Coreene Callahan - Knight Avenged

He should be afraid. Or, at the very least, wary.

Cristobal was neither. Instead something akin to pride surfaced, urging him to explore the bond he sensed between him and them. One that became stronger by the moment, infusing him with a power not his own. Magic flowed. His senses sharpened and came alive, allowing him to hear, see, and smell everything—just like he had at the cemetery. He hummed, the sound half purr, half snarl. The hellhounds responded, returning the hostile sound. Which made perfect sense. Felt right too. The twins had come from somewhere inside him, leaping off his skin to take physical form. So aye, as lethal and angry as the pair appeared, the hellhounds belonged to him.

Instinct his guide, Cristobal pushed to his feet.

The hellhounds tensed, growling in unison.

“Ah, Cristobal?”

“Relax, Xavian,” he said, reassuring his friend. No reason to be alarmed. Well, at least, not yet. Raising his arms, Cristobal turned his hands, palms up, and approached the hellhounds on silent feet. “I’ve got them under control.”

“Jesu, I hope so. I’ve no wish to be eaten by . . .” Hands gripping the hilts, but blades still sheathed, Xavian dragged his focus from the twins. Pale eyes full of unease, his commander threw him a meaningful look. “Well, whatever the hell they are.”

“Hellhounds.”

“If you say so.”

His lips twitched. “Trust me.”

“Uh-huh.”

Ignoring the skepticism, Cristobal continued to advance. Blue Eyes bared her fangs and, white paw crossing over black, sidestepped, readying for attack. The show of aggression didn’t faze him. He reached for her instead, holding his hand out, encouraging her to catch his scent, while Yellow Eyes circled around behind him. Enchantment rose. The wind died down. He murmured, using his voice to soothe her. The hellhound at his back came in close and . . .

Bumped him from behind.

Her touch unlocked a floodgate inside his mind. Knowledge washed in, bringing insight and understanding. Wrought by magic, the bond between them snapped into place. A name streamed into his head. Lowering his arm, he laid his hand atop her large head—felt the hard scales beneath soft fur—and stroked his palm over the back of her neck.

Allowing his touch, Yellow Eyes nudged him again.

His mouth curved. “Hello, Thrax.”

Acknowledging his greeting, Thrax purred. The loud rumble made him smile as she pushed her snout into his hand, asking for more. Cristobal gave it to her, petting Thrax without hesitation while he waited for her sister to come forward and receive the same. It took a while. Moments tipped into more, but he didn’t push her. He waited instead, allowing the hellhound the time she needed. After what seemed like forever, but was no more than a minute, she bridged the distance, set her chin in his palm, allowing the bond to take shape and form.

“Vicars,” he said, calling her by name, scratching behind one of her ears. She growled and, tipping her head to one side, leaned into his touch. Giving her what she wanted, he rubbed a little harder, then glanced over his shoulder. “We’ve some new playmates, Xavian.”

His friend huffed. “Helluva pair to own. Lethal one moment, naught but kittens the next.”

Cristobal grinned. True enough. But in the best possible way. Aye, the hellhounds were dangerous, but they could be controlled and leashed . . . by him. Proof positive lay in the fact they obeyed him on command. Hell, Thrax even rolled over, exposing her belly when he asked. Praising her with his touch, he held her in place—back pressed to the ground, four legs up in the air—and, pivoting toward Vicars, asked for her paw. Mismatched eyes full of trust, she set it in his hand and . . . huh. Interesting. Seven claws instead of the usual five—razor-sharp, bladelike, at least five inches long, with a hooked tip.

Incredibly lethal. Death with one forceful swipe.

“Hey, Xavian?”

“Aye?”

“Come here a moment.”

“No way in hell.”

Still holding Vicar’s paw, Cristobal eyed his best friend. “You want to get eaten?”

Releasing the death grip on his weapons, Xavian grimaced.

“Then come here. I need to introduce you. Otherwise they won’t accept you.” Murmuring to his new pets, he issued a command. Both hellhounds leapt to obey, sitting on their haunches in front of him as Cristobal pushed to his feet. His face wiped of expression, Xavian stopped alongside him and, making a fist, offered his hand to the pair. The instant the hellhounds caught and accepted Xavian’s scent, Cristobal dismissed them both. As the twins went exploring, noses to the ground, he glanced sideways at his friend. “Anything from Henrik?”

Xavian nodded. “’Tis what I came to tell you. Tareek brought word.”

Cristobal tipped his chin, asking without words.

“’Tisn’t good.” Rolling his shoulders, his friend cracked his knuckles. Sound ricocheted, bouncing off rock, bringing the hellhounds’ heads around. Two sets of eyes narrowed on him. Seeing naught amiss, each went back to exploring. “Halál and Al Pacii have turned.”

“Into what? Magic wielders?”

“Not quite, but close. Druinguari . . . minions to the Prince of Shadows,” Xavian said. “We need to get up trail. Henrik’s got a plan.”

“Always interesting.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“Fill me in.” With a quick pivot, Cristobal strode for the mouth of the mountain trail. With a low whistle, he called Thrax and Vicars to attention. Twin snarls echoed in answer. He murmured a command. The pair transformed, dematerializing into black blurs, each leaping the distance to reach his forearms. Sharp pinpricks licked across his skin as the hellhounds became one with the tattoos. Shaking off the sting, he rounded a boulder and headed for camp. “I want details.”

Keeping pace alongside him, Xavian laid out the plan, providing Cristobal with the timeline. Less than an hour to get into position and ambush a pack of Druinguari. Excellent. A bold strategy that necessitated acting fast and being smarter. Not a problem under normal circumstances. The information relayed, however, didn’t inspire confidence. It felt thin, smacked of the unknown and all kinds of challenge.

Particularly if the enemy proved almost impossible to kill.

Then again, he now held an interesting advantage. Something as dangerous as the sorcery Xavian and his other comrades wielded. Two hellhounds. Monsters rooted in magic, packing a whole lot of vicious and even more lethal. A handy pair to own. An even better weapon to unleash when Henrik lit the fuse and the battle got under way.

***

Hidden within a copse of spruce overlooking the Carpathian foothills, Henrik rechecked his blades and studied the terrain. The winter wind blustered, blowing against his back. Granular snow whipped around tree trunks, leaving bare patches in some spots and piles in others. Not a problem. The day provided all he needed. Sunny afternoon, clear skies, no new snowfall, and all the high ground he needed to set the trap. Scanning the terrain through the spread of branches, he slid his last dagger into its sheath, then tested the tautness of his bow and slung it over his shoulder. Weapons at the ready—check, check, and triple check.

Optimal conditions heading into battle.

Excellent in every way.

The advantage should’ve made him happy. Halál and the Druinguari, after all, lay within striking distance. The buzz between his temples told the tale, helping him pinpoint the enemy’s location—a thousand yards downhill, lying in wait on either side of the narrow trail just over the next rise. Knowing he held the high ground and upper hand, however, didn’t improve his mood. Discontent circled instead, picking him apart, making him ache with the need to go back instead of move forward. Henrik clenched his teeth. ’Twas the height of stupidity. Distraction equaled trouble. Mistakes got made that way. So aye, his lack of focus was a problem—dangerous in more ways than one considering the killer he kept caged rattled his mental bars, begging for freedom . . .