Immortal Sacrifice: #4 The Curse of the Templars

by Claire Ashgrove

  “Help… me…” Strangled by tears, September’s voice drifted from within the shadows around the bend.

  Isabelle’s pulse skyrocketed. She pushed off the tree trunk, scraping her hands on the scraggy bark. “I’m coming,” she murmured beneath her breath. “Mommy’s coming.” Plunging headlong down the uneven path, she ignored the eerie way the shadows thickened. Like someone had sucked the light from the heavens out of the darkness. Not even the moonlight touched the leaves. No stars permeated the dense canopy of branches.

  Around her everything was still.

  Too still.

  At her back, muffled voices grew closer. Whispers drifted through the uneasy quiet, then blended with a sound more terrifying than all the screams—the sound of a child’s despondent crying. Soft and pitiful, September’s choked on her tears. Ever so faintly, a new plea, one that hadn’t been present in Isabelle’s nightmare, reached her ears. “Daddy.”

  The solitary word twisted Isabelle’s heart. September had expected her father here. A father who was willing to sacrifice her for a relic. True, he’d come with the intention of saving September, but when it all boiled down to what mattered, Caradoc valued that fucking necklace more.

  If she got out of here alive, she’d take her daughter far away, regardless of oaths and bonds and obligations. Isabelle refused to spend a life with someone who could cast a child aside.

  But that wouldn’t happen. Not if things went her way when she stepped beyond the mausoleum ahead. September would live, likely with her father, while Isabelle, herself, descended into the pits of hell.

  “Mom-my!”

  Shrill enough to shatter glass, September’s scream splintered the stillness. Isabelle raced forward. Her toe caught on a protruding tree root, and she stumbled, nearly smacking her nose on the broad side of the mausoleum wall. She caught herself on her hands, stopping herself millimeters away from the cold, grey stone.

  Don’t look. Not at the name. If she didn’t witness that damning surname, she could still pretend this was different from the nightmare, that she might somehow affect the outcome. But against her brain’s sharp order, her gaze pulled to the scalloped roofline. There, etched into the limestone, darkened with the stains of time, the block lettering spelled Valguarnera.

  Another ear-piercing scream permeated the night. Tears pooled in Isabelle’s eyes. Her daughter was suffering and she couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it. Couldn’t move fast enough.

  “September?” she yelled. “Mommy’s here! I’m coming.”

  A ferocious snarl answered.

  Willing her legs to stop their trembling, Isabelle carefully picked her way over the fallen tree limb. Not much farther now. A few steps more. Another patch of thick shadows, and that ghastly angel would rise out of the darkness.

  “Daddy! Daddy! Help!”

  At her daughter’s frantic pleas, Isabelle squared her shoulders and bellowed, “Take me, you fucking bastard. Get the hell away from my daughter, and take me!”

  * * *

  With calculated calmness, Azazel bent Caradoc’s arm toward his body. Slowly, he pushed the limb back, his gaze never wavering, until an unmistakable crack knifed Caradoc’s bones in two. Fire seared through him, rendering him speechless. But ’twould not have mattered. His protests would not have stopped Azazel, no more than they had stopped the Inquisition long ago.

  In the next instant, Azazel flung him aside, sending him careening into the far wall. Air shot from his lungs, and Caradoc crumpled to the floor. He could not move. Could not clutch his useless arm to his body to temper the overwhelming pain. Could not expel the curses that lodged in the back of his throat.

  Azazel’s hollow laughter engulfed him. “Listen how she cries for you. The faith she has in her noble father. Her angelic mother. Her pitiful God who has left her fate to the weakness of humans, she who carries the blood of noble Templar and divine seraph.”

  Dimly the words registered. But the understanding that filtered into him did naught to ease the tightness in his chest no matter that his lungs had once again expanded. September…his.

  Nay. Azazel spoke lies. Trickery was his greatest power. Caradoc ground his teeth together and struggled to stand. He dared not believe the elaborate fiction.

  But Farran’s too-willing acceptance of the impossible plagued the recesses of his mind. Isabelle swore she had lain with no other. Farran insinuated such could be possible. Now Azazel…

  Azazel did not look surprised at all. Indeed, his smug expression bore satisfaction.

