“’Twill not be much longer, Isa. Believe in me. Believe in what the Almighty has given us. I will not allow September to be harmed.”
Her shoulders expanded as she drew in a tremulous breath. “I’m scared.”
Caradoc smoothed her long hair and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. “I know. Have faith, my love. We have but a few hours left. When you have obtained the tears, do not wait for me. Go back to my room as we discussed. I will meet you there.”
She nodded.
Pushing her out of his embrace, he framed her face with his hands and tipped her gaze to his. He willed her to absorb his resolve. “Trust me, Isa.”
Slowly, she swallowed and gave him another nod. “I am.”
“Very well. Let us do this; the auction is about to begin.” Clasping her hand in his, he led her out of the alcove and into the great hall, where he gave her fingers an encouraging squeeze before releasing her completely.
She surprised him with a bright, confident smile, her false courage once again intact. “Good luck then, Caradoc. May the deepest pockets win the day.”
“Aye.” He could not contain a conspiratorial wink before he stepped aside, leaving her to find a seat and play the role she must.
As he watched her walk away, from the far corner of his field of vision he caught a glimpse of long, red hair and powerful shoulders. Leaning against a marbled column, Declan made no attempt to hide the way he studied Isabelle. Anger simmered in Caradoc’s veins, a slow burn that spread through his body and made his fingers twitch with the desire to storm across the hall and tear out his brother’s throat. To know that a brother, who he had once been closer to than any familial relation, worked against the Templar was a more vile treachery than even the wrongs Tane had committed. Declan breeched all the binding vows. And the distress he was causing Isabelle, whatever his motive, deserved no less than punishment by sword.
A punishment Caradoc would have willingly executed, despite the fact the right belonged only to Mikhail. For the first time in his life, Caradoc knew fury that ran deeper than any urge to spill blood. Death could not be punishment enough for Declan. Death would be too swift, too painless.
Nay, Declan deserved to suffer.
But the auction demanded Caradoc’s immediate attention. If he did not soon join Tane, the plan Isabelle and he had crafted would fail before it ever began. Declan’s time would come—very soon. And whilst he would like naught more than to carve bits of flesh from Declan’s body, he would set aside his rage and leave Declan’s fate unto Mikhail. Caradoc would see his brother stand before the archangels. He would look on whilst the Almighty hand punished the traitor. Besides, with September’s fate still in jeopardy, Declan still had usefulness. They needed him to report Isabelle’s success to Paul. Little would Declan know, he played right into their plans. Certainly the vileness that led him to betrayal would be enraged, a fact Caradoc found a measure of satisfaction with.
Navigating Tane and the complications of this auction took priority. He moved to claim the seat at Tane’s side.
Tane glanced up as Caradoc’s shadow descended on his bowed head. Surprise widened his eyes. “Caradoc. I did not expect you.”
“Aye. Things have changed.” He stepped around his brother’s knees and took the vacant seat at Tane’s left. Just in time, for no sooner had he settled into the chair, the auctioneer assumed the podium.
“Changed?” Tane asked in a hushed voice that barely registered over the din of anxious mumblings accompanying the auctioneer’s presence. Doubt fringed his frown, suspicion glinted in his eyes. “You do not trust that I can fulfill this duty?”
Caradoc shook his head. “’Tis not that, brother. There is not time to explain. Trust in me. There are greater things in motion.”
Tane acquiesced with a brief nod, though the darkness in his expression did not lift. He would not object, though Caradoc sensed he would like to. Too long had the chain of authority and orders been ingrained in their persons.
Caradoc seated himself, determined to ignore the guilt that churned his stomach. The next few minutes would push Tane to his limits, and the resulting confrontation he did not wish to endure. He looked to the high mosaic ceiling, silently uttering a plea for aid.
A high-pitched buzz rang through the speakers as the auctioneer turned the microphone on. “Next on our agenda is item 1277, an exquisite piece, possessing the finest diamonds known to mankind.” He lifted the necklace to his shoulder, whilst on the wide screen behind him a projected image zoomed to life. “Two strands, containing a total of one hundred and fifty-four, quarter-carat stones that link together in a central pendant.” Knobby fingers lifted the weighty centerpiece of a teardrop cut jewel, framed on each sloping slide by three smaller, emerald-cut gems. “The centermost stone is an astounding seven carats. Each side adornment weighs in at 3.5 carats. Making the total carat weight sixty-six and a half.” A sly smile made his bushy mustache twitch. “I need not remind you that the centerpiece is comprised entirely of FL flawless stones with a true D colorless rating.”
