“Let’s start with a sip and see what happens.” He dragged a canine across his wrist. A warm trickle flowed down his forearm and he held it out to Cassandra. A sacrifice he would willingly make for her, and her alone.
She gripped his wrist with gentle fingers, then wrapped her lips around the cut. His body tingled at the contact, never failing to react to her touch. He fought to control himself as the tempting sensation of her consuming his blood had his groin stirring. They had a serious task to accomplish. Plus, there were two dead bodies in this chamber. Not the most appropriate time or place to give in to his deepening arousal.
She pulled her mouth away, then licked a red drop from her lower lip.
“How do I taste?” he asked.
“Old.” His responding laugh bounced around the small chamber. “But rich. With a hint of spice and…” She smacked her lips together. “Burnt oak. Similar to how you smell.” He cocked a questioning eyebrow. “I love the way you smell, Tristan.”
He grappled for his restraint. “Try to pull the memory again.”
She glanced at her hands and arms. “I can feel your magic inside me.” She giggled. “It tickles.”
“How dare you. My magic doesn’ttickle. I’m an all-powerful Ghostwalker,” he mocked.
She stepped behind the Deathstalker’s head again, placing her fingers at his temples, then closed her eyes and whispered the chant. Zapping, crackling green light twined up her fingers, and Tristan readied the wind to capture it.
She opened her eyes and guided the light towards him. “It’s fainter than it should be,” she warned, her curled fingers dancing as the green light sparkled through them. “I’m not sure we’re going to be able to view anything helpful.”
Tristan crafted a vessel around the light, spinning gentle gusts of wind into a ball to keep the memory from dissolving. He cradled the sphere between his hands as she angled her tattooed wrist above it.
“Ready?” she asked, touching his forearm with her other hand so that he could view the memory with her. He nodded.
She lowered her wrist, pushing through the vessel as she said the words and the memory overtook them both.
He held the glittering diamond necklace in his pale hands, smiling like a fiend at visions of the rewards Maksym would bestow upon him for finding this integral treasure.
The mortal caretaker he’d forced to lead him down into this chamber was sniveling against the damp stone wall, muttering something about how he’d failed—
—a powerful blow of wind barreled into the chamber, throwing both him and the man into the side of the stone altar.
A familiar Windrider female stalked into the chamber, wings of pale pink flesh tucked behind her. He’d followed her here to the Church, and had found the caretaker while she was still wandering these labyrinthine halls.
He laid a hand on the altar and pulled himself upright, leaving his fangs out and readying himself for a brawl, knowing—
—the Windrider sent a scorching stream of flame towards the caretaker, and he crumpled to the ground in a wailing heap, slapping at his chest and trying, uselessly, to put out the flames devouring his robe.
The female lunged for him—
—clamped a burning hand onto his forearm. He hissed in pain as he tore himself away.
One bite. That was all he needed and she’d drop like a stone. It seemed as if she knew it as well, her radiant blue eyes darting from his own eyes to his fangs, then back again.
“Come out from behind that altar and face us, deserter,” he sneered.
Her high-pitched cackle careened around the small space, tinged with a quiver of insanity that spiked his adrenaline.
“I’ll be walking out of here with that necklace,” she snarled, her words pouring out so quickly that he struggled to decipher them.
She curled her hand and he beat at his chest, feeling the air drain from his—
—Maksym would not be pleased to hear that the necklace had escaped his grasp once again. And especially not to her.
And he was suddenly grateful to be leaving this world rather than facing Maksym’s wra—
The memory dissolved from Tristan’s mind, but before he could open his mouth to analyze what they’d just seen, a cold sting crept up his thighs.
The tiny stone crypt was filling with water.
