Knight Awakened (Circle of Seven #1) (5 page)

Damnation, where in the hell was Afina?

He needed her...for more than just the power she would provide him. He wanted her under him, over him, in whatever position he could get her as long as it involved his bed. He would settle for Bianca, but ’twas Afina he craved. She wore the mark, the crown of the goddess stamped on her skin, the symbol marking the next High Priestess of Orm. Without her support, the king would never accept him. And without his blessing, the coffers, the treasures of Transylvania, remained out of reach.

His nostrils flared as he imagined what he would do to her—with her—when he found her. An eye for an eye. He suffered, and when he finally got his hands on her, she would too.

He growled. Where the devil was Henrik?

He’d ridden all the way from the marketplace to meet the bastard. If he wasn’t—

A soft sound caught his attention.

Scanning the chamber again, Vladimir caught a flash of movement in his periphery. Bare-chested, a man came through from the alcove, silhouette haloed by the sun flooding through the high windows. Another outline followed, shapely, much smaller than the first. The pair paused, heads aligned and close together.

Vladimir sighed and pivoted. His back to them, he crossed to the other side of the room, his progress muted by the thick Turkish rug underfoot. Grabbing a bejeweled cup from the exquisitely carved sideboard, he tipped the matching pitcher, pouring a tumbler full of red wine. Goblet in hand, he turned to lean on the lip of the cabinet.

Legs crossed at the ankles, he sipped the wine and watched them. A cloud passed overhead and the sunlight faded, giving him a clear view of the man’s face.

Hazel-gold eyes trained on Vladimir, Henrik fastened the ties on his trews then bent to kiss the curve of the wench’s bare shoulder. “My thanks, sweet.”

Vladimir raised the goblet in silent salute. Christ, the warrior had no shame, didn’t care that he’d been caught tupping a servant by the lord who employed him.

A rosy hue in her cheeks, she peeked at Henrik from beneath her lashes. “Tonight?”

Vladimir’s hand tightened around the tankard, jealousy rolling like wildfire through his veins. If only Afina had looked at him that way. If only she’d wanted him with the same intensity, the crown would be his, and so would she.

His mind on how best to punish her, he observed Henrik with the wench and almost snorted. The warrior’s patience was laughable. He’d already tupped her, for Christ’s sake. Why be so gentle? But then, he guessed the man wasn’t renowned for his skill with the lasses for naught. Vladimir shook his head. Gentleness. Such an abysmal waste of time.

With a nudge, Henrik pushed her toward the exit. “Off you go, lass.”

Eyes bright, the maid scurried toward the exit, her fingers busy lacing the front of her gown. She paused on the threshold, gave the warrior one last lingering look, and disappeared over the threshold.

The latch fell with a click, and Vladimir asked, “What have you learned?”

“Not much.” His gaze fixed on him, Henrik palmed a tankard from the marble mantelpiece. Something cold moved in the
warrior’s eyes as he swirled the wine then raised the cup to take a sip.

Vladimir clenched his teeth, disliking the blatant show of disrespect. The urge to draw his sword—and Henrik’s blood—almost overwhelmed him. Self-preservation prevailed, however, stilling his hand. The man standing before him was no lightweight. A full-blooded assassin trained by the old man, Henrik could no doubt kill him with naught more than his little finger.

“Then why the hell are you here? Couldn’t find someone else’s servants to screw?”

“You’re selection is good, Vladimir,” he said, his bored tone somehow laced with enmity. “But not so fine I’d travel cross-country to bed one.”

The crass bastard. How dare he come here empty-handed then disregard his authority as though his position held no importance? His hand tightened on his cup. “Then I’ll ask again...why are you here?”

“Rumor has it you’ve hired Xavian Ramir.”

“What of it?”

“I like to know when I have competition.” Interest interwoven with menace sparked in Henrik’s strange golden eyes. “Hedging your bets?”

