Immortal Sacrifice: #4 The Curse of the Templars

by Claire Ashgrove

  A strange, snarling sound drifted from behind the creepy monument. Isabelle slowed her pace, inched around the corner. Her gaze settled on a ghostly statue, another angel, judging by the massive wings. But where the other had possessed a face carved with grace, a cloak shrouded this one’s face. Nothing but an empty dark hole looked down on a crumpled child, still dressed in her nightgown, at the base of its feet. Long blonde hair tumbled in bloody clumps away from a face Isabelle knew by heart.

  She’d given birth to it. Picked out the tank-style nightgown edged with big fat strawberries for September’s second birthday. It was too short now, coming to her knees, no longer her ankles, but September refused to part with it.

  As a scream rose to the back of Isabelle’s throat, the snarling began again. Unwilling to look, but unable to stop, she let her gaze travel up the haunting statue’s robes, following the wet crimson trail of blood that ran in rivulets through the stone folds of cloth. It pooled on smooth shoulders, dripping from somewhere above.

  She looked higher. To a shadow crouching behind the statue.

  Blood orange eyes glowed above the angel’s wings. Human. And yet…nowhere near human. It held on to both stone wingtips with razor-sharp claws where feet should have been. Hands, as large as a man’s, yet tipped with the same dagger-like nails rested on bent knees. Yellowed fangs snapped before the thing emitted that terrible noise.

  Isabelle screamed.

  She bolted upright, knocking a full plate of pasta off her lap and onto the floor. Panting, she clutched a hand at her throat and glanced around her room, not the decrepit garden she’d been in moments before. Slowly, the terror let go of her muscles enough she could lower her arm and drag in a deep breath. She glanced down at the spilled tomato-base sauce, and her stomach churned.

  In a mad dash, she bolted for the bathroom and hit her knees just in time. The few bites she’d choked down before she’d unwillingly drifted made a violent reappearance. Seconds later, though her stomach heaved, nothing but bitter green bile came up. She laid her cheek on the cool porcelain and waited for the trembling to subside.

  Seconds crept by, pronounced by the ticking of the clock on the wall. She stared at the time, unable to drag herself completely out of the nightmare. September dead. God, it couldn’t be possible. And that thing… A shudder rolled through her shoulders. No, it couldn’t be possible. Nothing like that existed outside of horror flicks.

  With the last of her faltering energy, Isabelle pushed herself into a sitting position and leaned her back against the bathtub. A sigh possessed her. In ten minutes, she was supposed to meet Caradoc. She probably looked like hell. She definitely felt like hell. What had possessed her to think she could tell him anything?

  She pushed a shaky hand through her long hair and sighed. Suddenly, the idea of telling him she was suffering from insomnia because of a nightmare felt childish. Let alone the fact that letting him in at all would make resisting everything else about him almost impossible. Maybe she shouldn’t go. He thought she was ill; she could always claim she’d fallen asleep. It wouldn’t be a complete lie.

  Guided by strength other than her own, she made it to her feet and turned on the faucet. After swishing her mouth out, she splashed water over her face and grabbed for the towel. As she dried, she glanced in the mirror. Hollow cheekbones beneath pockets of dark kohl stared back at her.

  No probably about it, she looked like she already had one foot in the grave. She could try and tell herself the weakness in her legs came from just puking up her guts, but she knew she’d lost weight over the last few weeks of the nightmare. If she didn’t find a way out of this madness, she’d end up in the hospital, a forced vacation she couldn’t afford until that necklace was in Paul’s hands. She needed sleep, and there was only one way she knew to accomplish it.

  Caradoc.

  Groaning, she picked up her toothbrush.

  * * *

  Unable to sit and wait, Caradoc paced across his suite’s front room. Ten after seven, and Isabelle, who was always on time, was late. Saints’ toes, after this afternoon, if she did not appear in another ten minutes he would chase her down.

  He tugged at the cuffs on his long-sleeved jersey and pulled at the collar. Despite its comfortable fit, his jangled nerves made his very skin feel too tight. Mayhap he should have ordered a bottle of wine. He did not generally drink, but at the moment, he would have welcomed a glass. Mayhap two.

