Читать книгу Warrior: - Zoe Archer - Страница 12

The servant, Batu, shouted something in Mongolian to Thalia. He sounded anxious. Her somewhat calmer answer was also in Mongolian, so he had no way to know what they were talking about. Huntley wasn’t sure if he should ask. Ever since that morning, when she had practically frosted over in response to his attempts at flirtation, Huntley had wisely decided to give her some room, and speak seldom.

Perhaps her father kept her isolated from the company of men. It might explain why she was skittish and abrupt with Huntley. Or, he thought wryly, perhaps his own ham-handed efforts at seduction could attract only the most jaded trollop that ever followed a regiment. Maybe he should have taken care of his sexual needs back in Peking. There had been a lot of opportunities, but Huntley had never been especially fond of paying for female company, which was the most available option, and he was also pressed for time. So he had ridden on, and now it seemed he was paying the real price. Clumsily flirting with a woman who would rather he had the good manners to be thrown from his horse and kicked in the head.

Their company of three had ridden in silence for the better part of the day. They hadn’t even stopped to eat, but instead, still in the saddle, they gnawed on more of the dried meat that Thalia had handed out. Thalia held the lead, while Huntley continued to ride at the back of the group, keeping his eyes and ears attuned to any sights and sounds. Occasionally, they passed a nomad herding sheep, and a few clusters of those large tents that Thalia called gers appeared in the distance, but she seemed intent on giving them a wide berth. Huntley admitted to himself his interest in the woman kept growing, and not only because she had a strong-featured beauty he’d seldom seen before. She campaigned well, almost as well as a seasoned veteran, and while no one would ever call her masculine, she wasn’t fragile. Perhaps the fact that he found this appealing was even more reason for him to get back to England as soon as this mission was over and find himself a tranquil wife whose favorite pursuits included embroidering slippers and pillow covers. His value system, as it stood now, was badly in need of repair.

The talking between her and the servant was growing more animated, and Huntley followed Batu’s finger as he pointed toward the east. The sky, which was clear overhead save for a few high, wispy clouds, appeared gloomy and threatening on the eastern horizon, behind them. Batu was clearly disturbed by this.

“A storm is coming,” Huntley said.

Thalia and Batu both looked at him as they reined in their horses. “Yes, a storm,” Batu agreed. “A bad one.” He spoke again to her in rapid Mongolian, and she shook her head.

“I thought there was hardly any rain in Mongolia,” Huntley said.

“There isn’t,” confirmed Thalia. She frowned at the northern sky, a worried line appearing between her straight black eyebrows.

“But the wind is blowing southward,” Huntley pointed out. “It should give us no trouble.”

The servant shook his head. “No. It heads toward us.”

“I don’t see how that could be possible.”

“But it is possible,” Thalia said, her voice tight. “It’s drawing closer. And I suggest we try to outride it.”

She was right. Even in the few minutes since their group had stopped, the small belt of darkness that had only occupied a narrow fraction of the sky had grown three times as big. On the open space of the Mongolian steppe, the torrents of rain that the storm was unleashing could be plainly seen, a gray column that stretched between the clouds and the soaked earth. The storm seemed to be traveling as quickly as a steam engine hurtling straight toward them. At that rate, they would be soaked in thirty minutes.

“The devil,” Huntley cursed.

“No, Captain,” Thalia corrected, grim, “something worse.” She kicked her horse into a gallop, with Huntley and Batu close at her heels.

The wind began to pick up almost at once, turning from a gentle breeze into a punishing gale that tore tears from the eyes. The bright day quickly faded into gloom as the storm raced nearer. Despite how hard they rode the horses, the giant wall of dark clouds advanced on them, taking over the sky and shadowing the ground. Across open pastures they rode, over rocky fields, trying to put as much distance as they could between themselves and the oncoming squall.

