Immortal Sacrifice: #4 The Curse of the Templars

by Claire Ashgrove

  Beneath her cheek, Caradoc’s heart pumped a steady rhythm. At the small of her back, his fingers stroked over her lightweight sweater. She reveled in the moment, in the nearness of him. Absorbed the silent strength he offered.

  And she was so tired of fighting.

  She wrapped her arms around his waist and burrowed deeper into his embrace. Turning her face into his chest, she freed her tongue. “Everything’s all wrong. I can’t sleep, can’t eat. You aren’t supposed to be here, yet you are. I don’t know what to say or what to do. Whether to hate you or believe you.”

  His voice rumbled quietly near her ear. “I do not want your hate, Isa. Let me make things right.”

  As his embrace tightened, a feeling of profound rightness enveloped her. She needed this. Needed him. He soothed her in ways she couldn’t explain. Maybe it was the chivalrous image of a knight September conjured. Whatever it was, Caradoc’s presence calmed Isabelle from the outside in. Just standing at his side made her feel invincible. In his arms like this, she’d swear she could fly.

  From inside her purse, her cell phone blared a bright, brassy tone. Unwilling to leave Caradoc’s protective safe haven, she fished around in her purse with one hand until her fingers closed around the phone. Head still resting on his chest, she glanced at the caller ID. The number on the LCD didn’t register with her address book. “Hello?”

  “Isabelle, you’ve done amazingly well. Five hundred thousand—I’d expected to give twice that for the ruby pendant.”

  Paul. Isabelle’s blood ran cold. At once, the reminder she was being watched punched a giant hole through her false bubble of safety.

  Chapter 15

  Caradoc’s body tightened, protesting Isabelle’s retreat. He pressed his hand into the small of her back, urging her to stay right where she was. She felt too good to let her slip away.

  She twisted free anyway, but her hand slid down his arm to catch his and give his fingers a reassuring squeeze. The tension fled his spine, and he relaxed, understanding her distance did not come from a desire to be far from him. He stayed beneath the tall palm branches as she moved to a nearby marble-topped patio table where she set her purse down and rummaged through it.

  “Yes, I secured the ruby pendant. I was quite pleased.”

  Business, Caradoc rationalized. He folded his arms over his chest, amusement twitching the corners of his mouth as he watched her awkward attempts to hold onto the phone with one hand, speak, and retrieve whatever she was after.

  “That’s crazy, Paul. I’d never do that. You know it. This is totally unreasonable.”

  Business troubles, Caradoc concluded with a slight frown.

  When Isabelle withdrew her hand, she clutched a pocket-sized tablet of purple paper. Hastily, she scrawled something across the topmost sheet, ripped it off, then waved it at him.

  Curious, he plucked it from her fingers.

  305 – 7:00

  Glancing up, he gave her a quizzical look. What nonsense was this?

  She answered with the slightest of waves, before retreating down the path toward the villa once more. At the gateway of two thick oleanders, her voice took on a brittle edge. “I want to talk to her.” Then, the pleasant melody faded on the breeze as she entered the villa.

  Caradoc stared at the cryptic note and scratched his head. Clearly 7:00 indicated time. Undoubtedly, she expected him to meet her. But the 305 eluded him. Why did she not just state something deliberate? He knew of naught—

  He blinked. His room! God’s teeth!

  A strange mix of excitement and anxiety crawled beneath his skin. Had she chosen a time in the afternoon, he would have understood her meaning. If she had named mealtime, he would have recognized a subtle invitation for more than conversation. The early evening hour, however, implied something more intimate, yet choosing to dine alone put distance between them.

  He had no earthly idea what she was trying to convey.

  Slowly, he balled the paper in his fist and frowned at the archway she had vanished through. ‘Tis Isabelle. Think.

  Try as he might, he could come to only one definitive conclusion. She was coming to him, not asking him to come to her. That alone was significant, particularly for a woman who had just admitted to not knowing whether she should hate him. For Isabelle, however, the choice was monumental. It meant he had connected in some way. Touched the part of her heart she fought to keep out of his reach.

