Coreene Callahan - Knight Avenged

An arrow whizzed toward his head.

Senses keen, Henrik dodged right. The bolt blew by his ear, ruffling his hair. The razor-sharp tip hammered the wall behind him. A violent crack exploded through the rotunda. Stone dust flew. Cosmina cursed. With a snarl, he launched another arrow. And then three more in quick succession. The enemy scattered, diving behind High Temple’s massive pillars to avoid the lethal volley. Adjusting his stance, he shifted to the left, putting himself between Cosmina and the enemy.

“H—duck,” Andrei growled behind him.

Henrik hit one knee. His comrade launched another assault. The bladed boomerang flew, whirling across the huge chamber. Caught out in the open, an assassin cursed as Andrei’s weapon clipped him. A thin line appeared at the bastard’s throat. A second later his head left his shoulders and fell, thumping into a lopsided roll across the mosaic floor.

Henrik nodded in approval. “Nice.”

“ Merci .” Intense eyes met his. Andrei raised his hand, catching the boomerang as it came back around. “I aim to please.”

“And kill,” Shay said as he palmed his throwing stars.

Henrik snorted and, reaching up and over, stowed his bow in the quiver on his back. His hands found the twin hilts rising above his shoulders. Pushing to his feet, he drew hard, unsheathing his swords. The curved blades flashed in the low light. Aggressive. Efficient. Deadly. Henrik became all three as his comrades spread out, giving him room to work. Staying low, he spun on the balls of his feet. His black cloak whipped in his wake, blurring into a streak that stained the air around him. A dark warning in a holy place, one he barely noticed as the enemy swarmed up the steps . . .

Toward him. Sights set on Cosmina. Intent on killing a member of the Order he’d sworn to protect.

More’s the pity.

Somewhere along the line, he’d lost his godforsaken mind. Or at least, taken a temporary leave of his senses. The theory made a lot of sense. ’Twas the simplest explanation—the likeliest excuse for allowing himself to become shackled to the Goddess of All Things. But an oath was just that: an oath . Binding. Unbreakable. The very definition of honor. He’d pledge himself alongside his brothers-in-arms. Promised the goddess his skill along with his sword. The conditions weren’t negotiable, and the parameters put Cosmina firmly in his camp.

His to shield. His to keep safe.

One hundred percent his responsibility.

Which meant no matter the obstacles, he must keep his word. It was, after all, the only thing of true value he had left. So forget walking away. Leaving her behind wasn’t in his immediate future. He refused to allow Cosmina to be taken. Or hurt. Aye, she might be a pain in the arse—a mouthy one with a lush body and a mind of her own—but he would do his duty. Defend in order to protect. Provide what she needed . . .

And get her out alive.

Shifting both sword hilts into one hand, Henrik palmed the dagger he kept sheathed against his lower back. Steel rasped against leather as he pulled the weapon free. Timing it to perfection, he waited for the lead assassin to crest the top step. Muscles coiled, he held his position a split second, then unleashed. The knife hurtled through the air and . . .

Thud! The blade found its home. In the center of the bastard’s throat.

Knife buried to the hilt, blood spilled down the enemy’s chest. The bastard teetered a moment, then buckled, falling backward into thin air. Cursing, the assassins behind the leader leapt, getting out of the way as their comrade tumbled down the steps. A few Al Pacii down, many more to go. Henrik didn’t care. Outnumbered didn’t mean defeated. It simply elevated the challenge. Anticipation streaked though him. He launched another dagger, then growled in satisfaction.

Bull’s-eye. Right on the mark. Another idiot down for the count.

Pulling another blade free, Henrik sighted the enemy while tracking Cosmina’s movements. Strange, but even over the din—the hammer of footfalls, the shouts of fury, the chorus of steel striking steel—he could hear her behind him. Senses pinpoint sharp, Henrik reached out with his mind. Magic coursed through his veins. Awareness explained, upping the intensity as he listened to her move. Sweet Christ, his fixation was odd. Locked onto her, he perceived everything—the slightest twitch of her muscles, the frantic thump of her heart, the rustle and slide as she shifted, small boots scraping over the marble floor.

Without looking, he knew Cosmina was on her knees in front of the wall carvings. Reaching up, she pressed something against a line etched in stone. Hand steady, she turned it, each movement slow and measured. A faint click echoed inside his head. Henrik frowned. Bizarre. Beyond anything he’d ever experienced before. His awareness of her was downright eerie. And yet, the whisper of sensation couldn’t be denied. He felt it like a heartbeat, the throb and tear as his mind connected with hers and . . .

He read her thoughts.

Ah hell. So much for controlling the situation. Cosmina was on a mission. Had a goal and was scrambling to make sure she completed it. Words like duty, honor, and redemption whirled inside her head. Stay the course. Be strong. Get it finished. The mental flash inside her mind exploded between his temples and—

Terrific. Just what he didn’t want. Another magic-driven skill to set at the goddess’ feet—mind reading, the gift of Thrall. Tareek had warned Henrik, explaining he possessed the ability to tap into another’s thoughts, but . . . goddamned son of a bitch. He despised the sorcery. Needed to shut it down. Faster than fast. Before Cosmina’s fear infected him and he lost his edge. And yet, even as he told himself to do just that, Henrik checked on her anyway, reading her like an open book. Heartbeat strong. Mind set. Focus fixed. Afraid, but not seriously injured. At least, so far. But not for long if he didn’t do something . . .

Like eliminate the threat.

Another assassin came within range. Weapons whirling, Henrik pinwheeled, ducking beneath razor-sharp swords. He lashed out with his own. His blades bit, cleaving through flesh to reach bone. The bastard roared. He rammed the steel tip deeper, punching through the enemy’s breastbone. Impaled on his blade, the warrior’s eyes widened in shock. Henrik raised his booted foot. A split second. A mere moment in time and . . .

Slam-bang. He kicked out, hammering the man in the chest.

Arms flailing, the assassin flew backward. With a yank, Henrik pulled his sword free of muscle and bone. Black blood arced through the air. Viscous liquid splattered across the top of the golden altar. Each movement sure, weapons flashing, Henrik took on another Al Pacii and whirled full circle. A quick flick. A brutal twist, and he sliced the enemy’s throat. The bastard’s head left his shoulders, spinning end over end.

More black liquid splashed across mosaic tiles. His gaze narrowed on the strange blood. ’Twas unnatural. Inhuman. Not normal at all. Aye, Al Pacii assassins might act demonic, but they always bled red. Always red . Like everyone else on earth.

Henrik dodged, avoiding another enemy blade, his eyes on the corpse. Except . . .

The decapitated body moved. Hands flat against the floor, the dead man crawled toward his head. Incredulity rose. Incomprehension circled. With a quick shift, Henrik parried another thrust, body moving, mind mired in the mystery.

“ Merde ,” Andrei growled, severing an Al Pacii arm with one slice.

“Jesu.” With a sharp twist, Shay snapped his opponent’s neck. Body twitching, the assassin hit the floor, then tried to get back up. Wide-eyed in disbelief, Shay watched the body squirm and took a step back. “Hellfire, H . . . they’re not dying. The bastards keep getting up. I cannot—”