Knight Avenged (Circle of Seven #2) Page 5

  Just another in a long line of the goddess’ mindless servants.

  “Goddamn it,” he growled, brushing his thumb over the raised patch of scarred skin. He shook his head. Of all the horrible luck. “A Blessed.”

  The growl in his tone made her shiver. “Please let me go.”

  Her quiet tone pierced through his disappointment, then sank deep to touch his heart. His grip on her gentled, but he couldn’t do what she asked. Not yet. Not with the past circling like a rabid dog, reminding him of his mother. Of her cruelty and all the abuse he’d suffered inside these walls. God, how he despised this place. Hated everything about it. The exquisite expanse of mosaic floors. The intricate pictographs carved into its stone walls. The golden dome rising over the rotunda’s center. Some might have called the chamber beautiful. Mayhap it was, but only on the surface. Ugliness seethed beneath, infecting White Temple’s underbelly, heralding a brutal history that couldn’t be ignored, forgotten . . .

  Or forgiven.

  “H, wrap it up,” Andrei said from his position behind a pillar. “Company’s coming.”

  The reminder brought Henrik’s head up.

  The rasp of multiple footfalls drifted into the chamber.

  His focus snapped to the rear of the rotunda. Gathering the gloom, Henrik wrapped himself and the woman in magical swirl. She shivered, reacting to the chill that always accompanied the veil of invisibility. As the air thickened and his exhale frosted into white puffs, a man-size silhouette crept into view. Others followed, one by one. More than twenty strong, the enemy assassins crossed the threshold, slipping beneath the archway that served as High Temple’s only entrance. Its only exit point too. Henrik growled in appreciation. Absolutely fantastic. Perfect in every way. Except for one thing . . .

  The woman still pinned beneath him.

  Some men would’ve said the hell with it and let her go. Turned away and left her to fend for herself in the face of the coming onslaught. Henrik couldn’t do it. Aye, she might be a member of an Order he despised, but he refused to abandon her to Al Pacii. Instead, he would do his duty. Get her to safety. See that she got outside the city walls in one piece before sending her on her way.

  “Please.” Harried breaths coming in icy bursts, another tremor rattled through her. “Let go.”

  Smoothing her shirt back into place, Henrik covered her up. Groin pressed to her bottom, he leaned in close. The wall of his chest met the curve of her spine. She tensed. He set his mouth against her ear. “Listen very carefully, Blessed. I will let you go on one condition.”

  “W-what?”

  “You must do what I say, when I say it,” he said, so low only she heard the instructions. “Otherwise you will not make it out of the temple alive. Understood?”

  She hesitated a moment. “Who’s here?”

  “Al Pacii assassins.”

  “I need my knives.”

  “Pick up your blades, then stand at my back.”

  Her chin dipped as she nodded.

  Releasing her wrists, he tightened the veil of invisibility around her. The temperature dropped another few degrees. She shivered in the growing chill, but even as he regretted her discomfort, he held the line. The cold was a necessary thing, the only way to keep her hidden without him touching her. If she obeyed and stayed close, the enemy wouldn’t see her until he lifted the veil in order to attack. As he straightened and stepped away from her, she spun to face him. Wary green eyes met his. She shuffled backward, putting more distance between them. Henrik didn’t blame her. She’d been manhandled and stripped in the space of a few minutes.

  Her mistrust was only natural.

  Holding her gaze, he drew the yew bow from inside his quiver of arrows. “Move when I say move. Got it, Blessed?”

  “Cosmina.” Throwing him a nasty look, she sidestepped and, slipping between him and the altar, went in search of her blades. She found both near the base of the rear wall. After palming the pair, she stood and glared at him over her shoulder. “I am more than my calling, warrior.”

  He arched a brow. Well, well, well. More than just a Blessed, it seemed. One with a temper to match the fire in her eyes and the color of her hair.

  “Henrik,” he murmured, giving in to convention.

  First names were a good idea. Comfort came with knowing. Knowing engendered trust. Both excellent things at the moment. Particularly while headed into battle with a strange woman at his back.

  “Remember my instructions.” Sense crackling in warning, Henrik treated her to another no-nonsense look. “Stay close, Cosmina.”

