Tane’s hand clamped around Caradoc’s wrist, restraining his fist. “’Tis not the place, Caradoc. Nor the time.” Inserting a shoulder between Caradoc and Declan, he forced Caradoc to take a step back. “He has wronged many, but as you said, ’tis Mikhail’s place to punish him, not ours.”
Biting back the rage that blistered through his limbs, Caradoc yielded to Tane’s command of the situation. He jerked his head toward Declan’s hands. “Restrain him.”
“Aye.” Tane pulled off his belt and quickly looped it around Declan’s wrists in a figure eight pattern. With a sharp yank, he pulled the leather tight enough it bit into the Scot’s skin.
Declan grimaced, but he did not make a sound. Like the rest of the surviving Templar knights, his body was too familiar with torture to be weakened by the simple restraints Tane had fashioned. And yet, he was smart enough to recognize when he had been bested and when to yield the fight.
“I will ask you once more, Declan,” Caradoc said. “Who is it you spy for? Who has coerced you into disclosing Isabelle’s actions? Who sent you here?”
Bright blue eyes met Caradoc’s narrowed gaze, full of defiant anger. His mouth, however, mocked. Pulled up at one corner, it twisted into a sneer. “You may look, but you willna find the answers. You are not worthy of the secrets.”
Disgusted, Caradoc turned away before he cast all sensibility aside and wiped that self-satisfied smirk off with his fists. “Take him to Raphael, Tane, and the phone.” With slow, even steps to temper his simmering rage, he started down the ally toward the wide, main street and the colorful merchant’s that lined the walks.
Tane pulled Declan off the wall with surprising ease, given Declan’s taller, stockier build. “What of you? Of the relic?”
Caradoc slowed to a stop. He gazed at Shapiro’s villa, the remaining duty he had yet to fulfill landing square between his shoulder blades. Whilst he had stopped Declan, the inevitable fight that lay ahead would prove twice as difficult. Especially since he had just ordered his only ally away. He took a deep breath. Expelled it forcibly. “I must save a seraph’s daughter.”
“And of the tears?” Tane pressed.
“Aye,” Caradoc murmured. “Tell Raphael I shall bring them on the morrow.” Lifting his shoulders, he willed confidence into his spine. “We shall all return to the Temple tomorrow.”
Laughter, more chilling than any foul cry from the pits of Azazel’s realm, erupted from Declan’s throat. Coarse, hollow, and haunting, it lifted the hairs on the back of Caradoc’s neck and lodged ice in his veins. He remained still as stone, frozen in place by the frightening noise that possessed his brother.
“You will fail,” Declan proclaimed, before he barked another spine-tingling laugh.
Pushed to the ends of his limits, Caradoc spun around to face Declan. Four long strides brought him even with Tane. Close enough that when he loosed his fist, it slammed into Declan’s temple.
Solid bone ground against Caradoc’s knuckles. But at last, the Scot fell silent.
* * *
Isabelle clenched her fingers around the rental car’s steering wheel as her cell phone rang again. Grinding her teeth, she eased onto the brake and slowed to a stop before a red light. Her gaze pulled to the passenger’s seat and her purse, which held the phone.
We hold the advantage. Though he might threaten, ’tis the tears he wants.
Caradoc’s encouraging words echoed in her mind. He’d predicted Paul would call. Urged her not to answer the phone. She clung to the reminder that Paul couldn’t threaten her with September if she didn’t answer, and forbade her hand to leave the wheel and reach for the noise-making gadget.
Paul wouldn’t hurt September until one of two things happened—either Isabelle failed to arrive at the Villa Valguarnera or someone told him she’d left Sicily with the necklace.
At least, she tried to convince herself of that. In reality, she couldn’t help but wonder if Paul wasn’t crazy enough to do the opposite just because she’d pissed him off.
