’Twas life or death, more than just hers.
With a “dear goddess, forgive me,” she flicked her wrist and upended the entire contents into Sherene’s cup. The clear elixir made a plunking sound. Afina froze, waiting for Sherene to catch on, accuse her, and call for Xavian. When nothing but muttering came from that side of the chamber, she released a slow breath and swirled the amber liquid in the mug. The cider circled, playing at the rim while a whirlpool sucked at its center. After a few rotations, when she was sure the stirring masked the tonic’s taste, she put the tainted cup down to pick up her own.
“Ah-ha. This one will do well with your coloring.” Sherene nodded as though satisfied, tossing a butter yellow chemise over one arm followed by a dark amber gown. Over the other, she carried a smaller set, both the deepest hue of indigo. “And these we will put on your little one. They should fit without any altering.”
Drawn to the sensual color Sherene had chosen for her, Afina's fingers curled, wanting to touch the fabric and see if it was as soft as it looked. Bolder than anything she’d ever worn, the weave simmered in the low light, as though gold threads had been woven into the wool. She bit the inside of her cheek. It wasn’t fair. She planned to drug and leave the woman senseless, and what was Sherene’s most pressing concern? That the gown’s color complemented Afina.
Guilt hit her like a closed fist. She fidgeted, detesting the feeling as the woman hauled out two sets of boots with matching mantles. Both fur-lined. For pity’s sake, how much worse could it get? Not that she didn’t want the boots. The added warmth would serve them well over the coming months; protect them against the snow and bitter cold. But how could she do what needed to be done in the face of Sherene’s generosity?
Afina almost changed her mind, feigned clumsiness, and tipped the drugged cider over. She wanted to, but in the end, self-preservation forced her to toast the seamstress’s choice.
“It is a beautiful color. Thank you.”
A pleased gleam in her eyes, Sherene accepted the cider. As custom held, she clinked her cup to Afina’s then drank. Relief mingled with regret, and Afina berated herself as she drained her own mug. When both cups stood empty, she unlaced the frayed ties of her gown, inviting Sherene without words to begin the fitting. The faster she got into the new gown, the better. With the tonic flowing through her veins, it wouldn’t take long for Sherene to feel sleepy and then succumb to the drug altogether.
The soft chemise and amber gown settled against her like a caress, reminding her once more of home and the family that no longer lived there. Her mother, sister, and brother were all gone. Dead and buried, each one taken from her too early by unjust cause. Now all the memories lay tarnished along with her integrity.
As Afina laced up the fur-lined boots, Sherene swayed, forcing her to face how very low she had sunk. Reduced to drugging an innocent woman. She wanted to cry, to scream at the heavens, chasten the Gods for the unfairness of it all.
Instead she cupped Sherene’s shoulders and, with a kind touch, coaxed her into the cushioned armchair near the hearth. Her chest tight, she brushed the dark hair from the exotic beauty’s face and whispered, “I am sorry. Someday I pray you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me.”
Her brows furrowed, Sherene murmured. Her eyelashes flickered once and then a second time before she succumbed and sank deep into the world of dreams.
Turning away, Afina gathered the small bundle meant for Sabine. With quick hands, she dressed her sleeping child, making certain not to disturb her slumber, then buckled on the new fur-lined mantle. The sling with Sabine settled on her shoulders, she crossed the chamber. Her heart heavy, Afina slipped through the door opposite the one she knew Xavian guarded.
All without a backward glance.
In the alley between Sherene’s and a kilim shop, where shadows grew thickest, Xavian settled in to wait. His twin blades scraped uneven stone as he shifted, rechecking his sight lines. From his vantage point, he had an unobstructed view of both doors, the ones through which Afina would attempt to escape.
She was an easy read, her anger an excellent impetus. Right now she possessed enough to burn Ismal to the ground. But then, he did too. ’Twas a volatile mixture, his fury combined with hers. An unsafe one, and he needed to calm himself before dealing with her again.
If he didn’t, she wouldn’t like the outcome. And neither would he.