  Bow at the ready, he turned his back on her and drew a poison-tipped arrow from his quiver. He notched it and, pivoting toward the open expanse of the rotunda, pulled the bowstring taut. Wood whispered against wood. Inhaling through his nose, he caught the scent on the air. Oiled leather and wood smoke, Al Pacii calling cards. Excellent. The enemy was downwind and headed straight for him. About time too. After playing hide-and-seek inside White Temple for the last hour, he needed a fight. A brutal one in which he snapped necks and watched Al Pacii blood flow.

  Heart hammering, stance set, Cosmina fought to steady her nerves along with her hands. She glanced at the tips of her twin blades. Both shook, following the tremor running beneath her skin. She swallowed a curse. Goddess help her, she needed to pull it together. Right now. Before she made a complete fool of herself.

  An excellent notion.

  Too bad it was chock-full of problems. First among them: the usual calm she carried like a badge of honor had vacated the premises. Henrik was to blame. He’d ambushed her, rattling her with his presence, throwing her off-balance with his quick moves and gentle touch. Cosmina frowned at his back. Odd, but . . . she recognized him now. Had put a face to his name. He was the man from her vision. The warrior with the hazel eyes, hard expression, and little mercy.

  Blowing out a shaky breath, Cosmina shook her head. Gods, ’twas inconceivable. Confusing in the extreme. Henrik had not only taken liberties with her, but turned his back on her as well. Just like that. Without any hesitation, acting as if he hadn’t a care in the world . . . as if she presented no threat to him at all. Her fingers flexed around the dagger hilts as she debated the best course of action.

  Attack him from behind. Retreat into the gloom. Or do as instructed, stay close, and . . .

  Obey a strange man who’d stripped her to the skin.

  All right. So he hadn’t stripped her. Not exactly, but . . . gods. It had been close. So very close. The memory slapped at her. Cosmina flinched, remembering the strength of Henrik’s body, how easily he’d subdued her . . . the warmth of his hands on her skin. He could’ve hurt her without difficulty. Taken all he wanted. Kept her pinned facedown—and bottom up—against the altar. Cut away the rest of her clothing and—

  The open edges of her leather tunic flapped against her back.

  Cold air washed in, mocking her with what might have been.

  A shiver raced up her spine, colliding with the base of her skull, causing an awful ache to bloom behind her eyes. Cosmina swallowed the lump in her throat and shook her head. Nay. No chance in heaven or hell. She refused to think about it. He’d done the right thing. Let her go. Seen what he wanted to see—the moon-star burned into her skin—and retreated. Which meant all the terrible what-ifs needed to stay the hell out of her head. Dwelling on the past served no purpose. Well, other than to distract her, which was nowhere near advisable. Not with Henrik armed and acting dangerous. The thought prompted another, forcing to her to circle back to her alternatives.

  Attacking Henrik again wasn’t a good idea. No real option at all. Particularly since she wanted to keep her weapons where they were . . . in her own hands.

  And the second possibility?

  Cosmina’s focus split. Half her attention on Henrik, her gaze strayed to the stained glass circling the base of the dome. Dread coiled in the pit of her stomach, making her insides hurt. Fighting the internal burn, she chewed on the inside of her lip a
nd faced the facts. Forget option number two. It wasn’t viable either. She refused to turn tail and run.

  Not while duty called and her conscience squawked.

  The moon hastened its ascent into the night sky, throwing illumination through the high windows. Stained glass glowed, sending color spilling onto the mosaic tiles below. The sight jabbed at her, reminding her of her promise to the Goddess of All Things.

  Rise and return, child. The future rests with you.

  Cosmina’s chest went tight. She couldn’t fail. Must at least try to fulfill her duty and keep her word. Otherwise she was nothing but a liar and a cheat. Naught but a shell of the girl she’d once been—the one who’d braved the wildness after being turned out of White Temple to face the world alone. So forget fear. Let it all go. She must cling to faith, stay the course, and . . . get moving. The Chamber of Whispers lay just behind her, hidden behind a thick wall covered in ancient carvings. One keyhole away from disabling the lock and watching the heavy door slide open.

  With a nod, she dragged her attention from the windows. Her gaze landed on Henrik. Tall and strong, he was a wide-shouldered, hard-bodied dream. So blasted handsome with his dark hair and hazel eyes. Lethal allure wrapped in aristocratic features. Not that she was noticing his appeal. Nay. She pursed her lips. Certainly not. ’Twas more of an examination, a way of weighing his character while deciding how best to proceed without angering him.

