Immortal Protector

by Claire Ashgrove

  Mary Suzanne rose to her feet and dusted her age-spotted hands on her thighs. “Then it is with my blessings, Catherine Grady, that I release you from your commitment.”

  Just like that, it was over. No more guilt, no more shame, no more punishment for following what felt righter than rain. And though the idea of believing in Iain was truly terrifying, for the first time in eons, Catherine didn’t question the risk.

  “Now, about these boxes in the basement.” Mary Suzanne bent over her desk and sifted through a short stack of papers. She pulled one free, eased into her rolling chair, and looked at Catherine over the top of her glasses. “Would you like someone to sit with you while you look through them?”

  Catherine shook her head. “I think I’d rather be alone.”

  Mary Suzanne studied Catherine for a long moment, then her brow wrinkled in thought. “When Hapscott contacted me, he said what he usually does—they had donations that were unclaimed by family.” She took the sheet of paper in both hands and ripped it in half. “It would seem to me he neglected to contact you.” Leaning to the side, she dropped the torn paper into the trash.

  Her smile was fairly devious when she looked at Catherine once again. “You may take as much time as you need, and if you need us to store your family’s belongings while you find a residence, we will be happy to do so.”

  “But I don’t want them,” Catherine spluttered. Blinking off her stun, she added more emphatically, “I don’t want that man’s things.”

  “Do stop lying to yourself, Catherine. If you truly didn’t care about your birth family, you wouldn’t wear that necklace.” The hard note left the prioress’s voice as she smiled once more. “Now go, and may you find the answers you’ve wanted for so long.”

  Shocked to the depths of her soul, Catherine stumbled from the prioress’s office, down the hall, ignoring the curious looks of the sisters she passed. The trek to the archives passed in a haze—her family’s things. They were all dead now, but she had proof she wasn’t just an orphan.

  Desperately trying to keep rising emotion from swallowing her whole, she tore open the first box, then the second, and the third. Was she somewhere in here? A mention of her name maybe, in someone’s journal? Heck, she’d even settle for a check register that documented payoff money to keep her mother from hounding the family.

  An old Bible rested at the top of the second box, its leather binding frayed and worn. Gingerly she picked it up and opened the cover that hung by mere threads. Inside, painted into the back of the cover was a faded watercolor picture of an angel throwing a spear into the face of a jagged cliff. Surprisingly brilliant hues of red and orange marked the point of impact. Where he hovered, the bright blue sky illuminated his glorious wings. She tore her eyes from the glimpse of old-world beauty, awed and inspired by the artist’s talent.

  Aged sheaves of paper were stained with time and brittle on the outermost edges. She scanned the frontispiece, struggling to interpret the Latin. It was no use—she only knew the briefest, most common words. Enough to recognize Bible. The Roman numerals, however, documented it as written in 1572. She gasped aloud.

  Unable to believe what she’d lucked into, she turned the page, discovering a list of names in varying handwriting, followed by a date. The first several entries were so small, so illegible, she couldn’t decipher them, and she looked to the bottom where modern print contrasted starkly.

  Frank Lawrence Carpenter—b. 1949

  Her father had been thirty-five when he slept with her mother. She’d never known that. She turned the page, only to discover another, much shorter, list of names. This handwriting was different. Clearly feminine, and all the same style, though the dates ranged from 1686 to the very bottom entry, which read: Catherine Elizabeth Carpenter—b. 1984

  Oh, dear God, she did exist! Someone knew about her.

  Immediate tears surfaced. She reached blindly for her purse and the cell phone inside, wanting to hear Iain’s voice, even if she couldn’t quite bring herself to admit how much this mattered. The Bible slipped in her lap as she searched for his number in her directory, closing as she caught it. While the line rang, she opened it once more, blinked back her tears, and examined the list of names out of simple curiosity. These were her people, her roots, her…family.

  “Hello, mademoiselle,” Iain’s voice rumbled in her ear.

