“Come on, brother,” Xavian said.
Razvan sighed and raised his hand. Tombstones groaned, broken edges scraping together. His comrade flicked his fingers. Stone levitated, rising off the turf. With a murmur, Razvan made them fly. As they whirled through the air, spinning into a circle ten feet off the ground, his friend shrugged. “I can move things just by thinking it. A kind of mind control.”
Cristobal grinned. “Nice.”
“Better than nice,” Xavian said, returning his smile.
Cruz chimed in. “Downright fantastic.”
“Tremendously useful, but I sense something else in you. Another skill just as powerful.” Taking a step closer, Garren bumped Razvan with his elbow. “What is it?”
Razvan hesitated a beat, then gave up the information. “When I am still of body and calm of mind—like while in meditation—I can travel across great distances with my mind.”
Surprise winged across Garren’s face. “Astral projection?”
“All I need to do is hold the place in my mind’s eye. Once I’ve fixed upon it, I can will myself there and . . .” Razvan paused, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Tombstones followed suit, wobbling in midair. “Sometimes ’tisn’t just my mind that travels.”
“You’ve appeared in the places you envisioned?” Cristobal asked.
“Once.”
Shock rippled through each warrior as he stared at Razvan. The ability to move across time and space with naught more than a thought. How . . . incredible. Unprecedented. More than just useful too. Why? If Razvan could harness his power—wield it to maximum effect—he could go anywhere he wanted with both mind and body. Be the inside man, one capable of providing them with information before they reached the point of no return and walked into an ambush.
Cristobal tipped his chin. “You will show me sometime.”
“If you like,” Razvan said, still looking wary as stone whirled overhead.
“Count me in. I wish to be there when you mind travel.” Xavian waited until Razvan nodded, then flexed his fingers. Magic swelled, crackling through the cold. Pale eyes shimmering, Xavian smiled as a ball of lightning appeared in the center of his palm. Cristobal’s mouth fell open. His best friend didn’t bother to explain. He cranked his arm back and hurled the sphere instead. Heat sizzled through the air. Blue lightning streaked into a long tail behind the orb and—
Boom!
Light flared. One of the levitating tombstones exploded. Dust blew sky-high. Chunks of granite flew, raining down on those still embedded in the ground. Razvan flinched. The remaining headstones he held aloft with his mind tipped, then tumbled. Each slammed into the ground, cracking the silence wide open.
Xavian grunted in satisfaction. “I can conjure force fields as well.”
“Seems we all have our talents.” Glancing at the sky, Garren inhaled, filling his lungs. His brow creased a moment before he switched focus. Alarm bells clanged inside Cristobal’s head as the warrior met each of their gazes in turn. “But playtime is over. Time to go. Black magic . . . unnatural forces are afoot.”
Re-buckling the steel cuff, Cristobal sheathed his sword. Flexing his hands, he reached for his daggers. “Black magic . . . is that the awful stench I smell?”
Garren nodded.
Xavian palmed his favorite knifes. “Anything from Tareek?”
“Nay. I cannot reach him through mind-speak. There is too much interference.”
Pivoting toward the north end of the cemetery, Cristobal scanned the aisles between tombstones and statues. “I can track Henrik. The woman’s scent is strong.”
“Go.” Retreating ten feet, Cruz transformed into dragon form. Black, bronze-tipped scales glinting in the firelight, the dragon-shifter unfurled his wings. Webbing stretched wide, he leapt skyward. Scales rattling, Garren followed suit and shifted in a flash of dark blue. “Garren and I will scout the terrain from above.”
Good plan.
A bird’s-eye view was always helpful. Especially while on the trail of God only knew what. Black magic? A malevolent force full of bad intentions? The latter seemed like the better guess, ’cause . . . aye, whatever had gone down in the cemetery hadn’t been pretty. More than just the physical devastation told him so. The hellhounds—animal instincts writhing—chimed in too, allowing him to see the whole picture. Unnatural black blood on the ground and splashed across stone. Abnormal heat signatures in the snow. Multiple footprints following Henrik and the others. It all pointed to one thing . . .
Unholy pursuit. Escape and evade.
An unusual tack for his comrades to take. Which meant one thing. Whatever hunted Henrik was powerful. Cristobal smelled it on the wind. Felt it gut deep as the tattoos on his skin throbbed in warning. So . . .
Time to put his tracking skills to the test. Find Henrik along with the others before death came calling, and he lost his friends in the fray.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Cosmina surfaced on a slow glide, skimming through layers of slumber, enjoying its fluffy confines and cocooning heat. Hmm, it felt so good to be warm. Comfortable too, as though she lay cushioned and safe, far from the dangers of the world. A strange thought. Yet one that made perfect sense too. Polar opposites attached to the same situation—difficult to understand, particularly when she didn’t want to come up for air . . .
Or be bothered by the thornier side of reality.
Not right now.
Remaining adrift and warm, mind fuzzy in the fog of relaxation, seemed like a better plan. Eyes still closed, curled on her side, she burrowed deeper beneath a weighted warmth. Something soft brushed across her cheek. Rabbit’s fur, mayhap? Sure felt like it. And she should know. She’d spent all summer gathering rabbit pelts to make the warm throw that now graced the bed inside her cottage. ’Twas a luxury. An undeniable boon. One she was lucky to have, never mind slide beneath each night. The winter months would be more comfortable for it. Her mouth curved at the thought. The movement tweaked her temples and—huh. Another oddity to add to the pile.
For the first time in a long while, her head didn’t hurt.
No ache. No persistent sting. No sign at all of the god-awful throb that often plagued her. She frowned. The shift pulled her brows together and . . . naught. Still nothing. The pain really was gone. ’Twas more than odd. Its absence signaled a new day. Something other than the continuous barrage of the unwelcome. Confusion circled a moment before acceptance sank deep. Her chest went tight, pulling at her heartstrings. Gods, it had been so long. Eons since she’d woken without a headache. Or felt so well rested.
Usually she tossed and turned, fighting the ever-present pressure inside her skull. All the imagery. The slither of whispered words spoken by strange voices inside her head. The coil and pang of premonition that never left her alone.
But not today.
Or was it night? Good question . . . and probably something she should know. Which meant she needed to open her eyes and get her bearings. The realization made her grimace. Of all the rotten luck. She didn’t want to leave the comfort of her cozy haven. Given her druthers, she’d ignore the call to action and stay put. Preference, however, had little to do with it. Necessity dictated the course, shoving the sticky cobwebs of sleep aside, piling on mental acuity, forcing her to pay attention. Without moving a muscle, Cosmina fine-tuned her senses and assessed the situation.