The light changed to green, and she moved forward at a steady pace. With the tears locked in her trunk, and her daughter’s fate swaying tediously in the balance, the idea of doing anything but driving straight to the Villa Valguarnera and exchanging one priceless object for another felt wrong. Completely and utterly wrong. What kind of mother took chances and deliberately defied a kidnapper’s orders? What would September say if she suffered a permanent injury, when she discovered her mother had bartered with her safety?
As Isabelle’s stomach heaved, she steered to the side of the road. She couldn’t do this. If Caradoc was wrong, and Declan wasn’t the man spying on her, someone was watching. Someone would know she’d gone back to the hotel as opposed to following Paul’s instructions. That someone would tell Paul, and September would pay the price.
Shifting the car into park, Isabelle rested her forehead on the steering wheel and closed her eyes. If she didn’t go through with this, she’d lose Caradoc no matter what kind of vows they’d taken. Not that he was more important than her daughter, but he was so convinced this relic had to return to the Temple. And he was adamant they could succeed in saving both the tears and September. If she turned away from Caradoc now, he’d never forgive her.
Then again, Caradoc didn’t have a child to understand the driving need to protect September at all costs. True, he’d promised to accept September, but those soul-deep bonds didn’t affect him. What if this was just a calculated risk on his part? According to him, none of their lives were as important as these tears—certainly not September’s, a child who he’d never met, let alone knew enough to claim genuine affection for.
Wrong, wrong—the whole plan was wrong. All this would do was secure September’s death. If Paul didn’t already know she hadn’t headed straight to the Villa Valguarnera, showing up with Caradoc in tow, when Paul had specifically told her Caradoc wasn’t welcome, would guarantee Isabelle’s nightmare would come true. She’d kill her own daughter the minute they stepped out of the car together.
Taking a shaky breath, Isabelle looked up at the blue sky above. She searched the puffy blue clouds for some sort of sign, a message that would tell her whether she was doing the right thing or if she’d veered completely off track. Yet the clouds remained as indiscernible as ever, holding no divine guidance.
No matter how she tried, she couldn’t shake the feeling this was a mistake. Paul, and the other heartless killers like him that she’d met through her father’s binding ties, weren’t men to trifle with. They didn’t make idle threats just to prompt a reaction. If they promised someone would die, that someone did. Terms were made to be met, not flagrantly disobeyed.
Her phone trilled again, jarring her out of her thoughts. She scowled at her purse, heard Caradoc’s rich voice in her head again.
“To hell with it,” she muttered as she reached across the console. Yanking her phone free, she pushed the connect button. “Hello, Paul.”
“Isabelle,” he purred. “I hear you have something that belongs to me.”
For the first time since he began terrorizing her with threats against September, Isabelle’s system didn’t short-circuit with fear. She stared straight ahead, fixated on a distant traffic light. Her voice filled with confidence. “I do, Paul. I believe you have something that belongs to me as well.”
“Then I shall see you tonight.”
Like lightening, an alternate solution hit Isabelle. If there was no cemetery, her nightmare couldn’t possibly come true. “Yes,” she agreed. “But not at the Villa Valguarnera. If you want this necklace, you’ll come to me. Bring September to the Villa Igiea’s lobby. I’ll meet you there at exactly 7:00 P.M.”
“Do not be foolish!” Fury turned Paul’s response into a dangerous explosion. “If you wish to see September, you will do exactly as I’ve told you.”
Isabelle opened her mouth to protest, to tell him if all he wanted was the tears, then no harm could come from his coming to the hotel. But the line went dead
before she could utter the first objectionable syllable.
She tossed her phone aside and glanced up at the Villa Igiea, where Caradoc undoubtedly waited for her. This was a mistake. A terrible, god-awful, mistake.
Dropping the car into drive, she cut across traffic and turned around, leaving the Villa Igiea behind.
Chapter 33
Caradoc pushed away from the balcony railing and stalked back into his bedroom. Isabelle should have arrived an hour ago, and that left a generous portion of time for her to exit Shapiro’s. He did not know a number to reach her at, save for her room, and she did not answer any of the three attempts he had already made.
