“Already done.”
“Relax, H,” Kazim said, disappearing into the dell.
Relax? Kazim had clearly lost his mind, ’cause—no chance in hell. Much as he wanted to believe in Kazim’s gift, logic shoved faith out of the way. Thea wasn’t a puppet. She possessed a mind of her own, which meant his guard needed to stay where he always kept it. Up very, very high. Tension raised it even higher, making his muscles flicker in protest as he set his heels to his warhorse’s sides. His steed leapt forward, moving from walk to gallop in less than a heartbeat. So did his mind, charging ahead, finding all kinds of flaws in the strategy. Magic never cooperated. Not in his experience anyway, so . . .
Little room for doubt. The plan was already doomed. And Tareek was headed for a fall.
***
Wings spread wide, Tareek banked into a holding pattern. Around and around. Back and forth. Pacing Dragonkind-style, revolving into continuous circles in full flight. Hristos, he seemed to be doing a lot of that tonight—waiting, watching, hoping. At least now, though, the endless source of trouble was in his sights. Five hundred yards below, riding hell-bent into the clearing. His eyes narrowed on Henrik. Huh. Strange, but . . .
His friend looked all right and yet not quite himself either.
Something had shifted. Not by much, but enough to raise some alarm bells.
Tareek growled as unease surfaced. Unleashing his magic, he tapped into Henrik’s bioenergy. Overkill? Probably. Unwelcome? Certainly. His friend wouldn’t appreciate the shakedown. Nor the coddling. The male wasn’t a lad anymore or in need of paternal protection. Tareek huffed. His dragon reacted, spilling magma into his throat as he registered the ridiculousness of the thought. Paternal protection. What a farce. Henrik needed a sire like he needed another hole in his head. The warrior was all kinds of vicious. So talented with his blades and bow, most refused to tangle with him.
Too bad the realization didn’t stop instinct.
Old habits died hard. And warranted or nay, so did his desire to shield Henrik.
So instead of reeling it in, he let his magic roll. Henrik’s physical grid went up on his mental screen. Banged up. Some scrapes. A few bruises . . . naught more. Relief banged around inside his chest, making his heart flip-flop. Thank Silfer. His charge was none the worse for wear . . .
No thanks to him and his bonehead move in the cemetery.
He’d nearly killed his comrades. Tareek grimaced. Not his finest hour. Nowhere near a well-executed plan either. He’d flown in quick and struck too fast, unleashing the first fireball before assessing the situation—before dipping below the cloud cover to get the lay of the land and all the players in it. He snorted. Lava-infused sparks flew from his nostrils, then blew back, whirling over his horns as he shook his head. A complete understatement. He’d allowed emotion to cloud his judgment and nearly taken Henrik out in the process.
Lucky. He’d gotten so damned lucky.
Not something that would likely happen again, so . . .
No question. He needed to pull his head out of his arse and even out. Right now, before he ended up hurting someone he didn’t want to. A distinct possibility, one Garren had warned him about when they’d been freed from prison. Captured and tortured. Twenty years spent locked behind bars—condemned to cramped conditions and little food—did strange things to a male. Some went crazy. Others’ minds stayed strong as their bodies gave out. In his case, the inactivity had mucked up his timing.
Hence his less-than-stellar performance tonight.
Eyes on the ground, Tareek angled his wings, gliding into another turn as Kazim dismounted. The warrior’s feet thumped down. He glanced skyward. Tareek went on high alert. Any moment now, the Persian would give the signal and—
A shiver rippled through him.
His scales clicked together, making the spikes along his spine rattle. The sound wound him a notch tighter. And no wonder. He really didn’t want to go down there. Not while the Limwoods hissed and creepers streamed around the edge of the dell, weaving between large blackwoods and hundred-year-old oaks. Stripped of foliage, the treetops swayed, parting to give him a bird’s-eye view of the ground. Thick vines intertwined with thinner ones, slithering in and around until the mass looked like a writhing nest of vipers. Unforgiving ones with sharp fangs and a venomous strike. Recall slammed through him. He swallowed a growl. Four days. Four wretched days spent tangled up in the Limwoods.
Not exactly an experience he wanted to undergo again.
“Tareek.” Eyes on the sky, Kazim leapt onto a rocky outcropping in the middle of the clearing. “Almost ready.”
“You better know what you’re doing,” he said. “I get strangled, I’m coming after you.”
Kazim huffed. “You get strangled, you’ll be dead and no longer my concern.”
Good point. Tareek’s lips twitched. Arrogant little pissant. “I’ll haunt you from the grave.”
“Bring tea when you visit. I prefer chamomile.”
“Pansy.”
“Scaly ingrate.”
“Stow it . . . both of you.” Authority rang inside the growl. Tipping his head back, Henrik glared at him, treating his comrade to a warning look. “Kazim, move your arse. Get him on the ground.”
The Persian nodded, then met each assassin’s gaze in turn. “Weapons stay sheathed. No one draws unless I say so and . . .”
The male trailed off. Tareek banked left, completing another circuit above the clearing.
“Back off,” Kazim said, finishing his thought. “I don’t want to upset her.”
“Good plan.” With a quick tug, Shay walked his warhorse backward.
Gaze riveted to the creepers, Andrei sheathed his boomerang. “Better advice.”
Tareek glanced at Henrik. His mouth curved and . . . surprise, surprise. His friend stayed still, refusing to back his steed away. Typical. The male personified stubborn, bringing the character flaw to life without effort. Tareek shook his head as Henrik shifted in the saddle. The move spoke volumes, and his friend’s body language even more. He was preparing, getting ready to jump into the fray if Kazim failed and violence became necessary.
The realization made his heart beat harder. Hristos help him. Henrik was too loyal for his own good. Not that Tareek minded. He was cut from the same cloth and suffered the same fault: the overwhelming need to protect. Which meant . . .
No sense asking Henrik to back away.
Or trying to temper the concern he sensed in the assassin.
Neither approach would work.
’Twas heartwarming in many ways. To be so well loved. To be valued and needed. To have a friend willing to risk everything to keep him safe. A strange thought, one with sharp teeth and a startling bite. And as awareness struck, cutting him to the bone, faith roared into view. ’Twould be all right. All of it. The hard grip of the past would eventually loosen and fade. The present would smooth out and friendship would return. Despite the rocky start, he and Henrik would find a way to make it right.
Drawing a deep breath, Kazim rolled his shoulders and bowed his head. He held the lungful a moment, then let it go. A gentle breeze tousled the treetops as the assassin flexed his hands. Magic rose, streaming off the Persian in cresting waves. The scent of evergreens blew in and the Limwoods murmured. Thick vines changed course, slithering out of the shadows to surround Kazim. His voice dropped an octave and, tone low, the male spoke like a lover, praising, cajoling, caressing the creepers with his fingertips. The forest sighed, the soft sound rising to a steady hum of pleasure.
Tareek blinked. Holy hell. Kazim was . . . was . . .
Hristos, color him surprised. The Persian was wielding magic with skill and a serious amount of attitude. His brows collided. When in Silfer’s name had that happened? Dumb question. Irrelevant too. The when didn’t matter. The how, though? Well now, that needed answering. Particularly since, as far as he knew, Henrik was the only gifted one—the sole male out of seven to be afflicted by magic and the discomfort that went along with it.