  On second thought, a bottle of wine might imply more than Isabelle intended. Damnation! If she had only made her meaning more clear. A word or two more on the scribbled note would have served well.

  The light rap at his door froze him in place. His heart lodged in his throat, and for a moment, he struggled to breathe. She had not changed her mind. She was here. Saints above.

  Swallowing hard, he went to the door and opened it wide.

  She looked up with a wavering smile that did naught to improve the dark circles beneath her eyes. “Hi.”

  The shy quality of her voice unwound his bunched up nerves, and Caradoc’s heart sank into its rightful place behind his ribs. “Good eve.” Stepping aside, he resisted the overwhelming urge to pull her into a hug and welcome her with a kiss. ’Twas how they had always greeted one another. This lack of affection seemed unnatural. Awkward.

  She passed him by, leaving the faint scent of honeysuckle in her wake. As he shut the door and quietly turned the lock, he watched the way she slid her purse off her shoulder, set it on the armchair, and curiously looked around.

  “This is nice.” She pointed through the door to his bedroom. “You have a balcony?”

  “Aye. I had hoped to find the weather more agreeable to sleeping with a bit of fresh air. You know how I enjoy it.”

  Wrong thing to say. She ducked her head and looked away as she lifted a hand to gnaw on her fingernail. A habit she employed when she was not at ease. He hurried to take her mind off the reference. “You had good luck at the auction today, did you not?” Gesturing at the more comfortable sofa, he urged, “Please sit down.”

  As if her legs had lost the ability to support her any longer, she dropped onto the couch, then folded her arms beneath her breasts and hunched into her body. “I really don’t mean to bother you. I shouldn’t be here. I can’t just dump my problems on you.”

  Propelled by the instinctive urge to protect her from whatever plagued her, Caradoc sat beside her on the couch and cupped her dainty chin in his palm. Lifting her head, he brought her gaze level with his. “Isabelle, you are no bother.”

  Thick strawberry eyelashes lowered. She twisted her head in attempt to look away.

  “Nay, sweet Isa. Look at me.” He turned her face back to his. Waited for her to open her eyes. When she did, a fine sheen of moisture clouded indigo depths capable of drowning a man. In that moment, Caradoc could no more control the urge to kiss her than he could cease the beating of his heart. Still holding her chin in his hand, he leaned forward and brushed his mouth over hers.

  Her lips fluttered beneath his. The taste of mint lingered in her soft response. It made his hunger for her intolerable.

  With a hoarse groan, he slid his hand down the side of her neck and nudged her lips apart. Isabelle responded in a heartbeat. The tip of her tongue touched his, igniting a desire more frightening than a dozen of Azazel’s creations. Her hand latched onto the hair at the back of his neck, and she lifted up into his body. He wound his free arm around her waist, holding her close, deepening the kiss. Saints above, in all the time they had spent together, he could not recall such fierce need of her, nor could he recall such demands in her kiss.

  Demands that commanded he give everything he was, or forsake her forever.

  He gave.

  He poured every bit of his soul into the stroke of his tongue, the catch of his lips, willing her to hear the words she had not allowed him to speak, the apologies she refused to believe. His hand slid from her throat to her shoulder, then to her back, between her shoulder blades. Fingers spla
yed over the delicate wool of her cashmere sweater, he pressed her forward, bringing her breasts flush against his chest. The feel of her soft flesh sent his senses spinning haphazardly. She was here, everywhere. Surrounding him, carrying him away to a place he had known only in fantasy.

  His breath hardened to match the sharpness of hers. Against his thigh, his shaft filled so full it became a physical ache. He shifted to relieve the tightness of his jeans, and Isabelle’s other hand settled at his waist. Caradoc barely registered the movement of his shirt until her warm fingertips skated over the skin beneath his ribs.