He came to a stop at the foot of the bed, his gaze raking over the rumpled covers and the evidence of their loving. Had something happened to her? Had Azazel sent some creature after the tears?
Nay, he could not allow himself to become consumed by worry. Sighing, he raked both hands through his hair, closed his eyes, and willed anxiety to subside. Azazel would not go to the trouble of kidnapping September if he had intended to take the tears from Isabelle when she acquired them. Further, with Declan’s involvement, Azazel must know by now Isabelle was a seraph, and he must also know September held the possibility of also carrying the holy blood. He would not be able to lure Isabelle close without maintaining his imprisonment of her daughter.
But without Isabelle’s confirmation that Paul knew she had acquired the tears, and with Declan’s phone in route to Raphael, Caradoc could not be certain Declan was the informant, no matter how much evidence linked him as such.
’Twas entirely possible Declan did not work alone, and that possibility circled Caradoc’s worry right back to whether Isabelle had been taken against her will. Pressing the base of his palms to his temples, he sought to drown out the dull thudding in his head.
Far greater was the fear she had abandoned the plans they had made. That, given time to consider what they had discussed, her courage had failed and she had reverted to Paul’s original demands.
If she had, she not only risked mankind with the loss of the tears, but her own life as well as September’s. If Paul were Azazel’s pawn, he would know exactly what to say to play upon Isabelle’s fears. He would entice her with promises of salvation he had no intention of keeping. And when he had Isabelle in his vile clutches, he would seduce her body and mind until she could not decipher truth from lie and yield to his evil bidding.
Her daughter would be lucky to share the same fate.
As Caradoc’s gut turned in on itself, he could no longer tolerate the stillness of standing and wandered into the sitting room. The same path he had made a dozen times or more. The same chaotic thoughts swirled in his head, provoking so much restlessness he could not do anything but move.
Where was she?
At the window that overlooked the harbor, he lifted his gaze to the setting sun and willed the Almighty to hear his words. “Let her be safe. Let her be strong.”
If she did not arrive within the next thirty minutes he would head to Villa Valguarnera himself and find September as well as her mother. For he was absolutely certain that he would find Isabelle there. She had been on the verge of falling apart at Shapiro’s. To expect she would hold together alone, that her motherly worries would not get the better of her in her solitude, was almost more than he dared consider.
Damnation! If she had but come straight here, he would have been here for her. She possessed only the vaguest idea of the larger things at risk, and he was not yet convinced she understood the danger that came with surrendering the tears. Even if she should somehow manage to survive, the archangels would exact punishment beyond her imagination. At all costs, the tears must not fall into Azazel’s hands. Not now. Not when he had claimed all the other necessary relics. With the power those falsified diamonds possessed, Azazel would gain the courage to walk the world without hesitation. His strength would surpass the mighty Raphael’s, and ’twas naught archangel or Templar could do to prevent his attempt for the Spear, nor the damnation that would come with such.
“Isa,” he whispered into the quiet.
He would have to stop her. Fated mate or not, the idea of thwarting her, of keeping her from her daughter, filled him with dread. Though they would be bound for eternity, the timeless years ahead would be wrought with despair, for she would disavow him. He did not need to possess the gift of foresight to know the truth in such.
A rattle at the door behind him quickened his pulse. He turned to look, held his breath as the handled turned. When the heavy barrier swung inward, and Isabelle stepped hesitantly inside, relief swamped through his veins. He took a step toward her, intending to sweep her into his arms. But she beat him to the opportunity and flung herself into his embrace.
“Ah, Isa, I have been worried.” Holding her tight, he inhaled the sweet fragrance that lingered in her hair. His hands spanned her back, sliding over the loose blouse she had worn beneath her suit jacket.
“This is wrong, Caradoc. We’re making a mistake.”
He took her by the hands and stepped back to look her in the eyes. Fear registered there. Announced itself in the trembling of her fingers where they met palm. He gave a reassuring squeeze. “Why do you say such?”
Isabelle pulled free of his grasp, folded her arms across her breasts, and went to the window he had been looking out before. “He’s adamant that I do exactly what he told me the first time.”
