“Isa!” Caradoc bellowed.
Ignoring him, Isabelle mounted the stairs. The ancient iron railing wobbled beneath her hand, reminding her of the decrepit garden path. All she had to do was find that crumbling pavestone before that thing dug its claws into September. To hell with Caradoc’s plan. She was saving her daughter, no matter the cost. Standing out here discussing strategy only delayed the one thing that could make a difference.
“Isabelle!”
Behind her, footsteps hurried across the paved lot. Two pairs of boots thumped onto the bottommost step, and a metallic clink echoed through the night. She glanced over her shoulder just long enough to recognize Caradoc had donned his armor, and the sound came from the heavy chain hauberk as he jogged up the stairs.
She hit the landing and shoved open the unlocked entry door. Light illuminated a distant corridor, the eerie flicker of natural flames adding to her deep foreboding. Isabelle took a deep breath, then called into the ominous silence, “Where is she, you bastard? I want to see my daughter!”
To her right, a pair of candelabras framing a dark archway flared to life.
“Mommy, help me!” Plaintive and pleading, September’s voice echoed within the recessed corridor.
With one last backward glance at the group of people on the stairs, Isabelle bolted into the dim light.
Chapter 35
Caradoc barged through Villa Valguarnera’s front door, his chest tight with worry, Isabelle’s name once again rising to the back of his throat. An instant passed, time enough for him to glance at the two lighted passages and witness a shadow moving within, before claws raked down the back of his neck, transforming his call into an agonized howl. Pain blistered down his spine, splintered through his shoulder blades. Pushing past it, he jerked sideways at the same time he drew his sword, then spun to confront his foe.
He stood toe-to-toe with a demon. Yellowed fangs snapped, filling the air with the fetid stench of death. The odor churned Caradoc’s stomach, though he had experienced it countless times before. It could still render a man weak, no matter how oft he encountered the foulness. ’Twas rot, more potent and engulfing than any decaying carcass. He grimaced, took a step back, and brought his broadsword before his body in time to defend another swipe of razor-sharp claws.
In that moment, Farran and the others rushed inside. It took less than a heartbeat’s time for Caradoc’s brothers to assess the situation and draw their arms. Lucan struck first, a fluid arc of his arm that glanced off the demon’s unprotected back. Enraged, the creature lunged forward with a ghastly scream. Noelle, however, stood in its path, not the knight who had dealt the blow.
Caradoc did not have time to observe what happened next, for as he moved forward to drive the sharp point of his blade into the demon’s back, three more poured from the surrounding shadows. They advanced on him, leaving him no choice but to surrender Noelle’s safety to Farran and prepare for imminent attack. Behind the trio, four pairs of red-orange eyes looked on from beneath the unlighted balcony alcove. Mingling with them was the yellow-green glint of fallen Templar knights.
Jesu. He had expected to fight, but had not anticipated to encounter so many so soon. Nor had he anticipated to meet a legion.
Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself. ’Twould not be the first time he and his men confronted poor odds. Tonight he could take comfort in the knowledge they held advantage. All three had sworn their oaths. For the first time in eons, he could embrace the battle without worry over whether the man who fought beside him would become enemy as well. They might suffer grievous injury that rendered them useless to battle, but they would not become enemy.
“Farran, with me!” he called above the clang of swords. “Lucan take the women through the hall.”
The order had barely left his lips when one of the approaching demons keened in agony and dropped to the tiled floor. Clawed hands clutched to its horned head, it writhed and hissed like an eviscerated snake. Each wild undulation of its body shrunk disfigured limbs against a disproportionate body. Then, as if it had been only a product of Caradoc’s imagination, the demon vanished. Only the acrid scent of sulfur and an ebony scorch mark on the tile identified its existence.
“Are you sure about that directive, Caradoc?” Chloe asked with a self-satisfied smirk.
Nay he was not. But the beast pressing down upon him did not leave him time to answer. He lifted his blade across his body, and as the creature entered his field of attack, he swung hard. In the dim light, steel glinted. Metal clashed with equally hard claws. His breath rushed out as the flat part of his blade thumped the demon in the side.