The hostility embedded in the assassin’s voice swirled in the space between them, and the muscle roping Vladimir’s abdomen twisted, tying his stomach into knots. He forced himself to relax and, affecting a manner of unconcern, swirled the wine in his goblet. “I want her found...two working on the problem is better than one.”

Henrik prowled toward him, his movements predatory, his feet soundless as he skirted a plush daybed. Trailing a finger
along the top of a silk pillow, he stopped a few feet away and flicked the gold fringe on the tasseled cushion. “Is it?”

Vladimir shifted against the sideboard, aware he clung to his perch by a fingertip. He must tread carefully. Henrik was unpredictable at best, violent at worst. If he showed weakness, the animal in the assassin would sense his disquiet and go for his throat. Icy fingers brushing the nape of his neck, he waved the comment aside, feigning a confidence he didn’t feel. “What do you care?”

“He is a comrade, of sorts.”

Of sorts? What the hell did that mean? Had Ramir been trained by the Halál as well? Vladimir knew so little about the man, had heard about him through a string of associates. ’Twas said the warrior-assassin single-handedly won the Battle of Posada for Basarab, the new ruler of Wallachia. If rumor held true, Ramir massacred half of the Hungarian army and sent the other half fleeing for their lives.

Vladimir raised a brow. “Is he as good as I’ve heard?”

“Better.”

With a soundlessness that unnerved him, Henrik ghosted around an armchair, drifting within striking distance. Alert to the possibility of attack, Vladimir held his breath then let it out when the assassin moved away, toward the blaze roaring in the fireplace.

“Better than you?”

Henrik’s mouth quirked at the corners, but he said naught.

The subtle evasion bothered Vladimir. Why was Henrik so interested in Ramir? What did he know that he wasn’t telling? Whatever the cause, it signaled trouble, the kind he didn’t like. Who he hired was no one’s business, least of all Henrik’s. But assassins were a strange bunch. He’d learned that truth the hard way, had yet to recover from his folly...from forcing the
encounter and Ramir’s subsequent attack. Hell and damnation, his knee still ached and the meeting had taken place well over a month ago.

He breathed deep, trying to calm himself. Ramir was the rarest sort of savage. Skilled precision coupled with a cunning Vladimir admired but seldom saw. He clenched his teeth. If only Ramir had taken the coin. He’d wanted to give him half to start and half when he delivered Afina, but the bastard hadn’t bitten. His distrust had been palpable. He’d neither refused nor accepted, merely evaded, too intelligent to commit to the mission either way. The hesitation made Vladimir think Ramir was no longer an asset but a liability, one that needed to be dropped off the nearest cliff.

Curious about Henrik’s association with the famed assassin, he tested the waters. “Can you find him?”

“Who?” Grabbing a sleeveless tunic from the chair in front of the fire, Henrik pulled the black leather over his head and attacked the side laces. “Ram?”

“Aye.” Vladimir took another sip and lounged against the sideboard, trying to appear as though the assassin’s reply didn’t matter. The truth? He hung on tether hooks, itched to know whether Henrik could track the bastard.

Henrik shrugged, as noncommittal as his blasted comrade.

Tension pulled at the muscles bracketing his spine. Should he? Shouldn’t he? ’Twas a toss-up considering Henrik’s violent streak, but...aye. It was worth the risk.

“There’s additional coin in it...if you can track him,” he said, tempting Henrik with the one thing he knew no one could resist. Ready coin.

A black brow raised, the assassin slid a knife into a sheath high on his chest. “How much?”

“Thirty pieces of silver.” Vladimir paused, sitting on the fence, not sure which way to hop. After a tense moment, he made the leap. “To take him out.”

“Eliminate the competition?” Henrik’s mouth curled at the corners. The smile never quite reaching his eyes, he strapped twin swords on his back and headed for the door. “I thought you’d never ask.”

She needed to make her move...soon. The Carpathians loomed, a silent predator waiting for them to come within easy reach. She’d never been so close before, had never wanted to be anywhere near them. People said the inhospitable mountains ate people whole, that strange things—unholy things—happened on the great peaks, and below, in the deep valleys. A godless place filled with naught but inky darkness and bad intentions.