  She opened her mouth to greet him, but words failed as her gaze locked on another name in the long column. Pierre Dupris—b. 1790 “Iain,” she worked out through her tight throat. “I think I’ve found something.”

  Tucking her phone against her shoulder, she carried the Bible beneath a brighter light and ran her nail up the names, squinting to make out the more difficult print. The next line up, smudged as it was, declared Armand as Pierre’s father. But his date of birth didn’t make sense. 1183? How was that possible?

  Thirteen

  By the time Armand Dupris’ name fell off Catherine’s lips, Iain was already backing out of the temple lot and navigating onto the road. The unsteady nature of her voice alerted him to all the things she did not say. Things she had somehow discovered that affected her beyond his comprehension.

  “I don’t understand, Iain,” she confessed as he turned onto the highway. “There’s a list of names here. One makes sense. Sort of. It looks like a genealogy record. Names, birthdates—like people used to do before we kept public record.”

  “Aye,” he murmured, more concerned about the semitruck that occupied two lanes of the road and refused to let him pass.

  “Armand is listed, following Phillip Dupris. There’s a typo or something; his date of birth is written as 1183. It lists his son as Pierre, born in 1790.”

  Damnation! Iain thumped a fist on the steering wheel, cut around the semi, and let off the gas. He did not wish to explain the Templar curse, their true purpose, and their immortal existence over the telephone.

  “It must be an error,” Catherine went on. “But even if I change out that eleven for a seventeen as I suspect it ought to be, he couldn’t have been old enough to have a child seven years later. Do you think there’s just a gap in time where people stopped listing things?”

  “I will have to look at it to say for certain. Will they allow you to bring it out of the archives?”

  Her pregnant pause made his fingers tense against the phone. He waited, counting the seconds as they ticked by.

  “Catherine?” he prompted when she remained silent.

  “That won’t be a problem,” she answered quietly. “You can come inside. I’m no longer committed to the Church.”

  He could not find words fast enough before she rushed on, changing the subject back to the Bible she had discovered. Only her confusion over the conflicting dates gave way to a more solemn tone of voice.

  “There’s another list here too. On the backside of the first. There’s seven names, all of which could have been written in the last decade.”

  “Aye?”

  “The names don’t . . .” She drifted off, and the sound of pages turning carefully echoed through the receiver. “Don’t match any of the names on the first list…except one.”

  A flash of memory rose, his mother writing by candlelight in their own family Bible. He had awakened to the sound of his parents arguing. At the slamming of doors, he ventured downstairs, to find his father absent despite the late hour. ’Twas the only night Iain could recall his parents had parted for any other circumstance beyond war. A fortnight later, his new sister arrived, aged four, wearing veritable rags, her blond hair as filthy as pitch. Her mother had been the butcher’s daughter.

  Iain chuckled. “Bastard children, mademoiselle. ’Twould be my guess someone researched genealogy and recorded births much later.”

  “Oh,” her response was naught more than a whisper. “That makes sense then.” She paused, then asked even more quietly, “Iain?”

  “I am here.”

  “My name’s on that list.”

  Sweet Virgin Mary! The way
her voice trembled drew claws over Iain’s heart. He jammed his foot into the gas pedal. “I am naught but a few moments away, Catherine. I will be there soon.”

  “Okay. I’ll wait outside.”

  She hung up, leaving him listening to intolerable silence. He had questioned whether she might somehow relate to Armand’s history, but had not prepared for the possibility. Worse, he was away from her side when she discovered her heritage, and clearly her bravado about her sire was false.

  The demons he had sensed concerned him further. Armand believed the boy was his, despite the impossibility. He had left his effects with the child, including his own surname, thus establishing legitimacy within a country where birthright could be claimed. Catherine descended from that line. What had Armand left behind that would catch Azazel’s interest? What was it about her—for Iain was certain the two intertwined.

  As he pulled into the abbey’s parking lot and stepped out of the pickup, he became more convinced of the idea. The scent of demons was stronger today. Their nearby presence awakened the dark blood in his soul, leaving his skin itchy. Over time, he became more and more attuned to the creatures he fought, and the evil he absorbed with each kill began to recognize its counterparts.