  “The love of a father is a precious thing.” He snorted as he gestured toward the heavens. “I was his beloved once. I wept as he desired. And yet my father turned away.”

  Chills coursed through Caradoc, though he could not say whether they stemmed from the blood that seeped through his ripped flesh or from the foreboding that descended on his shoulders. He grimaced against another white-flash of agony and cradled his shattered sword arm in his good hand. “You asked for your punishment,” he gritted out through clenched teeth.

  “Does she ask for hers? Or is she innocent, this daughter of yours, this product of sin and evidence of your mortal weakness?”

  Folding thick arms over an even thicker chest, Azazel undulated his wings. The stirring breeze carried the curdled stench of blood and decay. A low chuckle reverberated through the room like the slow roll of thunder across an empty harbor. “She offers herself to me now, this seraph who possesses you. Tell me—are the tears worth both their lives?”

  Only the sheer will to remain on his feet allowed Caradoc to fight off the blackness that infringed upon his senses. He leaned against the wall, the pain in his arm intolerable. “You cannot kill her.”

  “I know exactly what I can do to a seraph.” His mouth curled at the corner, his wicked sneer appearing once more. “And what I can do to your daughter.”

  His daughter. God’s teeth. He had fought against the notion. Accused Isabelle of despicable things in attempts to deny the possibility. Yet now, as he stood before the master of all darkness, the truth began to invade Caradoc’s understanding of the world he had sworn himself unto. He could not begin to explain, nor could he deny the prickling at the back of his neck that screamed he had erred…and greatly.

  In all the time he had known Isabelle, she had never lied to him. Whatever miracle she had stumbled into, she had given him a child. And though he had never given consideration to the possibility of fatherhood, as he stood beneath the unholy shadow of the vilest evil, his heart swelled. With that growing feeling, however, came something deeper. Regret. Sorrow.

  Failure.

  He had foolishly ignored what lay before his very eyes. The resemblances of himself evident in September’s photograph. And now, he had subjected his child, the daughter he had not realized he could create, to death. He had led armies to victory against formidable foes, slaughtered in the name of the Almighty. Yet he could not save one innocent, helpless child from the very darkness he had sworn to keep from mankind.

  “Such a predicament.” Azazel shook his head. “Does a father’s love outweigh loyalty to the Almighty? Or will he sacrifice for righteousness?”

  Caradoc met Azazel’s nefarious stare, the tears in his pants pocket a heavy weight to his heart. He could order men to arms and send them into battle knowing they would not return, and yet he could not find it within himself to speak the words he knew he must. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes. How could he choose? To uphold the Order’s purpose, he doomed the innocent. If he chose Isabelle and September, he would betray the Templar, the knights who had given their souls to uphold the vows they swore.

  “You try my patience, knight.” Azazel propelled himself forward, bringing his angelic form inches from Caradoc’s. Odd beauty lay in his masterfully crafted features, a chilling contrast to the soul that had fallen so far from grace. “Tell me where the tears are, or those you love will pay the price.”

  A long shadow fell across the floor behind Azazel. Caradoc look
ed to the doorway, finding Farran, his back to the wall. Their gazes locked, and in that brief passing of seconds, Caradoc was transported back in time, to the day they had traveled to Clare and Farran had lost his son. When they had left that despicable place, Farran had grieved. For centuries, he knew no peace. He chased after death, willing to give himself unto it, to escape the guilt, the heartache, the torturous memories.

  With the subtle inclination of Farran’s head came permission to do the unthinkable. A silent token of understanding that spoke not merely encouragement but the promise to stand at Caradoc’s side no matter the punishment.

  Surrender the tears. Turn his back on all he believed in. For Isabelle. For September.

  Caradoc swallowed as he blinked back the wetness in his eyes. Releasing his broken arm, he let out a hiss, and dizziness once again threatened to consume him. He sank to the floor, and with some difficulty lifted the hem of his hauberk and reached inside his pocket with his.