Huntley managed a brief look over his shoulder, and pulled automatically on the reins. He nearly caused his horse to rear up before he recollected himself and spurred the animal forward. In all the years he had served, with all the strange weather he had ever lived through, Huntley had never seen anything like the thunderhead that, he could almost swear, chased them now. The clouds were as tall as mountains, black as the grave, roiling and tumbling with unchecked rage.

Just as the edge of the clouds reached over their heads, rain slammed into them. Their clothing was soaked in an instant. Racing through the downpour, it was almost impossible to breathe—water kept pouring off the brim of Huntley’s hat and into his nose and mouth. Squinting, Huntley could barely make out the forms of Thalia and Batu ahead as they, too, struggled against the shredding wind and punishing rain. A thunderclap tore open the air with a report so loud, Huntley would have sworn a cannon had gone off right beside him. His horse did rear up then, and it took all of his strength to control the animal and continue their flight.

They climbed up a hill, trying to seek shelter in a small overhang of rocks. Thalia had already reached it, and Huntley and Batu soon followed. The rocks provided a tiny measure of relief, but not much, as the horses jostled each other in fear while their riders panted and watched the storm.

“We can’t stay here long,” Huntley shouted above the rain. As if to emphasize his words, a tumble of rocks, loosened by the downpour, clattered off the overhang and landed at the already nervous horses’ feet.

“There’s a cave not very far from here, on the other side of a river,” Thalia shouted back. Her dark hair was plastered against her face, which she shoved back with an impatient hand. She snatched off her soggy hat and shoved it into a saddlebag. “We can set out as soon as the horses have gotten their wind.”

Huntley started to answer, but was cut off by a bolt of lightning striking the ground a few hundred yards away. The flash was enormous, and Huntley had to shield his eyes from the glare. Another titanic thunderclap slammed through the air. Huntley felt it through the ground, in the marrow of his bones and recesses of his mind. It was as though he was under bombardment. The edge of the storm was passing overhead, but the dark center drew nearer. He couldn’t believe that any storm could have so much power. Then he saw something which made him doubt his sanity altogether.

There, in the clouds the size of a canyon wall, a man’s face formed. Huntley rubbed at his eyes, trying to clear the water from his vision, but no matter how much he pressed at his eyes, the image did not fade, but rather took greater shape and clarity. It was, in fact, the fierce and angry face of a man that appeared within the clouds, and not an ordinary man, but one with a long moustache and braided beard, a Norse helmet atop his head. A Viking. As Huntley watched, incredulous, the clouds also massed into the shape of a huge arm, and held in its fist was a hammer. The Viking opened his mouth with a bellow of thunder and brought the hammer down onto the ground, unleashing another bolt of lightning that struck a small stand of trees. The trees exploded, leaving only charred stumps in the rain. Huntley swore violently.

“What the hell was that?” Huntley demanded, turning to Thalia. Her face was white, her eyes wide, but she did not appear as though she was witnessing something extraordinary. Instead, she looked as though this was something she had anticipated. But that couldn’t be. No one could anticipate the impossible.

“We cannot wait,” she shouted over the roar. “We must ride for the cave now!”

There was no time to press for answers. The storm would be directly overhead in minutes, and surely the rocks would crumble around them when it hit. They broke from the minuscule shelter of the overhang, riding hard over the hills. Huntley spared only a moment to glance behind him, daring his eyes to show him what could not be there. But his sight was either lying, or the impossible was now very real, because the Storm Viking had not vanished. He was still in the clouds, his mouth twisted in rage, his eyes burning, and his arm upraised to strike again. Huntley urged his horse to gallop harder, though the mare needed no encouragement.

Huntley almost said a prayer of thanks when he spotted the river that Thalia had mentioned, with a hill just beyond it, and halfway up the hillside, the welcome dark of a cave. The river’s waters were swollen from the rain, its banks flooded, but it did not look too deep to ford—yet. A few more minutes was all they had.

