“Es-tu malade?” Andrei said, accent thicker than usual, boots rooted to the ground. He shook his head. “You like her so much, you go first.”
Shaking loose of the creeper’s hold, Kazim nodded and started toward the horses. Henrik tensed. Shifting Cosmina, he got ready to move—to intervene and protect Kazim. Funny thing, though: naught happened. Thea didn’t attack. She purred instead and followed Kazim, acting like a lovesick cub, the pleasant scent of hollyhocks rising in her wake.
Cosmina smiled. “She likes him.”
“Good.”
He hoped it stayed that way. The last thing he needed was more trouble. A smooth trail and a fast gallop, however? Both sounded good. More than necessary. Especially while surrounded by the Goddess of All Thing’s creation. That alone rendered Thea untrustworthy. Too bad little choice remained. To avoid Halál and keep Cosmina safe he needed to traverse the ancient forest. His unease meant little and mattered even less. Only his goal remained: keep the magical plant happy while he planned an attack that would not only take the enemy down, but ensure the bastards stayed dead.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The trail dead-ended at the river’s edge. Just like he knew it would.
Crouched on the lip of the ravine, Halál pivoted on the balls of his feet and looked down on failure. On the tumbling rush of water. On the break in the trees. On hoofprints left in the narrow strip of sand flanking the Mureş River. Aye, he could see the trail. His vision was pinpoint sharp, the dark and distance no impediment to his enhanced eyesight. Black magic afforded him all sorts of interesting tricks.
A perk of leading Armand’s budding army.
Eyes narrowed, he searched the smooth stretch of pebbled beach and sandy bank flanking the Mureş again. He bared his teeth on a snarl. Clever bastard. Henrik had done it again. Evaded him. Thwarted him. Mucked up his plans. The assassin was more trouble than he was worth. His former pupil never said quit or gave in easy. Admirable traits most days. Halál had enjoyed that about him at Grey Keep. His stubborn nature and ironclad will had made torturing him a joy.
Now the bastard wore the stain of Al Pacii on his skin . . . the mark of ownership.
Halál huffed, acknowledging the lie. Ownership. Ha. Right. A nice, if somewhat foolish, thought. Even so, he would’ve liked that—to own Henrik. Somehow, though, it hadn’t happened. Aye, he’d marked him well enough, cutting into him, leaving scars with well-used knives. In the end, the trail of physical damage hadn’t been enough. Or proved anything. No matter how many times he’d strapped Henrik to the blue stone and made him bleed, the bold bastard had defied him, refusing to beg like his other assassins.
Something to be respected. Mayhap even celebrated.
But not tonight.
Particularly since he couldn’t follow Henrik across the river. Not without entering the Limwoods. A place he refused to get anywhere near. Which explained a lot, didn’t it? Like why he crouched on the ridge, three hundred yards upslope instead of making his way down to track the traitor into the forest.
Halál pursed his lips. Time for a new plan. One that bagged him his quarry and ensured success. Another failure, and his window of opportunity would close. He knew it well enough. Henrik wasn’t stupid. The bastard would regroup inside the Limwoods. Which would make him harder to kill and the woman less accessible. Not acceptable by any means. He needed the Keeper of the Key along with the information she possessed. His mouth curved as his imagination took flight. Be damned, he couldn’t wait to get his hands on her.
So many possibilities. Untold pleasure. An equal amount of satisfaction.
She’d provide it all before he handed her over to Armand.
Anticipation grabbed hold as Halál pushed to his feet. A gift. His master would no doubt be pleased to receive a member of the Order of Orm.
Turning away from the ridge, he surveyed his soldiers. As his gaze skimmed each one, he swallowed a curse. His assassins looked a touch worse for wear. Soot marred their skin, smudging faces and bare arms. The smell of burnt hair and leather drifted, clouding the air around them as he glanced down at his chest. Halál shook his head. He looked just as bad. Scorched by fire, burn marks dotted the front of his jerkin. And his trews? Holes peppered the leather, leaving raw patches of skin exposed.
Halál scowled. Damned dragon.
The beast had taken its pound of flesh, unleashing hell, ripping tombstones from the ground, setting trees alight with his nasty exhale before flying off again . . . denying Halál a clear shot. Another failure to add to the growing pile. The kind that tweaked his temper. He despised the disadvantage along with the weakness. Two more Druinguari lay dead, burned alive by magical fire. Halál snarled, the low sound more hiss than growl. His assassins shuffled, unease rising like perfume from their skin. Good. He wanted them on edge. Sharp. Hostile. Willing to do anything for revenge. Comfort of any kind wasn’t part of the plan. It wouldn’t be, either, until he found a way to even the score.
Incapacitated. Maimed. Dead and gone.
The method didn’t matter. Not with his target list widening to include Henrik, those who fought alongside him, and now . . . a dragon. So aye, some in-depth research was now in order. Well, that and a serious chat with Armand. If anyone knew how to kill dragons, it would be the Prince of Shadows.
Unfurling his fists, Halál glanced at his first in command. “V.”
“Aye, master?”
“New plan.” Mind churning over multiple avenues of attack, Halál frowned. “Take your men back to the holy city. Set up out of sight and wait. The call has gone out. The Blessed will return to White Temple.”
Valmont hummed. “Capture or kill?”
“Catch and keep if you like,” he said, giving his assassin some leeway. Loyal and stout of heart, Valmont deserved the reward. Gifting him with a Blessed or two would serve well enough. “But when you are done, kill them all.”
“Their blood will blacken the earth,” Valmont said, anticipation in his low tone.
“Excellent.” Stepping alongside his assassin, he treated Valmont to a slap of affection. His palm cracked against leather. Harsh sound echoed as he nodded to his second in command. “Beauvic . . . you and I will travel west to Gorgon Pass.”
Beauvic’s mouth tipped up at the corners. “The high cliffs at the foot of the Carpathians. A good place for Henrik to escape into the mountains.”
He nodded. “Exactly. I want him cut off from all help.”
In other words . . . Drachaven and Xavian.
He didn’t want the entire group of traitors together. The bastards fought too well as a unit. ’Twould be easier to pick them off one at a time. Which meant he must keep Henrik contained. The longer his quarry stayed isolated, the more vulnerable he would be.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The dirt trail narrowed on the downward slope, fishhooking into a tight curve. Another blind corner. Another potential pitfall. One of many over the last few hours.
Eyes scanning the foliage on either side of the path, Henrik slowed his mount to a walk and adjusted his hold on Cosmina. Snug in his lap, fast asleep in his arms, the gentle bobble ’n’ sway didn’t bother her. She resettled with a sigh, then snuggled in as though she belonged against him. A perfect fit in every way. He blew out a pent-up breath as insight reared its ugly head. So tempting to indulge. So dangerous to want. So foolish to dream. All perilous endeavors, ones that would bring him low if he allowed it.