Immortal Sacrifice: #4 The Curse of the Templars

by Claire Ashgrove

  For one heartbeat, Isabelle’s body turned as stiff as stone. In the next, as his tongue slid over hers, the fight left her. She slid her palms up the lapels of his suit coat and curled her fingers into the starched shirt beneath.

  He closed his eyes to her sweet surrender, released his tight hold on her arms.

  His kiss was slow and gentle. Thorough. Oblivious to all but her honeyed flavor and light scent of honeysuckle that clung to her hair, his annoyance ebbed. By the sacred blood of the archangels, he would die for this woman, whatever it took to prove his love was unyielding. No matter whose child she had borne, no matter when she had conceived it, no matter how threatening the idea of fulfilling a father’s role might be—he would do whatever she requested, so long as another day did not pass where she doubted him.

  The chirrup of her cell phone jerked the heady kiss to an abrupt close. She lingered in his arms, her cheeks flushed with color, her breath coming in short quick bursts that matched his own. On the second high-pitched electronic chime, she shook her head as if to clear her thoughts and jammed one hand into her purse. Caradoc took a reluctant step back, giving her room to rummage for the singing gadget.

  When she glanced at the brightly lit face, the pretty pink in her face drained to pasty white. “I have to take this.”

  Before he could do so much as nod in understanding, she darted around him and headed for the wide marble pillar at the farthest end of the hall. He watched her go with a frown.

  “That was certainly entertaining.”

  Caradoc jumped at the sound of Gareth’s amusement. He turned to find his brother standing at his side, one hip resting on the glass case, a smirk dancing on his youthful face. “I do believe you are to be bidding, are you not?”

  “Tane wished for the responsibility.” Gareth leaned over the case, resting his elbows on the thick glass. “I thought it a reasonable enough request. He wishes to prove himself. Let him begin with an object that is not detrimental, like the dagger.”

  More concerned with what had transformed Isabelle’s expression to ash, Caradoc did not bother to reply. He turned his attention back to her. Beside him, Gareth shuffled through a small stack of papers. “These are hers?”

  “Aye,” Caradoc answered absently.

  “You have greater concerns than who she might be on the phone with, brother.”

  The comment rang so full of his earlier conflict with Isabelle, Caradoc blinked. He had not taken anyone but Declan into confidence. Even then, he had not intended to disclose Isabelle’s claims. They had merely slipped out whilst he struggled to put them into sense. Disbelieving he had heard correctly, he gave Gareth a perplexed look.

  “This.”

  Gareth tapped the case, drawing Caradoc’s attention to the item beneath. For the first time since he had spied Isabelle standing here, he realized which case sat before them. Inside, the necklace of tears twinkled with the fierce power it held.

  Great horns of warning blared in his head. “What do you mean?”

  Gareth pushed the stack of papers beneath his nose. “How does your Isabelle take losing?”

  As Caradoc looked at the pre-printed brochure, his stomach bottomed out. She had circled the necklace’s listing so many times her pen had worn the paper-thin. Christ’s blood, this could not be happening! They needed no more obstacles between them. He could bend and give to any other demand she made of him. But he could not forsake the tears.

  Not even for Isabelle.

  * * *

  “I want to talk to her, Paul. Now. It’s been three days. Let me talk to her.” Isabelle willed the hysterics out of her voice as she made the demand again, but her voice rose anyway. She moved closer to the garden doors so no one could overhear.

  “Isabelle, calm yourself. I told you, she’s taking a nap.”

  September hadn’t taken a nap since she’d turned two. That alone amped up Isabelle’s anxiety. She lowered her voice to a harsh whisper to keep from yelling. “My daughter doesn’t take naps. Have you made her sick?”

  A low chuckle resonated in her ear. “She’s quite well. Full of energy. You didn’t tell me she was so smart.”

  “Smart?” she asked apprehensively. Kidnappers didn’t generally make those kinds of observations.

  Paul laughed again, the hearty warmth of his voice a stark contrast to the atrocities he’d committed. “I think she told me off in Latin this morning.”