Huntley led the group as the horses struggled down the bank and into the river. The water surged around them, trying to pull them from their saddles and tearing at the horses’ legs. As they managed to reach the middle of the river, the air was filled with an almighty roar that even obscured the wind and rain. Huntley had been pulling the reins of the pack horse to get the terrified animal to move forward, and he looked up with a vicious oath as the roaring grew even louder.

Hurtling down the river was a wall of water. It moved forward with an unquenchable hunger, tearing up the few trees that grew on the river’s banks and pulling huge rocks from the earth and adding them to its arsenal of water, mud, and debris. But there weren’t only rocks and trees swirling within the flood. Huntley saw beasts, demonic combinations of animals with gaping maws and pointed talons, made of water. As they hurtled down the river, the beasts tore at the land with their claws and teeth, destroying and consuming everything in their path. Already frozen from the rain, Huntley was chilled further when he saw that these water creatures were headed straight toward them.

Thalia managed to get her horse across the river, maneuvering the animal skillfully through the surging water. Huntley’s mare was fighting to reach the riverbank, but the pack horse was too frightened to do anything besides pull on the reins and roll its eyes. The water was rising higher and higher, and now surged up to Huntley and Batu’s thighs as they both pushed and shoved at the fearful animal. The force was so great that some of their bags came loose from their moorings and were quickly pulled into the turbulent water and submerged. Huntley hoped they didn’t contain anything irreplaceable.

“Get to the cave,” Huntley shouted at Batu. “I’ll take care of the horse!”

The manservant shook his head. “I will help,” he yelled back.

Huntley cursed stubborn Mongols, but kept working. They both bullied the pack horse toward the shore, until it finally reached the riverbank, where Thalia grabbed its reins and pulled it behind her as she rode up the hill to the cave, moments ahead of the oncoming wall of water. Huntley was not satisfied until he saw Thalia ride into the mouth of the cave, then turn and wave back to signal her safe arrival.

He had no time to breathe easier as Batu’s horse struggled to reach the muddy bank, its head tossing wildly with fear and exertion. Huntley took hold of its reins and dragged on them hard, his arm burning. The horse was almost to the bank when the wall of water, and the beasts within it, struck.

He felt as though he was being slammed, over and over again, by columns of marble. Water surged all around, and he felt hundreds of claws tearing at him, trying to force him from the saddle. One hand on the saddle horn, and the other desperately gripping the reins of Batu’s horse, Huntley fought to stay mounted. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t see, he knew nothing beyond the rage of the river demons battling to drown him. His thighs ached in agony as he kept them clamped hard around the flanks of his horse. The only hope he had to survive was to move forward, out of the hellish river.

He dug his heels into his horse. It pushed against the current, sidestepping, and, after what seemed like ten lifetimes, the mare breached the water and made it onto the bank. Though Huntley felt as though his arm was going to fly out of its socket, he continued to pull on the reins of Batu’s horse. The animal burst through the water as the creatures within it continued to claw at its flanks, leaving marks on its hide. Batu bent low over the horse’s neck, urging it forward. They had nearly broken free of the galloping river when a talon reached out and plucked Batu right from his saddle. The man disappeared into the water.

Huntley immediately let go of the horse’s reins, barely noticing when it galloped away. He didn’t care what happened to the beast, but he had to find the man. Through the pounding of the rain and the rising water, he searched for any sign of Batu, barely daring to believe that the Mongol might still be alive. He shouted the servant’s name, trying in vain to be heard above the almighty din.

Thalia’s voice joined his. He turned in his saddle and was furious when he saw her beside him, on her own horse, calling for Batu.

“Get back to the cave, damn it!”

“I can’t lose him,” she shouted, and called Batu’s name again.

Under any other circumstances, Huntley would have forcibly returned Thalia to the cave, but a man’s life hung in the balance. He, too, shouted for the Mongol as they searched, their horses moving gingerly down the bank. Thank God that the wall of water had moved on a bit, the beasts inside as well, leaving churning floodwaters in its place. They called and called for Batu until their voices gave out, and Huntley was almost resigned to the fact that the loyal servant had drowned, when he felt Thalia reach over and grip his sleeve.

