Immortal Protector

by Claire Ashgrove

  The archangel looked unbothered by his refusal. “I’ve spoken to Nathaniel. In fact, I spent most of the morning in conversation with him. ’Tis my understanding, Iain, that you killed the demons who dragged the seraph?”

  A brief glimpse of the young woman whom she’d helped clean up the night before flashed in Catherine’s memory. She couldn’t help but shudder at the pain the poor girl must have suffered.

  “I did only what I am trained to do,” Iain answered. “She is a seraph then?”

  “Another?” Tane asked, unable to completely hide the hope that slipped into his voice.

  “Aye, Nathaniel’s.” A strange lack of comprehension clouded Raphael’s beautiful face. “I do not claim to understand, and Gabriel remains silent, save to say she is not part of the prophecy.”

  “Who is she?” Catherine asked, her curiosity sparked. A seraph found with demons, who was not part of the prophecy that would lead to the revelation of them all.

  Tane’s expression clouded. “How is such possible?”

  “I do not know, Tane.” Raphael shook his head. “As to who she is?” He shrugged. “She has not awakened. There is no guarantee she will.”

  At that, Iain’s fingers clenched into Catherine’s shoulders. She lifted her hand to cover his, understanding that he didn’t mourn the loss of Bianca, but sympathized with the torture Nathaniel would face if she died. Her heart turned over for the man as well.

  “What about the picture from my Bible?” Catherine asked quietly.

  Raphael shook his head. “’Twas not recovered.” Rounding the edge of Tane’s desk, he stopped directly in front of Catherine. “I did not come to discuss the seraph or the picture.”

  Closing her eyes, Catherine bit back despair. This was unfair. So unfair. Words slipped out before she could stop them. “Please, may I have more time with him?”

  “Raphael,” Iain began cautiously, “would you be of mind to consider a bargain?”

  Warmth infused Catherine’s left hand, as if someone touched her knuckles. She opened her eyes, and her gaze dropped to inspect who. Raphael’s fingers hovered over hers, not yet touching her skin. He lifted his other hand to stay their protests. Catherine snapped her mouth shut.

  “I find no fault in the choices you have made, Catherine,” Raphael murmured. “You have led a more acceptable life than many. And I commend you for the journey you’ve taken. I apologize for the abuse you suffered at my brother Mikhail’s behalf.”

  She blinked, certain she was caught in the middle of some magical illusion. An archangel, apologizing to a human—had the fires of hell frozen over?

  “I answer to the highest of high, Mikhail as well.” Folding his hands in front of him, he leaned against Tane’s desk. “Our timeline is not yours. Our purpose relates to man, but is not of men. I certainly forget, upon occasion, the passion that makes mortals,” his gaze lifted to Iain, “even those who know endless life, the special beings they are.”

  He twisted, inviting Tane into the apology as well and sighed. “I am oft removed from the struggles of your hearts, and I do not suffer the emotions you know. Mikhail is far worse with this than I. But these things are to be excepted. . . .” His gaze swung back to Iain. “You have dishonored the Order and turned our oaths into mockery, Iain.”

  Catherine sagged into the chair, feeling her heart sink all the way to her toes. Dishonor and mockery—no, Raphael wasn’t here to bless them with a happy future.

  “I understand,” Iain murmured.

  Behind the archangel, Tane grimaced.

  “Mikhail wishes for me to bring you home. Immediately.”

  From the corner of her eye, Catherine caught the accepting nod Iain gave Raphael. It took all of her willpower to silence a vehement objection and to not leap out of the chair, demanding a pardon.

  “I have known you many years, Iain,” Raphael continued, all traces of condemnation removed from his low, grave tone. “You have served me quite well. A fact I am not ignorant of.”

  As his words sank in, Catherine slowly straightened. Hope sparked deep inside. She tamped it down, not wanting to be consumed by the fickle emotion. But could it be possible . . .

  She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders.

  “While I agree your defiance and disloyalty cannot go unpunished, I am not inclined to agree with my brother.”

  The breath Catherine had been holding rushed out. Behind her, a similar noise hissed through Iain’s clenched teeth. The tension in his fingers lessened.