  Latin? September watched Dora and knew how to count in Spanish, but to Isabelle’s knowledge, she hadn’t been exposed to a single word of Latin. Did people even speak it anymore? “Latin,” Isabelle repeated.

  “Yes. I’m pretty sure that’s what it was.”

  Odd. But after the last twenty-four hours, very little could surprise Isabelle. Frankly, she didn’t care if September had spoken Latin, Latvian, or Loa, so long as she said something to her. Immediately. “I want to talk to her, Paul. What did you do to her?”

  “Why would you think I’ve done anything to her?”

  “Because September wouldn’t just tell someone off in any language.” Her voice rose by several decibels, approaching a hushed screech. “What have you done to my daughter?”

  Though he didn’t lapse into his previously threatening demeanor, the friendliness in Paul’s voice assumed a hard edge. “I haven’t done anything to her. I merely moved my insurance policy closer to the item it’s securing.”

  Moved her? Panic kicked Isabelle’s pulse into triple time. “Where?”

  “That’s none of your business. Tomorrow you’ll secure my necklace as we’ve agreed. Bring it to the Villa Valguarnera tomorrow night at precisely eight, and I shall return your daughter.”

  Valguarnera. Isabelle’s heart skidded to a stop. The lettering on the mausoleum in her dream leapt to bold color in her mind. Cut into the whitened stone, a dark shadow around the chisel marks made the same name stand out.

  Her knees buckled.

  “And, Isabelle?”

  “Yes?” she whispered through a closing throat.

  “Your gentleman friend isn’t welcome.”

  Oh, God. The phone tumbled from her hands and clattered against the marble tiles. She bent over to collect it, her weak legs nearly pitching her face-first onto thefloor. Stumbling, she half-tripped, half-ran to the ornately carved bathroom door on the opposite side of the entry hall.

  The brass handle slipped beneath her perspiring hands. Isabelle let out a muffled cry of frustration and tried again. This time, the door swung inward, propelled with force she hadn’t realized she possessed. It thumped into the wall, then sprang forward, giving her just enough time to bolt inside before it slammed back into place.

  Silence loomed around her. Grateful she could collapse unobserved, she flipped the lock and sagged down the length of the door to sit on the cold hard floor. Her stomach churned. Her hands shook. In her mind, a series of still images replayed the horrifying nightmare. The stone path. A great, hulking skeleton tree. The faint light of a silver moon.

  One by one, she saw each piece, fast-forwarding until the final, horrific scene of September’s bloody body at the faceless angel’s feet. That image sent her over the edge. Her empty stomach upturned. She shot to her knees, managing to catch the small wastebasket under the sink and drag it beneath her nose, but nothing happened. Nothing but an overwhelming nausea that made her head spin. One hand on the trashcan, she sank back to her butt and pushed the flyaway hairs off her damp forehead with the other.

  Valguarnera.

  Where, oh, where, had Paul taken September? Why had he taken her at all? She was just an innocent little girl. She doesn’t deserve to die.

  There had to be a way to stop him. To stop the nightmare. Wherever Paul had taken her, he’d put her right in the path of that hideous monster. His greed had led September to imminent danger.

  Damn him. If she’d only had the courage to tell someone before he left the country, she might have been able to stop this. But even as the thought flitted across her brain,
she knew reporting September’s kidnapping would have only made things worse, faster. Paul would’ve killed her instantly. At least now, September would be close enough they could possibly save her before that creature ever showed up. Get her to safety before Isabelle’s nightmare had a chance of coming true.

  Maybe Paul would even help. He’d laugh his head off if Isabelle tried to tell him some hell-creation was going to appear out of the shadows, but when he saw it, he’d believe well enough.

  Maybe Caradoc…

  No.

  Caradoc wasn’t ready to accept fatherhood, let alone the responsibility of protecting a child. The last thing she wanted to do was ask him to help her on some crazy chase for a fantasy-creature when he didn’t want a thing to do with the girl in danger. He already thought she was making up stories. He’d tell her she’d lost her mind if she tried to describe that clawed beast.