As the auctioneer set the necklace back in its velvet display case, Caradoc sucked in a deep fortifying breath. Nerves disrupted the quiet in his belly. His gaze slid to the back of Isabelle’s head. As if she sensed the weight of his stare, she looked over her shoulder. Her smile was brief, hesitant, and he dared not return it for fear someone would catch on to their act.
“Appraisal value is eleven million. Who would like to start the bidding at thirteen?”
Caradoc’s index finger touched his brow at the same time Isabelle lifted a dainty hand. Several other movements indicated they were not the only ones willing to part with such a paltry sum for a piece of gemstone history.
“Very well then, ladies and gentlemen, it seems we have an auction. I have thirteen-million, thirteen-million, who will make it 13.5? And 13.5 to number 4351, 13.5 to 4351—do I hear fourteen? Fourteen. There!” His arm shot across his body, indicating a man in the corner. “246, I hear you. Fourteen to 246. Who will give 14.5?”
* * *
“Twenty-four and a half Euros? Do I hear twenty-four and a half for this exceptional necklace?”
Tane stared at Caradoc’s unmoving hand. Bid. You must bid, brother. Yet there it stayed, at rest atop his knee, no more inclined to twitch than to lift to his brow. Why, Tane could not fathom. Although he need not look beyond the first row of chairs and the woman seated there to suspect the answer.
As he glanced over the heads of other bidders at Isabelle’s long, brown hair, she raised her hand, countering the remaining bidder in the back of the room. Anger stormed through Tane. They had been sent here to acquire the tears. Only the greatest of fools would disobey such an important directive. Fool Caradoc had never been. How could he allow a woman to steer him so off course?
“Twenty-five. Who will give twenty-five?”
Tane drove an elbow into Caradoc’s ribs. Through clamped teeth, he hissed, “Bid.”
Caradoc answered with a stiff shake of the head.
That his commander could not even make eye-contact heightened Tane’s mounting fury. When a man chose to turn away from an order, he should at least possess the courage to look his men in the eye and face their condemnation. Caradoc’s behavior spoke of cowardice. Worse, it suggested whatever power Isabelle held over him had turned him soft. If he were willing to cast aside the duty they were sworn to, just to win the heart of a fair maid, it spoke ill of what else he might sacrifice.
“I have twenty-five. Who will make it twenty-six?”
Again, Isabelle lifted her hand. Again, Caradoc remained as still as stone.
Damnation! Tane curled a hand into a fist. He had accepted this assignment to prove to Merrick and Mikhail he was worthy of assuming his position in the temple once more. He would not return once more, as a failure. Could not.
Worse, the brother who walked in shadows, Declan whom they all mistrusted, looked on from his position on the far wall. He would return from Sicily and
broadcast the way Caradoc yielded to Isabelle. Seraph or not, she could not acquire the tears. Allowing her to was akin to sitting idly by and handing Azazel the power to activate the spear. She could not thwart his minions, particularly if their oaths had not been spoken. She was weak, the precise link Azazel would need to steal away the relic when she left this villa.
Unable to tolerate Caradoc’s resignation, Tane lifted his hand.
Before his wrist could breech his ribs, Caradoc clamped his fingers into Tane’s forearm. A cruel grip forced Tane to lower his hand.
“Have faith, brother,” Caradoc murmured.
Faith. He asked for faith when he himself could not exercise his own. ’Twas faith that bound them to this calling. Faith that united them in duty. With his unwillingness to hold true to his convictions—and his oaths—Caradoc requested too much.
“Twenty-eight and a half. I have twenty-eight to the lady in front.” The auctioneer gestured at the man in the back of the room. “Do you care to give twenty-eight and a half?”
Tane ground his teeth together. Counted heartbeats until he could remain silent no more. Angry beyond all measure, he jerked on his arm, desperate to override Isabelle’s bid.