  She had softened.

  Whatever else happened, this night was insignificant.

  Feeling as if he had just returned home from years of war in a foreign land, he headed for the villa. Inside, he glanced at his watch. Eleven-thirty—Gareth would now be bidding on the urn. The closed doors to the grand hall confirmed his theory; security would allow no one to interrupt once bids began.

  A swathe of blonde hair near a pillar across the marbled entryway drew his attention back to where Isabelle stood. She looked up at the same time she dropped her phone into her purse. Their eyes locked. Tension crackled through long expanse of marble tile that separated them as if someone had taken each of their hands and connected them by live current. His pulse picked up. Hunger for all that they had shared gnawed at his gut.

  He ached to take her by the hand, lead back outdoors into the farthest corner of the garden, and remind her of all the unforgettable magic with his fingers, his mouth. The woman who loved with her body and soul would not object. Aye, once she would have done the leading. She had one evening, after wine made waiting impossible. With her legs wrapped around his waist, her back pressed to the wall, they’d made love behind a heavy curtain in Kiddington Hall’s art gallery whilst a jet-set crowd of prospective buyers filled the adjoining room. The climb up never-ending stairs he had once crafted by hand to a more appropriate room would have taken too long.

  As if she read his thoughts, a touch of color brightened her features. A slow, hesitant smile graced her pale lips, the first he had witnessed since the night he left her behind. The full reality of their fate belted into him like the flat of a sword, and Caradoc’s heart stumbled into his ribs. His seraph. Eternity with Isabelle. They had obstacles to overcome, aye indeed, but he would never again have to leave her side. Once they said their vows, even Azazel could not drive them apart.

  He could ask for no greater miracle.

  Returning her smile with one far more confident, he allowed her to take her space. The doors opened to the great hall, and he slipped inside to rejoin his brothers.

  * * *

  Noelle hurried through the maze of stone corridors that comprised the North American Temple’s basement with Farran on her heels. Nearly four months had passed since she’d made this her home and pledged her life to Farran. Still, she had difficulty remembering which twists and turns led where. The only route she was absolutely certain of was the one that led to her laboratory, where she spent long hours recording and dating all the Templar artifacts.

  Farran caught her by the elbow, guiding her away from the torch light to her left and urged her in the opposite direction with a chortle. “I see my map-making skills did not impress you.”

  Noelle snorted. “Your map-making skills make cartographers look like Michelangelo. Boxes and lines, x and a circle. I’m supposed to remember that?”

  “Hush.” His voice held authority, but the twinkle in his eyes betrayed his good humor. That too still caught her off guard. He’d been so grumpy and distant such a short time ago. Now, he teased freely. Once or twice, he’d even cracked a joke.

  Twining his fingers through hers, he assumed the lead and expertly navigated the identical tunnels. At Mikhail’s closed office door, he drew to a stop and knocked.

  “Enter Farran.”

  Noelle drew back, unexplainably possessed by a case of nerves. “Wait.”

  “What troubles you, angel?” He slipped two fingers beneath her chin and tipped her face to his.

  With her free hand, she pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “What if I haven’t learned
enough? I don’t know what Mikhail expects of me. I haven’t had much time to practice.”

  Farran slid his warm hand along the side of her face, into the hair at the nape of her neck. Gentle pressure urged her to her toes. He dipped his head to brush his mouth across hers. “Relax. You worry overmuch. In three months’ time, you have gained the ability to heal severed arteries. Theodore did not even require Uriel’s healing touch after last night’s battle.”

  “Will you two cease your dallying and come inside?” Mikhail’s voice drifted through the door, full of sharp reprimand.

  Noelle rolled her eyes. Sometimes archangels could be intolerable. Especially ones who lacked patience, like Mikhail. She leaned her shoulder on the door and pushed it open, allowing Farran to escort her inside.

  Behind his massive desk, Mikhail rose to his feet and greeted them as if he hadn’t just scolded them for making him wait. His indiscernible wings cast an eerie shadow against the illuminated stone wall. Another thing she hadn’t quite grown accustomed to.

