“You two make for a pair of lovely targets up there.” Rich and deep, the quiet voice rolled on a French accent, drifting up from below.
Henrik shoved the painful memories aside and refocused. His eyes narrowed on the man-size shadow leaning against the smithy’s back wall. “You’re late, Andrei.”
“Not by much,” the Frenchman said, amusement in his tone.
“Anything?”
“Evidence of an encampment near the old stable east of here.” Andrei separated himself from the shadows. Moonlight glinted in his hair, illuminating red streaks within the brown. “A large group . . . at least twenty strong. The coals in the fire pit are still warm.”
“About goddamn time.” Henrik growled. He couldn’t help it. Finally. At last. After a month of searching and coming up empty, a group of Al Pacii assassins lay within reach. Just beyond the tips of his razor-sharp swords. But not for long if he got his way. “Find a trail?”
Andrei nodded. “Boot prints in fresh snow. Child’s play to track.”
“And Kazim?”
“With Tareek. Awaiting our signal from outside the city walls.”
Henrik’s mouth curved at the mention of his self-proclaimed protector . . . and new shadow. Well, at least, most of the time. Tonight, Tareek had opted out, refusing to enter White Temple. For a member of Dragonkind—a man able to shift from human to dragon at will—the action smacked of cowardice. Henrik knew better. He understood the rage Tareek battled day in and day out. Imprisoned for twenty years in dragon form by the former High Priestess of Orm, the dragon-shifter’s history with the Order was as brutal as his own.
So nay, he didn’t blame Tareek for his decision. Nor the aversion that drove it, as long as his friend kept to the code and provided backup when called.
With a quick shift, Henrik spun off his perch, falling into thin air. His hands caught on the lip of the stone wall. Dangling two hundred feet about the ground, bitter cold crept into his fingertips. He hung motionless for a moment, letting his muscles stretch, easing the tension before finding fingerholds and toeholds. Using the cracks between the chiseled blocks, he free-climbed toward the smithy’s hut. As he descended the vertical drop, Henrik visualized meeting the group of Al Pacii, readying himself for the battle to come. The images centered him, and he sank into aggression, allowing the predator deep inside him out of its cage.
Too bad Halál wouldn’t be among the enemy. He never was. The canny old goat didn’t venture beyond the walls of Grey Keep. Not anymore. A brilliant strategist, Halál ruled his assassins with an iron fist—and a sadistic nature—coordinating Al Pacii efforts from afar. Annoying, but effective. Just like the bastard’s assassins. Tonight, though, promised to be interesting. Thank God. Henrik needed a fight. Craved the flex of muscle and the chaos that always followed. Yearned to see his enemies’ blood flow while he completed his primary mission and procured the information he needed . . .
Answers.
He wanted some. Before the enemy slithered back under cover. Back into darkness . . . and the silence Halál used to hide his movements.
The change in tactic was a surprising one. Halál wasn’t one for subtlety. A master manipulator, the bastard always took the most direct route to reach a goal. Brazen. Straightforward. Front and center was more the Al Pacii leader’s style. So aye, the covert activity piqued his interest. Narrowed his focus too. Adjusting his grip on the slick stone, Henrik descended a few more feet, his mind circling the problem. What the hell was the bastard doing? Why stay hidden for over a month? What plan would necessitate such a strategy? The questions cranked him tight. Whatever the reason, it must be notable. Dangerous to the next power. Epic in a way that put Henrik on edge.
Particularly since he suspected the goddess might be right.
At least, this time around. If what she feared proved true, Halál was now in league with her archenemy, the Prince of Shadows.
Mood set to vicious, Henrik jumped the last few feet to the ground. Ice and snow crackled beneath his boots. Unmoving, he waited until Shay landed beside him. Expression set in lethal lines, his apprentice nodded a greeting to Andrei and unsheathed one of his swords. Henrik’s mouth curved. He couldn’t help it. Aye, the bratling might have a lot to learn, but swordplay wasn’t a lesson he needed. Shay’s skill with a blade was second to none, making difficult look downright easy.
Drawing an arrow from his quiver, Henrik notched it in his bow. Weapon at the ready, he tipped his chin at Andrei. “You lead. We’ll follow.”
“Merde, H.” Blue eyes glinting in the weak light, Andrei palmed his throwing stars. “Are you feeling all right? You never allow anyone else to lead, so . . . what? Got a fever? Feeling weak in the—”
“Shut it, Andrei, and get moving,” Henrik said, in no mood to be teased. Most of the time, he didn’t mind his friend’s sense of humor . . . or the affection that accompanied it. Right now, though, he could do without that kind of razzing. “I don’t want them slipping away.”
“Bien sûr.” Andrei flashed a set of pearly whites. “Slippery bastards always run when you show up.”
Shay snorted.
Henrik bared his teeth on a curse.
Andrei backed off and, footfalls silent, led the way into the mouth of a narrow alleyway. Wind gusts played in the open areas between buildings. Thin skiffs of snow blew around his legs, stripping the cobblestones, leaving icy patches on the ground. Henrik hardly noticed the cold. Eyes scanning the terrain, he slid in behind his comrades and tracked east toward the center of town. White Temple loomed, rising like a ghoul in the darkness. Unease swirled like frosty air, tightening its grip on his heart.
Pulling his bowstring taut, Henrik killed his disquiet. He could abide being this close. Could handle anything as long as he got to fight . . . to deliver a punishing blow to Halál by executing the bastards who served him. The battle couldn’t come fast enough. Henrik craved the kill almost as much as he needed to breathe. Mayhap then he’d be able to forget. To let history be just that . . . history. Even as he stood in the shadow of a place that still gave him nightmares.
CHAPTER THREE
The headache came on without warning. They always did. The rush throbbed against Cosmina Cordei’s temples, pulling at her scalp, making her jaw ache and her teeth hurt. Absorbing the pain, she forced one foot in front of the other. She must keep moving. Alone in the descending chill of midnight wasn’t a good time to be idle.
Or discovered, never mind cornered.
Given a choice, she would never have ventured out after dark. Night didn’t agree with her. Neither did White Temple, the one place she thought she’d never see again. And yet, after three days of traveling—and two nights spent braving the open road—here she stood, heart racing, fingertips numb, already deep inside the belly of the beast with only one thing on her mind . . .
The sacred ritual.
She must remember the words. Delve deep into the past—into unwanted history and brutal experience—and perform the rite without error before the full moon crested. If she didn’t . . . if she—
Worry tightened her throat. Tension sank deep, twisting her stomach into knots. She tried to smooth out the rough edges . . . to tell herself it would be all right. That she was being silly. That no danger lay inside the holy city. That the Goddess of All Things would protect and keep her. The deity she served had always done so, but as Cosmina held the mantra inside her mind—repeating it over and over, again and again—doubt seeped in, invading her certainty. Now she couldn’t quite bring herself to believe it. She swallowed past the lump in her throat. It had been so long, five full years since she’d left the temple and the Order of Orm. But despite everything—her unease, the awful stillness, the quiet desolation of White Temple—she refused to turn back.