  Azazel’s eyes assumed a wild gleam as Caradoc opened his fingers to reveal the strand of divine power. He hesitated only a moment, before he tossed the precious relic at Azazel’s feet. “Leave them in peace.”

  Abominable laughter erupted from Azazel’s throat. “Oh, I shall.” He snatched the tears into his clawed hand, the light in his eyes feral and untamed. The air rippled one last time, and then the Dark One was gone, taking with him the miniscule light.

  Broken far more than the wounds upon his body, Caradoc doubled over and touched his forehead to the floor. He had done it. Sacrificed all he believed in for Isabelle. For his daughter.

  For love.

  A hand slipped beneath his good shoulder, urging him to his feet. “Come, brother. Let us find your family,” Farran said.

  * * *

  The quiet surrounded Isabelle, despite the thundering of her pulse. Eyes closed and holding her breath, she took the last step around the mausoleum into the opening that would reveal whether her daughter lived or died. Fear gripped her, threatening to crumple her in its deadly hold. She couldn’t bear to look. Couldn’t face what she might encounter.

  “September?” she whispered as she opened her eyes.

  Blackness shrouded her vision, and she squinted into the shadows. Time stood still as she waited for the moonlight to rain down upon the clearing. One heartbeat. Then another. The erratic thump-thump more terrifying than any work of Poe.

  As the voices behind her grew nearer, the moon slipped from its veil of clouds. Inch by inch it crept over the garden, filtering through the trees, bathing the forgotten statues with silvery light.

  The shrouded angel rose from the night. Her gaze slid down the folds of its robes, over hands that were clasped in prayer. All the way down to the statue’s feet and the crumpled child that lay in the dirt.

  Blood coated her daughter’s long blonde hair. Turned her strawberry nightgown into a wet crimson sponge. Dripped from the stony creases in the angel’s arm to splatter across September’s ashen face.

  Stumbling backward, Isabelle pressed a fist to her mouth and stifled a scream. Her gaze pulled to the angel’s head, where it fell on the creature she’d witnessed too many times and its unblinking orange-red eyes. A sob broke free, the power of it dropping her to the leaf-cluttered ground.

  Too late. She was too late. She’d placed her trust in Caradoc, disobeyed Paul, and killed her daughter.

  Chapter 37

  As grief wracked Isabelle’s shoulders, the beast atop the angel leapt beyond the garden wall, disappearing into the night. Barely aware of the chill that seeped from the ground beneath her, she crawled on her knees to September’s side and pushed the matted hair away from her face. Tears fell with abandon, blearing Isabelle’s vision. Blindly she ran her fingertips over innocent features, not knowing what she sought, only that she couldn’t bear the thought of not touching her.

  Goodbye, Mommy.

  Five days ago, September had bid goodbye with a bright smile, a sweet kiss to Isabelle’s cheek. The sun had been peeking over the Chicago horizon, lighting the city in a muted shade of lavender. She’d waved, the farewell no different than if Isabelle had been heading to the grocery store instead of five thousand miles away.

  Now, what had seemed like such a simple, routine expression took on greater meaning. September had known she wouldn’t see her mother again. She’d embraced the fates, accepted the shadow that haunted her throughout the last year.

  Isabelle looked up to the stars with a broken whisper, “Why?” Why September? Why did she have to die? She was only three. She deserved a full life—ballet lessons, kindergarten, afternoons at the park with her school friends. She’d never experience the thrill of a first love. Never see prom. Never know the freedom of college.

  She’d never have the dog they’d talked about at Christmas.

  Another gut-deep sob worked its way out of her throat, and Isabelle slid her hands beneath September’s slight shoulders. Rocking back on her heels, she cradled her against her breast, ran her hands through her bloody hair. Where their bodies touched, warm wetness soaked through Isabelle’s clothing from September’s wounds. She didn’t care. Hardly noticed.