“There,” she shouted, pointing a little further downstream. “He’s there!” He followed her direction. It was true. Batu clung to the branches of a partly submerged tree that was moments away from being torn from the ground by the water. He looked exhausted, barely able to hold on for much longer. As one, Huntley and Thalia kicked at their horses and rode toward Batu’s precarious salvation.

They reached Batu, and Thalia managed to get him to release his grip on the tree, but not without prying his fingers loose from the branches. Huntley grabbed Batu’s waist and swung the battered man in front of him, knowing that the nearly drowned Mongol had hardly any strength left and would not be able to hold on without support. Huntley gripped Batu, holding tightly to keep the servant from sliding off the saddle and into the river. The horses were also worn out, and Huntley and Thalia weren’t faring much better. Huntley nodded at Thalia. It was time to seek their shelter.

With a final burst of effort, Thalia and Huntley pushed their horses enough to get them up the hill and into the cave. It was a blessed relief to be out of the punishing rain at last. Everyone slipped from the horses’ backs to the ground. Freed from the burden of their riders, the animals retreated to the rear of the cave, their hooves clattering on the rocky ground. Batu’s horse no longer made up the caravan, having disappeared in the storm.

From their vantage, they could see down into the gorge, where the river continued to rage. The banks had completely overflowed, and the river itself looked to have been changed from a quiet stream of a foot’s depth to a torrent over seven feet high. The storm kept at it, howling winds swirling around the mouth of the cave. What had been a relatively peaceful day had been torn to pieces by a vengeful, sentient storm.

Huntley held on to Batu, who could not stand on his own. Both Huntley and Thalia helped lower Batu to the floor, leaning him against the wall of the cave. The servant’s breathing was shallow and labored, his eyes closed. Thalia cast Huntley a worried look, and Huntley held up his hand to ask for patience. As Thalia carefully held the manservant’s lolling head, Huntley produced his flask of whiskey and dribbled a little of the alcohol into Batu’s mouth. Batu coughed twice, but managed to revive a bit.

Thalia, kneeling on the ground, sagged with relief. She said something to Batu in Mongolian, and he answered, smiling at her weakly. He then looked at Huntley, crouched to his left, and spoke again in Mongolian, before closing his eyes, completely sapped.

“He says that his English washed away in the river,” Thalia translated. “But he wanted to thank you for saving his life. And,” she added, “I want to thank you, too. You saved us both, again.” She fought to keep her eyes level with his. “You humble us with your courage when we’ve asked nothing of you.”

Huntley, battered, soaked, tired beyond comprehension, sank beside Batu. His legs stretched out in front of him while his arms hung limply to the ground. He wrung out his last remaining ounce of strength to tip the flask to his own mouth, gratefully sipping at the warming whiskey. He offered the flask to Thalia. She took it and put it to her lips. Huntley closed his eyes. He didn’t want to watch her drink from exactly where his mouth had been.

“Now’s the time you repay me,” he rasped. When he heard the cap replaced on the flask, he opened his eyes. A slight flush stained Thalia’s white cheeks, but he didn’t know if it was a result of the whiskey or his demand.

“Very well,” she said. “Name your price.”

Huntley forced his arm up and took hold of her wrist as she was returning the flask. Her skin was cold and smooth under his grasp. Her eyes flew to his.

“The truth,” Huntley growled. “We don’t take another step further until you’ve told me everything.”

Fortunately, some nomads had used the cave to camp recently, leaving behind a decent-sized pile of dry wood that Huntley used to build a fire. The blankets were relatively dry, but their clothing was soaked, and they knew that if they wanted to prevent sickness, they would have to let the clothing dry near the fire. Huntley first saw to the horses, removing their saddles and packs. Afterward, Thalia shyly retreated to the back of the cave and removed her wet clothes, while Huntley and Batu promised not to watch. Huntley made himself stare at the fire, trying not to listen to the sounds of Thalia disrobing, but he could mark each garment as it was taken off: first the robe, which would uncover her shoulders and arms; then the boots and socks, revealing her feet; trousers next, peeling off of her legs, one, then the other. There was a moment’s hesitation, followed by the sound of smaller cotton items being removed. Great God, she’d taken off her underwear, too.