  “Sir Farran, Lady Noelle, how fare you both?”

  “Er.” Noelle glanced around the room, uncertain what to make of his mood. “Fine.”

  In his typical blunt fashion, Farran cut to the chase. “What is it you require of us, Mikhail?”

  “Of her,” Mikhail corrected with a gesture of his elegant hand. “But it seems I cannot obtain a moment of her time without your presence.”

  Farran pursed his lips, but the darkness didn’t touch his chocolaty eyes. “If I were to leave her to find you on her own, ’twould take several days.”

  Noelle gave his shoulder a push.

  As if he sought divine temperance, Mikhail lifted his eyes skyward and mumbled something beneath his breath. When he lowered his gaze, his expression remained as serene as ever. Flawlessly unreadable.

  Clearing her throat, Noelle adjusted her glasses once again. “What do you need from me?”

  “I require the status of your training.”

  She wrinkled her nose before she could think better of it.

  “’Tis that distasteful?” Mikhail arched a reddish-brown eyebrow.

  “No! I don’t find it distasteful at all. I’ve been enjoying learning it, actually.”

  He lowered his lean frame back into his wooden chair. “Then why did you make such a face?”

  “I…I’m just not…”

  “She fears she will disappoint you,” Farran answered in a low voice.

  That earned him another shove to the shoulder.

  He gave her fingers a squeeze and turned a warm smile on her narrowed gaze. It disarmed her in a heartbeat, bringing a heated blush to her cheeks. She doubted she’d ever become immune to the tenderness that lived in his expressive eyes or his unfaltering support.

  Mikhail steepled his fingers beneath his chin, studying her intently. When enough quiet had passed that she struggled not to squirm, he asked, “Farran speaks the truth?”

  Noelle answered with an embarrassed nod.

  On a rare display of good humor, Mikhail’s face lit with a dazzling smile. “That you should take your gift so seriously brings pride to my heart, Noelle. It speaks to your dedication within the Order, and it honors Farran.”

  Beneath the archangel’s praise, her face burned. She sought to hide the rising color by hanging her head so her hair would shield her features. Farran nudged her foot with the toe of his boot, reminding her he wouldn’t tolerate her attempts to discount her abilities. Still uncomfortable, she shifted her weight and looked to Mikhail once more.

  “You cannot disappoint me with such dedication. Now tell me if Uriel exaggerates. Have you gained the ability to mend mortal wounds?”

  “Yes, but—”

  He lifted a hand, palm out. “Good. When the men fight, you may heal on the battlefield. Though their immortality will mend their wounds in time, many suffer from extensive darkness that delays much-needed returns to combat.”

  “Nay.” Farran’s flat objection reverberated off the walls.

  “Nay?” Mikhail and Noelle echoed in unison.

  “I will not have her on the field until Chloe has mastered her own gifts. Too much risk lays in the fact Azazel’s demons could capture her. Or worse, one of our fallen brothers.”

  Scolding her husband with a scowl, Noelle protested beneath her breath, “I’ll be fine.”

  To her surprise, Mikhail dismissed the entire subject with a wave of his hand. “’Tis no matter, you have other tasks to accomplish before she will see her first battlefield.”

  “Other tasks?” Noelle squeaked. Experience told her, Mikhail’s other tasks came with massive expectations and innumerable danger. The last time he’d assigned them to something together, she’d nearly died, and a cathedral had been blown to bits. Phanuel was still lost somewhere in Azazel’s realm.

  “Aye, you have two days to perfect your gift. On the evening of the second, you will meet Chloe and Lucan in Bagheria, Sicily.”

  Sicily? Noelle squinted at Mikhail.

  Farran beat her to the question. A legitimate scowl firmly in place, he asked, “Caradoc and Tane possess the backing of the entire European temple, should they need aid. What duty awaits us in Sicily?”

  “I can tell you no more. In truth, I know not.” He picked up a folded sheaf of parchment that bore an elegant, sprawling script. “The message came to me this morn.”