  Isabelle’s fingers trembled as she unfastened the top two buttons on her blouse, but the cool air served to calm her wooziness. She waited for the room to stop its slow spinning, then grabbed the countertop and eased herself to her feet. Her legs still shook like she’d run a marathon. Her stomach still threatened to curdle anything she tried to consume. Still, she managed to drag in a few shallow breaths and splash cold water on her face.

  She stared at her gaunt reflection. Where had she gone so wrong? She’d done everything she could to stay far away from the people her father ran with. She’d worked her tail off to give September a normal life. How had she managed to open her daughter to the same dangers she’d known as a child?

  Squeezing her eyes shut tight, Isabelle blocked the thoughts. Self-doubt wouldn’t save September. A diamond necklace was the only thing that might. Come hell or high water, she’d have that sparkling strand in Paul’s hands tomorrow night, and she’d kill anyone who tried to stand in her way. Including that damnable thing.

  * * *

  Caradoc stared at the closed bathroom door, waiting for Isabelle to reappear. Her mad dash across the room, combined with the look upon her face when her phone had rung, put his warrior’s instinct on high alert. Every fiber of his being crackled, on edge, waiting to attack. The longer she remained inside, the tighter his body became.

  But with the tension came the dull, nagging, ache in his bones. It intensified with each heavy thump of his heart, the relief he had known after making love to Isabelle rapidly fading. In the back of his mind, he acknowledged he could offer little physical aid should she need it. Mikhail had been right to order him off the field; he had come too close to transformation. Without her vows, should he be forced to eliminate whatever sent her scrambling into the bathroom, he would be lost. Lost to the Templar, and lost to her.

  He must inform her of her place. He had waited too long already. To do so would require his full concentration, which meant he could no longer amble through this assignment, allowing it to play out casually. ’Twas time to effect order.

  Turning to face Gareth, he kept one eye on the bathroom door and braced himself for inevitable argument. “When Tane has concluded our business here today, take the relics we have acquired to Raphael. Inform him of Declan’s presence, if he is not already aware. Tell him also that the necklace is secure and shall arrive in the temple in two days hence.”

  With a bark of laughter, Gareth shook his head. “I am no page. My duty is not to run errands and deliver packages. We shall phone Raphael and return together.”

  After the frustrations he had faced with Isabelle, Caradoc almost chuckled. This argument he could not lose. With victory certain, he raised his eyebrows and hardened his voice. “Who is commander here, Sir Gareth?”

  The younger knight’s amusement drained off his face. He pursed his lips, his displeasure evident. Yet he offered no objection. He would not. Only the rare few like Declan dared to defy orders.

  Understanding his place, Gareth snapped to brief attention, shoulders squared, feet together, arms tight against his sides. The narrowing of his gaze spoke to his annoyance, but the deferential dip of his head acknowledged his duty. He pivoted on a heel and stalked into the auction hall, leaving Caradoc free to attend Isabelle.

  He started for the bathroom door, only to have it open. Isabelle hurried out. Before a group of Germans blocked her from his view, Caradoc caught her slip out the garden doors.

  On her heels, Declan followed.

  Chapter 22

  By the time Caradoc stepped through the garden doors into the sunlight, Isabelle was descending the stone stairs that led to the walk of fountains. Like a ghostly specter, the top of her flaxen hair bobbed along a high wall of evergreens, making her easy to follow. He jogged for the steps, but his sense of urgency diminished. She could not vanish the way she had turned. The path came to a dead end a few hundred feet from where she stood.

  As he set his foot on the top tread, however, he came to an abrupt halt. At the bottom of the stairs, an all-too-familiar figure approached the maze-like lane of greenery and marble. One who had no business following Isabelle—Declan. A whole new sense of apprehension slid into Caradoc’s veins, tightening his grip on the wrought iron railing into a choke-hold. He stared, caught between the reflexive urge to intercept his brother and the cautious instinct to observe Declan’s intent.

