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For my father, whose memory beats within my heart.
Love you.
Acknowledgements
To my mother who has stayed beside me during this journey. Thank you, Mom, for everything. You gave me the wings to soar, and I love you very much.
To my wonderful agent, Jewelann Cone, a constant source of sanity in my insane little world. You have the patience of a saint, and your tolerance for my hop-scotching is a blessing. Even if it does make you a tiny bit crazy at times!
To my editor, Whitney Ross. Thank you for believing in me, for your ever-helpful editorial remarks, and your dedication in making this the best it can be.
To Dr. Jeff Gall and Professor David Miller, were it not for your passion for history, I would have never discovered mine, and this series would have never made it to paper. You are divine educators who know not only how to make lessons entertaining, but also push students to meet expectations in a way that leaves them grateful for the hours spent in the classroom. Every collegiate should have the opportunity to learn from professors like yourselves.
Linda Kage and Jackie Bannon—you were with me when head-hopping was awesome character insight, when commas were like crushed peppers in Thai food, and when heroines could have tantrums because that’s what conflict is, right? Thank you for learning with me and teaching me. I’m proud to know you, to work beside you, and will never forget the early days in the trenches. Thank you, Jackie, for standing beside me through everything and being able to say, “Shut up and listen.”
Dyann Love Barr, what can I say? You’re family, friend, mentor, teacher, and colleague. Your wisdom is invaluable, and it has been such a delight working with you on projects. Together with Dennis, the both of you have given me strength, encouragement, and support. Thank you so very much for the years we’ve worked together, the late-night plotting sessions, hours-long phone calls, and in general, just being there.
To the other authors who have mentored me, my beta readers, and my critique partners: Melissa Lattin, Goldie Edwards, Alfie Thompson, Marianne Stephens, Carla Cassidy, Elisabeth Burke, Heather Snow, Shannon K. Butcher, Katy Madison, Kiss Carson, Alta Durrant, Diana Coyle, Judy Ridgely, Janet Nuckolls, Nancy O’Berry, Arianna Giorgi, Alicia Dean, Candise Cole, Julie Garwood, and Cathy Morrison—each of you has offered insight and wisdom that helped me achieve a dream, and I will never forget the time you willingly spared or your generosity.
Members of Heartland Romance Authors, Midwest Romance Writers, and Mid-America Romance Authors, the support you’ve given, the lessons you’ve taught, and the community you’ve provided is something I’m sincerely lucky to have.
My friends and family—thanks for dragging me out of the cave when I’ve been there too long and for simply understanding. Without you, I’d have given up long ago. Matt, you gave me the time and constant encouragement, and I appreciate that a lot. Garrett and Pierce, thank you for being the best little boys in this world. I love you very much!
And to Jason, your patience has been unfaltering and your faith unfailing. The time you’ve taken to read, to listen to me ramble on, to celebrate and encourage, for simply being a part of my life … thank from the bottom of my heart. You are a gift I cherish.
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
The Curse
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
Copyright
The Curse
In 1119, nine knights rode with Hughes de Payens to the Holy Land, becoming the Knights Templar. All were bound by marriage or by blood. Eight were recorded over time. The ninth vanished into history.
Beneath the legendary Temple Mount, the knights uncovered holy relics, including the Copper Scroll—a document written by Azazel’s unholy hand. For their forbidden digging, the archangels exacted a sacrifice. The knights would spend eternity battling the demons of Azazel’s creation, but with each vile death they claimed, a portion of darkness would enter their soul. In time, they would transform into knights of Azazel, warriors veined with evil, destined to fight against the Almighty.
Yet an ancient prophecy remained to give them hope. When darkness raped the land, the seraphs would return. Female descendants of the Nephilim would carry the light to heal their dying souls.
Centuries have passed. Azazel’s might grows to intolerable limits. With the acquisition of eight holy relics, he will gain the power to overthrow the Almighty.
Six Templars stand above the rest in duty, honor, and loyalty. But each is haunted by a tragic past, and their darkened souls rapidly near the end. As they battle both the overwhelming power of evil and the nightmares of lives they left behind, the seraphs are more than tools to victory.
They are salvation.
Prologue
When darkness rapes the land, the seraphs shall purify the Templars and lead the sacred swords to victory.
—ANCIENT PROPHECY OF THE KNIGHTS TEMPLAR
Atchison, Kansas,
October
Abigail Montfort blew out the solitary candle in her windowsill and closed her eyes, inhaling the smoke-laced vanilla. Another Allhallows Eve had passed. Exactly 318 had come and gone since she’d given any real concern to the night the spirits roamed in droves. As a girl, she’d hidden in the woods, not knowing which threat posed the greatest danger—the Salem mob or the real ghouls who waited in the craggy trees.
The same vengeful spirits who would challenge her—as they did each Halloween—before she could sleep tonight.
