Coreene Callahan - Knight Avenged

“A worthy opponent. I have indeed chosen well.” Mouth curved, Armand leaned closer. The tip of his nose an inch from Halál’s, he gave life to temptation with a whisper. “Agree, assassin, and I will give you gifts beyond measure. All the things you crave. Strength. The power to command black magic, along with the promise of eternal youth. Imagine all you could accomplish with immortality, Halál. To cheat death . . . how divine.”

Ah, and there it was: the promise of all promises. The one he craved above all others. “What price for the privilege?”

“Your heart and soul,” the dark one said, fingers turning to flame. Halál cursed as fire burned the column of his throat. Pain spiraled out in a wave, making his body twitch and his senses scream. Showing no mercy, Armand brought his other hand up. He held it aloft a moment, allowing Halál to see the inferno gathering in the center of his palm. “Service to me for all eternity.”

Forever under the yoke of the Prince of Shadows.

A heavy price to pay. A terrible burden to bear. Halál frowned. Or was it? Pledging himself to the dark one would be no great hardship. Aye, there were risks—the loss of independence chief among them. But as he hung from Armand’s hand—suspended in glory—the path became clear. He wanted it all. Every bit of the magic. All of the acclaim. The magnificence of youth and a strong body. To be part of Armand’s stable, yet free to wreak havoc upon the earth and his enemies.

“Your decision, assassin.” Flames growing wilder, Armand met his gaze. “Life with me. Or death here and now.”

“I choose life,” he whispered, welcoming immortal chains.

“With me.”

“Aye, master.”

Approval flared in Armand’s eyes. The inferno in his palm lengthened into a fiery blade. The dark one drew his arm back. Halál arched, twisting as the magical dagger plunged toward him. An awful crack sounded as the tip punctured his breastbone. Fire spilled into the wound. He screamed in agony as Armand tore his chest open and—

The dream.

He knew what it meant now—the who and why—as Armand spread his ribs. Blood splattered in an ugly arc, running down his belly, soaking his linen trews, dripping from his toes onto the floor. Armand fisted a hand around his heart. Ash and blood bubbled up his throat and cinders burst from his chest, flying like sparks. The smell of burning flesh putrefied the air. One moment tipped into the next, and yet numbness didn’t come. Anguish ate at him, burning through his veins as Armand consumed him. A black wave rose inside his head. Consciousness expanded into certain knowledge. He was being eaten alive. It had all been a trick. A terrible lie. Armand had no intention of—

Halál roared as the fire stopped and the black mist began.

Like an insidious disease, the brume settled in his chest cavity—in the place his heart had once occupied. Armand murmured. The fog solidified, turning to sludge. Moving like a voracious wave, the slime splashed into his veins, then reached out to coat the raw edges of the hole in his chest. Suspended in horror, Halál watched the evil nectar sew the gaping wound closed one demonic thread at a time.

Armand released him.

Halál landed with a thud on the hard floor. Clawing at the flagstones, he rolled onto his back. His bones cracked, shifting under his skin. A silent scream locked in his throat, he writhed on the flagstones at Armand’s feet.

His spine twisted, bending beneath the pressure. “Jesus help me.”

“Leave God out of it,” Armand said from above him. “That bastard hasn’t been here in centuries.”

Halál cracked his eyes open. Blurred by tears, he couldn’t see much, but . . . something was different, as though . . .

He blinked to clear away the moisture. His vision leapt into focus, allowing him to see in the low light. Halál frowned. Odd, but ’twas as though he sat in the light of day, not in the near dark of a windowless room. Struggling to acclimate to the change, he glanced around, then shook his head, noticing the spiders for the first time. Tiny and black, at least twenty of them hung between the ceiling beams, weaving silvery webs.

Night vision. Incredible. Which begged the question . . . what else had Armand changed?

Halál looked down at his chest. No wound. Naught but youthful skin poured over hard muscle. Next, he examined his hands. No longer lined with age, both were strong, capable—the hands of a much younger man. His breath caught as he made twin fists. No stiffness. No sound of cracking joints. No pain of any kind. Testing the theory, he popped to his feet. His thigh muscles flexed, and with a growl of satisfaction, he turned to Armand.

“Signed, sealed, and delivered, assassin,” Armand said, an unholy light in his eyes. “You now belong to me.”

Eagerness engulfed him. “My first task?”

“White Temple,” Armand said, a growl in his voice. “The pilgrimage has begun. You will stop it from taking root.”

Halál raised a brow, asking for details without words.

“The Blessed return to the holy city. Servants of the Order of Orm and the Goddess of All Things, the women observe the ancient rites,” Armand said. “Each time one of the sacred rituals is performed, the goddess’ grip on the earthly realm strengthens. If the Blessed amass in great numbers, the rituals will be performed daily and her power will increase a thousandfold. This must be prevented if I am to triumph.”

“You wish me to eliminate the Blessed?”

“I wish you to make war on the Goddess of All Things. Bring pain to all who follow her. She loves the humans, refusing me my due and her heart,” he said, jealousy seeping into his tone. Rage in his eyes, Armand cracked his knuckles. “You will wipe those who serve the Order of Orm from the face of the earth. Track them down. Leave none alive.”

“It will be so,” he said, squaring his shoulders. “Thy will be done, master.”

Armand’s eyes narrowed on him. “Do not disappoint me, assassin.”

He wouldn’t. Ever.

’Twas the truth, plain and simple. He’d been given a second chance. The gift of immortality shaped by his favorite thing—black magic. The fact Armand’s agenda complemented his own meant chance favored him. Luck stood on his side and turned against his enemy. Why? Simple. The new High Priestess of Orm called Drachaven home. The mountain fortress might be far away, but news traveled fast. And if rumor held true? Xavian—leader of The Seven and Lord of Drachaven—was now her husband. Halál growled. Two birds with one stone. His master’s word obeyed and his enemies dead.

Perfect in every way that mattered.

WHITE TEMPLE, VALLEY OF THE BLESSED ONE MONTH LATER

The chill of midnight descended like a wraith, leaving Henrik Lazar alone amid deep shadows and silence. Stripped of foliage, tree limbs creaked above his head as fog curled between the oak’s gnarled feet to reach his own. Just as well. The phantom called night suited him. He belonged in the darkness. The blacker the abyss, the better he liked it.

Especially tonight. And for the mission to come.

Reconnaissance at its finest. The wait and see of time spent lurking in shadows, hoping the enemy showed his face. The toil and trouble of tracking those who served the Order of Assassins across the Carpathian Mountain Range. His objective? To put every one of the bastards down and rid his homeland of Al Pacii scum.

So far, his efforts had all had been for naught. Smart. Combat trained. Well aware he followed in their wake, the warriors he’d once called brethren had been careful, leaving a trail of boot prints in the snow, but little else. Not a good sign. The enemy’s desire to stay ahead of him meant one of two things. Either the group wished to avoid him in order to complete a raid . . .