Garren growled. “Christ. ’Tis as we feared. It has begun.”
Little doubt.
The Goddess of All Things was right. Armand, Prince of Shadows, was out, exerting his influence, already wreaking havoc and spreading his stink. Tareek knew the scent well. Had lived with it for twenty years while trapped in dragon form and imprisoned deep in the mountain near Grey Keep. God, how he wished for something different. A new memory to replace the old. A way to right the wrong and erase the past. Wipe it clean by going back to that cursed day and slaying Ylenia when he’d had the chance.
But time didn’t bend for just anyone. He couldn’t go back. Or undo his mistake.
Shame grabbed him by the throat, making his chest ache. “Garren . . .”
“I know.” A thump echoed. The scrape of rapid footfalls followed, coming through mind-speak. “But ’tis over and done, zi kamir. You need to let it go.”
If only it were that easy. If only guilt would loosen its grip. “The smell is getting stronger.”
“Back off. You need backup. Don’t go in until I reach you.”
“I cannot wait.” Angling his wings, Tareek banked into a tight turn. “Henrik didn’t show at the rendezvous point.”
“Troublesome brat,” Garren said, tone full of affection.
No kidding. Tareek couldn’t disagree. Didn’t want to either. Aye, he might be a pain in the arse, but it was hard to find fault with Henrik. The lad always landed in the most interesting situations. Ones that started with a good fight and ended in a lot of bloodshed. Right up his alley. Exactly the way Tareek liked it. At least, under normal circumstances. These, however, didn’t qualify as normal. Messed up with a healthy helping of oh Jesus. Aye. Absolutely. And as black magic seethed and the north wind howled, Tareek’s instincts screamed, urging him to fly faster.
“Garren . . . I think he’s in trouble.”
“Nothing new about that.”
Tareek huffed.
His commander growled. A moment later, metal clicked and hinges creaked. Something slammed against stone. A door, mayhap? Tareek tilted his head, listening to the sound of heavy footfall through the cosmic link. Aye. Definitely. Garren was on the move.
“Hold tight.” A thud sounded as Garren jumped from somewhere high. “Don’t do anything stupid. I will gather the others and come for you.”
“I’m going in now.”
“Tareek—”
“No choice,” he said, refusing to back down. No easy task. One of the oldest of their kind, his commander sat at the top of the food chain. Hard. Strong. Cold and merciless when needed. The kind of warrior another wanted at his back. Few disobeyed Garren on a good day. And no one tangled with the male and lived to tell of it. “I have to go. You would do the same for Xavian.”
Garren cursed. Not much else the male could do. His commander understood his dilemma. The bond he shared with Xavian, after all, rivaled his with Henrik. “Go after him, then get out. No fooling around. Until we know exactly what we’re dealing with, we err on the side of caution.”
“Agreed.” The wind picked up. The stench of decay grew stronger. Another round of unease rolled through him, making muscles tighten and his scales itch. Tareek shook off the discomfort. ’Twas no time for distraction. He neared the apex . . . was less than three miles from the outer marker buried beneath White Temple. Mere minutes from the Valley of the Blessed. “Come when you can. I’m just west of—”
“I know where you are,” Garren said, mining the unique energy signature Tareek carried like a scent to pinpoint his location. “Fucking White Temple. I hate that place.”
Didn’t they all?
Without a doubt. But hatred didn’t change the facts.
Or what he must do.
His aversion didn’t matter. Neither did the history. Or that he wanted to turn tail and fly in the opposite direction—avoid the fortress of the Order of Orm at all costs. Tareek snorted. Sparks flew from his nostrils, glowing like fireflies as he shook his head. Talk about an understatement. He’d gone to great lengths to do that very thing—refusing to venture into White Temple with Henrik—and yet, here he was, flying into the teeth of his past anyway.
“Later, Garren.”
“Make sure of it,” his commander said, concern melding with menace.
Tareek’s mouth curved. Flipping male. No one else could show love and threaten him at the same time . . . from over a hundred miles away.
With a quick twist, Tareek severed mind-speak and went wings vertical, slicing between two high cliffs. Rock rumbled. Shale rolled, cascading into an avalanche of jagged stone. The Limwoods rose, stretching into a black carpet beneath him. Eyes narrowed and night vision sharp, he mapped the terrain. His sonar pinged, gathering details, sifting through facts, fueling his flight. Banking right, he rose hard, then dropped low, swooping in over the lip of the dell. The valley dipped, then spread, opening up into a large web. The holy city rose at its center, pale stone walls shining in the gloom, the golden dome of High Temple a beacon in the dark and . . .
Black magic frothed in a wave of orange energy.
The impure aura throbbed, seething across the ground. Dragon senses alight, Tareek tracked the glow. His focus snapped to the right. He snarled, baring his fangs. There. On the main road. A lethal fighting force composed of . . .
His gaze narrowed. Nay. Not men at all.
The large pack was something else. Something more. A something he’d never encountered before. Still too far away to strike, he watched them move across the frozen landscape. Too fast to be human, the group ran like a pack of wolves, closing the distance between the outer wall and the cemetery with uncanny speed. Tareek exhaled on a growl. Creatures of immense power fueled by unnatural forces. Minions to the Prince of Shadows. An army to do his bidding. Servants sent to kill them all.
Rage rose in a ravenous wave.
As it bubbled up through the cracks in his guard, the buzz between his temples morphed into something more concrete. The signal lit off inside his head. Tareek sucked in a quick breath. Henrik. His friend was calling, laying down a cosmic trail for him to follow. Magic tightened its grip, narrowing his focus. His gaze swung toward the graveyard north of the high walls. Aboveground crypts and tombstones stood at odd angles, sharing the terrain with huge oaks and towering beeches, creating visual interference and a plethora of places to hide.
Good lad.
Henrik knew what he was doing. The stone monuments would not only provide cover but also buy them both time. Mayhap enough for him to intervene—to become Henrik’s shield before the pack reached him and the assassin Tareek loved like a son died an excruciating death.
***
Senses pinpoint sharp, Henrik sprinted beneath the canopy of a huge oak. Leafless and cold, brittle limbs swayed overhead, gnarled branches creaking in the quiet. The eerie rattle joined the throb inside his head. Painful now, the sting jabbed at his temples, killing hope along with comfort.
Gritting his teeth, Henrik flipped a mental switch and tried again.
The distress call spiraled out.
Nothing came back. No static swirl. No hint of connection. Just silence on the other end of a cosmic line.