  Or making him turn and come after her again.

  Not the least bit desirable. She didn’t want his hands on her again.

  The thought made her shiver, tightening muscles over her bones. Shoving aside her rising panic, Cosmina rolled her shoulders to ease the tension and glanced down. The round key bumped against the front of her tunic. She exhaled long and slow. Still there. Her scuffle with Henrik hadn’t broken the chain. Thank the gods. Her foresight too. Putting the key on a necklace—keeping it with her always—had just paid off.

  Footfalls quiet, mind racing to come up with a solid plan, Cosmina shifted behind her would-be protector. She stifled a snort. Protector. Right. Henrik didn’t want the role. ’Twas evident in the way he tensed as she moved, aware of her but unwilling to take his gaze from the wide expanse of the rotunda. Another round of unease rolled through her. Not good. For a man like him to turn his back on an armed stranger signaled serious trouble—the kind no sane person wanted. He’d said something about Al Pacii by way of explanation. Possible. Even so, she wasn’t sure she believed him.

  The Order of Assassins never came out into the open. They were a legendary league. Trained killers without conscience or mercy. A group that operated in the dark places most refused to tread. Ordinary folk never saw them—not coming or going. Rumor held only those marked for death ever looked an Al Pacii assassin in the eye. And then, never for very long before he became a bloody corpse.

  Which posed a problem of another sort, didn’t it?

  If Henrik spoke true, the assassins had entered White Temple for a reason. On the eve of the winter solstice, a time of great importance to the Order of Orm. A coincidence? Cosmina’s hands flexed around her dagger hilts. She didn’t think so. The timing didn’t bode well. Not for her.

  Nor for the man who’d become her impromptu shield.

  Instincts screaming a warning, Cosmina sidestepped again. The shift improved her view. She caught movement near the mouth of High Temple. Men dressed in black and armed to the teeth crept under the massive archway. Disquiet ramped into full-blown fear. Her breath caught while her mind yelled . . . run! Cosmina stood her ground instead, all her focus leveled on the fighting force slithering into the rotunda. How many, she didn’t know. She couldn’t get an accurate count in the gloom as the enemy spread out to cover more ground.

  A smart move.

  Splitting into smaller groups increased their advantage, allowing the assassins multiple points of attack . . . while cutting off access to the only exit.

  Alarm picked up her heart, slamming it against her breastbone. “Henrik, mayhap—”

  “Quiet.” His hushed tone rang with authority, pricking her skin until the hair on her nape stood on end. A fine tremor rippled through her. Knife tips quivering, Cosmina widened her stance. Henrik turned his head, giving her his profile. Bow drawn tight, chin even with his shoulder, he glanced at her from the corner of his eye. “Stay true, iubita. Be strong for me. I’ll get you out.”

  Cosmina blinked. Iubita? Really? The gall of the man, trying to soothe her with an endearment . . . and a misplaced one at that. Her eyes narrowed on him. “Don’t call me ‘sweetheart.’”

  “It suits you.”

  “Does not.”

  “Would you prefer hellion?” Hazel-gold eyes flashed in amusement, making her tingle, before his gaze left her. His muscles flexed, rippling in warning. Hands steady on his weapon, he swiveled and faced forward once more. “Then again, mayhap vrăjitoare fits you better.”

  His deep voice stroked her, leaving a heated trail along her spine. Cosmina sucked in a quick breath. The big dolt. Idiotic clod. Call her a witch, would he? Raising her knives, she leveled the razor-sharp blades at his back.

  “All right, then,” he said, without looking at her, a teasing lilt in his tone. “Mica vrăjitoare it is.”

  The insult lit a fuse on her temper. “You—”

  “Hush now, Cosmina.” Drawing his bowstring a notch tighter, he leveled his arrow, all his focus on the other side of the rotunda. “Put your blades to better use. Aim them at the enemy, not at my back.”

  “Not my enemy.”

  “Very soon,” he whispered, “they will be.”

  She opened her mouth to argue the point. He cut her off.

