Knight Awakened (Circle of Seven #1) Read online

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2012 by Coreene Callahan

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance

  P.O. Box 400818

  Las Vegas, NV 89140

  ISBN-13: 9781612183039

  ISBN-10: 1612183034

  For you.

  I knew the moment we met you were worthy and would find the one destined to love you.

  I’m so glad I was right.

  The Prophecy

  And out of the ashes seven warriors shall rise.

  Bringers of death, they shall wreak vengeance upon the earth, until shadow is driven into darkness and only the light remains.

  —The Chronicles of Al Pacii:

  written in the hand of Seer

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  TRANSYLVANIA–AD 1331

  It was twilight when he made his move, the moment day folded into dusk, the space between light and shadow. He’d watched her all day, marked her progress through the marketplace between stalls and calling vendors, watched her and the little one go about their business never knowing he trailed like a phantom in their wake. A hunter tracking his prey. Now, concealed by the twisted limbs of large beech trees, he watched from across the clearing as she ushered the girl-child over the threshold and closed the planked door behind them.

  His gaze centered on the tiny stone cottage. Xavian Ramir absorbed every detail—the thinning thatched roof, the crumbling chimney, the missing mortar between the stones, and the aging wheelbarrow beside the small garden—then scanned the shadowed forest beyond as he’d been trained to do. Study the angles. Flesh out the target. Define the variables. Old habits died hard. An unfortunate truth for the woman preparing to eat her evening meal.

  He smelled the stew. Rabbit, most likely. The decadent aroma mingled with the grey curl of wood smoke as it escaped, twisting up to meet a darkening sky. His stomach growled. Xavian ignored the discomfort and distracted himself by picturing her. Raven hair spilling over the curve of her shoulder, she stirred the pot, hazel eyes intent on its thickening contents. Aye, he’d been close enough to see them, memorize their shape, the exotic up-tilted outer corners framed by dark brown lashes. He saw the supple curve of her cheek, the lushness of her lips, and imagined them wrapped around something other than the wooden spoon she no doubt used to taste the gravy.

  The muscles roping his lower abdomen tightened. Aye, she was a tidy little bundle, but that didn’t explain why Vladimir Barbu, new lord to Transylvania, wanted her. Hunted her, had gone to extremes to find her. Not entirely, at least. The recently ascended voivode might want the lass in his bed, but Xavian guessed the reasons the warlord had hired him struck closer to the coffers than his heart. What did she have that Vladimir wanted?

  ’Twas a question that bothered him more than he liked. Curiosity was a luxury, one he couldn’t afford. For an assassin operating at the top of his game, the curse of conscience signaled trouble...the kind he wished he’d never met. But now that he’d been bitten, the bug—the need to know—burrowed beneath his skin, festering until he itched to solve the mystery. So now he must decide. What was more important? The coin he needed to see countless boys rescued and his fledging academy through the coming winter, or her life. He hated to choose. A mother. Jesu, he hadn’t expected that. He flexed his hand and felt the gash on his forearm throb with the movement. The injury was courtesy of a brother-in-arms, the latest in a long line of those sent to kill him.

  “Ram?” the soft voice, vibrant with the fullness of youth, came from behind.

  Qabil. His new apprentice, borrowed without permission. Hell, borrowed. ’Twas a matter of opinion, one the old man would dispute with his dying breath. Mayhap stolen was a better word. Xavian’s lips curved, finding satisfaction in the theft. But as much as he relished the blow to his former master, thankfulness took precedence. Qabil hadn’t been with the bastard long enough and still possessed the wonder of innocence, and despite himself Xavian was grateful the lad had been spared.

  Xavian glanced over his shoulder, dipping his chin to acknowledge the call. With a flick, he undid the buckle in the center of his chest, slid the double harness from his shoulders, down his arms, and handed the twin swords he favored to Qabil.

  The lad blinked, alarm darkening his eyes. “But—”

  “Hold them,” he said, not wishing to explain he didn’t want to frighten the woman or her child. His presence—his size and strength—would do that well enough without being armed to the teeth. The fact he was rarely without the weapons made him itch to strap them back on. He felt exposed without the curved blades on his back, though it meant naught in the scheme of things. He needed her occupied, unsuspecting while he made his decision.

  Wide-eyed, Qabil’s hands shook as he hugged the weapons to his chest. “What if the hunters track us here?”

  “Quick in. Quick out,” he said, understanding the lad’s fears. Halál’s hunter assassins were naught to scoff at when they came in packs. Less than a full day’s ride wasn’t enough distance. Xavian knew it—so did Qabil—but he couldn’t leave the woman. Not now. “Keep the horses ready.”

  Xavian waited until his apprentice lowered his gaze and nodded before he turned his attention back to the cottage. Tension coiling in the pit of his stomach, he listened to the boy’s footfalls fade, then said, “Cristobal, you’re with me. The rest of you spread out. If she runs, I want all escape routes blocked.”

