***
Surrounded by thick cloud and frosty air, Cristobal looped the leather strap tethering him to Cruz around his fist. A wise move. A dragon shifted fast in flight. His comrade was no exception, angling his wings, slicing between steep cliffs as condensation beaded his chilled skin and his friend’s black, bronze-tipped scales. Banking into another tight turn, Cruz dipped low and ducked his horned head. Tucked in tight, the wall of his chest against the back of the dragon’s neck, Cristobal watched a weathered stone arch sail overhead.
Eying the rocky ridge on the flyby, he grinned. Jesus. Talk about close—less than a foot—solid stone mere inches above his head. To be expected. Cruz loved to fly and wasn’t careful in its execution. Each turn the dragon-warrior made was insane—wing tips inches from jagged outcroppings, velocity muscle-clenching brutal, little light to see or fly by. And the wind? Mother of God. Nature howled, picking up speed, throwing snow like fistfuls of confetti as they hopscotched across the Carpathians, leaving one mountain pass only to blast into another.
Not that he was complaining.
Cristobal loved the wildness, the elemental fuck-you of a clenched fist and raised middle finger. So aye, shrug off the chill. Forget the mind-bending speed. Dragon flight was the absolute best—fast, furious, efficient. Right up his alley, a method of travel he embraced with relish . . . even if his flying companion was a touch nuts and boatloads of brave.
Gritting his teeth, he hung on hard as Cruz flipped in midair, avoiding a lopsided stone tower in the center of the gorge. Cold air burned across his cheeks, blowing the hair off his face. His mouth curved as pleasure thrummed through him. Astride a dragon’s back, fast and free in flight. Who would’ve thought it possible? He huffed. Not him. Not until a month ago, anyway. But oh how quickly things changed—in both good and bad ways. Good equated to a midnight flight and his bird’s-eye view. And bad? Well now, that came with a smell, an acrid one that rose on winter-borne wind, leaving a trail along with a terrible taste in his mouth.
Not a good sign, considering he and his comrades flew toward it.
With a frown, Cristobal leaned into another turn as his mind raced ahead, over landscapes he’d yet to cross to settle in the Valley of the Blessed. He shook his head. White Temple—the holy city shrouded in mystery and steeped in unfortunate history. A place he’d never visited, yet disliked already. No rhyme. Even less reason, but something about approaching the goddess’ domain put him on edge. Cristobal snorted. Right. He should probably rephrase the statement. On edge didn’t begin to describe what he felt. ’Twas more dangerous than that. Far more volatile too. Even from a distance, he sensed the magic. Smelled the discord as well, the bitter smell of—
Rahat. He didn’t know. But God, the scent wouldn’t leave him alone. No matter how deeply he inhaled, he couldn’t acclimate. Or lessen the sensory burn.
’Twas as though something foreign had entered his body, triggering a primal reaction. An animalistic one that amplified everything—sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch. Now his skin crawled and instinct hissed, overloading him on all fronts. Tightening his grip on Cruz, he examined his reaction and new abilities. The uptick in visceral perception made little sense. He sensed the fracture between normal and what he experienced now—a great divide that widened by the moment, branding him an entity he didn’t recognize. Now he grappled with the changes, fighting to understand. To put the shattered pieces of himself back together like a potter might the broken shards of a clay pot.
More than worrisome. ’Twas downright alarming.
Reaching out, he grabbed one of the prongs that rose behind Cruz’s horns with his free hand. Heat rolled off his friend and into his palm. The protective cocoon deflected the windchill, enclosing him in a warm bubble.
The temperature shift didn’t help.
Naught did. He couldn’t control the influx of awareness. Or shut down the bombardment of sensation. God be merciful, the smell. The awful ceaseless stench. It overpowered him even as his vision sharpened. Cristobal winced. Another unsettling change. No way should he be able to see in the dark, never mind the individual crystals inside the snowflakes. Or the ridged lines on each evergreen needle as Cruz left the foothills and leveled out over the forest.
Total mind-twist territory.
One heightened by the fact his forearms still throbbed.
Cristobal fisted one of his hands. He stared at the white points of his knuckles a moment, then shook his head. Jesus help him. He didn’t understand. Couldn’t begin to sort it out, never mind put a name to the oddity. Not that it mattered. An explanation wasn’t in the offing. The invisible hand didn’t talk—or offer an ounce of solace—as it continued to draw, elevating pain to new heights, marking his skin with black ink beneath the steel sleeves he wore. Swallowing a curse, he glanced down at the hardware encasing his arms from wrist to elbow. Crafted by the blacksmith at Drachaven, the clever cuffs sported three bladed fins along the outer edges, allowing him to block a blade thrust while turning his forearms into weapons.
A nice pair, but for one thing.
Cristobal wasn’t wearing the cuffs to help him fight. He was wearing the pair to hide the unfinished tattoos. From Xavian. From Cruz. From anyone who would ask the questions he held no answers to, which—Jesus grant him grace—made him a first-class fool, considering he’d already decided he needed help. Well either that or to be put down. Planted six feet under. Covered in topsoil and left to rot. Too bad every time he opened his mouth, he clammed up, then shut down. A normal reaction? Not really. Xavian was his best friend, for Christ’s sake. An elite assassin with supreme skill, a keen mind and solid heart, so . . .
He needed to come clean soon. Before the others discovered the change in him on their own. Before Xavian kicked his arse for hiding the truth.
Nervousness rattled his cage. Cristobal shoved his angst aside. Desirable or nay, he couldn’t deny the changes in his body any longer. Honor dictated the way forward and set him on the right path. Xavian deserved the truth. His comrades needed to know—just in case. The ink and heightened awareness might not be a good thing. It could land them all in a world of trouble instead. Which meant ’twas time to buck up and lay his fears on the table. Before the malevolent force he felt growing inside him usurped his will and spiraled out of control. Otherwise he might end up harming those he considered his brothers instead of aiding the cause.
The thought sent a chill through him.
Fighting the internal deep freeze, Cristobal glanced over his shoulder. His gaze landed on Xavian, then bounced over to Razvan. Both astride Garren, just off Cruz’s left wing, the pair seemed none the worse for wear. Excellent in every way, but for one. The awful smell didn’t appear to be bothering either of his comrades while he . . .
Cristobal’s stomach rolled. He swallowed, fighting the urge to gag. “Rahat.”
“What’s wrong?” Cruz turned his head. Wind changed direction, curling over his horns, causing white streaks to stream from the jagged tips. Dark eyes with vertical pupils met his a moment before his friend raised a scaly brow. “You sense something?”
Sense something? Jesus. A total understatement. The perfect opening too—a clever segue that invited him to disclose the truth. To talk about the tattoos and changes in sensory perception. Cristobal hesitated. Should he? Or shouldn’t he? He’d thought to discuss the problem with Xavian first, but . . .
He frowned. Mayhap Cruz was the better choice.
Despite being the youngest dragon-shifter, Cruz understood magic. Hell, the male lived with it every day—dealt in the fantastical each time he shifted into dragon form. Toss in the fact the warrior was whipcord smart, more observant than most, and, well aye, it could work. Might even be prudent considering Cruz watched him like a hawk, shadowing him everywhere he went, refusing to allow him to leave Drachaven unescorted.