  Noelle recognized the handwriting as Gabriel’s in an instant. She snatched it from Mikhail’s hands and quickly scanned the words.

  Send all three seraphs and their knights to Bagheria. They shall be required on March 21st.

  She passed it absently to Farran. “March 21st? And why aren’t Merrick and Anne going, if Gabriel sent for all three of us?”

  Mikhail’s jaw tightened into chiseled stone. He pushed out of his chair, clasped his hands at the small of his back, and wandered to the kite shield emblazoned with the Order’s sigil that hung on his wall. “It seems Merrick refuses to listen to Orders presently.”

  Merrick refuse orders? Noelle’s eyes widened. The only time Merrick ever turned his back on the archangels’ demands was when Anne was involved. If it weren’t for his status as commander, and the fact he was the strongest of all the knights, Noelle suspected Mikhail would have issued an order for his confinement. Templar arrest, more or less.

  “Why does he have the ability to refuse when the rest of us do not?” Farran challenged.

  Slowly, Mikhail turned. Where anger had clouded his features moments before, happiness radiated in his aquiline features. “You do not know?”

  “Know what?” Noelle asked with a measure of suspicion. She’d spoken to Anne just this morning after breakfast.

  “I suppose you would not, as Merrick has not seen fit to tell myself either. He fails to remember it is my duty to recognize innocent souls.”

  Farran crossed his arms over his chest, a gesture Noelle recognized as faltering patience. She slid her hand into the crook of his elbow and stepped closer to his side, offering what little reassurance she could.

  “Merrick is to be a father.”

  A bomb couldn’t have produced a more deafening explosion. Farran stiffened like someone had shoved a sword in his side. Noelle’s mouth dropped open. Her eyes widened to twice their normal size.

  Farran broke the silence with a thunderous, “What?”

  “You heard me correctly,” Mikhail answered as casually as if he’d said nothing more than a recitation of the evening menu. “You must say naught of this until Merrick delivers the news himself.”

  With a slow shake of his head, Farran’s voice lowered by several decibels. He spoke, more to himself than to either Noelle or Mikhail. “’Tis impossible. The curse forbade us.”

  “Nay, Farran.” Rounding in front of them, Mikhail perched on the corner of his desk. “You were told centuries ago you could not sire a mortal child.” He pointed to Noelle. “She may have children with but one man, and a child born of seraphs is indeed immortal.”

>   Understanding hit Noelle at the same time it pummeled into Farran. She looked up to find his tremulous gaze on her. Wonder, disbelief, and fear shimmered in those soft brown depths. Before the moisture that gathered in the corners of his eyes could slide down his face, she slid her hand into his and pulled him out of Mikhail’s office.

  In the hall, he sagged against the wall, his whisper so soft she had to strain to hear him. “A son.” He swiped a hand through his long blonde hair.

  Aware his emotion came from the child he had lost, she chewed on her lower lip, uncertain what to say.

  In the next instant, Farran hauled her against his chest, his kiss ferocious.

  Chapter 16

  “Help me!”

  The child’s scream ricocheted through the darkness, standing Isabelle’s nerves on end. She took a tentative step forward and peered around a time-weathered statue of an angel with a broken wing, to look into the shadowy grove ahead. Pitch black, eerie stillness stared her in the face.

  Behind her, footsteps tromped across the uneven pavestones. Shouts broke out, muffled voices she couldn’t decipher through the dense surrounding overgrowth. They’d catch up to her soon. Stop her from saving the child.

  Shoving off a rough tree trunk, she ran blindly forward, stumbling over the broken bits of stone and clumps of grass that had once been a well-groomed path. Panic drove her onward, the child’s fear, her own. She followed a faint orangish halo, a light that had no source but marked the way.

  The path curved around a massive stone mausoleum barred shut by a rusting, cast iron gate. She used the smooth wall to support herself and climbed over a fallen tree limb. Her fingertips grazed engraved lettering. Isabelle glanced at the stone slab long enough to make out the name, Valguarnera. Dimly, her brain registered Italian origin.