  Like the ghosts they’d learned to be, Cristobal and Razvan shifted out of shadow while Andrei and Kazim dropped from swaying tree limbs above. They landed on silent feet behind him, not a whisper of sound to indicate their presence. Faded beech leaves scattered across the turf as his men moved to flank him. Dressed in black from head to toe, their clothes were designed with precision in mind and mirrored his own. Each of them lived in the dark, thrived on silence and the spaces between, the ones devoid of emotion and lined with simplicity. None of them liked ambiguity and sure as hell didn’t accept hesitation in the role they’d been forced into playing.

  Cristobal raised a brow. “Uneasy?”

  “Nay.” Xavian shook
his head. “Merely undecided.”

  “The plan?” Andrei asked, the richness of his French accent alight with purpose.

  “Reconnaissance.” Pushed by a gentle breeze, the dark leaves of the beech murmured as he admitted, “I wish to know more.”

  The least bloodthirsty of their group, Razvan nodded. “I don’t like the bastard...He lied.”

  “Mayhap,” Xavian said, unconcerned for the moment about Vladimir and his motives. His focus was on the lass and the mystery of her circumstances. He couldn’t deny his curiosity, a novel prickling sensation he didn’t often experience. “Liar or nay, his coin is still good.”

  Kazim snorted, amusement alive in his dark eyes.

  Acknowledging the humor with a shrug, Xavian palmed the dagger he kept snug against the small of his back. The blade rasped against leather, the whisper sounding loud in the silence. A crease between his brows, he set the point to his forearm, to the wound left by the former comrade he’d sent to the devil but days ago. He fisted his hand, inhaled sharply, and with a flick, opened the gash. A red rivulet, heated by life’s essence, tracked south across the back of his hand as he left his men to move into position. Eyes on the cottage door, he strode toward the inevitable, blood dripping from his fingertips.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Her heart ached. It always did when she thought of Bianca. Sitting at the rickety wooden table spoon-feeding her sister’s daughter proved no exception. Sabine, with her golden hair and gentle soul, was like her mother in every way but one. The eyes. Bianca’s had been dark, carrying wisdom beyond her nineteen years. Sabine’s were mismatched, one green, the other blue. The fact her sister wasn’t here to see their beauty, the subtle shifts in color, was all her fault.

  Afina Lazar’s throat tightened, the guilt so thick she found it difficult to swallow. She was failing...at everything. Motherhood, the healing, the promise she’d made to Bianca on her deathbed. A death Afina had failed to stop, been helpless to stall, to ease the pain as her sister slipped away. She stroked her little one’s hair, murmuring encouragement as she took another spoonful rich with rabbit meat.

  They were lucky to have it. The summer game had proved more crafty than usual, avoiding her traps and homemade arrows with little difficulty. Sabine’s growling belly most nights spoke to the truth. She needed some luck to get them through. Was a little divine intervention too much to ask? Couldn’t the goddess of all things afford them their fair share? Afina hoped so. Otherwise the coming winter might not only turn harsh, but deadly as well.

  What would she do if she couldn’t fill their winter stores in time? She couldn’t go home. Nothing but certain death lay in that direction, no matter how plentiful the food supply. At least here, she held some small chance of survival, of fulfilling her role as protector to the Amulet of Orm. As she spooned another mouthful into Sabine, her attention drifted to her satchel—the one that carried her healing supplies. The stupid amulet, bane of her existence, a curse upon the women of her line. She wanted to rip it from its hiding place beneath the leather lining and toss it into the nearest ditch, but knew she never would. High priestess to the Order of Orm, her mother had died doing her duty, saving the wretched thing from Vladimir Barbu...the murdering swine.

  Afina rubbed her aching temple, wanting to forget, wishing for another way. But none existed. Her mother had made a fatal mistake, and now Afina was left to pay the price. Vladimir needed her to complete the ancient rite—the ritual that would crown him Lord of Transylvania. She must stay hidden and out of his greedy grasp: to protect her people and her daughter and honor the goddess she served.

  A promise made was a promise kept.

  She needed her word to mean something, and her sister’s death to mean more. If she abandoned the cause now, after two years of running, she was as gutless as her mother had accused her of being.

  The memory of harsh words lashed her.

  Tears pricking the corners of her eyes, Afina turned her mind away and scraped the bottom of the wooden bowl, scooping up the hearty gravy for her child.

  Sabine’s small fingers grasped hers, her tongue peeking out to touch her bottom lip. “I do it, Mama. I do it.”

  Her little cherub. Afina smiled. The tightness banding her chest eased as she relinquished the spoon. “All right. Would you like a little more, love?”

  Even knowing she needed to ration the rabbit stew over the next few days didn’t keep her from asking. She wanted to make sure Sabine was satisfied. It had been so long since they’d had any meat, and if that meant eating less so her babe got her fill Afina was happy to go without. Mayhap tomorrow, were they lucky, she would snare another.