Caught off balance, the demon stumbled sideways. Caradoc pressed forward, using the moment to his advantage and landed a crippling blow to a distorted knee that brought the creature to the floor.
As he lifted his sword to deal the mortal wound, he caught movement in the corner of his field of vision. Farran. Moving not to guard Noelle, but stepping aside to let her close to the dark creation he defended. She reached out, touched her palm to the foul being, and a tortured hiss filled the hall.
Surprised by the act, Caradoc missed his mark and struck the floor, then stumbled. Zounds! He had been away from the Temple for far too long. The last he had seen of Noelle, she had merely begun to understand her healing gift. He would have never imagined she could be capable of killing as well.
Something heavy thumped into his back, knocking him further off balance. Annoyed beyond all measure, Caradoc summoned his strength and reared against the pressure, attempting to dislodge the creature. Yet though it struggled, it did not yield. Pinpricks of pain scored into his skin, telling him the demon had pierced his mail. But the sharp sting also revealed advantage. Twisting to glance over his shoulder, Caradoc confirmed his suspicion. No less than two feet from his body, Azazel’s ignorant beast struggled to free its claws from the tight mesh of chain just below Caradoc’s left shoulder.
He threw his weight sideways, ramming the demon into a nearby pillar of marble. Its head smacked soundly against the stone. Rendered senseless, it could not offer protest as he reached beneath his arm and pried the talons free. Before it could slide to the floor, Caradoc pulled his arm back and stuffed his sword into the demon’s gullet. Shadows poured fourth. Ran down the length of his blade. Grimacing, he prepared for the stain of darkness to enter his soul, the gut-wrenching feel of fire as it slid into his veins to mingle with the evil in his blood.
Trapped in place by what would come and barely breathing, he watched the unholy essence pour over the warped quillions. Yet naught happened. No pain fizzled through his limbs. His head did not cloud with the pull of unconsciousness. The deathly moan that filled his ears came as clear as a horn of warning on a still day, not filtered through the fog of final surrender.
He blinked. ’Twas true—the simple words he had shared had rendered him immune. He had accepted the prophecy, but ’twas a wholly different matter to believe in it. After eight centuries of fighting, he had known naught but failure, even when he was victorious.
“Caradoc, save your strength.”
Farran’s quiet instruction snapped Caradoc out of his momentary stupor, and he glanced up to take in his surroundings. His brothers stood elbow-to-elbow, swords raised to fend off blows. And yet they did not return the attack. Instead, Noelle and Chloe cast strike after strike. From a distance, Chloe did naught more than squint. At close quarters, Noelle used her hands to inflict mortal wounds.
Lucan beckoned with a jerk of his head. Confused and taken aback, Caradoc moved to take up the position at Lucan’s left. Every instinct he knew demanded he step before the women and protect them from harm. He had been raised to do such. Born of a time where the fairer sex was meant to be guarded at all costs and men would fall upon their own weapons to guarantee such. Standing virtually motionless and allowing the ladies of Seacourt and de Clare to battle on their own went against every fiber of Caradoc’s being.
“They cannot fight those.” Farran
inclined his head toward the alcove where the greenish eyes had emerged from shadow, revealing the formidable presence of four fallen knights.
Farran did not need to offer more. What he did not say lay in the hard light of his stare—the knights would take the seraphs should they reach them. And though their blades now glinted onyx, they had once been divinely infused. No seraph or Templar knew what might happen should that blade deal injury.
Understanding the silent conveyance, Caradoc accepted circumstance and crossed his broadsword in front of his chest.
“I shall lead the women as you instructed,” Lucan commented. “Did you see Isabelle within?”
Caradoc shook his head. “A shadow only.”
The demon closest to him dropped to the ground, consumed by the same violent thrashing. Caradoc eyed the approaching knights, their slow deliberate gait, the lackluster of their ebony armor. Pity twisted his gut. Azazel knew no more terrible warrior than these, the brothers he had once shared oaths with. What right had he to stand here hale and healthy, his soul intact, when those who knew no faults greater than his had sacrificed so much? They had all been equal. All men who cared only to uphold the Almighty.