Her bare feet slapped gently on the rocky floor of the cave as she approached the fire. Huntley saw that she had wrapped a blanket just above her breasts, holding it up with her free hand while the other spread her clothing in front of the fire. He knew he shouldn’t stare, and there were other, larger issues to deal with, but he was moonstruck by the sight of Thalia Burgess’s bare shoulders, her slim arms and creamy neck. Her black hair hung down, as she tried to shield her blushing face with its dark curtain. She didn’t have the arms of a lady of leisure, and he couldn’t help but admire the small bunching of muscles that moved there as she arranged her clothes.

She eased down next to the fire, drawing the blanket tight around her. As she did so, he caught a flash of slender, strong leg and hoped that he was too tired and cold to let that affect him. He felt his body stir, his cock lifting. Apparently, he was going to have to be suspended in the middle of an ice floe to be unmoved by her. If only one were handy.

Huntley helped Batu to his feet, and the servant had enough energy to take himself to the back of the cave and disrobe. After Batu had returned, also swaddled in a blanket, it was Huntley’s turn to strip. It didn’t take long, and soon there were three groups of clothes drying in front of the fire. Huntley noticed that Thalia’s eyes kept straying to him and the parts of his body that his blanket showed. It was the same pattern, over and over again: her gaze would wander to him, fasten on him—his shoulder, the length of his arm—then, as if chastised, skitter away. Yet never for long. This repeated itself many times. He wondered how many partially clad men she had ever seen. Doubtful if any of them were built like a common laborer…or soldier.

“It’s hard to know where to begin,” she said, after they were all settled.

“Let’s start with that Norseman in the storm and the beasts in the water.” Huntley could hardly believe he was saying such words, but it had been a day that defied imagination, and seeing Thalia Burgess partially dressed was only one part of it. “Tell me what the hell that was.”

She stared at the fire, as if readying herself for his response, his disbelief. “The storm and flood were summoned by Mjolnir, the True Hammer of Thor,” she said after a moment. “Whomever wields it can call forth a storm that would tear Asgard from its very foundations. The rains it causes create a flood more savage than a hundred wolves. It was stolen from its sacred burial mound in Norway two years ago, but this is only the third time it has been used.”

“Someone found an old hammer in a pile of dirt,” Huntley said, “and just used it to try to drown us.” Patent disbelief dripped from his voice.

Thalia looked up sharply at him. “You asked for an explanation, and I’m giving it to you. Whether or not you believe me isn’t my concern.”

“Fair enough,” Huntley conceded. “Let’s assume that what you’ve told me is true. For now. Who stole this hammer?”

She tightened her jaw. “I’m not supposed to tell you this.”

“Think you can’t trust me?” Huntley scraped out a laugh that had no humor in it. “Sweetheart, I’ve been shot at, not only by bullets, but with metal wasps that punched through solid brick. I’ve been abandoned on the steppe, nearly struck by lightning, and come this close to drowning, and all in service to you and your mission, whatever the hell it is. I’m more trustworthy than the damned Archbishop of Canterbury.”

“I could tell you some colorful stories about him,” Thalia said with a tiny smile.

He wouldn’t be distracted by that enigmatic smile of hers, though he wouldn’t mind seeing it more often. “Some other time. Now, you were telling me about who took this hammer.”

Seeing that he would not give up, she nodded. “I think it would be best if I started at the beginning. Or as near to the beginning as I can.”

“You’re stalling.”

“It may be hard for you to believe, Captain,” she said after casting him an annoyed look, “but the world is filled with magic. Actual, genuine magic. What you saw today was just a hint of the power that is out there. That which we call myths or legends is, in fact, the lore that has developed around this magic. Including the stories about the Norse thunder god, Thor.”

