Something else. Something more.
A something he’d not smelled before, a kind of—rahat. He didn’t know. Couldn’t place it either. Odd considering his new talents. But one thing for certain? Henrik had taken her with him. Which meant she must be important . . .
Somehow. Some way. For some reason.
“They’ve picked up a passenger.” Pushing to his feet, Cristobal met his best friend’s gaze. Pale eyes narrowed, Xavian came alongside him and raised a brow, asking without words. He pointed to the impressions in the snow. “A woman.”
“How do you know that?” Blond brows furrowed, Razvan stared down at him from Garren’s back.
Focusing on footprints in the narrow alleyway, Cristobal shrugged. “I can smell her.”
“You can . . .” Razvan’s mouth opened, then closed. A second later, he jumped down from his perch. His feet hit the ground with a crunch. Boots planted beside Garren’s huge talons, his comrade threw him an incredulous look. “What the hell, Cristobal? All I smell is smoke.”
“Smell her?” Xavian said, speculation in his pale eyes. “Care to explain that?”
Not really. And certainly not here. “Later.”
Stepping in close, Xavian thumped him on the chest. “How long has it been going on, brother?”
He sighed. Wonderful. Just great. Trust Xavian to catch on more quickly than most. Not surprising. His best friend didn’t miss much and never dropped the ball. Which meant he needed to take the time and explain now . . . or find a way to stall. Putting it off sounded better than baring all. At least, for the moment. He wasn’t ready. Didn’t know how to talk about the changes, never mind explain them. Each step away from normal made him feel like a freak—one who stood outside nature’s law and his comrade’s fold. A stupid reaction? Probably, but admitting it didn’t change how he felt. And honestly, he didn’t want an audience for the unveiling. Cruz and Xavian would be the only ones invited when he unburdened himself and revealed the truth.
“It’s complicated,” he murmured, skin itching beneath the steel cuffs. “I’ll explain, but not—”
“Five days,” Cruz said, giving him a verbal shove.
Son of a bitch. He glared at the dragon-shifter. “Traitor.”
“Pansy.” Refusing to back down, Cruz drilled him with a look. “Take the hardware off, Cristobal. Let’s have a look.”
Gaze steady on his, Xavian tipped his chin. “The sooner you do, the faster we can start tracking Henrik.”
“Ma rahat,” he growled through clenched teeth.
Talk about unwanted attention and bad timing. All right, so no one was in immediate danger. The graveyard stood empty. Extrasensory perception and his messed-up vision told him that much, tracking the unique heat signatures before tucking each one into the nonthreatening category. Still he never should have opened his big mouth. Too bad Xavian was right. Avoidance never helped. Naught but facing a problem head-on ever did, so . . .
Time to come clean. In front of way too many witnesses.
Damn Cruz to hell and back.
With a flick, Cristobal undid the clips holding one of his cuffs in place. Tiny hinges squeaked. Cold air seeped through the steel crack. Goose bumps spread across his forearm, making the ink react and pain pinch as he drew the protective gear off. Fisting his hand, he held his arm up for inspection and waited. For the horror. For the revulsion. For his friends to back away as the tattoo undulated across his forearm, thin lines becoming thicker, an invisible quill drawing in black on his skin.
“Jesu,” Xavian said, leaning closer to examine the tattoo. “What is that?”
Feeling like a mutant, Cristobal shifted in discomfort. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Holy hell. ’Tis incredible.” Reaching out, Cruz grabbed his wrist. With a gentle tug, he tilted his arm this way, then that. Dark eyes shimmering, he studied the incomplete pattern. “Garren . . . come look at this. Is it what I think?”
Magic flared as Garren shifted into human form and stepped alongside him. Cristobal tensed. Garren exhaled in a rush, wonder in his expression. “Hellhounds.”
Cristobal blinked. “What?”
Violent eyes met his. “Do you have similar marks on your other arm?”
“Aye.”
“Twin hellhounds,” Garren said, awe in his tone. His mouth curved a second before he nodded. “You’ve been given a great gift, Cristobal. I thought Xavian and Henrik were the only ones affected by magic, but . . . the marks on your skin tell a different tale. The tattoos are incomplete, but once finished, you will be able to call on the beasts.”
He frowned. “Call on them?”
“’Tis the Goddess of All Things at work. She has bound the hellhounds to you.”
Eyes trained on the ink, Garren reached out. Cristobal tensed, but stayed still. The dragon-shifter might be lethal, but well . . . hell. The warrior was now on his side, a brother-in-arms, not an enemy that needed guarding against. So no need to overreact, never mind freak out.
Watching him, Garren touched a fingertip to the ink. The tattoo reacted, shimmering on his skin. “Hristos, that is amazing.”
“Amazing.” Cristobal frowned. Really? Not exactly what he liked to call it.
“Embrace the change, fratele. Can you not see the beast taking shape and form?” His touch featherlight, Garren traced the design. “The eyes . . . here. And gods, the fangs and teeth . . . there. Incredible.”
Incredible. Huh. Another word he wouldn’t use to describe it.
Cristobal angled his forearm anyway and studied the incomplete tattoo, struggling to see what the dragon-shifter did. After a moment of staring, a pattern started to immerge and—
Holy God. He saw it—the slanted eyes with vertical pupils, the razor-sharp fangs and claws, the shaggy coat, spiked spine, and bladed tail. Jesus. No wonder he felt out of sorts. All the radical changes. All the worry. Each prickle of unease over the last few days. He understood his new abilities now, along with his aversion. ’Twas instinctual, a natural reaction to the magic invading his body. The kind that came with beasts, an animalistic nature, and enhanced capabilities.
“How does it work?” Tearing his gaze from the tattoo, Cristobal refocused on Garren. All of a sudden, he needed to know. Curiosity was a powerful force, awakening the first thrum of excitement. A pair of hellhounds. Twin killing machines under his control. The possibilities surpassed interesting, roaring into open territory called fascinating. “How do I call them?”
“When the ink is complete, they will make themselves known,” Garren said. “Be prepared. The first meeting is the most important.”
First impressions usually were, but that didn’t answer his question. Needing more information, Cristobal opened his mouth and—
“You’ll figure it out.” Garren slapped him on the shoulder. The harsh sound echoed, drifting on smoke and across the cemetery as his comrade pivoted. Violet eyes narrowed, he eyed Razvan, then raised a brow. “Xavian’s gift I know about. You, however, remain a mystery. Got something to tell me, assassin?”
Razvan flinched and backed up a step.
Quick to back up his commander, Cruz stepped around Cristobal. Footfalls silent, he walked between the tombstones toward Razvan. “Show us.”
“There is naught to—”
“Now, Razvan,” Garren said, hemming his comrade in from the opposite side.
“Bloody hell.” The growl drifted. Razvan’s gaze bounced from Garren to Xavian, then back again.
Cristobal nodded, encouraging his brother-in-arms. He understood the hesitation—the unwillingness to bare all and expose a perceived flaw. He huffed. Hell, another understatement. He’d just suffered the same reaction. But Garren was right. Secrets were dangerous things. Especially among warriors who fought side by side . . . day after day, night after night. Trust wasn’t optional. Understanding the warrior who stood at your back—both his strengths and weaknesses—was more than just advisable. ’Twas an absolute must.