Halál dead. And the Druinguari six feet under alongside him.
“Just so you know . . .” Henrik paused to check his blades one more time. Staring at spruce needles half-buried in snow, he palmed individual knife hilts, sliding each from its sheath, then back in again. Steel whispered against leather. He threw Andrei a sidelong look. “When this is done, I plan to go back for her.”
“And you wish me to know this . . .” As he trailed off, Andrei raised a brow. “Why?”
Henrik shrugged. He didn’t know. Feelings weren’t his forte. Neither was admitting to having any, never mind sharing them. Years spent in isolation had taught him well. He knew the rules. Had accepted the curse of his kind long ago. Never show fear. Never surrender. Never allow anyone close enough to hurt him. All excellent entries in a belief system that kept him detached . . . out of harm’s way in the emotional realm. With Cosmina, though, he didn’t want to keep his distance. Instinct urged him to get closer instead. To claim her while opening himself up for her to do the same.
Odd in many ways. True in even more.
Which meant he couldn’t walk away. Not yet. Not until he knew for certain. He wanted to give what he felt for her a chance. The why of it didn’t matter. Happiness. Need. Desire. All took a turn, digging in, twisting him tight as hope collected inside his heart, making all the what-ifs stream into his head. What if she loved him back? What if she missed him as much as he did her? What if she forgave what he’d done and accepted him back into her arms . . . into her life?
Excellent questions. Every one of them in need of answering.
“’Tisn’t a good idea, H.”
Of course it wasn’t. Henrik glared at his friend anyway.
“I do not say this to hurt you, brother,” his friend murmured, his accent floating like a fragrance on the north wind. “There is no harm in wanting her. A dalliance is one thing, but claiming her?” Andrei paused for effect, the silence driving the point home before he shook his head. “You are chasing heartache, Henrik. She is a member of the Blessed, meant to serve at White Temple. You are one of us. Your home is Drachaven. ’Twill end badly . . . for both of you.”
Polar opposites. Black and white. Her light colliding with his dark.
Henrik didn’t care. Despite their differences, he wanted her anyway. Staring at the snow swirling between his boots, he sighed. Andrei was no doubt right. ’Twas madness to yearn for a woman he would only hurt in the end.
Thumping Andrei on the shoulder with his fist, Henrik pivoted toward the others. He met his comrades’ gazes, each one in turn. “Make it count. Show no mercy.”
“We never do,” Kazim said, his voice little more than a growl.
Shay flexed his fists. “Let’s move.”
With a nod, Henrik walked toward his mount. Ice crunched beneath his boot treads as he left the protective cove of the large spruces. The wind picked up, wiping snow across frozen turf, making branches creak and his violent nature rise. The calm he wore in battle settled around him like a winter cloak, clothing him in silent aggression. Henrik rolled his shoulders, accepting its weight, relishing the emotional chill and the absence of conscience.
His warhorse pawed the ground, snorting in greeting.
Henrik murmured back and, gripping her mane, swung into the saddle. Leather groaned. His mount shifted, muscles bunching in preparation. His need to find a fight as great as his steed’s, he set heels to his horse’s flanks. She leapt forward, strides lengthening, hooves cracking through the underbrush toward the trail beyond the forest’s edge. His comrades behind him, Henrik wheeled around a huge oak, then caught air, jumping over a fallen log. His warhorse landed in the middle of the pathway.
Sharp sound rippled, cracking through the quiet. With a quick flick of the reins, he turned his mount west. It wouldn’t be long now. Gorgon Pass, and the low bluffs rising on either side of the trail, lay just ahead. One more bend in the narrow roadway. A single straightaway, and he’d be in the monster’s throat. No turning back. Little chance of retreat. Weapons drawn for one purpose . . .
Killing the man—minion, beast, bastard turned Druinguari, whatever—responsible for a lifetime of pain. Which meant the more noise he made on approach, the better.
Stealth wasn’t part of the plan. He wanted Halál to hear him coming. Needed his former sensei to make assumptions. Leap to the wrong conclusion. Believe he had Henrik beat so the Druinguari committed to the ambush and entered the canyon. The instant the enemy put boots on the ground, Henrik would make each and every one of them pay. Game over. No mercy. Just death as he brought an end to Halál and those who served him.
Urging his mount to greater speed, Henrik rounded the bend and reached out with his mind. “Tareek, where are you?”
“Cloaked and in position to the east of Gorgon Pass.”
“Garren and Cruz?”
“Same . . . one north, the other south.” Scales rattled, coming through mind-speak. “Xavian and the others await your signal on the west side.”
“Get ready.”
Tareek snorted. “Born ready, fratele.”
In the straightaway now, Henrik leaned in, got low, and unleashed his magic. Cold air snapped. Snow flurries flew, whirling in his wake as he conjured the spell. The cloak of invisibility flared, moving up and over to swallow him whole. As he disappeared into thin air, he tightened his grip on the magical shield, expanding it to include those riding behind him. Senses keen, he heard his comrades murmur in appreciation. Henrik ignored the accolades and, eyes moving over the entrance into the canyon, scanned the forest on either side of the trail. Nothing yet. No Druinguari hidden in the bracken. No intensification of the buzz between his temples. Just a narrow roadway funneling past rocky outcroppings into Gorgon Pass. Worn by weather and time, twin columns rose on either side of the opening, jagged stone teeth rounding the corners into the gorge beyond.
“Almost there. Moments out.”
Tareek growled. “Give me a count.”
Gaze riveted to his target, Henrik kicked from his stirrups. His hand tightened on the reins. His feet touched down, one in the center of the saddle, the other atop his warhorse’s rump. “Three. Two . . .”
Stone columns sped past.
Shaped like an oval, Gorgon Pass opened up, widening in the center only to narrow again at the opposite end. Inhuman snarls erupted, echoing off serrated walls and across the gorge. Movement flashed in his periphery. Sunlight glinted off sword edges as the Druinguari took the bait and gave away their positions along the bluff’s edge.
“One!”
Teeth bared, muscles taut, Henrik made the leap. Wind whistled in his ears. The wide ledge along one side of the gorge rose to greet him. He landed with a bone-jarring thump. The cloak of invisibility warped, contracting around him. Bearing down, Henrik held the spell in place and—sweet Christ. It was working. He was doing it. His magic was holding, rendering him invisible, protecting his comrades, confusing the Druinguari as riderless horses thundered into the center of the canyon . . .
Drawing the enemy’s fire.
Black-shafted arrows flew overhead. Druinguari leapt from their hidey-holes as the first flurry hammered the ground and the stone wall above his head. Ducking the barrage, Henrik skidded across the outcropping and behind a row of rocks. One knee down, the other foot flat on the ground, he palmed his bow and drew an arrow. The shaft rasped free of his quiver. Eyes narrowed on the nearest Druinguari, he steadied his grip and let loose. The bowstring twanged. The arrow flew straight and true, speeding across the canyon and—crack! It stuck hard, puncturing the right side of the Druinguari’s chest. The enemy roared in agony a second before—