  Like he could feel Caradoc’s watchful gaze, Declan looked up. Their eyes locked. A moment of hesitation passed between them, and in that short span of time, Caradoc recognized the truths he did not wish to see. Declan was no longer the brother he had once known. He stood before him, enemy. What purpose he sought in Isabelle, Caradoc could not say, but the brief flicker of challenge that glinted in the Scot’s stare spurred Caradoc to reach for the sword he did not carry.

  At the motion of Caradoc’s hand, Declan took a step backward. He inclined his head toward Isabelle in silent deference. Then, he turned, and jogged deeper into the intricate maze of flowers, greenery, and fountains.

  Eight centuries of duty and loyalty to the Order bade Caradoc to follow his brother. To root him from his hiding place and drag him to Gareth’s feet for the European knight to take him before Raphael.

  Love for Isabelle commanded him to go to her.

  He stood unmoving, torn between the swaying of branches that signaled Declan’s retreat and the gentle bob of Isabelle’s hair.

  Once before he had chosen duty over Isabelle. Never again.

  Taking the stairs two at a time, he descended the long flight and rounded the corner where he spied her standing beside the farthest fountain. Arms folded over her chest, she stared at the mighty face of Triton. Something deep down in Caradoc’s gut turned a slow circle. His breath caught.

  Hair disheveled, shoulders hunched, she looked small and weak beside the marble god. Defeated. A posture so out of place with the confident woman who knew only laughter. Caradoc could scarce believe they were one and the same. Who had phoned her? She had not been so frail before that call.

  He approached cautiously, his footsteps muffled, fearing if she saw him she would bolt. When he drew close enough he could smell her perfume, she looked over her shoulder. Before she could scurry away, he closed the distance between them with two swift strides and set his hand upon her shoulder. She tensed, but did not otherwise move.

  Caradoc slid his hand down the length of her arm, moved in closer, and wound both arms around her waist. Gently, he guided her back to his chest. She yielded to his embrace without protest, encouraging him to tuck his chin against her neck. The tendrils of hair that had escaped her neat bun tickled the side of his face. He inhaled, savoring her closeness. Like this, naught divided them. He could hear her unsteady breathing, feel the beat of her heart. Her skin was warm against his. But the tremor in her hands, as she laid them atop his, revealed turmoil he could not comprehend. ’Twas not a product of their argument. Nay, he knew her well enough to realize she had surrendered part of her fight when she surrendered to his kiss.

  “Isa, ’tis not just dreams that plague you. Tell me what has you so upset.
” He pressed a soft kiss to her neck. “It eats at you like cancer.”

  She gave a slight shake of her head, whispering. “I can’t.”

  “Aye, sweet Isabelle, you can. I wish to share this burden with you. You should not have to carry it alone.”

  * * *

  Isabelle closed her eyes. Leaning against Caradoc’s powerful chest, feeling the strength of his arms, it was easy to get caught up in the warm whisper of his voice. This was the man she’d fallen in love with. The one who wanted to be intricately involved with her life, not the one who said one thing and did the opposite.

  She bit down on her lower lip to curb a sudden rush of unexpected tears. She didn’t want to do this alone. All brave and stubborn arguments about why she should keep him out of the situation aside, she wanted his support. To hold his hand and have him understand what was slowly ripping her apart.

  The spy who was clearly tailing her, however, made the notion inconceivable. To have Paul comment on her gentleman friend, moments after she’d kissed him, only made it clear whoever reported to him was nearby. Too close for comfort. Maybe behind the evergreens, maybe standing amid the group of people on the patio. One thing was certain: whoever it was knew what she was doing. She’d put money on it that Paul’s lackey could overhear her words too.

  Taking an unsteady breath, she shook her head again, opened her eyes, and stared at the water that shot out the tines of Triton’s massive trident. “It’s nothing really. I’ve got a buyer who’s putting demands on me. Heavy demands. My future depends on succeeding for him.” Not just her future, her life. If September died, she would also.

  “’Tis all?” The faintest suggestion of doubt clung to his question.

  She nodded, unable to voice the lie. Her explanation came close enough to the truth. She’d just omitted the part where her daughter was clawed to pieces by a creature of the night.

  “You have had much to deal with for too long now. I should have been there for you. I am sorry I was not.”