  Fortifying herself with hope, she left her stool and headed for the hearth. The heat from the fire wrapped her in a warm embrace as she reached for the ladle. A sharp rap sounded on wood. Afina flinched, her heart stalling as she spun toward the door, wooden spoon raised in defense. White knuckled, she stared at the wide grey planks, alarm fighting logic for supremacy.

  It couldn’t be Vladimir...it couldn’t be. The swine wouldn’t knock. Kicking down the door was more his style. The thought calmed her a little, but not enough. She didn’t want to answer. It was late and intuition warned nothing but trouble waited outside. Silence hummed, the vibration loud, stretching her nerves tight.

  “Go away,” she whispered, unable to take the echoing hush. She hoped voicing her wish aloud would make it come true, would chase the unwanted visitor into the coming night. “Go away.”

  “Door, Mama. Door!” Sabine bounced on her stool, eyes bright while she tapped the spoon against the side of the bowl.

  Afina leapt the distance between them to grab her daughter’s hand. Placing her index finger against her lips, she mouthed, “Shh, love.”

  She held her breath and counted to ten. Nothing. Not a whisper of sound from the other side of the door. Eleven, twelve, thirteen...A second knock followed the first. Oh, goddess. Whoever was standing on the threshold didn’t plan on going away. Afina swallowed and, ladle raised, moved toward the entrance, acutely aware it also served as the only exit.

  “Mistress?” The voice, smooth and deep, rolled through the rough-hewn planks in a warm wave, sucking away her tension like sand in an undertow. Afina fought the pull and tightened her grip on the impromptu weapon.

  “W-who...” Fingertips brushing the pitted wood of the door, she willed strength into her voice. “Who’s there?”

  “The priest in the village told me to come, mistress,” he said, his tone full of gentle reassurance. “I’m in need of a healer...have come seeking your care.”

  She closed her eyes and lowered the ladle. Father Marion, the parish priest, had sent him. Thank goodness. She might not be part of his flock, but the priest had always been kind. Could even be relied upon to send her ailing parishioners from time to time.

  Afina lifted the bar, cracked the door, and came nose to sternum with a wide, very male chest. She blinked, startled by his size, and stared at the pitch-black leather jerkin. A moment passed before she allowed her gaze to climb over well-set shoulders, a strong neck, only to collide with ice-blue eyes set in the most incredible face she’d ever seen.

  Handsome didn’t begin to describe him. Lethal appeal, strength tempered by charm. Cropped short, his hair was shot with gold threads, a bronzy color that matched the hammered coins she’d once taken for granted. A mistake she knew not to make with him. His intensity said it all. He was a warrior wrapped inside aristocratic features.

  She tensed, guard up, instincts screaming for her to slam the door in his face. His unusual eyes holding hers, he slid his foot between the door and the jamb as though aware of her intention. “I will pay, mistress.”

  Catching a flash from her periphery, Afina’s gaze strayed to the gold coin perched in his fingertips. By the goddess, it was more money than she’d seen in two years. Enough to secure their future, not only for the winter, but in the years to come. She bit her bottom lip, her mind compiling lists and tallying co
sts. She’d be able to buy a goat, warm clothing, the extra seeds for their garden, see to the repairs, and still have plenty left over. And the only thing standing in her way? Giving aid to a man who radiated aggression and gave new meaning to the word frightening.

  Could she do it? What if she disappointed him? She wasn’t the best healer. In truth she was a terrible one. Everything she knew she’d learned from Bianca. The healer in their family, her sister had made sure Afina understood the basic principles before her death. On the run, their survival had depended on presenting a united front, but she’d only ever been a helper. And were she honest, not a very willing one. She didn’t possess the stomach for it, shying away from injuries she knew she couldn’t handle. But she couldn’t afford to do that any longer. Sabine needed her to be strong. Otherwise they would starve to death.

  She met his gaze then shied, looking away. “Y-you’re hurt?”

  He nodded, raised his arm, and held it out for her inspection. Blood dripped in a steady stream, leaving droplets on the edge of a wooden floorboard. Without thinking, she reached for his hand, cupping it with her own. He stiffened. Unease forgotten in the face of his pain, she ignored his reaction to her touch and admonished, “Why didn’t you tell me you were bleeding?”

  Bumping the door aside, she tugged on his arm, wanting a better look at his injury. He hesitated, resisting the gentle pull as though uncertain he wanted to cross the threshold. She tugged again, her focus on the nasty gash bisecting the outside of his forearm. “Come into the light, sir. I cannot see the extent of the damage if you remain out there.”

  He inhaled. The slow, deep breath alerted her to his tension, signaled nervousness of some kind. Afina knew the emotion well, fought to contain it with every breath she took. Day in and day out, she struggled with worry, an edginess she wore like a scent. He wore it too, though it smelled different. Lean and hungry with a touch of rebellion. Aye, under all the lovely bone structure was a man in need of repair and the soothing touch that went with it.