  What did they want?

  Catherine stepped out from the abbey’s side door, and the presence in the distant trees stirred more restlessly. ’Twas as if, when they set their unholy stares upon her, they felt the same magnetic pull Iain experienced each time he looked at her. Her. They desired her. But why?

  She curled into his outstretched arms, and he wrapped her close to his body, savoring the warm press of her soft curves, breathing in the fragrance that lingered in her hair. She had changed her clothes from the earlier skirt and blouse, into faded jeans and a loose, comfortable sweatshirt.

  “Hey,” she murmured as she rose to her toes to greet him with a brief kiss.

  “Hey, yourself.” He chuckled as he returned the chaste greeting. “Are you all right?”

  Catherine nodded. “Now. That kind of shook me for a bit. Do you want to see the Bible?”

  He breathed deeply and tucked his hand into hers. Seeing the Bible made no difference in the explanation he must give as to how Armand could be born in 1183 and supposedly sire a child six hundred years later. “Let us walk for a bit, shall we?”

  She shot him a puzzled look but fell into step at his side, following as he guided them toward a manicured garden.

  “I am certain you will doubt me, Catherine. You may even vehemently protest. I vow, however, my words are true, and when I finish, all I ask is that you allow me to prove such.”

  “I don’t like the sound of this.”

  “Nay, and I am not overjoyed at the telling.” He stopped at a marble bench beneath a dogwood and indicated she should sit. “But ’tis part of me, and as such, you must know.”

  Catherine sat uneasily, watching Iain as he joined her on the bench. The muscles along his jaw clenched as he chewed on whatever he intended to say. She was dying to demand he hurry up and spit it out. The anticipation was killing her. But she kept her mouth shut, steeling herself for the worst.

  “Have you ever seen a demon?” he asked abruptly.

  She blinked. “What?”

  “Have you ever seen a demon?”

  “No . . .” What a strange way to begin a conversation. Demons didn’t make it a habit to be seen. Not as far as she understood anyway.

  His gaze turned thoughtful, his frown reappearing. “Do you…believe in them?”

  She held up her hands, indicating the property around her, and shot him a look that said, are you nuts? “I’m Catholic, and I just left a commitment to the Church. What do you think?”

  A smirk tugged at his mouth. “I would say the chances are high.”

  “Bingo.” She gave him a playful poke in the side. “Now what do demons have to do with Armand and this Bible?”

  “The Bible? I am not so certain. As to Armand . . .” Shaking his head, he exhaled heavily. “He was indeed born in 1183, and he, indeed, was alive to believe he sired a child in 1790.”

  She started to laugh, but the deadly serious expression on Iain’s face made the sound come out strangled. He wasn’t kidding. Not in the slightest.

  “That’s…impossible, Iain.”

  “Aye. For you, aye.” Shifting positions, he ran his palm down the length of his thigh. “For myself . . .” His troubled gaze locked with hers. “Catherine, I was born in 1198, to a minor lord, whose name is no longer important. Donnelly is a name I assumed some three hundred years later, when it became necessary to possess a surname.”

  No…just no. Could her heart bear any more shocks today? The last thing she needed to discover was that Iain had lost a marble or two. Maybe three or four.

  “Iain . . .”

  He begged her off with a lifted hand. “I know how it must sound, Catherine. But I swear by all that is sacred, I am 814 years old, I have been placed on this earth to fight for the archangels, a task I question with each morn I awaken, and I have seen more death than I wish to endure.”

  Surprising her even more than his wild tale was the way he blinked, as if he had not quite intended to tell her all he had. If she hadn’t witnessed that flash of misplaced emotion, she would have made a mad dash for the abbey. But it had been present, and with it came a kernel of belief. A portion so small she wanted to denounce it.

  “You believe in the divine, aye?” He clasped her hand, the same earnestness shining in his eyes that she’d witnessed the night before.

