She must remember the words . . .
Or die trying.
Arms and legs pumping, Cosmina vaulted onto the first step. Wasting no time, she took the treads two at a time. Her satchel banged against the outside of her thigh. An ache bloomed at the base of her skull, clanging like a warning bell. Cosmina ignored its seductive pull. She didn’t have time for nonsense, never mind another vision. She was close. So close now. Twenty feet at most, and she would skirt the altar and slide to a stop in front of the wall carvings. The pictographs told the history of White Temple, but also served as a ruse. The intricate design rose in an impressive sweep, colorful images camouflaging the keyhole that unlocked the door into the Chamber of Whispers.
The ball of her foot connected on the top tread. A difficult jump. A quick shift in midair, and she leapt over the iron railing. With the quiet grace of a cat, she landed on the other side. Boot soles slapping against tarnished marble, she flipped her cloak over her shoulders. Raising her chin, she reached beneath her leather hauberk and pulled out the silver disc she wore on the end of a delicate chain. Engravings on one side, raised metal on the other, the ancient key settled in her palm as she sighted the identical indentation hidden in the wall design. She came even with the gilded corner of the huge altar.
A whisper of sound slithered through the quiet.
Cosmina’s attention snapped left, but—
A man appeared in her path, materializing out of thin air.
“Gods!” Her shout rippled, slamming through the rotunda.
Arms and legs churning, she reversed course, trying to stay out of range. But it was too late. Locked on, the warrior moved in for the kill. With a quick stride and even faster hands, he fisted the front of her mantle. He growled. She squawked as he lifted her off the floor. Fear spun her around the lip of insanity. By the gods, where had he come from? A good question. One that left her head the instant her attacker spun around and let go, launching her through the air.
Breath locked in her throat, Cosmina braced for impact. Oh goddess. She was in for a terrible tumble, a hard landing, one that wasn’t going to be—
She collided with the top of the altar.
Whiplashed into a death skid, she spun across the golden surface. Dust flew. Panic shrieked, banding around her rib cage. Chest tight, heart throbbing against her breastbone, Cosmina grasped for purchase. Too little, too late. She was already falling. With a gasp, she hurtled over the edge and slammed into the floor on the other side.
CHAPTER FOUR
Henrik cursed as he lost his grip on the intruder. He heard the gasp of alarm. Saw the pint-size body whirl through the air and the dark cloak billow around the hat on the boy’s head. All without him moving a muscle to help. Mayhap ’twas the shock of losing control. Mayhap ’twas the idea he no longer knew his own strength. Mayhap ’twas the god-awful magic coursing through his veins. Or the combination of the three, but . . . ah hell. The reasons didn’t matter. Only one thing held true . . .
He shouldn’t be standing around watching it happen.
Some sort of action seemed necessary. Chief among the options included intervening to stop the scamp’s violent tumble. A good plan, but for one considerable problem. The second the realization took root, the boy rotated into a death skid and plummeted off the other side of the altar. A vicious thud echoed, ricocheting through the rotunda.
A soft groan followed.
Henrik winced, feeling the boy’s pain, hating that he’d caused it. Lovely. Just terrific. Completely idiotic too. Empathy wasn’t his usual fare. Neither was regretting something he couldn’t change.
Not that his newfound conscience cared.
The thing kept poking at him, squawking when he least expected. A problem. A serious one, considering he’d never felt guilty about anything until a few months ago. The fact he’d somehow grown a conscience in so little time annoyed the hell out of him. Assassins didn’t care. His kind killed. Obliterated. Maimed and eviscerated. Concern didn’t come into it. Neither did second-guessing himself. Somehow, though, the killer he kept caged—and unleashed on a regular basis—cared far too much now.
With a sigh, Henrik shoved the hood of his heavy cloak off his hair. As the wool folded around the base of his neck, he shook his head. There was something wrong with him. No way should he feel bad about the rough treatment. Particularly since the boy was inside the holy city, a place he shouldn’t be anywhere near. White Temple wasn’t for the masses. Or wayward boys who wanted a taste of adventure, but . . . goddamn it. Even as he told himself the interloper deserved his skull thumped, contrition struck, knocking the wind out of an excellent argument.
Sweet Christ. Talk about bad timing. And untapped strength. He hadn’t meant to toss the boy, but well . . . hell. He’d expected a boy of that size to weigh a lot more.
Another low moan rose from behind the altar.
“Brilliant, H.” Tone hushed, the French accent crept up the wide-faced staircase. Andrei followed, stepping from the shadows flanking the base of a massive column. “Taken to brutalizing infants now, have you?”
“Stow it, Andrei.” Glancing over his shoulder, Henrik tossed his friend an annoyed look, then switched focus. The boy still hadn’t gotten up. His brows collided as a list of potential injuries streamed into his head. Had the scamp hit his head on the edge of the altar? Had he broken a bone upon impact? Was he even now bleeding all over the marble floor? Angst tightened Henrik’s chest. “Keep your eyes open.”
“The bastards are here somewhere,” Shay said, his quiet voice drifting down from somewhere high. Henrik scanned the narrow architectural frieze situated at the top of the pillars. He found his apprentice on the first go-around. Henrik huffed. He should’ve guessed. The young assassin preferred heights—enjoyed scaling monster cliffs most skilled climbers would never attempt. “The city stinks of them.”
Leather rasped against steel as Andrei palmed his throwing stars.
“I sense them. ’Tis like an uncomfortable prickle, a buzz between my temples,” Henrik murmured, feeling the strange slither of sensation. The zing made his skin tighten, awakening senses he hadn’t known he possessed. ’Twas as though his magic reacted to another kind . . . a darker presence within the holy city. “Do you feel that?”
Andrei shook his head. “Non, but footprints in snow never lie.”
“Neither does Henrik’s gut,” Shay said, speculation in his gaze. “I don’t feel it either, H. Can you track it?”
“Unclear.” Henrik frowned. “I feel it, but the connection is weak. I don’t know if I can follow the trail.”
“Allow me.” Blue eyes narrowed, Andrei stepped back into the shadows. “I will go—”
“Nay. We stay together.” The hum inside Henrik’s veins intensified. He tuned in, tracking the slither and slide, trying to understand. He’d never felt anything like it. Another new skill? A symptom of all the goddess’ meddling? Excellent questions. Ones best left for another time. The sensation kept shifting, becoming a pulse of warning, telling him Al Pacii assassins closed the gap, heading their way. “Strength in numbers.”
As his comrades murmured in assent, Henrik strode around the end of the altar. He needed to get the boy moving toward the nearest exit. The sooner he left, the better. No way he wanted the scamp anywhere near the coming battle. The enemy wouldn’t care that he was an innocent caught in the cross fire. Regardless of his tender age, the Al Pacii bastards would gut and leave him to bleed out on the temple floor.
No mercy. No second chances. Just a slow, hard death.