Sweet Christ. Cosmina was once again in serious danger.
Her intentions were no secret. He knew she planned to return to the holy city. She’d told him as much while they’d lain in bed talking. The ancient rite she’d performed days ago held sway. The magical tether tugged, urging her home—the draw so strong it couldn’t be denied. Which meant . . . God help him. Cosmina might already be on her way back to White Temple.
“Tareek!” Spinning on his heel, Henrik searched the bluff behind him.
Magic snapped in the chilly air as Tareek uncloaked. Red scales and horned head glimmering in the sun, his friend tipped his chin. “What?”
“How long a flight is it to White Temple?”
“Balls out, no holds barred?”
Sliding his swords into the scabbards on his back, Henrik nodded.
“Three hours . . . minimum.”
“Let’s move.” Violence in his tone, his command rippled through the canyon.
His comrades obeyed without hesitation.
Multiple footfalls rang out, obliterating the quiet as his friends sprinted for Garren and Cruz, and he made for the bluff. But as Henrik climbed the rock face, reaching the top and Tareek in record time, worry rose and fear for Cosmina hit hard. Please God, let her be all right. Keep her inside the Limwoods with Thea and out of harm’s way. A plea filled with desperation? A losing roll in a game of chance? Naught more than a shot in the dark? Without a doubt. No question in his mind. He understood her well. Could practically hear her thinking from a hundred miles away.
Abandoned by him. Alone in her cottage. Angry and hurt.
’Twas a nasty combination.
One that made instinct rise and remorse circle. Three full days since he’d left her. She wouldn’t have waited. Not an extra hour, never mind an entire day. Cosmina was a fighter, prone to action, not wallowing. So aye, supposition be damned. ’Twas no longer a guessing game. Henrik knew she was already on the move, headed back to the holy city and into danger. And as he mounted up and Tareek took flight, Henrik sent a prayer heavenward, asking for help, pleading for mercy . . .
Praying he arrived in time to shield and keep her safe.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Traveling through a cosmic corridor made of black magic and mist, Halál relished the roar of sensation. The whiplash of spine-bending speed clawed at his skin. He hummed, welcoming the rush even though it wasn’t as satisfying as fighting. But Lucifer love him, it came awfully close. A definite second in a powerful pull rife with ferocious velocity. The ability to transport himself—and those who served him—over great distances with the wave of his hand. An excellent trick. Quite the magical coup. A gift courtesy of Armand, Prince of Shadows, and an exceptional skill to possess. Except for one thing . . .
He couldn’t control where the mist transported him.
Not yet anyway.
Every time he unleashed it, the magic-filled fog always sent him straight home. To Grey Keep, the Al Pacii stronghold he shared with the other Druinguari. Disappointing in so many ways. Particularly since he didn’t want to go home. He’d wanted to stay and fight—to transport himself out of Gorgon Pass to a prime shooting position atop the ridge instead of deep into the Carpathian Mountain Range . . . and far from the enemy. Not that he was complaining. Not really. He’d been in a vulnerable position inside the canyon, moments from seeing his soldiers slaughtered, and his own death. The thought left a sour taste in his mouth. Damn Henrik along with the rest. His defeat at the hands of The Seven surpassed failure. It represented disaster, a debacle of epic proportions.
The realization tweaked his temper.
Fury spiraled deep, making him long to draw his swords and return to Gorgon Pass. He wanted another chance. Needed to strike a telling blow and assuage his pride. But not now. It wouldn’t happen today. Not while the vortex sped him through space, refusing to heed his request and change course. Halál swallowed a growl. Protesting was a waste of good breath. The facts remained. Until he learned to master the skill, the mist would do as it always did—determine the trajectory, control the velocity, set him down where it pleased instead of where he wanted. Which left him suspended in flight with nothing but time on his hands. Time to strategize. Time to imagine. Time to plot his revenge against the warriors who served the Goddess of All Things.
A beautiful death. One that included torture and eventual decapitation.
With a snarl, Halál twisted into a flip mid-flight, testing the confines of the vortex. The walls expanded around him, making room, adjusting its tempo, speeding him toward Grey Keep. Orange light flared along its curved sides, flashing into angry bursts, reminding him of falling stars. All without causing him any discomfort. ’Twas a marvel in many ways. A sight to behold. Just like the bastards at Gorgon Pass.
The thought sped through his head even as he tried to shut it down. He didn’t want to think about it anymore, but . . . devil take him. He couldn’t let it go. Or live with the humiliation. His lip curled off his upper teeth. What a catastrophe.
The Seven posed a serious threat. They were far too cunning for anyone’s good.
Not surprising. To be expected even. Each warrior had been raised by the Order of Assassins. Fostered inside Grey Keep. Trained by him to be formidable assassins without conscience or mercy. He’d succeeded . . . marvelously. Add that to the magic he’d seen the bastards wield and . . . Halál frowned. ’Twas more than a problem. Set aside the combined viciousness of the group for a moment. Forget about Henrik’s vendetta and the warrior’s drive to make him pay for past pain. Combined, The Seven were impressive. But possessed of unlimited power derived from the Goddess of All Things? Well now, that signaled trouble. Throw a trio of dragons into the mix and . . .
Halál’s eyes narrowed.
Aye. Without a doubt. He needed to find a solution to the scaly beasts. The Seven’s alliance with The Three qualified as a huge advantage and a serious hurdle. One he must eliminate posthaste if he wanted to survive. And the Druinguari to thrive. Armand might accept an occasional setback, but not continued failure. Neither did Halál, under ordinary circumstances. These, though, were anything but ordinary. His former pupils knew his tactics well.
Proof positive lay in the aftermath of battle.
The betrayers had outmaneuvered him inside the gorge, turning his trap into their own. The ambush reeked of Henrik. The son of a bitch knew how to plan and execute, ensuring maximum damage in the process. A worthy adversary. On par with Xavian and just as lethal. He’d always liked that about Henrik. Until now. He’d lost three more Druinguari to the folly and the fight. Which meant he needed to rethink everything. All of his strategies along with how he implemented each one. Otherwise the assassins who now opposed him would gain more ground.
Unacceptable. Nowhere near optimal. Circumstances in need of change.
Mind churning, Halál flipped up and over, getting into position as his flight slowed. The vortex contracted around him. A pinprick of light expanded in the gloom, widening into a circle. Gaze locked on the opening, he spotted familiar terrain beyond the mist. A thinning forest, icy branches reaching for sunny skies. Jagged rock jutting from sheer cliff faces. Sloping valleys rising to meet snowcapped mountain peaks. Thick castle walls came into view. Muscles tense and body ready, he braced, preparing for impact. Any moment now. Just a few more seconds and—