A surprising turn of events. One Cristobal appreciated, even if he found it a touch strange. He was, after all, a breed apart, a trained assassin accustomed to his own company. A man who shunned emotional attachment along with constant companionship. Something about Cruz, though, put him at ease. He didn’t mind having the warrior around. ’Twas a comfortable relationship based in mutual respect and similar skill. Acceptance rooted in brotherhood; no judgment or burden of expectation.
Not unlike the one Garren shared with Xavian.
“Cristobal, do not hide from me. I sense the difference in you,” Cruz said. “Tell me what ails you.”
No doubt the best plan. Better to get it out in the open now, before things went from bad to worse. The thought made his heart pound harder. Cristobal struggled past his unease, forcing himself to think straight, ’cause, aye, no question. If Cruz felt the shift in him, it wouldn’t be long until the others picked up on it too. “I’m undergoing a few . . . ah, changes.”
“Heightened senses—sight, sound, smell?” Cruz asked. “Trouble sleeping?”
“Aye. All those.”
“What else?”
“Twin tattoos. The first line appeared five nights ago.”
His friend glanced at one of the finned cuffs. “Forearms?”
Cristobal dipped his chin, answering without words.
Wings spread wide, Cruz settled into a fast glide. Stars winked through the cloud cover, taking turns playing peekaboo with the moon. “You will show me when we are on the ground.”
“If there is time,” he said, his eyes on the horizon. He had a bad feeling. Something wasn’t right. An odd vibration hung in the air, the unfriendly kind that packed a punch, then came back for more. Which meant time was of the essence and Cruz would have to wait. His problem would be solved—sooner or later. The one he approached, however? Cristobal breathed in through his nose, filling his lungs, filtering the assortment of scents. The stench remained front and center as other odors rose—smoke, charred wood, the scent of spilled blood. Rahat . . . not good. Particularly since the forest was set to drop away and toss them into the unknown—into the valley that cradled the holy city. “How close are we?”
“Three miles out. White Temple lies just ahead.”
Shifting on his seat of scales, Cristobal palmed one of the hilts rising over the tops of his shoulders. With a smooth draw, he unsheathed the curved blade. Steel glinted in weak light, slicing through the cold air. “Cruz . . .”
“I feel it. Hold on, but be ready.”
One hand wrapped in the tether, the other gripping his sword, Cristobal leaned in as his friend banked left, then dipped low, catapulting them over the rim of the treetops. The forest dropped away. Barren fields surrounded by crooked fences took its place, rushing to meet the deep ditches abutting the main road. Wings spread, Cruz hung in midair a moment, the glow of a golden dome in the distance, then shot over the frozen landscape toward soaring stone walls. Eyes narrowed, Cristobal scanned the terrain. Naught so far. No one on the ground. Nothing to consider a threat, but . . .
A black plume of smoke rose beyond the walled city.
Twisting into a sidewinding flip, Cruz roared over White Temple. Snow blew up and out, streaming into a frosty swirl behind him. The ground blurred, making building outposts indistinguishable from narrow thoroughfares. Wind whistled in his ears as they came up over the west wall. Cristobal’s attention snapped north and—bingo. Ground zero. The site of the fight, once a cemetery now a bloody mess. Jesus, it looked as though an army of monsters had torn through the boneyard. Tombstones and statues lay askew—shattered, ripped from the ground, granite faces blown to bits. Huge trees stood ablaze, throwing flame and smoke into the air. Two massive craters dove into scorched earth, shallow pools of lava steaming at the north end of the cemetery.
“La dracu,” Xavian said, voice pushed forward by a gust of wind. “Tareek?”
“Aye,” Garren growled as he flew alongside Cruz. “His exhale packs a helluva wallop.”
Evidently. The damage was beyond vicious. ’Twas downright impressive.
“Cruz . . .” Gaze riveted to the carnage, Cristobal trailed off as his vision warped into colorful multi-dimensional arrays. The variant hues stained the ground, expanding, contracting, each shifting like a living net, helping him assess the danger and read heat signatures. He blinked, trying to clear the color away. His focus sharpened instead, intensifying perception. Talk about eerie. Not the least bit normal either. But even as unease pricked his skin, he wielded the ability as though he’d been born doing it. Now he knew what each pigment represented. Hot spots, fire and flame: red. Residual heat left by bodies and in footprints: orange and yellow. Cold, inanimate objects: blue, green, and grey. He shook his head, hoping to knock a few wits together, trying to understand.
Hell and a half. Another change. This one more unwelcome than the last.
Swallowing a snarl, he tapped his friend with the butt of his sword hilt. Steel thunked against hard scales. Still circling above the scene, Cruz glanced over his shoulder.
He met the dragon-shifter’s gaze. “Land. Time to take a closer look.”
With a nod, Cruz swooped over a huge oak engulfed by flame. Smoke billowed up, swirling around them. Heat joined the rush, devouring snowflakes, wetting the air as he tucked his wings. His back paws thumped down. Razor-sharp dragon claws scraped over granite, turning tombstones into rubble. The second Cruz settled, Cristobal threw his leg over and leapt to the ground. Stepping around his friend, he walked between two headstones. Or, what was left of them. Stone stubs sticking out of the ground, a felled tree burned a few feet away. Magic joined the scent of burning grass as Cruz shifted into human form.
With a growl, Garren landed behind them. “No one here. Any sign of Henrik and the others?”
Cristobal shook his head. “Not yet.”
Jumping from the dragon’s back, Xavian cursed.
Ignoring the outburst, Cristobal tipped his chin up and inhaled. Senses seething, he sifted through the stench to unearth an underlying fragrance. His nose twitched. He breathed in again, drawing on the scent, and—
Ah, right there. Right on time too.
Faint, but familiar, the scent rose, turning him north toward the square crypts and a stone half wall. His eyes narrowed. Aye, definitely. Henrik and the others had been here, but not for long. And not alone either. A light perfume clung to Henrik. Wanting to be sure, he inhaled again, then exhaled on a huff. A woman. It figured. Everywhere Henrik went, the fairer sex followed, hoping for an hour—or five—of the assassin’s time.
Something about her scent, though, drew him tight.
The muscles bracketing his spine flickered. Her scent . . . that scent. Where had he smelled it before? With a frown, Cristobal tracked it and, with a quick pivot, strode toward two tall statues. Sword at the ready, he heard his comrades follow, boots crunching through snow and slush in his wake. The fragrance grew stronger. He stopped short and glanced left. Stone dragons glared down from their perch atop twin tombstones as he crouched next to boot impressions that glowed yellow. Ignoring the strange color shift, he reached out and touched one. Here . . . right here. Henrik had rested against the granite face beneath twin dragons while protecting the woman with his body.
More of her scent drifted. Sweet. Sultry. Touched by wildflowers and . . .