And Xavian was leading them straight into the belly of the beast.

Afina shivered, catching a glimpse of the jagged teeth through a break in the trees. The sharp angles and soaring cliffs snarled at the sky, piercing greyish-white clouds to taunt the heavens with a curled lip. She clung to the saddle horn and cuddled Sabine closer, her unease so strong the heat leached from her body. The chill sank bone-deep, turning muscle to ice, freezing her ability to form an adequate plan.

At least her brain was working well enough now to know she required one. Fast. Faster than fast...before the little-used trail they followed carried them into the mountains. Once they left the forest, her chances of escape went from slight to nil. She needed the thick shadow and dense foliage to shield her when
she bolted. Finding cover on barren rock faces, sheer cliffs, and the narrow paths of the Carpathians would prove too difficult, especially with a chatty two-year-old in tow.

Time was running out.

Judging by their pace, she had two, mayhap three days at most. Nervous tension swirled in the pit of her stomach, wreaking havoc with her resolve. She drew a long breath and stroked Sabine’s hair, trying to steady herself. One slip, a moment of inattentiveness was all she needed. By the time her captors registered her absence, she’d be gone, so deep in the woods they’d find it difficult to track her.

The mossy turf would conceal her footprints, wouldn’t it? She could hide in the shadows, use the trees for cover, the streams to disguise their scent and trail, couldn’t she? Afina swallowed, praying she was right. So many factors to consider, too many chances to make a mistake. And yet she only had one to win her way free. Xavian wasn’t stupid. He no doubt expected her to run. It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out. She’d signaled her intent the instant she failed to fall in with his plans.

She shifted in the saddle, wanting to kick herself. Why hadn’t she played along? It would be much easier now if he believed she was a happy captive. Now he watched her like an alluring angel—a fallen one. Stupid. Idiotic. Completely witless. Why did she always think of these things too late?

Afina adjusted the sling around her shoulder. Lulled by the steady beat of horses’ hooves, Sabine swung in the well-worn fabric, struggling to keep her eyes open. Afina watched her silver eyelashes flicker and prayed for good fortune. She didn’t hold much hope. Luck had never been a friend of hers, unless, of course, the bad kind counted.

Afina stifled a snort. Abysmal luck, indeed. Poor decision making had landed her here, not fortune, but she refused to dwell on her failures. No matter how inept her skill, she needed to move forward. She held no sway over the past. It was over and done, but the future lay ahead, and feeling sorry for herself was never a good strategy.

She huffed. Forget
good
. She would settle for mediocre if it got her far enough away from her captors. It was like being in the middle of a male wolf pack. Silent, muscular ones who wore aggression like a scent.

Armed to the teeth, their sun-bronzed skin and serious eyes screamed of experience, a depth of skill she didn’t need to see to believe. World-weariness reflected in their faces, sad and startling in its intensity. Could that be why they wore nothing but black? The style of clothing differed, yes, but each wore ebony in one form or another. A strange preference, but one she guessed held importance for them. Instinct warned this group did nothing without reason. She wasn’t sure how she knew, but something told her when Xavian acted, the logic supporting his decision was well thought out in advance.

There was something unseemly about that. A methodical precision that made her feel safe even as it scared her to death. She felt the push-pull, the fear and attraction each time she looked at him. How could he heat her blood and frighten her at the same time? Was that what Bianca had felt for Bodgan? Had the emotional opposites pulled her sister into a passionate entanglement? Prompted her to meet with him in secret, risk all to have him in her life and rejoice when she found herself with child?

Afina chewed on her lower lip, weighing the probability. No matter the contradiction, it seemed a distinct possibility. One she disliked...immensely.

With a frown, she drilled the back of Xavian’s head with a look. She refused to let that happen to her. She wouldn’t permit him to lure her the way Bodgan had lured her sister. Bianca’s death stood as an excellent example. Nothing but pain came from becoming entangled with a man, and Afina intended to remember the important lesson.