  “Certainly.” She’d even experienced what she could only claim as holy inspiration now and then at Mass. Though right now, she wouldn’t confess it.

  “Come then. I will prove what I speak is true.”

  As he tugged at her hand, she balked. If she possessed a lick of sense, she wouldn’t go anywhere with Iain. What if he was really nuts? What if he took her someplace where no one could find her. . . .

  Stop it.

  From the moment she’d met him, he’d been nothing but kind, helpful, and sincere. She couldn’t explain all his other wild claims, but maybe he’d experienced something he thought was divine. Who was she to question how the Holy Spirit revealed himself?

  Grudgingly, she stood and allowed him to lead her to the pickup truck. As they drove, his story became even more fanciful. The nine original Templar Knights—one who was still living—discovered something beneath the Temple Mount that revealed the gates to Azazel’s realm. They were punished by being cursed with immortality and sworn to fight against Azazel’s demons. As the Order gained power, men willingly swore the oaths, giving up all they possessed to be part of the noble Order, never minding the fact that if they killed too many demons they’d turn into one themselves.

  Her head hurt from all the fantastic claims he made. One after another—it seemed there was no end in sight. Including the claim that each knight had a preordained wife waiting somewhere, who was capable of removing the darkness from his soul and saving him from a bleak end.

  Catherine flat out refused to give a minute of consideration to the tiny, nagging voice inside her head that pointed out, time and again, it was too elaborate to be completely fiction.

  “All right.” She sighed as they turned onto a narrow lane. “Let’s say I do believe you—which I don’t. But let’s say I do. Why are you specifically here? In Missouri, I mean.”

  A pair of ornate iron gates opened before the pickup, and Iain drove through, shutting them with a button clipped to the visor. He nosed into a vacant spot between at least two dozen other vehicles, all the same pale silver with darkened windows. Iain shut off the engine and stared, vacantly, out the windshield. His voice echoed hollowly. “I failed to protect my seraph. Azazel murdered her, and I have taken sabbatical. I find my heart is no longer capable of believing in a cause that would damn men who have been faithful for centuries to an eternity of suffering.”

  Catherine was so unprepared for the raw emotion that poured out o
f his words, she didn’t know what to say. She’d expected another intricately woven fairy tale along the lines of a quest for the Holy Grail, not to hear him confide he didn’t believe in the very thing he wanted her to embrace.

  The whole seraph thing ground her stomach into a hard, uncomfortable ball. Just the idea that he could have cared for a woman who was portrayed in such a romantic light, made her nauseous. She didn’t want the leftovers of his heart. She wanted—

  Catherine stopped the thought before it could go further. If she balked against believing the rest, there was no reason to get caught up in that part of his story. It couldn’t be much more true than the claim that he intended to introduce her to the archangel Mikhail.

  “Come inside, Catherine.” A touch of sorrow fringed his voice as he climbed out of the truck.

  Dear Lord, she didn’t want to. Not because she feared discovering Iain was one step away from the loony bin. But because suddenly she was absolutely terrified he might be telling the truth.

  Fourteen

  Iain shrugged off uncertainty and took Catherine by the hand. That she did not resist, gave him hope he had not totally damned himself by telling her the truth before she was ready. He feared, more than he had ever feared anything, that she would run. Should she, he did not know what he would do. The demonic presence drove him to bring her here as much as his want for her to believe. Mayhap more, for in here, whether she accepted his words or not, she would be safe.

  He looked heavenward, praying she would accept him for who he was, then escorted her inside. To his immense relief, the main floor was empty, which prevented subjecting Catherine to the men’s assumptions she was a seraph, and their immediate reaction of swearing fealty upon a knee.

  She glanced around curiously, taking in the long lounge, the billiards hall, the newly refinished staircase that led to the rooms Anne and Noelle shared with their mates. Bootsteps echoed in the hall that led to the indoor training room, and Iain hurried Catherine to the stairs that led down into the belly of the temple and to Mikhail’s office.