Taking a cleansing breath, Xavian filled his lungs to capacity. He counted to seven before releasing the air slowly on a measured exhalation. Hidden away in his niche, he repeated the process again and again, willing his muscles and mind to ease.
Just as he evened into some semblance of peace, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye.
Afina.
He shook his head, unable to stop his lips from curving. Such a bold lass; courageous with spirit to spare. Fortunately for him—and, however, unfortunate for her—that boldness came with a healthy dose of predictability.
Perched in the doorway’s deep alcove, she paused to check both ends of the alley, and his admiration spiked. Bold and smart. ’Twas a deadly enough combination. But add those traits to her beauty and the most fetching gown he’d ever seen, and well, a man could find himself in a serious amount of trouble. The trouble became painfully obvious when, oblivious to his will, his body reacted, hardening for the wild claiming it wanted to deliver. Xavian ignored the call and shifted when she did, moving from dense shadow into shades of grey as she skirted a pile of debris and made for the other end of the alleyway.
Attuned to her tension, he followed at a distance, making certain to stay out of sight. He still planned to let her run for a while. Mayhap as far as the market’s edge before he brought her back. No matter how hot his anger, he refused to let her go. His reasons remained the same. The fact he’d violated his oath and slept with her changed little. Vladimir was after her, and the mystery of why still stoked his interest. Add to that he needed a healer, and all the rationale he required fell neatly into place.
Crouched behind the wooden slats of a lean-to, he paused when she rounded the corner of the building and stopped. Frozen in place, she stood stone still, and although he couldn’t see her face, he felt her fear.
What the hell? Had the busyness of the marketplace startled her?
No sooner had the question entered his mind than the fine hairs on the back of his neck lifted. He spotted the merchant a moment later. Dressed in the same purple tunic, the slaver backed her away from the street and into the alley.
Rahat. He should have finished the bastard when he’d had the chance.
Xavian unsheathed the blades on his back in twin arcs of movement. The steel cleared his scabbards, the scathing sound aggressive and sure. Just as the custom hilts settled like home in his hands, four men stepped into the mouth of the alley behind him. Two more stepped around the flesh peddler toward Afina.
A raw sound escaped her throat.
He secured his grip, preparing for the attack. “Afina. Get back to the shop.”
Wide-eyed, she swung his way and hesitated, uncertainty on her face. Xavian’s eyes narrowed. Jesu, that look. ’Twas as though she was as much afraid of him as the bastards slithering toward her. What had Sherene told her?
With no time to wonder, Xavian barked, “Afina, move.”
The harshness of his tone made her flinch and got her feet moving. But it was too late. The vermin closed ranks, grabbed hold, and shoved her in the direction of the slave merchant.
Cut off from her, Xavian drilled the slaver with a glare. “Take her, and you die.”
The warning drifted, held high by the promise of violence. The flesh peddler stilled. His hand hovered a breath away from Afina. The merchant eyed him, measuring his skill before he smirked, reached out, and grabbed her upper arm.
Teeth bared, she rounded on the slaver. Shielding Sabine with her body, Afina fisted her hand and swung at his head. Bigger and stronger, the merchant shackled her wrist.
“Xavian!”
Her terror ringing in his ears, Xavian snarled at the six circling him. Rage bled through his pores, lathering his skin as the slaver dragged Afina from his sight and the safety he provided.
With a howl, he unleashed violence and consummate skill. Blades flashing, he painted the alleyway with their blood, fear for Afina in each arc and slice of steel. If the slaver hurt one hair on her head...left so much as a mark on her soft skin...
Damn the bastard to hell.
He would carve the swine’s heart out with a spoon. Pop his eyes from their sockets. Make the bastard scream for touching her...for daring to take what belonged to him.
The lad sat on a crate beside the stable doors, a curved blade in his hands. The motion he used to sharpen it was natural and smooth, but the knife didn’t belong to him. The telltale steel of the Al Pacii dagger was too long for his hands, the hilt too thick. Were he a betting man, Henrik would wager Ram’s initials sat near the base of the blade, carved with care by Henrik’s own hand.
The dagger had been the first—and last—gift he’d ever given.