But the pressure on his arm intensified, arcing pain all the way to Tane’s shoulder. He bit back the oath that threatened to explode from the depths of his soul. “Bid!” he urged through clenched teeth.
“Nay.”
God’s blood! He would condemn them both.
“Twenty-eight. Going twice. Do I hear twenty-eight and two?”
Tane squeezed his eyes shut tight. They would both be expelled from the Order. Whilst Caradoc might have the comfort of spending an eternity in condemnation with a soft and willing woman, Tane would not know such peace. Nor would he experience the relief of death when he killed the creature that claimed the last of his soul and Mikhail—or the knight who happened to stand at Tane’s side—would end his suffering at last. Nay, banished from the Temple meant eternal damnation. Iain evidenced the struggle, and he did not suffer alone, as Tane would.
“Twenty-eight. Item 1277, sold to number 4351.” The auctioneer gestured at Isabelle with his gavel, then struck it against the podium, concluding the bidding.
The sound was like a death knell to Tane’s ears. He surged to his feet, intending to drag Caradoc from the great hall and pummel him into senselessness.
Instead, Caradoc bolted from his chair and shoved his way through the crowd.
Falling into pursuit, Tane gave little regard to the men and women who stood in his way. He shouldered through the bidders who had conceded much earlier on Caradoc’s heels. Beyond the doors, the crowded room gave way to an expansive hall. Only a few observers lingered, figures Tane gave no consideration. He grabbed Caradoc by the shoulder and dragged him to a halt. “By all that is sacred, what are you doing?” His voice bounced off the tall ceiling and echoed down the corridor.
Caradoc twisted out of his grasp. He pointed at a man lounging against a marble column who was hastily punching something into his phone. A man with long, red hair who Tane recognized long before the figure’s head snapped up and he looked directly at them. Declan.
“Discovering who our brother spies for.”
The words had hardly left Caradoc’s lips before Declan darted for the patio doors. Caradoc charged past Tane.
Slowly, sense filtered past Tane’s outrage. ’Twas no concession wrought from weakness—the sacrifice of the tears had been deliberate. Somehow, someway, Caradoc discovered an important factor in Declan’s nefarious behavior. A factor that could only mean Declan’s presence here was to thwart the acquisition of the tears. Tane should not be surprised, should have assumed such when he first spied Declan in the Villa Igiea’s lobby. Declan’s recent behavior and the way he had delved into suspicious solitude marked him as a traitor in the making. Yet Tane could not bring himself to swallow the idea that one he had been so close to could be capable of turning against the Templar. Against the Almighty.
Swallowing down a bellow of fury, Tane raced after Caradoc. He burst onto the patio in time to see Caradoc’s blond head bob down the stairs leading to the ornate gardens. Tane took a quick survey of the landscape, made a hard right turn, and sprinted down a side path.
Chapter 32
Caradoc’s lungs burned. Declan had always been fast. But Caradoc had never needed to combat the Scot’s speed. In years past, the same speed had been a gift to the men who fought at Declan’s side. Swift movement meant even swifter kills, and Declan’s sharp sense of strategy brought them victory when ’twas most needed.
Now, Caradoc despised the very physical gift he had once praised. Declan ran like the wind, and though Caradoc was no meager runner himself, the chase took its toll. His breath labored. His chest constricted to painful limits.
Worse, the gates loomed ahead. Once Declan made it through those iron barriers, ’twould require an act of divine intervention to detain him. The village waited beyond, a maze of alleys, streets, and shops Declan could find refuge in.
Caradoc swore beneath his breath and willed more energy into his legs. Movement beyond a tall cluster of lime trees drew his attention, slowing his already hindered pace. He glanced between the trees and the approaching gate. A visitor to the villa? Or an unknown ally of Declan’s?
Time moved in slow motion as Caradoc descended another set of pavestone stairs, his attention torn between the approaching intruder and Declan’s hasty departure. Less than twenty feet away, the Scot barreled around a fountain, nearly knocked over a woman and child, and sped down the widening path. Fifteen feet to the gate. Ten.
