Goddamn Tareek. Where the hell was he?
The question thumped against the inside of his skull. Henrik ignored the pain and leapt over a downed tree trunk. Slung over his shoulder, bottom up and head down, Cosmina bounced, then slid sideways in his hold. He shrugged, heaved her back into place, and upped the pace. She gasped, the sound of distress coming through clenched teeth. God bless her. No matter how hard he ran—or how rough the treatment—she refused to complain. A marvelous trait. Particularly since he couldn’t slow down. Or stop to make her comfortable. His speed meant continued safety, so . . .
No help for it. Much as it pained him, he had to keep running. And Cosmina needed to hold on. Bear down and stay strong . . . just a little longer.
Boots churning over icy ground, he took a tight turn into a narrow aisle. Thin skiffs of snow slithered underfoot. Twin crypts rose in the distance, blocking his view and—
He lost his footing and slid sideways.
Cosmina whimpered. He cursed and, fighting for balance, tightened his grip on the backs of her thighs. One moment shifted into the next. His feet found traction. Henrik sprang forward, slicing between two high tombstones. Almost there. Just a few more twists and turns. The instant he found a safe spot, he’d stop. See to Cosmina while he took stock and plotted his next move. The square crypts at the north end of the cemetery were the best bet. Good cover. Lots of alleyways and high walls to hide behind. Eyes scanning the terrain, he judged the distance, then glanced over his free shoulder. No Druinguari yet. No Halál either. Just violent wind gusts blowing snow into a white wall behind him. Thank Christ. Everything else might be wrong, but at least the weather cooperated, raging in his wake, helping to cover his tracks.
“Henrik . . .”
“Almost there,” he said, trying to ignore her discomfort, but . . . hell. It was hard. He didn’t like the weakness in her voice. Or the pain that drove it. “Not much farther.”
Cheek pressed to his back, a shiver rippled through her. “I don’t feel well.”
“I know.”
“Can we rest for a moment? Just a moment . . . please.”
“In a while. Hang on a bit longer.”
“How c-close . . .” Another shiver racked her, making her teeth chatter. “How c-close are they?”
Excellent question. One he didn’t want to answer. He mined the signal anyway, hunting for black magic, following the trace Halál threw into the air. The buzz inside his head intensified. Goddamn it. Not good news. The bastard was less than a mile away and closing fast.
Henrik swallowed a snarl. “We’ll make it.”
A half-truth. One with a fifty-fifty chance of being right.
Henrik knew it, but refused to take the lie back. Frightening her wouldn’t help. Misdirection, however, might. He needed her calm and thinking—able to run, hide, escape into the Limwoods while he protected her back—not terrified. Dwelling on what might happen never solved a problem. Or helped formulate a plan. His mind didn’t care, churning his mental wheels, burying him under an avalanche of what-ifs as he sprinted for the aboveground crypts. What if Halál caught up? What if Cosmina’s strength gave out and she couldn’t run? What if he failed to shield her?
Torture. Rape. Murder. In that order too.
Halál would show no mercy. The bastard never did. His former sensei always struck fast, finding a man’s weakness to inflict maximum damage. Physical. Mental. Emotional. Nothing was off-limits. And like it or nay, Halál knew exactly how to hurt him. Fear for Cosmina wound him tight. Dread joined the party, serving up a memory he longed to forget. But even as he shut recall down, blue eyes full of terror—full of tears—came back to haunt him.
Ah God. Not her. Again.
He hated when she invaded his thoughts. Shit, he didn’t even know her name, and yet, she refused to leave him in peace. To be expected. He didn’t deserve any. Not after what he’d done and she’d endured. The girl had been so young . . . so very innocent. A small slip of a thing who’d never hurt a soul and hadn’t deserved to die. Halál hadn’t cared. An order given was one meant to be followed . . . without question. Henrik had understood too late. Halál had made him pay for his hesitation, stripping the girl of dignity, ensuring she died hard to make a point, punishing Henrik for refusing to kill her.
It had been a test. One he’d failed. On his twelfth birthday.
His age shouldn’t have mattered. Youth was no excuse. Five years at Grey Keep had taught him well. He’d understood how to kill—quick and clean—even then. But by refusing his first kill, he’d made things worse. For himself certainly. But especially for her. Had he done as instructed and used his knife, she would’ve died with dignity. Instead she’d suffered . . .
Endless torment. Needless violence. Terrible pain.
All things at which Halál excelled.
But not tonight. This time would be different. What little honor he had left dictated the course. He would not fail Cosmina as he had the girl.
His boots crunched over an icy patch. Sound rippled, pinging off stone, rising beneath weak moonlight in the frosty air. Veering right, Henrik ducked behind a massive tombstone and slid to a halt. With a huff, he swung Cosmina off his shoulder. She clung to him for a moment, then let go. The second her feet touched down, her knees buckled. Quick reflexes allowed him to catch her. Cupping her shoulders, he helped her sit down. White puffs escaped between her lips, joining his, frosting the air between them as she struggled to catch her breath.
He cupped her cheek, anchoring himself, trying to comfort her. “All right?”
“A little seasick.”
Henrik huffed at the analogy. ’Twas an apt description. Especially since she’d just suffered a serious bout of bob-and-weave atop his shoulder. “We’ll rest here a moment. ’Twill help settle your stomach.”
“Gods, I hope so.” Auburn lashes flickered a moment before she looked right at him.
He frowned. “Cosmina . . . your eyes.”
“Is the color returning?”
Brushing his thumb over her eyebrow, he leaned closer. Thin fissures of dark green bled in from the outer edge of each iris, eating at the white, reaching for her pupils. It wasn’t much. Barely anything at all, but it gave him hope. If she could see, she could run. “Can you see anything?”
“Naught much. Just shadows, but ’tis a good sign.” Pushing her arms through the front fold of her cloak, she set his knife in her lap and cupped her hands. Both shook as she blew on her cold fingers. “A day, mayhap two, and my vision will return.”
“Good news.”
“’Twould be better if it happened faster.”
No question. But beggars couldn’t be choosers. He needed to work with what he had, not what she hoped would happen.
“How far away are we?” she asked, flexing her fingers to work blood back into the tips, making him wish he had gloves to give her.
“A league from the edge of the Limwoods.”
“Your dragon?”
“Not answering.”
“Try again, Henrik.” Sightless gaze fixed on him, she reached out and found his face. She fumbled a moment, fingertips sliding over his jaw before her palm settled against his cheek. “You can do it. Even while imprisoned, he was never far from you. A bond like that never dies.”
True enough. He’d felt it all his life. “Christ, ’tis eerie how much you know.”
“The curse of my gift,” she whispered, raising her other hand. Cold fingers touched the side of his throat a second before she pressed her thumb to his pulse point. “Try again.”
The north wind howled, pushing against his back.
Henrik didn’t fight it. Instead, he leaned in, feeling the warmth as her skin heated against his, and touched his forehead to hers. She murmured. He took the encouragement and opened his mind wide. She thought he could do it. He was willing to try—again and again—if only to keep her safe, far from harm’s way. Filling his lungs to capacity, he exhaled long and slow. Her thumb drifted over his jugular. Back and forth. A soft glide coupled with a smooth return. ’Twas hypnotic, a rare drift that helped him go with the flow. He sank deeper into her embrace.