His friend huffed. “Helluva pair to own. Lethal one moment, naught but kittens the next.”
Cristobal grinned. True enough. But in the best possible way. Aye, the hellhounds were dangerous, but they could be controlled and leashed . . . by him. Proof positive lay in the fact they obeyed him on command. Hell, Thrax even rolled over, exposing her belly when he asked. Praising her with his touch, he held her in place—back pressed to the ground, four legs up in the air—and, pivoting toward Vicars, asked for her paw. Mismatched eyes full of trust, she set it in his hand and . . . huh. Interesting. Seven claws instead of the usual five—razor-sharp, bladelike, at least five inches long, with a hooked tip.
Incredibly lethal. Death with one forceful swipe.
“Hey, Xavian?”
“Aye?”
“Come here a moment.”
“No way in hell.”
Still holding Vicar’s paw, Cristobal eyed his best friend. “You want to get eaten?”
Releasing the death grip on his weapons, Xavian grimaced.
“Then come here. I need to introduce you. Otherwise they won’t accept you.” Murmuring to his new pets, he issued a command. Both hellhounds leapt to obey, sitting on their haunches in front of him as Cristobal pushed to his feet. His face wiped of expression, Xavian stopped alongside him and, making a fist, offered his hand to the pair. The instant the hellhounds caught and accepted Xavian’s scent, Cristobal dismissed them both. As the twins went exploring, noses to the ground, he glanced sideways at his friend. “Anything from Henrik?”
Xavian nodded. “’Tis what I came to tell you. Tareek brought word.”
Cristobal tipped his chin, asking without words.
“’Tisn’t good.” Rolling his shoulders, his friend cracked his knuckles. Sound ricocheted, bouncing off rock, bringing the hellhounds’ heads around. Two sets of eyes narrowed on him. Seeing naught amiss, each went back to exploring. “Halál and Al Pacii have turned.”
“Into what? Magic wielders?”
“Not quite, but close. Druinguari . . . minions to the Prince of Shadows,” Xavian said. “We need to get up trail. Henrik’s got a plan.”
“Always interesting.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“Fill me in.” With a quick pivot, Cristobal strode for the mouth of the mountain trail. With a low whistle, he called Thrax and Vicars to attention. Twin snarls echoed in answer. He murmured a command. The pair transformed, dematerializing into black blurs, each leaping the distance to reach his forearms. Sharp pinpricks licked across his skin as the hellhounds became one with the tattoos. Shaking off the sting, he rounded a boulder and headed for camp. “I want details.”
Keeping pace alongside him, Xavian laid out the plan, providing Cristobal with the timeline. Less than an hour to get into position and ambush a pack of Druinguari. Excellent. A bold strategy that necessitated acting fast and being smarter. Not a problem under normal circumstances. The information relayed, however, didn’t inspire confidence. It felt thin, smacked of the unknown and all kinds of challenge.
Particularly if the enemy proved almost impossible to kill.
Then again, he now held an interesting advantage. Something as dangerous as the sorcery Xavian and his other comrades wielded. Two hellhounds. Monsters rooted in magic, packing a whole lot of vicious and even more lethal. A handy pair to own. An even better weapon to unleash when Henrik lit the fuse and the battle got under way.
***
Hidden within a copse of spruce overlooking the Carpathian foothills, Henrik rechecked his blades and studied the terrain. The winter wind blustered, blowing against his back. Granular snow whipped around tree trunks, leaving bare patches in some spots and piles in others. Not a problem. The day provided all he needed. Sunny afternoon, clear skies, no new snowfall, and all the high ground he needed to set the trap. Scanning the terrain through the spread of branches, he slid his last dagger into its sheath, then tested the tautness of his bow and slung it over his shoulder. Weapons at the ready—check, check, and triple check.
Optimal conditions heading into battle.
Excellent in every way.
The advantage should’ve made him happy. Halál and the Druinguari, after all, lay within striking distance. The buzz between his temples told the tale, helping him pinpoint the enemy’s location—a thousand yards downhill, lying in wait on either side of the narrow trail just over the next rise. Knowing he held the high ground and upper hand, however, didn’t improve his mood. Discontent circled instead, picking him apart, making him ache with the need to go back instead of move forward. Henrik clenched his teeth. ’Twas the height of stupidity. Distraction equaled trouble. Mistakes got made that way. So aye, his lack of focus was a problem—dangerous in more ways than one considering the killer he kept caged rattled his mental bars, begging for freedom . . .
Dying to get out.
The mere hint of battle—the pleasure of drawing his blades—always had the same effect. It invigorated him. Cranked the tension tight. Shoved the past back into the box where it belonged, allowing him to stay in the here and now. Except . . .
The usual wasn’t working today.
No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t put the last few days behind him. His mind remained fixed on Cosmina. On the way he’d left her. On the note and what it contained. On the hurt he imagined flaring in her eyes when she read it. Goddamn it. Not good. He was a bastard for doing that to her. For not making a clean break. For leaving her with the knowledge that she meant more to him than a fast fling over a few days.
For telling her that he loved her.
He never should’ve done that. Never should have opened his heart, never mind admit how he felt about her. But it was too late. He couldn’t go back and unwrite the note. And honestly, Henrik wasn’t sure he wished to anyway. Which made him worse than a bastard. It qualified him as a first-rate fool. Acknowledging the truth, however, didn’t stop the ache. It simply made it worse. Now he throbbed with it, the pain so persistent errant urges rose to taunt him. He wanted to go back. Right now. Say to hell with it, mount up, ride off, and return to her. If only to hold her one more time.
Henrik huffed. God, he was an idiot . . . for so many reasons. Not the least of which included—
“Henrik.” Boots crunching through crusty snow, Andrei stopped alongside him. His friend threw him a measured look. “Pull your head out of your arse. We need you focused.”
True enough. “I’m good.”
Disbelief in his expression, Andrei’s gaze bore into his.
“No need to worry,” he said, meeting the death stare head-on while he lied to his friend. Andrei’s eyes narrowed. Henrik ignored the perusal and, rolling his shoulders, glanced behind him. Kazim stood at the ready, dark eyes sharp, body loose. Shay, on the other hand, took a different approach. Wet stone in hand, he sharpened one of his blades. The familiar rasp of stone against steel settled Henrik down, calming him in ways naught else could. Dragging his gaze from his comrades, he met Andrei’s. “We all set?”
“The horses are ready.”
Henrik nodded and went over the plan one more time. Pictured the terrain in his mind’s eye. Thought about each move. Visualized how Halál would react and marshal his assassins when he realized the horses galloped into the bottleneck on the narrow trail. By then, it would be too late. Henrik would already be in position, at the enemies flank, weapons drawn, lethal at the ready while Xavian moved in from the opposite direction. Tareek and the other dragons would seal the deal, cutting off any chance of Druinguari retreat.
A good plan. One that would get him what he most wanted . . .