  “Do not distract me again, iubita,” he said, using the endearment, ignoring her objections, acting like a jackass. “’Twill only leave you vulnerable. Accept the protection I am willing to provide.”

  The hard edge in his voice made her quiver. “At what cost?”

  “Stay close,” he said, refusing to answer her question. “When I unleash the arrow, they will be able to see and hear us. Move with me. Stay behind me. You’ll live longer.”

  They will be able to see us.

  The statement cranked her tight. What in God’s name did that mean? Could the assassins not see them? She scanned the rotunda again. Swords drawn, a group of three approached, coming across the center of the chamber. Almost beneath the golden dome now, the trio searched the shadows, looking for a target, sweeping the open expanse with keen eyes and brutal intent. And yet, even though he stood in plain view, none saw Henrik. Or her. Each enemy gaze skipped right over them.

  Impossible, and yet, absolutely true.

  Magic. She knew it existed. Had lived with the consequences of it all her life. Naught else explained her gift—the ability to see bits and pieces of the future. Or the fact she’d seen Henrik with her Seer’s eye moments before he appeared in front of her. But a man who wielded magic? One capable of masking his movements by gathering the gloom? ’Twas unheard of in her circle. A dangerous skill, one Cosmina didn’t want any part of.

  She glanced at the stained-glass windows again. Higher now, the moon pushed light across the tiled floor.

  Her throat tightened. So little time left. So much danger to avoid. Not the least of which was Henrik. Despite his assurances, she knew not to trust him. Men changed their minds like the wind, one moment gentle, the next naught but brutal. So nay, his willingness to release her earlier—and protect her now—didn’t mean his thoughts wouldn’t turn carnal in the aftermath of the coming violence.

  Which meant she needed to withdraw. Get as far away from him as possible. This instant.

  Gaze glued to him, Cosmina retreated toward the wall behind her.

  Henrik shifted, widening his stance. Winter cloak thrown over wide-set shoulders covered in a black leather hauberk, the muscles roping his bare arms flexed. Wood creaked as his bow stretched another inch. The chill surrounding her deepened, along with the shadows. Harried
breaths coming on white puffs, she backed up another step. And then another. Stay close, her foot! She needed to go. Must unlock the chamber door and slip inside before Henrik unleashed the arrow . . .

  And his enemy attacked.

  Halfway between Henrik and the keyhole, she slid into a crouch. Balanced on the balls of her feet, she sheathed one of her blades inside her boot and grasped the key. A solid tug released the clasp at the nape of her neck. The delicate links rattled, tinkling against her palm and—

  “Goddamn it, Cosmina.” Henrik’s low growl curled around her, scraping her senses raw. Her already frayed nerve endings twitched as panic vied for prominence. “Whatever you think you are doing . . . stop. Right now.”

  “Sorry,” she whispered without knowing why. She owed him nothing, least of all an apology. Too bad her conscience didn’t agree. Her plan put him at risk. The second she broke cover, all hell would break loose, leaving him in the cross fire. And her safely on the other side of a thick stone wall. “But I have to go.”

  “Don’t you—”

  Dare, she thought, finishing his sentence as she took flight. Boots scraping over stone, she scrambled toward her target. The round edges of the key bit into her palm. She sighted the keyhole within the stone pattern. With a snarl, Henrik loosed his arrow. Wood rasping against wood, the bowstring twanged. Frosty air rushed outward, burning her cheeks, pulling at her mantle, whipping its woolen tail. Time stalled. The chill around her flexed, then snapped. A sharp pop echoed. Pain flared at her temples as the cloak of invisibility burst, tearing wide open.

  The arrow found its target. Cosmina cringed as an enemy assassin roared in agony.

  A horrific battle cry throbbed through High Temple.

  Oh gods. The enemy now had Henrik in their sights. She could tell by the way he shifted. Could see him in her periphery as he put himself between Al Pacii assassins and her. Aggressive, each movement sure, Henrik loosed another arrow. And then another. More screams of pain. More snarls of fury. Multiple scrapes of swords leaving scabbards, and the rapid fall of footsteps pounded through the rotunda. Remorse twitched its tail. Guilt joined in, making her skin crawl and her conscience scream. Feet crackling through old leaves, Cosmina shoved the shame aside. She refused to feel bad about doing what she must . . . keeping her word and seeing her duty done.