As his men moved to obey, Halál pushed off the parapet, propelling himself over its chiseled lip. His boots cleared the highest part of the wall. The horn sounded. Gravity took hold. He dropped like a stone over the side and sighted the ground. The two-hundred-foot drop didn’t faze him. Black magic filled his veins, fusing muscle over bone. Which—joy of joys—made him nearly indestructible. A truth Henrik was about to learn . . .
All over again.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Boots moving at a volatile clip, Tareek completed another circuit around the clearing. Up and down. Back and forth. Pause a moment, pace some more, do it all over again. He finished the next round and roared into another, blowing past ancient trees. Tethered in the shadow of the Blackwood, the horses shied. Glancing sideways, he soothed the warhorse closest to him, but refused to slow. He rolled his shoulders instead, working out the tension, trying to calm down and clear his mind.
It didn’t help. Naught did. The constant buzz at his temples was driving him daft.
Out of his christing mind.
Now he stewed in sensation, trying to place it. What the hell did it mean? Was it a warning? A signal? Naught but interference, the sizzle and pull of being so close to the origin of all magic? Hristos, he hoped not. But as Tareek wore a deep track in frozen earth, instinct prickled, shoving him toward worry an inch at a time. Muscles twitching, he stomped past a low-lying shrub. Bare of foliage, thin branches bobbed in protest. He snarled at the plant, taking his displeasure out on undeserving vegetation.
Curse and rot the lad. Troublesome wee whelp.
Henrik was late. Again.
Never a good sign. The breach in protocol didn’t bode well. Something was off. Not by much. Just by hair, but . . . Dumnezeu, skin him alive and call it a night. He had a bad, bad feeling. The kind that poked at instinct and warned of foul play. Unquantifiable. No proof in sight, and yet, he knew—just knew—he should be on the move . . . in dragon form, wings spread in flight, flying fast toward the holy city.
Urgent need jabbed at him. Tareek flexed his hands, then shook his head. Silfer forgive him, but . . .
He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t go there, back into the belly of the beast.
Too many memories lay in the Valley of the Blessed. His throat went tight as the past rose to claim him. So much disappointment. So much hurt. Way too much rage. All of it originating from one place . . .
White Temple. Wretched, godforsaken city.
Spinning on his heel, Tareek reversed course and headed in the opposite direction. Senses humming, his night vision sparked, allowing him to see everything. Every frostbitten blade of grass. The ridges of rough bark gracing the heavy-limbed trees at the edge of the dell. Each individual crystal in the snowflakes that fell. Like rain, the frosty collection landed on his face, then melted, evaporating into thin air. To be expected. As a fire dragon his internal temperature always ran hot, swallowing the cold, thawing the puddles in his vicinity, ensuring the chill never reached him.
A good thing most of the time. But not tonight.
He needed the cooldown. Enough of one to help him keep a level head. Mayhap give him some perspective too. God knew pacing wasn’t working.
Disgusted with himself, Tareek stopped short. Tipping his head back, he looked up through the snowy swirl to focus on the night sky. No stars tonight. Ripe with heavy clouds, the heavens hid behind thick, grey tumble, violent winds pushing the storm toward White Temple. His heart thumped against his breastbone.
Goddamn the lad and his obstinate nature.
“Call me, H,” he murmured under his breath. “Let me know you are all right.”
The quiet plea drifted. A rustle of movement rose on frosty air.
His focus snapped to the right.
“Relax, Tareek.” Dark eyes serious, Kazim stopped at the edge of the clearing. Stance wide, body ready, he raised his hands and flipped both palms up. The move sent a clear message: I come in peace. An excellent preventative measure. Particularly since Tareek wanted to kill something. “’Tis only me.”
“Anything?”
“Not yet.”
Tareek bared his teeth on a growl. “Something is wrong.”
“Something is always wrong,” Kazim said, stepping over a rotten log. Ice crunched beneath his feet. The soft sound drifted up before escaping through the leafless limbs stretched high above the assassin’s head. “Have you yet to learn this, fratele?”
Brother. Acceptance and support wrapped up in one word.
The reminder should’ve settled him. It cranked him a notch tighter instead. Not that he didn’t appreciate the sentiment. He did, but that didn’t solve the problem. No matter what he tried, the buzz between his temples refused to abate and worry turned the screw, making him bleed concern. The boy he’d vowed to protect wasn’t back yet—might even now be in harm’s way. The situation smacked of another time and place. Of deep trouble and endless pain. Of White Temple and the permanent pinch of the past.
Tareek swallowed a curse. Talk about a ballbuster. Even after all this time, he couldn’t forget, never mind forgive. Couldn’t dismiss a history bound in magic or his mistake the night he’d flown to Henrik’s rescue. So arrogant in his skills. So secure in his position as one of the Guardians of Orm. Foolish in the extreme. He’d trusted too quickly, given the former High Priestess her due, and been betrayed for his trouble. The price had been high: imprisonment without hope, twenty years trapped in dragon form, forced to serve a master without conscience or mercy.
A brutal tangle with unending ties. And epic proportions.
An experience Tareek refused to endure again. And yet, despite all the savage violence, the bond he shared with Henrik remained strong. So powerful, he’d retaken the vows, pledging to shield Henrik as he had in boyhood.
Which explained a lot, didn’t it? Like why he stood in a field less than three leagues from a place he never wanted to see again.
Curse and rot the lad. For the umpteenth time.
Unfurling his fists, he tore his gaze from Kazim and resumed pacing. He kicked at a rock in his path. The stone tumbled, cracking the quiet as it splashed through a slushy puddle. On the final turn of another circuit, he changed direction. Striding across the middle of the dell, he stopped a foot from Kazim and met his gaze.
Back pressed to a stout oak, the Persian raised a brow.
Tareek frowned. “I should have gone with him.”
“Aye, you should have.” Crossing his arms, Kazim leveled him with a look.
Tareek glared back. Christing Kazim. Always so unflappable. The warrior had to be the calmest son of a bitch on earth. Annoying as hell most of the time, but useful upon occasion. Like now, when Kazim called it as he saw it, telling the truth even when the message proved unpopular.
Bowing his head, Tareek fisted both hands in his hair. “Hristos, something is wrong.”
“Has Henrik called?”
The question throbbed between his temples. No, he hadn’t called. That was the problem. But then, in all honesty, Tareek didn’t know whether Henrik could connect with him anymore. Aye, he’d mastered the skill as a boy, reaching out with his mind to tell him all was well or to hurry if he needed help. Sometimes the whelp had just wanted to say good night. His mouth curved as he remembered Henrik’s audacity as a child. Boundless courage. Imp to the next level. So full of piss and vinegar, he’d kept Tareek hopping, trying to outsmart a lad who feared naught and liked trouble.
But that lad was gone now.
In his place stood a man. A skilled assassin full of caution and mistrust.