  Saints’ blood, he had been a madman to believe he could ever live without this. Without her. He needed the touch of her hands like he needed his sword. Dusting his lips across her cheek, he sought the sweet spot at the base of her ear. She tipped her head back, allowing him the freedom to trace the tip of his tongue over the fragile skin there. Her nails bit into the nape of his neck, and her quiet moan filled his ears. Caught up in the magic of Isabelle, he trailed kisses down the length of the thick vein that pulsed at the side of her neck, feathered his mouth across her prominent collarbone.

  When he dipped his tongue into the deep v of her sweater, however, Isabelle jerked upright. Her hands fell to his shoulders, gave him an insistent push. “I can’t,” she protested, her whisper ragged.

  Pulling in short quick breaths through his nose, Caradoc slowly lifted his head. His hands trembled as he released her. “Aye,” he accepted reluctantly. “I apologize. I did not intend to lose my head.”

  With closed eyes, he changed position and stretched his legs before him to give his insistent erection room. ’Twas too early. She was not yet willing to put the past behind her. Damnation, if she only knew how much he despised the fool he had been.

  Several deep breaths dragged his mind from thoughts of her wet and willing body to the memory of their conversation in Shapiro’s garden. Still unable to look at her for fear he would find himself unable to ignore the demands of his arousal, he asked, “Tell me what you began to say this afternoon?”

  * * *

  Isabelle scooted away until her back hit the armrest, and she tucked one leg under the other. In her lap, she worried her hands into a knot. Tell him about the nightmares. About September. About Paul. Where to start? Which first?

  “Isa?” Caradoc turned his head, his brows tight with concern. Rich hazel eyes bored into her soul.

  “Um.”

  His frown deepened. “’Tis unlike you to struggle for words.”

  Nightmares were easier. She’d rather risk his laughter than delve into the complicated subject of September. Besides, if she told him about his daughter first, he might get so angry she’d lose the very reason she’d decided to come.

  “Promise me you won’t laugh?”

  He pursed his lips and gave her look that said she knew better. But contrary to the perturbed expression, he grabbed her by the wrist, tugged her around so she mirrored his position, and tucked her against his side. His hand stroked the lengths of hair that fell over her shoulder. Lifting, sliding, drawing them through his fingers to let them fall gently against her arm.

  Heaven soaked into her. She couldn’t count the number of times they’d sat together like this, needing no words, content to bathe in each other’s presence. In his silence, she heard his unconditional support. Recognized the love he had given her so freely. The same love she craved more than anything, but the pain he’d caused refused to let her accept it.

  Burrowing into his embrace, she laid her head on his shoulder and rested her hand against his chest. Beneath her palm, his heart beat strong and hard, a testament to the strength she needed. She absorbed it. Forced her mind to shut up and be still.

  Gradually, the words worked into a sensible pattern on their own, and in a quiet voice she asked, “Do you believe in the supernatural?”

  His hand stilled for an instant. But as he dipped his head, he resumed the rhythmic motion. “Aye. I have witnessed it.”

  Surprised, she tipped her head up to study his handsome face. “You have?”

  “Aye.” He looked straight forward, out the window. “I know a woman who can see the lives of others through touch. Another who can heal with her hands. And I have recently met another who can see unnatural beings.”

  All of Isabelle’s doubt dumped on her shoulders. She bristled. Maybe the last three years had been hell for her, but that certainly didn’t sound like he’d spent much time alone. A man like Caradoc didn’t sit around abstinent for almost three years. Hell, no man did. “All women?” She winced at the suspicious edge to her voice.

  Caradoc blew out a hard breath. “They are my friends’ wives.” He sat up straighter, twisted so he faced her once more. His hands found hers, and he twined their fingers together. “’Tis time for this to end, Isa. There is no excuse for my behavior, but I shall swear it on my ancestors’ graves that there has been no one since you.”

  Chapter 17

  Caradoc’s gaze was earnest, the clench of his fingers tight. It urged Isabelle to believe him, to give him the chance and trust once more in all the love they had shared. Beneath the intensity of his stare, her resistance faltered. She could. It would be easy to fall into his arms, go back to where they’d been a few minutes ago, and let him peel off her clothes. Let him make love to her like her body wanted.