Straightening, she pushed open the window to air out the musty old Victorian. The breeze rushed in. She rubbed her arms, shivering. Yet she was not cold.
Danger lingered in the atmosphere. A presence watched and waited. One far different from the malicious shades or shape-shifting demons she understood. Something stronger. Deadlier.
Tonight, Azazel’s dark knights roamed.
They searched for what they were not meant to find, as they had for centuries. For what she and two others were destined to protect—the relics that would give Azazel the power to overthrow the Almighty. She guarded the crucifixion nail, and the dark lord would stop at nothing to secure this one bit of iron
stained with Christ’s blood. For with it, the unholy ascension began.
She turned from the window and crossed to the front stairs. One hand on the railing, she paused, remembering the cellar door. She dare not bar the Templars’ way. Under these old rafters, the holy knights could rest and heal from the evil they combated. She never knew when they might arrive, but no doubt, tonight they’d seek the adytum’s refuge. Gabriel’s orders demanded she be prepared.
She hurried down the basement stairs and across the stone floor to a recessed iron door. Producing a set of keys from her jeans, she quickly unfastened the padlock and threw open the hasp, propping the door open. She traced her fingers over the bottom half of a wine-colored cross embedded in the wood. Darkness tainted its once pristine brilliance, as it tainted the Templars. They were threatened, but still protected. As she looked after the adytum and the relic, Gabriel looked after God’s warriors. They would persevere. If Azazel turned the tide, the archangels would unveil a vessel far more powerful than even the ruler of darkness could imagine.
“Godspeed, noble ones,” she whispered as she turned away.
Front door locked. Holy crucifixion nail safe in its reliquary in the wall. House open to the Templars. All was as it should be. At last, she could rest before the demons came.
She climbed the stairs to her private quarters. In her sitting room, she turned on a lamp and went to the window, opening it to peer at the dormant trees. A shudder rolled down her spine. It was too still, too quiet, even for the midnight hour.
As she crossed to her chair, the hoot of an owl froze her in place. The hair lifted on the back of her neck, stood upright on her arms. Demons she could fight. But that was no demon, no simple shade or nytym with a child’s wisdom. He who cried an owl’s song was a thing of nightmares.
And if he was here, there could only be one reason—the sacred nail Christ bore upon his feet. Two thousand years, and he had finally discovered it. God in heaven, it was happening.
Silence hung thick, the thump of her heart a trumpet to her fear.
She dove for the window and slammed it shut. The urge to run bore down hard. Sweat peppered her brow. She still had time to get away. She could run out the front and be gone from here.
Yet fleeing wasn’t an option. Her duty was to protect the relic. It was why Gabriel saved her from Salem’s mob, why God gave her longevity.
She hurried to the bookcase to retrieve her book of psalms, prayer already tumbling off her lips. The energy around her altered, became more dense as holy might flooded into the room. Her fingers grazed the ancient tome’s scarred surface, and a sense of calm flooded her.
It didn’t last long.
Darkness and hatred pressed down on her like a mighty hand, suffocating the candles. For one heartbeat, nothing happened. In the next, the window exploded in a deafening shower of glass that blanketed the wood floor. Abigail cried out as fragments pierced the back of her neck and stung the crown of her head.
Noxious fumes assaulted her nose, heavy with the odor of death. She swallowed down the bitter taste of bile and clutched the book in shaking hands. “Begone. You cannot hurt me.” She longed to believe the words, yearned for the confidence that came with each recitation. Yet she didn’t need to turn around and face the creature to know the futility.
A wash of hot, fetid air engulfed her. She closed her eyes and trembled, a slave to the fear that emanated off the beast. She felt him push at her mind, great jabs that made her head ache from the effort of keeping him out of her thoughts. She could not reveal the hiding place. He knew the nail was here, but he would not learn where. Not as long as she breathed.
Steeling herself against the certain horror, she turned around to confront Azazel’s knight.
But it wasn’t the horrendous laughter that drained the color from her face and froze her heart. It was the creature himself. The way his dark form held a touch of beauty. His long limbs bore grace; his face carried the glory of God’s creation despite his wicked sneer. Ethereal wings, the fathomless shade of endless night, extended from his back to brush against the tall ceiling.
“Azazel,” she breathed.
His laughter echoed hollowly. “And so the witch recognizes her master.”
A clawed hand snatched at her. Nails raked across her face, shredded the fabric on her arm. The sharp sting jolted Abigail out of her stupor, and she backed up a step, holding the tome in front of her to ward him away.
He laughed harder, his angelic features twisting viciously. “That will not help you now. Where is the nail, witch?”
Seductively, he reached into her thoughts. His quiet murmur lulled her to confide the holy secrets she possessed. Blocking her mind to the invasion, she raised her voice and recited the words she’d used a thousand times. “By all that is sacred, I command you to leave my presence.”