Now, they would die at his hands.
He sighed inwardly. ’Twas a price to pay for healing. Always a sacrifice to make.
Noelle applied her hands once more to the demon nearest her, and it disintegrated. She backed off quickly, shielding herself behind Farran. “You should come home more often, Caradoc.”
“Aye, it seems I should.”
In one fluid, coordinated effort, the three fallen Templar drew their blades. Caradoc set his feet apart, widening his stance. “’Tis time. Leave now.”
One dainty hand fell to his elbow and gave him a reassuring squeeze. He glanced sideways, observing Chloe’s warm smile. “We’ll find them both.”
As he nodded, Lucan and the women dropped back. The sound of their boots as they fled the battle pounded over the clink of jangling chain. ’Twould be the first time a knight had ever turned away from battle. The first time two would stand against three. In eight hundred years, Caradoc had not believed he would live to see such.
He shifted his grip on his pommel, the well-worn leather a profound comfort. With a roll of his shoulders, he forced the tension in his body to subside and steered his thoughts away from the consequences of oaths and to the battle they had yet to win. ’Twas still possible to suffer felling injury. One misplaced step and his efforts at protecting the seraphs would amount to naught.
“Daddy! Help me!”
The scream ricocheted off the high walls surrounding them and froze Caradoc’s heart. A child’s voice. Filled with fear and hoarsened by tears. He needed no one to tell him who it belonged to…or that September cried out for him. But why? Lest Isabelle had found her, she could not know he was here. And if Isabelle had reached September, she would have no cause to beseech him for help.
“You did not tell me she was yours,” Farran observed as he too raised his mighty sword.
Caradoc slowly shook his head, the cry still lingering in his mind. “You know such cannot be.” Yet she had called for him. In the depths of his heart, he knew she meant for him to come.
“I would not be so quick to doubt.” Terminating the conversation, Farran took his sword in both hands, and in a powerful sweep, arced it across his body. It slammed into the approaching onyx blade. Metal clanged. A muffled grunt broke from the fallen Templar’s throat as he stumbled back.
Caradoc advanced on the knight closest to him, doing his best to avoid looking at the man’s face. He did not wish to see the brother he would kill, did not desire to recognize a face they had mourned. So quick to doubt? The very suggestion sent particles of ice rippling through his veins. By all that was sacred, Farran could not mean…
Hard steel struck down upon Caradoc’s arm, knocking his sword aside. A slow burn spread to his shoulder, tingles possessed his fingertips. He braced his weight on his outside leg and bit back an oath. If he did not silence his mind, he would bring about his own failure.
Evading another heavy strike, he leaned to his left, dropped his right shoulder. He recovered quickly and thrust his strength into his right arm. Bringing the glistening point up at a severe angle, he pierced the dark knight’s mail-covered side. When he withdrew, blood dripped off the tip of his sword.
The insignificant wound only served to encourage his attacker. Redoubling his efforts, his arm came more swiftly. Steel sang against steel as Caradoc staved off the savage attack. Sheer aggression drove him backward, unspeakable rage that marked this knight as one of the first Azazel had claimed. Aonghus? Mayhap Rhodri?
Against his will, Caradoc glanced at the ghoulish face. Nay. Cuthbert. One of the third band to swear their oaths, and one who had rushed headlong into every battle they had known. A good man. One too noble for this end.
Resolved to freeing the man he recognized, Caradoc put more effort into his counter attack. ’Twas time this man’s suffering came to an end.
He thrust hard, throwing his weight into a forceful uppercut that thrust his broadsword between the links of chain and into Cuthbert’s ribcage. Bone ground against Caradoc’s blade, the grating yet another stark reminder this had once been an honorable man.
Caradoc did not give the knight time to recover. As his fallen brother doubled over, one hand clutching at the gaping puncture, Caradoc jerked his sword free. With all the strength he could muster, he lifted it high over his head, then with the deadly force of a weighted guillotine, brought it down against Cuthbert’s exposed neck.