  Yet what he claimed was so unlikely, she didn’t dare give it consideration. Celibacy and Caradoc didn’t match. She might have found a modicum of relief with her hands and the turquoise massager Rosa gave her when she’d gotten tired of seeing Isabelle mope around, but men just didn’t jack off for almost three years. Especially men who could take their pick of any woman and knew exactly how to pleasure them. The things he could do with his hands, his mouth, said loud and clear Caradoc hadn’t made it a habit to spend his nights alone.

  At the same time, if for some crazy reason he was telling the truth, that meant a world of things she didn’t know how to confront. Things like maybe his love for her might override all the reasons he didn’t want children. Like maybe there was some hope for a future together.

  Things that were so far-fetched they made Star Wars look like reality. Better not to think about them at all. Her mind was already pretty close to resembling egg noodles.

  Giving the subject a stadium-sized berth, she replied, “I have prophetic dreams.”

  His consternation was evident in the set of his jaw. Instead of pushing the subject he’d opened, however, he ran his thumbs over the back of her hands and urged, “Go on.”

  Go on. Just that. No chuckle, no twist of his mouth. A simple, supportive command.

  Isabelle nodded. “I’ve had them for years. Usually they’re just simple things, a glimpse at something fairly insignificant.”

  “But not now?”

  “No...” She drew out the word, hesitant once more. How far to go? If she mentioned September, she’d be thrown into the one topic she wanted to avoid tonight.

  Caradoc lifted an inquisitive eyebrow.

  She took a deep breath. “I’ve been dreaming about a child for several weeks now. A little girl. She’s in danger, and I know I’m trying to stop her from being harmed. I’m in this overgrown cemetery, or a garden, or something. I don’t know; I can’t really make out everything through the shadows. It’s nighttime.”

  He cocked his head and tightened his grip a fraction. A gentle bounce of her hands encouraged her to keep talking.

  “She keeps screaming for help. And there’s something following me. Again, I don’t know what, or who. But I don’t want it to catch me. I’m not afraid of it. I’m not afraid for myself, frankly. Just the little girl.”

  Now that she’d said it aloud, she realized she should have known the dream was about September the first night it occurred. Only a mother would be concerned for a child, with absolutely no regard for her own safety. Especially with something threatening on her heels.

  “You’re certain it’s not just a nightmare?”
<
br />   Isabelle bobbed her head emphatically. “I’m positive. There’s a difference between my normal dreams and the ones that are going to happen. It’s like the whole thing is framed by an orange, ethereal light.” She took a breath before adding in a quieter voice, “She’s so scared. I can’t get to her.” My daughter’s going to die.

  Tears burst forth at the thought, the visual of September’s body crumpled at the feet of that hellish angel as vivid as a fire opal. Isabelle jerked her hands free and covered her face to hide the unbidden emotion.

  “Shh,” Caradoc whispered. He slid his arms around her and guided her into his embrace. “’Tis all right, Isa.”

  “No.” Clutching at his wide bicep with one hand, she settled her cheek against his chest. A sniffle slowed her tears to a manageable trickle. “No, it’s not. I can’t sleep. Every time I try, it’s there, waiting. Every time. I can’t eat. I can’t think about anything else.”

  Slowly, his hands traveled up and down the length of her spine. Beneath her ear, his voice reverberated, amplifying his soft utterance. “Tell me how to help.”

  “It’s silly.”

  The shake of his head stirred her hair. “Nay.”

  Hot color crept into her cheeks. Despite the fact he couldn’t see her face, she turned it into his chest, embarrassed by the reason she’d decided to come to him. Her whisper came out muffled. “Just hold me. I don’t dream when I’m with you.”

  * * *

  Caradoc had thought he could know no greater physical pain than the aches that lived in his bones, until he heard Isabelle’s quiet request. His heart twisted upside down, taking with it his gut. For a moment, he thought he had been skewered by a hot shaft of iron. But the tremor that ran through her torso told him his pain came from hers. He had known she was not well, but had never considered her seraph’s gifts might be the cause.