  A sad smile drifted across Raphael’s mouth. “As of this moment, Iain, unless you have experienced a change of heart, you are excommunicated from the North American Temple. Only your willingness to serve last night, and the life you saved, keep me from barring you eternally from my temple as well.”

  Oh, Iain. Catherine’s heart twisted for him. Sure, he’d made the decision to separate from the Order, but being banished was altogether something different.

  Raphael raised an eyebrow at Iain. “Will you sit now?”

  With a short nod, Iain dragged a chair beside Catherine’s. As he lowered himself into it, Tane reclined in his chair, his gaze narrowed thoughtfully as he studied Raphael.

  “Is this the path you choose, Iain?”

  He looked at her, emotion shining in his eyes as he gathered her hands and brought her knuckles to his lips. “Yes, Raphael. I believe in her. In what we can build together. I have purpose here.”

  The tears Catherine had struggled to hold in welled in her eyes, blurring her vision. She blinked, and they spilled down her cheeks. Joy swelled her heart, along with something deeper, something more profound than the simple emotion named love. Yet love was the only definition she knew.

  “Very well.” Raphael let out a heavy sigh. “Your immunity to Azazel and his fiends will be stripped from you, Iain.”

  Never taking his eyes away from hers, Iain nodded. “I accept your terms.”

  “However.” Raphael’s gaze slid to Catherine. “Because your actions stem from a need to protect this woman, a need I understand and sympathize with, I am exercising the free will afforded to all angels. So long as you should be acting in a manner related to her protection, you shall remain immortal. I shall see to it.” His disguised wings beat once casually. “If that need extends to requiring shelter in my temple, I will open the doors for you.”

  As another round of hot tears splashed down Catherine’s cheeks, Iain’s own gaze turned watery. He sniffed, inhaled deeply, and nodded his head once more. Turning from her, he bowed his head to Raphael. “I thank you for your generosity.”

  In surprising contradiction to his earlier gravity, a bright smile illuminated Raphael’s face. He stood once more, turned to face Tane, and tapped a palm on the top of his desk. “A word from Mikhail.”

  Tane’s feet thudded to the floor. He bolted upright, every portion of his being stiffly attuned to whatever the archangel might say next.

  “Your work here has not gone unnoticed.” Ever so slightly, Raphael inclined his head toward Iain. “With those less fortunate, you have made wise decisions. Do with this as you will.”

  The air stirred, and as if he’d been a ghost merely passing through, Raphael was gone. Catherine blinked, his abrupt disappearance more unsettling than the conversation she’d just endured. Tane’s laughter was even more unexplainable.

  As she realized Iain was also chuckling, her disjointed thoughts pulled together. “What in the world are you two laughing about?”

  Tane picked up an old leather wallet and tossed it into her lap. She fingered the frayed edges, frowned at the worn Templar cross burned into the face. But when she opened the binding, and glimpsed a stack of bills inside, a gasp tumbled off her lips. “What’s this?”

  “It’s yours.” Tane laughed again. “You will never hear an archangel admit they agree with a mortal who challenges them.”

  Catherine blinked. “This is…ours?” She looked between both men, uncertain whether she’d made the right inferenc
e.

  A slow grin spread across Iain’s face. “He already defied Mikhail. By giving control of that money to Tane, Raphael can’t be faulted for supporting my decision.”

  The enormous tension in the room dissipated, and Catherine found herself grinning as well. She clutched the wallet teasingly against her chest. “Does that mean I get a car?”

  Tane gave an amused shake of his head. “If a car is what you wish . . .”

  “Oooh! There’s this adorable little—”

  “Mademoiselle,” Iain warned, “we have yet to agree upon the vehicle you will drive.”

  His smirk said far more than his false threat. In the bright twinkle of his eyes, she read a far different message. One that promised the magic of his hands, the torment of his tongue, and hours upon hours of discussion before they’d ever agree to what she drove.

  Laughing, Tane said something about needing to check a delivery that arrived and swiftly exited the room. Catherine slid out of her chair. Iain caught her hands and pulled her into his big strong body. Batting her eyes, she grinned up at him. “I think we should talk about this more.”