“They write children’s books about him,” Huntley said, recalling some of the stories he’d learned in the dame school he had attended long ago.

“And to most people, the realm of magic is just that, the stuff for nursery tales and academic research,” she continued. “But it is quite real and quite dangerous. All over the world, there are repositories of this mystical power, objects imbued with magic, like Mjolnir, the hammer that belonged to Thor. These repositories are known as Sources. They can be found in every country, amongst every people. England, Scotland, Spain, India, the Americas. Even here, in Outer Mongolia.”

“If that were true,” Huntley cut in as his mind fought to understand, “then how is it that the world hasn’t been destroyed by power-mad dolts? And why don’t more people know about them?”

“Not for lack of trying,” she said. “But the Sources are kept well hidden to ensure that doesn’t happen. They are protected and sheltered from the world at large.”

Huntley thought for a moment. “By men like your father. And Morris.”

She nodded. “There is a group of men and women who seek out and protect the Sources, wherever they are. This group has been around for over a thousand years, but when the nations of Europe began to turn their eyes to distant shores, racing one another to create giant empires, the group became more organized. They had to ensure that the Sources were not taken from their native homes and exploited, not only for the sake of the local people, but for everyone’s sake.” She looked utterly serious, and grim, staring into the fire. “Mutual destruction would be assured if the great nations of Europe were able to harness the Sources for their own blind advancement.”

“That never stopped fools from trying,” Huntley added.

“And they do try,” she confirmed. “Napoleon’s escape from Elba would never have succeeded without the use of Nephthys’s Cloak, which shielded him from the British patrols of the island.”

“But he failed at Waterloo.”

“The Cloak was recovered before the battle.”

Huntley leaned back and considered. He had never thought himself to be very clever, had been an average student, and relied on his gut instinct when it came to soldiering. His instinct didn’t know what to make of the yarn Thalia was spinning, though he was becoming more and more aware that it wasn’t a yarn, but the truth. He felt the surface of reality growing soft and porous like an orange, peeling away to reveal a world underneath the one he thought he knew.

“Those men who killed Morris and attacked you,” he said as things shifted and moved into their new positions. “They’re in on it, too.”

“They are part of an organization called the Heirs of Albion.”

“Heirs, hm?” Huntley mused, thinking of the murderous, gently born piece of shit who murdered Morris and who led the attack against Thalia. “They are England’s chosen sons? Upper crust men who kill unarmed men in alleyways and assault women? I hate them already.”

She smiled ruefully. “Trust me, you will come to hate them more. The Heirs are one of the largest and most powerful groups who seek out the Sources for their countries’ benefit, and they don’t care who they step on, or kill, along the way. The Heirs will stop at nothing to ensure the supremacy of England, even if it means murdering their own countrymen.” Thalia looked at him guardedly. “But you’re a soldier. You have served Queen and country for many years. Perhaps you think the Heirs are in the right, that England should reign supreme over all other nations.”

“I served my country,” Huntley shot back, “but I never stood for bullying. I didn’t in the army, and I don’t now. That goes for men, women, and nations. It was them, the Heirs, who stole the hammer and used it against us today.”

She seemed relieved to hear his answer, though it galled him a little that she would’ve believed he sided with those blue-blooded bungholes. “Yes.”

“How close would someone have to be to use it?”

“No one knows for certain, since it hasn’t been studied thoroughly, but it’s been figured that the hammer can be employed from as far away as a hundred miles.”

“So, the Heirs are close to us now.”

“Within a hundred miles. But I fear that using the True Hammer is just the beginning. The Heirs know that there is a Source here in Mongolia, but they don’t know exactly where. That’s why they killed Tony, to keep him from finding out and getting to it first. And that’s why they attacked Batu and me yesterday.”

“What will they do when they have the Source?”