He’d thought Ram worthy of it at the time. Hell, mayhap he still was, but none of that mattered anymore.
Crouched in shadow across from the stable, he watched the dark-skinned boy, trying to decide. Was the lad worth the trouble? How much had Ram told him? Very little, no doubt. ’Twas safer that way. Ignorance made him less of a target.
Ram knew it, and so did Henrik. It was the way of their kind: keep the details hidden until no other choice existed but to share them. The lack of trust worked well—both insulating them from potential threat and protecting those around them.
Henrik slid from the shadows and turned to go. Questioning the boy would do naught but waste time. Something he couldn’t afford if he wanted to catch Ram. The realization—along with relief—settled deep. He didn’t like hurting children. ’Twas a flaw he couldn’t help. The one time he’d been forced to...
He swallowed. The memory of the lass’s face, of the pain in her eyes, burned like a hot iron in the back of his mind.
With a curse, Henrik swept the image aside. Naught but pain would come from revisiting the past, and today he didn’t need the distraction. Ismal seethed around him; a virulent cesspool of humanity.
Ignoring the noxious smell, he wove a trail around oxen and carts, vendors and fortunetelling Gypsies, darks eyes lined with kohl, lips with red paint. Women called to him, offering their bodies for free, and the men looked away, fearing his attention. ’Twas always this way: fear and attraction a tedious mix that left a bad taste in his mouth.
Henrik quickened his pace, wanting out of the crowded marketplace. He cursed Ram for bringing him here. What was he doing in Ismal? How the hell could his former friend stand it? The scent of human waste and garbage, the hard press of bodies and noise made Henrik’s head pound and his stomach turn.
Holding his breath, he passed in front of a tanner-cum-butcher’s shop and turned down a narrow alley. At its mouth, he pressed his back to the wooden wall, palm on his dagger, and scanned the open area. Circular in shape, the Ring boasted the more expensive shops on its edge and an auction for livestock in its center. At one end, street performers dazzled a thinning crowd as daylight faded into dusk.
Excellent. Enough of a crowd left to point him in the right direction with few people sober enough to remember his presence.
A few well-placed questions led him to a tailor’s shop. He studied the bright blue door from across the square then crossed the Ring toward the yellow awning perched atop it. A light breeze ruffled its tasseled edge as he passed beneath, continuing on to the alleyway. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he slid across into the narrow opening. Shadows closed in, the damp darkness a welcome reprieve from the toss and swell of the marketplace.
An instant later, he was through the side entrance, twin daggers drawn, feet soundless on the flagstone floor. He heard a man talking, tone soft with a hint of worry. Henrik followed the voice. Was Ram still here? Was he that foolish? Had the woman caused his comrade to make a mistake?
His heart picked up a beat then another, eager anticipation in each thump. He came through the doorway with seamless aggression, mind and body ready to strike. Bent over a chair by the hearth, a man murmured, hands stroking a woman’s hair as though trying to rouse her.
“What the hell, Ivan?” The tips of his knives dipped as Henrik dropped his guard.
Jet black eyes lifted away from the woman. Ivan scowled at him. “Henrik.”
“Where is he?”
With skilled precision, Ivan shifted to protect the unconscious woman, placing himself in front of her. “Not here.”
“You lie.”
“Mayhap,” Ivan said as he shrugged, beefy hands at the ready. “Care to test it?”
Henrik sheathed both blades. “Shit.”
The curse was all the warning he gave Ivan. His former comrade didn’t need much more. With stunning speed, he blocked Henrik’s first thrust then parried, slamming his fist into his gut. The blow lifted Henrik an inch off the floor. Years of training took hold and he countered, launching an assault that cracked Ivan’s ribs. Next he blooded his comrade’s nose, loosening a few of his teeth in the process.
Spitting blood, Ivan spun low, making one last attempt to bring him down. Aggression and a lifetime of fury let loose, and Henrik hammered him in the temple. Ivan reeled. Without mercy, Henrik circled in behind and delivered a blow to the small of his comrade’s back. The instant Ivan hit his knees, he locked him in a chokehold. Henrik twisted, the need to snap the assassin’s neck almost too difficult to resist.