“He contacted you, as I suspected then?”
“Yes.”
And she had faltered enough to answer his call. As he had also suspected, Paul had wormed into her thoughts, rattling her confidence enough she was twice as afraid as she had been before.
He moved to her side and set a hand gently on her shoulder. She did not need his scolding, nor could he bring himself to point out where she had erred. She had done what she thought she must—he would support her, though he disagreed with her methods.
“Isa, ’tis proof my suspicions are correct, not warning we are taking the wrong approach. Can you not see that he feels threatened by my presence? Does this not show you he is vulnerable?”
She hugged herself more tightly. “I suppose so.”
Caradoc slid his arm around her waist and pulled her against his side. “What did he say to you?”
“I tried to tell him to come to us. It didn’t go over so well.”
A chuckle rumbled in his chest, and a strange sense of pride infused his blood. Isabelle, frightened as she was, had tried to take matters into her own hands. ’Twas just another layer to her, that when peeled back, revealed her inner strength.
Quietly, he asked, “What took you so long?”
Isabelle breathed deeply and fixed her stare out the window. “I started toward Villa Valguarnera after I spoke to him.”
Despite his suspicions she had done just that, Caradoc bristled. She had doubted him. Had almost done the unthinkable.
“Halfway there, I remembered something September said to me that made me realize she’s seen this thing that lives in my dream, and I turned around.”
“What did she say?”
With a soft laugh, she gave a thoughtful shake of her head. “She said you’d protect me from the shadow. The more I thought about it, the more I put everything together. She’d dreamed about this shadow for a long time. It used to scare her. The last time she talked about it, she seemed as comfortable with it as she did her angels.”
“You believe she saw this then?”
“Yeah.” Her whisper was barely audible. “I think she knew all along, and she never once asked me not to come to Sicily.”
If Isabelle spoke true, September’s gifts were stronger than Caradoc had realized. A child able to not only see, but understand, her own future was naught less than a gift from the Almighty. She, like her mother, carried the link to angels…which spoke ill should Paul or Azazel learn of the connection. A new sense of apprehension settled into Caradoc’s gut. If Azazel knew, if he possessed the knowledge both mot
her and daughter carried the link of seraphs, he would stop at naught to ensnare them both. Other, more dangerous beings than Declan would be watching Isabelle. Waiting for the opportunity Azazel required to capture her as well.
The very reason Paul would be adamant Isabelle come alone.
Doing his best to keep the worry from showing, he stepped away from Isabelle to claim his sword. “’Tis almost dark now. You should inform him you agree to his terms and will meet him as requested.”
“I already did. He expects me in another hour.” Flat and emotionless, her voice belied the tight wringing of her hands.
“Where are the tears, Isa?”
She absently inclined her head toward the table near the door. “In my purse.”
Sheathed broadsword in one hand, he went to her purse and fished out the long velvet box. The thrum of power vibrated against his fingertips, despite the solid barrier between relic and his skin. He closed his eyes, soaked in the divinity. Shapiro had not known he held such a priceless treasure, nor had all the other keepers in the necklace’s creation. Yet those who understood holy might would have recognized it instantly. The same power lingered in the pommel of his transformed sword.
Reverently, he tucked the box into the inside pocket of his loose jacket. ’Twould be safe there, unable to be stolen whilst he was distracted. Though he had not obtained the full restoration of his soul, his oaths kept him from death, and before he would allow the tears to be taken, he and Isabelle would leave. No matter what happened, this precious relic could not fall into unholy hands.
“We should leave, Isa.”
She expelled a heavy sigh. When she turned around, her gaze pled with him. “Tell me she’s going to be all right? I don’t understand why I’ve seen her in death, if this plan of yours is fail-safe.”
Caradoc could only shake his head. “I do not know the workings of your gift. Mayhap ’tis but an illusion. Mayhap ’tis a prophecy that can be altered.”
Immortal Sacrifice: #4 The Curse of the Templars Page 27