Bitterness hardened her voice. “With the Source’s unlimited power, Mongolia will belong to them. Its steppes will be plowed and plundered. The people yoked to pull the great machine of Britain forward, crushing everyone in its path, with the Heirs at the whip.”

“That’s what Morris’s message meant, ‘The sons are ascendant,’” Huntley figured.

Thalia smiled at him again, warming him faster than the whiskey ever could. “You’re a remarkably quick study, Captain,” she said with real admiration in her voice. “I should think you would have keeled over with shock after learning all this.”

“I’m hard to shock.” He was, in truth, reeling inside from all this information. Magic. Sources. Heirs. Things that would have given him a good laugh only a few days ago. But now seemed real and serious. He thought of the metallic wasps in the alley in Southampton, piercing a brick wall and then vanishing. Another Source, perhaps. One that had almost taken his life. Years of going into battle had trained him well enough to keep from showing fear or shock, or at least, not too much. Wouldn’t do for his men to see his jaw hit the floor when confronted with a surprise counterattack. This wasn’t much different, only instead of an assault by the warriors of Tewodros II, he had a young woman revealing to him the existence of actual magic.

“So Morris and your father are part of the group that keep the Sources out of the Heirs’ greedy paws,” he said. “You, as well?”

She looked somewhat abashed. “There are women members, but…me, no. Not yet. You have to…prove yourself before you are made a member. My father is, but he is injured. So it fell to me. I wanted to go,” she added with a sudden ferocity, no longer embarrassed.

Interesting. Thalia Burgess, a young woman who burned with need to prove herself to this group. If Franklin Burgess hadn’t been hurt, would Burgess have let his daughter accompany him on this dangerous journey? Perhaps the old man had been trying to protect his child more than she would have liked for longer than she wanted. But the needs of the many outweighed his own fatherly instinct, and he’d had to let her go. What was Burgess feeling right now? Probably an agony of worry. Huntley wished he could write Burgess and let him know. Huntley wasn’t going anywhere. He would stay and ensure the mission was completed, but, more importantly, protect Thalia. That had become Huntley’s purpose. She was a brave woman, he wouldn’t deny that, seeing courage and determination shining in her glittering emerald eyes. She’d fought that supernatural storm without once backing down or showing fear, and she’d pushed through her own guilt and doubt that had threatened to swamp her after she’d killed. Huntley could count on one hand the number of men he knew who could withstand as much.

But, with the exception of Batu, who was no fighter, she had started her journey alone against a very powerful, ruthless enemy. Her solitude made her vulnerable. She wasn’t alone in her fight anymore.

“So, Captain Huntley,” Thalia said, breaking the silence, “what I’ve told you has been kept a secret for generations, but you’ve proven yourself more than trustworthy. Now that you know everything, what do you intend to do?” She stared at him, intent and slightly afraid of what he might say.

He held her gaze. “I’ll say this one last time. I’m with you until the end. Whoever and whatever comes our way.”

As he said this, he felt the oddest surge of happiness—a feeling with which he hadn’t much experience, not since he’d resigned from the army. At that point, Huntley had settled on his makeshift plan to return to England, get an ordinary job, find a sweet wife, and install her in some snug home while they made armfuls of babies, but, strangely, the plan hadn’t raised his spirits as he thought it would. But throwing himself headlong into a cause he hadn’t known about a week earlier, a cause in which he’d face unknown, supernatural dangers…somehow that had done the trick. Huntley felt the blood moving in him, the old excitement of a campaign.

It was made all the better knowing that Thalia Burgess would be by his side.

Hearing his vow, she let out a breath she probably hadn’t known she was holding and smiled at him again. Seeing her smile, something hot and animal slid through him. But this wasn’t the time, and it wasn’t the place; he had his cause and his duty, so he tried to push that roused beast aside. It was a fight, though.

Instead of reaching for her, as he wanted to do, he asked, “And what are these paragons called, who safeguard the world, and save England from herself?”

Before she even spoke, he knew everything was about to change. And change forever.

“The Blades of the Rose.”