A race to the bottom.
A fun one that had ended with bragging rights and a lot of backslapping. Which was why he shouldn’t be here. Xavian—his best friend and commander of The Seven—would kick his arse if he knew. Would tell him to go back to bed and get some rest, but . . .
He couldn’t sleep. For the fifth moonrise in a row.
’Twas the damnedest thing. Most nights he slept like the dead. But times changed, and now he suffered the effects. Tension ate at him, pricking along his spine, pulling worry to the surface. He needed to sleep. Felt the draw and tug of fatigue even now—while brisk winds bit and the moon shone bright—but everything he tried failed. Warm milk with honey before bedtime? Nothing. A ball-busting training session after supper? No results. Reading ancient texts until his eyes grew gritty and his mind numbed from boredom? A big fat zero on the sliding slumber scale. ’Twas beyond frustrating.
Particularly since he knew the cause. Or at least, thought he did. And still couldn’t do a thing about it.
Flexing his fingers, Cristobal glanced down at the back of his hand. His knuckle points stared back at him. He debated a moment, then gave into the urge, and shoved at his shirtsleeve. Butter-soft linen slid up his forearm and . . . rahat. No change. The lines were still there. Weren’t getting any better either. Fine and precise, an invisible hand drew on his skin, weaving black lines in and out, creating a pattern that, as of yet, remained incomplete. A conclusion based in presumption? Probably. He couldn’t be certain, after all, the tattoo lay unfinished. But then, he didn’t need to be sure.
Instinct never lied. Neither did the truth. Or the fact he hadn’t asked for the black ink.
He’d woken from a deep sleep six nights ago, the sting almost unbearable, to discover the tattoo starting on the backs of both hands. Now it crawled like creeping vines, staining his skin, burning deep into flesh until he felt it in his bones.
Strange. Painful. Scary as hell.
And clearly not done yet.
His lip curled as the lines slid over his right forearm. With a rough yank, he checked his left arm. Same design. Identical marks forming twin patterns. No deviation in contour as each headed for his elbows. Cristobal blew out a shaky breath. Not normal. Hell, no wonder he couldn’t sleep. Forget the agony—the constant sting of the unnatural tattoos. Put aside his resistance to, well . . . whatever the hell was happening to him. He’d already buried the fear six feet under. ’Twas the voice inside his head he couldn’t stand. Like a gong being struck, the witchy whisper beat against his temples. Over and over. Again and again. Always the same words . . .
Find her. Find her. She needs you . . . find her.
Cristobal yanked his shirt cuff back down. The rough movement raked along his forearm. Anguish scraped across his skin. Balanced on the balls of his feet, he snarled at the mountain peaks rising in the distance.
“Ma rahat,” he said through clenched teeth.
None of it made any sense. Not the burn of creeping tattoos. Not the words shredding the inside of his skull. Not the urgency he felt either. He didn’t even know her name. Who the hell was she? And why in God’s name did she need him? The annoying chant came again. Find her. Find her. She needs you . . . find her. More questions circled. Per usual, answers refused to follow. He snorted. Like he should expect anything less? Nothing ever came easy. Solutions to problems enjoyed playing coy and never arrived out of the blue. The world didn’t work that way. A mystery required legwork and razor-sharp intellect to solve. So . . .
Time to stop stewing and step up his game.
Avoiding the inevitable wasn’t his thing. Neither was panic. And honestly, he’d never been the idle sort. Trained to kill, the most talented tracker in an order full of elite assassins, he preferred to be on the move—hunting, shadow walking, taking down his prey. Which meant he needed to tell someone. His gaze on the snaking current of the river, Cristobal frowned. Mayhap he should talk to Xavian and reach out to Afina. A magic wielder and High Priestess to the Order of Orm, she possessed a direct line to the Goddess of All Things, the deity he now served. Mayhap if he shared the problem—showed her the ink and incomplete tattoos—she would know what to do. Or at the very least, explain what the hell was happening to him.
Nerves got the better of him.
He shoved the angst aside. Hiding the ink was foolhardy. He needed help. Could no longer deny the pain or contain his worry, so . . . aye, despite the need to solve his own problems, ’twas past time he sought aide from his best friend. With a quick shift, Cristobal pivoted atop the wall. His boots brushed against stone. Sound whispered, drifting on frigid air as he—
A door slammed open. Wood banged against stone, shredding the silence.
Cristobal’s focus snapped toward the main entrance.
Eyes aglow, Garren roared over the threshold, then down the stairs, heading for the wide-open space of the inner bailey. Hot on his heels, Cruz, the youngest of the dragon-shifters, made tracks in his commander’s wake. Cristobal went on high alert. Rahat. Not good. Calm, cool, and collected most of the time, not much upset the dragon-shifter. But as he scanned Garren’s face and read his expression, he knew—just knew—the warrior carried bad news. Taut muscle rippling, Cristobal leapt from his perch. His feet touched down on the rampart. Garren looked up from the bottom step and nailed him with shimmering violet eyes.
Cristobal tipped his chin. “What?”
“Trouble.” His deep voice rose on a wave of magic, making Cristobal’s skin prickle in warning. Massive shoulders rolling, Garren broke eye contact and jogged across the inner bailey. His destination: the blacksmith’s shop. Or more precisely, the bedchamber hidden behind it. “I will rouse Xavian. Find Razvan. We fly for White Temple as soon as all are assembled in the courtyard.”
Ah hell. White Temple.
The location could only mean one thing. Henrik and the others were in danger. Which meant Tareek was in the thick of it. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. No wonder Garren smelled of unease and moved like the wind.
Urgency pumped through him.
Putting his boots to good use, Cristobal ran the length of the walkway. Footfalls hammering stone, he reached the door at his end, yanked it open, and crossed into a large chamber. Sprinting across Afina’s healing room, he skirted the huge table at its center and made for the double doors on the other side. The keep proper lay beyond, and his comrade’s chamber along the first corridor. He must move fast. No time to waste. The quicker he hauled Razvan out of bed, the sooner Henrik would have the help he needed.
***
Candlelight flickered, casting odd patterns across the white walls. Alone in the weaving room, sitting in front of her favorite loom, Nairobi Brue watched the eerie shadows dance and listened for the telltale creak of wooden floorboards. Naught yet. No low rumble of male voices. No scrape of footfalls or the soft rattle of weaponry. Naught but the chill of midnight and blessed silence. Thank goodness. She needed the extra time. Enough to find her courage and settle her nerves. She couldn’t afford any mistakes. Not tonight. Everything rested on the next few minutes.
On her ability to forge ahead and make something out of nothing.
Hands moving at a furious pace, she tied another knot in the makeshift cloth rope. Another few lengths of wool, and she would be on her way. A hop, skip, and a jump from tying one end to the window frame, climbing down to the pathway below, and running hard for the garden gate, but . . . not yet. She needed every advantage. Must wait a while longer even though fear circled, making her palms sweat and her want to flee now.