  “Aye.” He dipped his lips to the side of her throat. “I should like to hear your…words.”

  Slowly, slowly, she ran her palm down the front of his chest, then down the front of his jeans, and closed her fingers over his swelling length. “I’m not sure where to start.”

  A low growl rumbled in his throat, and in one fluid movement, he swept her off her feet into his arms. Catherine let out a surprised shriek, then clutched at his neck as he strode for the door.

  “I shall direct you,” he answered, his smirk once again intact.

  As he strode from the room, another thought hit her. “Iain?”

  “Mm,” he murmured as he nuzzled the side of her neck.

  “If you are not exactly…immortal . . .” She plucked open a button on his shirt and splayed her fingertips across his warm skin. “Does this mean you aren’t exactly…sterile?”

  Surprise widened his eyes for a heartbeat, and he came to an abrupt halt. But with his blink, the brief stun gave way to a broad, if somewhat hesitant, smile. “Mademoiselle, I cannot say.” Impishness sparked behind his warm brown eyes. “Mayhap we should endeavor to discover the answer.”

  “You wouldn’t mind being a father?”

  “Nay,” he answered decisively as his feet began to move once more, long strides taking her down the hall to the stairs. “Nay, not at all.”

  Catherine snuggled into his arms, a whole new sense of fulfillment soaking into her veins. She couldn’t ask for anything more. Iain, a job with homeless teens, and now the possibility of her own children and the family she’d been denied. Raphael had granted it all when he declared Iain her immortal protector.

  She pressed a kiss to the center of his chest, then rested her head on his shoulder. “I love you, Iain. Maddeningly so.”

  “Aye, indeed you are mad, to join yourself with me.” He paused in the doorway to drop a kiss on her lips. “But I would have it no other way.”

  Sneak Peek of:

  Immortal Trust

  Claire Ashgrove

  Available in April 2013 from Tom Doherty Associates

  A Tor Book

  Copyright © 2013 by Valerie M. Hatfield

  Ornes, France

  February

  Chapter 1

  Winter cast a gray pallor over snowcapped fields as the SUV wound down a narrow country lane. Lucan reclined in the passenger seat, outwardly the picture of perfect knightly composure. Inside, however, naught remained at peace. In the passing of nine miles, he would set his eyes upon his seraph. The weight of her identifying serpentine torc pressed into his palm. Though he kept his hand tucked into his coat pocket, his anxiety seeped out through the clench of his fingers. Would she welcome him? Or would he face the trials Merrick and Farran had when they found their eternal mates?

  He shifted in his seat, crossed the opposite ankle over his knee. His right hand tapped against the passenger door’s armrest. Four days’ travel, and he had never known a more indefinite passing of time. Even after centuries of existence, when he had become accustomed to the never-ending setting suns, the short span of time was unbearable. Salvation came with this Chloe Broussard. Escape from the eternal suspicion that plagued his wakefulness.

  Love too might grace his life—if the archangel Gabriel paired him appropriately. Though, in truth, Lucan cared little about the sentimental bonds. ’Twas the tie to brotherhood, the knowledge his fate would remain in the Almighty’s hands that mattered most. All else was naught but fancy. A trifle enjoyment of comfort the Templar cast aside long ago.

  He breathed deeply to quell the rapid beat of his heart. If they did not arrive soon, he would rather shove open the door and walk. Whilst a foot journey would delay his inevitable meeting further, his mind would not be preoccupied with questions. Nor would he suffer this unexplainable hope he could not seem to cast aside.

  “Rest easy, brother, we have but a few more miles.” Caradoc shifted behind the wheel. The grimace that crossed his face as his aching bones settled into the leather seat belied his own suffering.

  For a heartbeat, guilt swamped Lucan. He should not be so eager to embrace healing when those he cared about suffered. As a former commander and the second unto Merrick, Caradoc deserved his soul pairing far more than Lucan. Merrick and Farran each found theirs— Lucan had become convinced Caradoc would follow. But nay, Gabriel came to him. Bade him to take Caradoc, enlist Gareth from Europe, and deliver the serpents to Chloe before Azazel could ensnare her.