  Her daughter was gone.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured against the crown of September’s head. “So sorry. I didn’t know. I tried, baby girl. I tried…”

  Isabelle’s words strangled as her heart splintered into pieces. She clutched her daughter closer, desperate to somehow shield her from the terror and all the things Isabelle was helpless to stop. If she’d run faster. If she’d listened to her instincts…

  Swaying side to side, she struggled to conjure the first notes of the lullaby she’d sung each night at bedtime since the first night September had lain within her arms. “You…are my…sunshine…”

  The melody came in choked bits, warbled in the back of her throat. It mingled with the rustling of leaves and blended with heartache Isabelle couldn’t contain. Gone. Not just dead but murdered. For God’s sake, she didn’t even have a peaceful death. Terrified and alone, September had suffered through every moment of it.

  “Please don’t…take…my…”

  She couldn’t finish. God hadn’t just taken her sunshine, he’d stolen her sunsets, her shooting stars, the very meaning of her life. Releasing another anguished wail, she lifted her face to the stars once more and screamed, “Give her back!” Crying harder, she buried her face in September’s hair, breathed in the faint scent of strawberry shampoo. “Back,” she murmured. “I want her back!”

  “Isabelle.” The reverent feminine voice accompanied the crunch of leaves on the broken pavestones behind her.

  Isabelle jerked upright, reflexively clutching her daughter’s lifeless body more tightly. Wide-eyed, she glanced over her shoulder and found Noelle and Chloe standing a respectful distance away. Sensing they would try and take her child, Isabelle struggled to her feet. She held September’s head to her shoulder, turned to confront the trio with her chin set in defiance. “You can’t have her.”

  Chloe shook her head. Extending a hand as if she sought to clasp Isabelle’s, she said, “Let Noelle see to her.”

  Possessed by a madness Isabelle had no name for, she backed up until she met unmovable stone. She gave Chloe a violent shake of her head. “Just leave me alone.” They’d done more than enough. No way would she allow anyone to come between her daughter and her now. This moment, this final parting was hers and hers alone, and she’d be damned if anyone intruded.

  But Chloe didn’t accept Isabelle’s adamant order. She approached, arm still extended, her gaze locked with Isabelle’s. “You must hurry. There isn’t time for explanations. Give your daughter to Noelle.”

  “Please, Isabelle,” Noelle said quietly. “I can help.”

  “Help? There’s nothing you can do! Can’t you see it’s too late for her? You and whatever cause you believe in killed my daughter!”

  “I can—”

  “No!” Isabelle’s voice rose by several decibels. “I don’t want
you near her.”

  At that moment, a heavy hand fell on her shoulder, startling her. She whipped around, twisting free of Lucan’s grasp. His grey eyes met hers, unblinking. “Isabelle, you must let Noelle examine her. She can help. Trust us. You’re not thinking rationally.”

  Rationally? Her daughter was dead and they expected her to be rational? Trust them? They were the very people who’d made it clear September could be sacrificed. They didn’t belong here. They weren’t part of Isabelle and September’s life and all she wanted to do was say goodbye alone. Grieve in private, not beneath these stranger’s prying eyes.

  “Isa, what has happened?”

  Caradoc’s rich baritone stopped Isabelle from telling Lucan exactly where he could go and how he could get there. With that quiet utterance, he stripped away her anguish and left her cold. Of all the people who shouldn’t be present, he topped the list. She’d believed in him, even when her instincts warned her to object.

  “You must convince her, Caradoc,” Lucan instructed. “Noelle’s gift has grown, but time is critical. She must examine the wounds.”

  As her reoccurring nightmare took on a whole new meaning of horror, Isabelle found herself surrounded by five sets of hands all pawing at her, intent on ripping September out of her arms. She hunched her shoulders in a futile attempt to keep the unwanted intruders out and held onto her daughter’s body for dear life.

  Caradoc managed to work one arm beneath September’s tiny chest and wrench it around Isabelle. Unyielding pressure trapped her against his hard chest. She twisted and turned to no avail, only succeeding in further tightening his hold. To her horror, Farran pulled September from her hands and turned his back to her.

  “No! Don’t touch her!”

  Her protests fell on deaf ears. They carried September back to the faceless angel and laid her at the statue’s feet. She lunged forward, but the iron band around her torso made escape impossible. Caradoc shuffled backward, taking her with him to a thick growth of trees.