Azazel lunged with a bellow of rage. One viselike hand caught her arm. Giving her a fierce jerk, he dragged her closer. She fought off a panicked scream and chanted louder, pushed her thoughts into a far corner of her mind where all she knew was the protection of the words, the power of the Almighty’s divine light.
Fury burned behind his soulless stare. “You will tell me.”
“No!”
He thrust her away like a rag doll. The power of his mighty arm flung her into the opposite wall. Searing pain split her head. An unmistakable crack knifed agony through her body as her ribs shattered. She crumpled to the ground with the broken whisper, “God, help me.”
“If he cared, he would not abandon you here. Tell me where I will find the nail, and I shall take away your pain. I care for you, witch. He does not.”
She knew better than to believe Azazel’s lies. He would remove the pain as he snuffed her life. Defiant, she gritted her teeth and struggled to her knees.
Azazel snatched her into his icy embrace. His face inches from hers, his malevolent gaze scored in to touch her soul. He set his hand over her heart. Gentle strokes aroused her flesh, his touch strangely warm and comforting. Azazel whispered near her ear, “I’ll take care of you, witch. Whatever he has promised, I shall grant in double.”
His thoughts caressed hers. Tempting. Taunting. Enticing her to yield to his wickedness. To surrender her faith and with it, grant him power. She was captivated by the hypnotic effect, and her fortitude faltered. It would be so easy to succumb. Perhaps he spoke the truth. If she revealed the relic, would he grant an eternity of peace?
“Tell me, and I shall make you young again.”
Sudden sense jarred her from Azazel’s trance. He spoke lies. Trickery was all Azazel knew. Stiffening against his tender touch, she glared through her fear. “I’d rather die.”
Thin lips pulled back in a sneer. Laughter erupted from his throat. The pitiful wails of thousands of trapped souls filled the room. “As you wish.”
Abigail screamed as his fingers dug through flesh, snapped through bone. Blood blanketed her body with warmth and poured down the length of his unholy arm. Helpless, she watched his stare spark with delight.
Unconsciousness fingered at her mind. She pushed past it and summoned the last of her strength. On a ragged breath, she cried, “Gabriel, unveil the seraphs!”
CHAPTER 1
Kansas City, Missouri
November
Things kept secret are revealed.
Anne MacPherson held the solitary High Priestess card in both hands. Her brow furrowed as she recited the tarot card’s meaning for the dozenth time. Over the years, she’d had odd cards crop up for her daily self-reading, but this one beat them all. And it hadn’t just turned up once. Beyond the solitary draw she began each morning with, she’d done several readings in between clients, and the High Priestess showed up in every one. Always in the position of what lay in the near future.
She was about to learn secrets. With the day half gone, the chances of that being true rapidly dwindled. A night of unpacking the boxes in her new house’s basement didn’t look too promising for prophecy fulfillment ei
ther.
Unless, by some odd chance, she stumbled across some mystical object the old witch rumored to have lived in the brick Victorian had stashed away. Again, highly unlikely. Especially since thieves had ransacked the house after the woman’s death. They’d even knocked in the wall searching for her spell book, according to Gabe, her boss and much-adored house finder.
“Anne?” Gabe Anderson called from the shop’s front room. “You about ready to lock up for the night?”
“Yeah.” She tossed the card on to the top of her deck and stood up. “Coming.” She gave the High Priestess another frown before she gathered her purse and jacket. Secrets. Right.
Ducking under the heavy curtain that divided the shop’s retail section from the reading room, Anne found Gabe hunched over the counter, fiddling with a small brown box. As she approached, he tucked thick gray dreadlocks over his shoulder and smiled. “How’s your sister? Did she get back to California okay? I’ve been thinking about her a lot.”
Anne just bet he’d been thinking about her. With the way he’d fawned over Sophie last week, he probably did a lot more than thinking about her fraternal twin. Of course, that was the way things went with Sophie. Anne had yet to meet a man who didn’t harbor some fantasy about her drop-dead-gorgeous sister.
She shrugged. “Sophie’s fine. She has some charity gala coming up right after Thanksgiving. I guess the emcee canceled at the last minute, and she’s been tearing out her hair to replace him.”
“Well. Maybe this will cheer her up.” Gabe pushed the small box in front of Anne.
She glanced down and squinted. Gabe’s elegant handwriting covered the wrapping with fancy loops and swirls. He’d addressed it to Sophie’s Malibu home. Anne groaned inwardly. Just what she needed—her boss fawning over her sister. “What’s this?”
“One of these.” He reached under the counter and produced a clunky gold bracelet. “I found this when I was in St. Louis yesterday. Since you’re doing your doctoral thesis on the Knights Templar, I thought you might like it.”
Immortal Hope: The Curse of the Templars Page 1