  Laughter in the backseat washed away Lucan’s brief unease. He glanced over his shoulder to find the younger Gareth grinning broadly. “Bah, Caradoc, you expect him to rest easy when he waits to discover whether his mate bears the face of an old crone or that of an angel’s grace?”

  Caradoc shrugged, but the hint of a smile fringed his grim expression. “’Tis naught more than a betrothal. We have all been down such paths. Tell me, Gareth, when you were pledged as a lad, did you pause to consider what the maid would look like?”

  Gareth’s laughter deepened. “Nay. She would bear me sons. More comely wenches were made for my pleasure.”

  The reminder of lives left behind tightened Lucan’s chest. Banter that should have lightened his heart only brought bitterness. Scenes of the family he had once known, and their violent demise. The maid he would have wed had killed those who shared his blood. Or rather, the forbidden love she gave to a man Lucan believed capable only of generosity and kindness. She brought that man, the one he had called brother, to an early grave as well.

  As if Caradoc sensed Lucan’s discomfort, he murmured. “Leave Enid behind, Lucan. She has no place in this.”

  Lucan nodded long and slow. Enid resided in the grave. Next to her beloved. He had thought little of her through the centuries. He would not make the mistake of allowing her to rise from the dead. Yet the irony of circumstance did not escape him. Chloe posed the same risks. She held the same power to bring brothers to blows. To shred ties that ran deeper than blood and destruct families. For he would kill for her, as he had killed to avenge his murdered father.

  She was his seraph. His to protect against all others, including his Templar brethren, should jealousy override sense and oaths. Already the fierceness of his preordained bond filled his blood.

  The road curved around a sharp bend, then flattened out once more. Tall pines sheltered the asphalt from the recent snows. Ahead, a row of vehicles tucked into the landscape marked their destination. Caradoc slowed the SUV and eased into the gravel parking lot. He shut off the engine, then swiveled in his seat. His gaze flickered between Lucan and Gareth.

  “Whilst we are here for Chloe, we cannot forget the Veronica. With it, Azazel can decode the angels’ language. Once Chloe uncovers the reliquary that protects it, he will stop at naught to obtain the sacred cloth.”

  Lucan met Caradoc’s heavy stare, understanding all he did not say. If Ch
loe were oathed by that time, she would remain untouched. If Azazel discovered her seraph’s blood before she spoke her vows, a fate far worse than death awaited. The previous attempts on Noelle’s life lent credence to the archangels’ belief Azazel wished to replace his lost lover, Lilith. Worse, should he possess a seraph, should he break the prophecy by claiming this one, Azazel’s ascension to the Almighty’s divine throne would all but become guaranteed.

  Gareth broke the heavy silence by opening his door. Cold air washed into the comfortable heat. Caradoc winced as the gust cut through his heavy coat, and Lucan braced himself for the wintry outdoors. He stepped out into the snow.

  Two mobile trailers sat beyond the memorial stones that marked this tiny village as a casualty of Hitler’s greed. Bits of rubble, chunks of buildings that once stood straight and proud, edged the gravel path to the trailers’ doors. Lucan surveyed the protruding rocks, sadness filling his heart. Such unnecessary destruction. Ornes could have become a great city like its sister, Verdun. ’Twas a good thing the European Templar commander, Alaric, deigned to accompany their quest. He would hate to see the nothingness his homeland had become. But like so many other strongholds that had once known glory, the le Goix legacy crumbled beneath the fist of time.

  Like Lucan’s beloved Seacourt.

  He shook off the momentary melancholy and fixed his gaze on the smaller trailer’s front steps. With purpose, he strode for the door. His brothers followed behind, their distance respectful.

  Halfway down the path, the door burst open. Dressed in a coat so large it dwarfed her, a woman bounded out. Her long auburn hair caught in the breeze and streamed out behind her. She approached at a determined pace, arms folded across her chest.

  Lucan’s pulse jumped as Chloe Broussard marched directly toward him. ’Twas time. Four days finally came to fruition with this moment. He found his smile, hoped it did not falter like the anxious stuttering behind his ribs. Letting go of her torc, he withdrew his hand from his pocket and extended it in greeting. “I am Lucan. ’Tis a pleasure to meet you.”