attention snapped toward the mausoleum. The groan of iron hinges came again. Senses sharp and focus heavy, he stared at the entrance. The wooden door cracked open an inch. Snow blew through the crack, cascading into a dancing swirl.
“Master.”
“I see it.” Halál hummed in satisfaction.
Well, well, well . . . ’twas about time. Restless from waiting, his assassins shifted behind him. Blades slid from leather sheaths. The wind picked up the collective scrape, holding it high as Halál raised his arm. He fisted his hand, giving the signal to wait. He needed to be sure. Must see the trio of assassins file out with the woman in tow before he made his move.
Hand engulfed by blue flame, Andrei crept over the threshold. He slid left and, making a quick fist, snuffed out the fire rising from his skin. Shay followed. Halál bared his teeth. Traitor number three. The whelp had betrayed him the moment he set foot outside of Grey Keep. Was the one responsible for a serious setback when he’d disobeyed a direct order and rewritten the incantation. The result had not only released the dragons from their prison deep within the mountain, but also turned The Three against him, binding the beasts to his enemy for all time. Now Xavian held a terrible advantage—the services of the most powerful creatures on earth. Dragons, shape-shifters of incomparable skill. Warriors capable of unequaled violence and . . .
Be damned, he might as well admit it. He coveted the dragons for himself. Wanted the beasts chained in his backyard like pets, awaiting his orders.
Shay would pay for the loss. He would take his time too. Tie the betrayers to trees. Render the enemy assassins helpless as he killed the youngling slowly, cutting him apart a piece at a time . . . while he made Henrik watch.
Ah, and speak of the devil.
Henrik crossed the threshold. Halál’s focus sharpened on him. His mouth curved into a smile. Good. He held the woman. No time like the present to get things rolling.
“Blow the horn. Inform the others,” he said, planting his palm atop the outer wall. “The hunt is afoot.”