Tane burst from behind the grove of trees in a dead-on sprint. He hurdled over a low growing bush and landed on the path, less than five feet from Declan.
Fueled by the sudden change of fate, Caradoc ran with renewed vigor. He pounded past the fountain and made a wide berth around the startled mother and toddler. As he hit the path that led to the ornate gateway out, Tane lunged for their traitorous brother. Catching him around the midsection, momentum propelled them forward, and Declan’s back collided with a thick iron post. His pained cry blended with Tane’s winded grunt.
“Och, get off me! I have done naught wrong,” Declan protested. He shoved at Tane’s thick shoulders.
Caradoc jogged up to the pair as Declan managed to free an arm. In a highland fury, Declan swung at Tane’s dark head. Tane ducked, giving Caradoc opportunity to grab Declan by the wrist and twist his arm behind him. Before Declan could calculate the change in assailants, Caradoc snatched his second arm and jerked it too to the small of the Scot’s strong back. With a fierce upward crank, Caradoc assumed advantage. Declan stilled.
“Who do you spy for?” Caradoc demanded.
“I donna ken your meaning.”
“Aye, you do,” Tane insisted, stepping forward into Declan’s space. He cocked a fist at his shoulder. “’Tis the reason you have been skulking around in shadows, ignoring Mikhail, abandoning the brotherhood you were sworn to. Who is it who controls you?”
A low, menacing growl came from Declan, haunting enough to make both Caradoc and Tane hesitate. They exchanged glances, and uneasiness filtered into Caradoc’s blood. ’Twas no mortal sound. Had Azazel invaded Declan, as he had done to Julian?
Caradoc gave Declan a none-too-gentle shake, wrenching his arms at such an angle ’twould have dropped a lesser man to his knees. Declan stumbled, let out another agonized groan, but the rage in his profile evaporated. The hard line of his mouth gave way to submission, and he stopped straining for freedom.
“Check his pocket, Tane. Recover his phone. If he will not tell us, we will discover the answers ourselves.”
Tane stuffed a hand into Declan’s jacket and pulled a slim black phone from the inside pocket. He flashed it at Caradoc. “What shall I do with it?”
“Keep it on you. We will take it to Raphael when we deliver the relic.”
Nodding, Tane tucked the phone into his jeans pocket. “Aye.”
“Och, Caradoc, you ken not what you do. Are we not brothers? Do you believe, in your heart, I would betray the Order—betray you?” Declan turned his head, looking over his shoulder at Caradoc. Bright and earnest, his blue eyes reflected genuine disbelief that they had restrained him.
Caradoc resisted the silent plea for compassion and averted his gaze. The words might sound convincing, his look equally honest, and yet, Azazel was capable of great trickeries. He dared not loosen his hold even a fraction, for if ’twas an act, he did not wish to lose the traitor now that they had finally caught him.
“’Tis not for me to judge, brother,” he answered quietly as he shoved Declan through the gate. “’Tis for Mikhail to decide.”
A whole new bout of energy hit Declan, and he lurched against Caradoc’s restraining hold. “You canna take me to Mikhail. I have greater work to do.”
“If ’tis so important, Mikhail will allow you to continue it.”
“Nay!”
He twisted violently, using strength Caradoc could not define. In all their years together, this sort of power had never been part of the Scot’s composition. Whilst true, he was a formidable warrior, he could not have overpowered Caradoc even a few short months ago. Now, ’twas all Caradoc could do to maintain his hold on Declan’s wrists, even with his seraph’s oath said. He tightened his grip, twisted Declan’s arms once more, demanding surrender.
“Let me go! You donna ken the truth. You are one more tainted knight who has disgraced the Order. ’Tis you who have wronged, not me.”
Beyond the gardens, Caradoc escorted Declan into a narrow ally, untouched by the afternoon sun. He shoved his brother against a stone building and pinned him in place by the shoulders. “What nonsense do you speak? ’Tis you who have abandoned the ties of brotherhood. You who have disgraced us by interfering with the business of seraphs. You go too far this time, Declan. You will cause Isabelle no further pain.” He raised a fist, ready to strike him and silence his unrestrained tongue.
Immortal Sacrifice: #4 The Curse of the Templars Page 26