“Where?”
“Fuck you.”
Henrik tightened his hold, cutting off Ivan’s air supply a little at a time.
A moment before he snapped his neck, Ivan rasped, “Don’t hurt her.”
Henrik closed his eyes. Christ, he was about to die and all Ivan could think about was the dark-haired woman in the chair? What the hell was wrong with him? Such selfless loyalty didn’t belong in an assassin. ’Twas a weakness that would make Halál rage and reach for his knives.
Ivan whispered the entreaty again.
Henrik’s grip loosened.
He couldn’t do it. After escaping the hell of Grey Keep, Ivan had found happiness, a rarity among their kind. He couldn’t take it from him on a whim. Goddamn, he held no quarrel with the man—connection to Ram aside—and Ivan didn’t deserve to die for that.
With a silent curse, he changed his hand position, adjusting the pressure on the side of Ivan’s neck. The big bastard went boneless, losing consciousness between one heartbeat and the next. Henrik shook his head. There was something wrong with him. A year ago he would have killed Ivan and not felt a thing. Now he couldn’t seem to stop feeling. The excess emotion bothered the hell out of him. He should be able to control it, bend it to his will, but—
Glass shattered, spilling across the floor from the open doorway.
He shifted, positioning Ivan’s body between him and the door then glared at the intruder from beneath his brows. A lass stood frozen on the threshold, a tray and broken crockery at her feet, dark eyes so round they nearly swallowed her small face. She twitched, feet shuffling on flagstone, ready to flee like a doe that had just scented a wolf.
“Don’t run.” He lowered Ivan to the floor. “You will not enjoy my reaction.”
A tremor racked her slight frame, working its way up until her bottom lip quivered.
He took pity. “My quarrel is not with you, lass.”
Her gaze slid to Ivan.
Henrik stepped over him, blocking the sprawl of his comrade’s body, and moved toward the girl. Her shaking became so violent he heard her teeth chatter as he stopped in front of her. She shrank from him, trying to make herself small. With a fingertip, he tipped her chin up, conveying his intent with a gentle touch.
“Answer my questions and I will leave you in peace,” he said, making sure to keep his voice soft. “I have no wish
to harm you.”
She took a stuttered breath, chin wobbling against his hand, and nodded.
“What is your name?”
“B-basim-ma,” she said, the name barely audible.
“Ivan is not dead, Basima. Give him time, and he will rouse.” Air puffed between her lips, and her tension eased, though not enough to bring her any true comfort. He dropped his hand from her face. “Xavian Ramir...he was here, aye?”
“He followed the woman into the alley.”
Henrik raised a brow.
“The dark-haired one.” She bit her bottom lip, no doubt uncertain she should continue.
“’Tis all right.” He shifted, creating more distance between them. He didn’t need to threaten her with his size any longer. She’d submitted; now was the time to reassure. ’Twas the only way he’d get the information he sought without breaking his word...without hurting her. “You can tell me, lass.”
“She went out the side door...away from...my lord X-Xavian,” she said, then paused.
My lord. So the rumors were true. Lucky bastard. Ram owned land and had a new home. “And?”
“The others came...the ones that work for the man in purple. A slaver, some say.” She met his eyes then shied, shuffling sideways. “T-there was a fight and...they took her.”
“The slave merchant?”
Basima nodded, the movement jerky. “Lord Xavian, he...he k-killed them all. The ones who tried to s-stop him and...w-went after her.”
“Ivan cleaned it up?”
“He h-hid the bodies.”
“Many thanks, Basima,” he said and turned to leave.
Something stopped him halfway down the narrow corridor. He glanced over his shoulder. She stood statue-still, no doubt afraid to move...afraid the slightest noise would bring him back. Vise-like pressure banded around his chest. Without thinking, he reached into the pouch at his waist. Coming away with a coin, he flipped the gold in her direction and was out the door before it hit the floor between her feet.
CHAPTER TEN
Knight Awakened (Circle of Seven #1) Page 12