His head toppled from his shoulders. Rolled to a stop at Caradoc’s feet. Fathomless black eyes faded to the mild color of rich soil and stared unseeing at the high ceiling. The body fell in the next heartbeat. A lifeless pile of tainted mail that could never wield a weapon against the Almighty again.
As Caradoc stepped back to regroup and assess Farran’s circumstances, a wispy sliver of white rose from the crumpled form and spiraled slowly toward the heavens. With the next arc of Farran’s arm, Cuthbert’s companion joined him on the ground, leaving one dark knight still standing.
A mocking laugh rang out from the balcony, drawing Caradoc’s immediate attention. There, leaning over the crumbling, gold-gilt balustrade, a man looked down on him and Farran with a sneer.
Paul Reid—there could be no other explanation. Though he did not resemble the demonic representation of humans Azazel’s minions were capable of assuming, Caradoc held no doubt he looked on Isabelle’s tormenter. Anger slid into his veins, tightened his fingers around his pommel.
He glanced at Farran.
“Go.” Farran nodded toward the tilting stairs. “I shall dispose of this one.”
Needing no further encouragement, Caradoc bounded for the stairs. He took them two at a time, quickly arriving on the balcony. Spying Paul in the lighted alcove, he strode forward, intent on ripping the demon in two.
Paul’s smile broadened as he stepped into the wide room. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could spew foul words, September’s frightened scream drifted through a broken window.
Caradoc looked to the shattered glass, the sound turning his innards inside out. ’Twas not just fear that produced the gut-wrenching sound. He had heard the same sort of anguish more than he cared to count on long ago battlefields. Women who had been run through. Children who stood by as their parents were cut down.
On the wafting sound of sobbing, Paul’s laughter came again. “She has such a sweet voice. I’ve enjoyed her tears so much.”
Rage, more pure than any divine light, coursed through Caradoc. Blinded by the emotion, he put his head down and barreled forward. He would stop this now. Cease September’s suffering and carve that wicked smirk off the man’s mouth. Forever still that vile laughter.
Yet when his sword punctured Paul’s shirt and should have sunk deep into flesh, a vise-like hand clamped around Caradoc’s wrist. He stopped as if he had hit the stone behind the man. S
hock coursed up his arm, settled into his shoulder, and burned all the way down his side.
He shook his head to shake off the stun.
“I cannot kill you…but neither shall you kill me.”
Before Caradoc’s eyes, Paul’s clothes fell away. His body lengthened, released the human shape it had claimed. The hand around Caradoc’s wrist assumed claws that dug into his flesh and pierced bone.
He sucked in a sharp breath as two ebony wings unfolded from Azazel’s back, the very tips extending from floor to ceiling.
Jesu.
Chapter 36
Moonlight filtered through thick overgrown trees, casting eerie shadows throughout the decaying garden. Beneath Isabelle’s feet, clumps of grass rose between the pavestones, threatening to trip her. She stumbled around a cracked marble bench and caught herself on a rough tree trunk. From the corner of her eye, a whitened face broke through the darkness.
She knew what it was before she looked, and the scream that threatened in her nightmare didn’t rise. She’d seen the weathered angel with the broken wing enough times she could count the lines on the jagged feathers.
Behind her, decaying leaves crunched beneath hurrying feet. They’d catch up to her soon. Caradoc, Noelle, whoever had followed her out the open garden gate. She hadn’t looked back or waited to find out who pursued. September waited ahead. Beyond the eerie mausoleum. At the feet of that faceless angel.
A shudder rolled through her, and she expelled the breath she’d been holding. She had to hurry. God only knew how much time September might have. If Isabelle could get to that creature before it harmed her daughter, she could make the offering. Exchange herself for September.
And the people behind her would never allow that to happen. Particularly if Caradoc was with them.
Damn him. She deserved to hear what had happened to Chloe. But he’d known all along that if he confessed a similar plan had failed, she’d have never agreed to this crazy idea. She should have left him at the Villa Igiea and come here alone, as she’d intended to do hours ago.
Immortal Sacrifice: #4 The Curse of the Templars Page 29