by Dee Davis
"Either I take it on my own, or we work together temporarily. You can handle the old man."
She opened her mouth to tell him where to go but apparently her mouth didn't get the memo. "Temporarily?"
"Right. We figure out what clues, if any, are buried inside Theloneous's journal. There isn't actually any real proof he had the Devil's Delight."
She started to argue, but he waved her silent.
"Assuming there's something there. We'll both have it."
"And then?"
"Then we go our separate ways." He shrugged, as if it were nothing. And of course it was. But still, she didn't like the way he seemed to be able to pop in and out of her life as if it was of no consequence. "And may the best man win."
"Or woman," she said, stubbornly wanting the last word.
"Yes, we mustn't forget that." He'd closed the distance between them again. "A kiss to seal the deal?"
She tipped her head up, ready to protest, but one look at his eyes and she forgot all about that. His mouth was hard and hot. Nothing at all tentative in the kiss.
She knew she ought to protest. For self-preservation if nothing else. But she couldn't.
Truth was, she didn't want to.
Not even a little bit.
Chapter Three
The soft rocking of the Apollyon was soothing after the tension at the monastery. Celeste had wanted to present the journal to her father at their hotel, but Marcus far preferred to be on familiar territory. Especially after time spent in the monastery. Although he had nothing against men of the cloth, his history, not to mention his heritage, certainly didn't lend itself to his feeling comfortable in pious surroundings.
Or maybe it was just being near Celeste again.
Either way the important thing now was for him to keep the advantage, and to do that he needed to keep his wits about him. Celeste Abbot had a way about her unlike any other woman he'd ever met. She managed to seep inside a man, a little at a time, twining her way into his heart in a totally unacceptable manner. And having withstood the onslaught once, he wasn't really eager to try to do it again.
Which didn't hold a hell of a lot of water when one considered that he'd practically bedded her there in the chapel. Blame it on baser instincts.
Those he had in spades.
"Finding anything?" he asked for the thousandth time, leaning over Cedrik Abbot's shoulder to stare down at the manuscript.
Theloneous's writing was torturously small and the ink was faded, in some places so much so that it was totally illegible. And, as if that weren't frustration enough, the monk had favored Latin, but hadn't been very good at it. So on top of everything else, what little meaning could be gleaned from the writing was thrown into question when a word was misspelled or misused. All of which was making Marcus want to chuck the entire thing off the bow of the yacht.
Of course that wouldn't help him find the Devil's Delight, and so he kept his peace by pacing the length of the lounge at regular intervals.
"Will you be still?" Celeste hissed. "It's hard enough to think on a rocking boat, without your making it worse with your infernal pacing and endless questions."
"It's a yacht. Not a boat. Damnation, woman, it's practically the biggest ship I've ever had the privilege to command." The minute the words were out he regretted them. They were true, of course, but sounded ridiculous out of context, and there was no way in the world he was going to explain to Celeste Abbot and her father that he'd spent most of his very long life as a pirate.
"Both of you be quiet. Your incessant bickering is making this more difficult than it needs to be." Cedrik Abbot was an overbearing academic sort. Usually the type of man Marcus despised. But there was a singleness of purpose about the old goat that required at least a modicum of respect. What Cedrik Abbot wanted, for the most part, he got.
Celeste shot him a look, then crossed her arms and turned her back to look out the window at the gentle swell of the Mediterranean.
Torn between wanting to throttle her or her father, or maybe both of them, Marcus settled instead for a strong measure of whiskey, aged, single malt, straight from the banks of the River Dee. Swallowing it in a single gulp, he relished the heat of the fiery liquid as it slid down his throat. Beware of saints and fools, his father had always said. The former because they were tricky, the latter because they usually were great friends with the former.
He eyed the old man hunched over the journal. Cedrik Abbot was neither a fool nor a saint, and yet, Marcus recognized him as a viable opponent. He'd tangled with tougher men, but Cedrik was shrewd. And determined. The combination was very dangerous indeed. And he had a powerful weapon in his daughter. One he used with great frequency.
"There's definitely a reference here to the fact that the monastery housed a great treasure. Of course that could simply be confirmation of the art collection. But it goes on to refer specifically to 'that which is above all value.' Then it goes on to say that the abbot of St. Emilion is bound to protect the treasure at all costs."
"So the second reference could be to the Devil's Delight," Celeste said, turning from the window.
"Well, he doesn't say it outright. In fact, he doesn't say anything at all clearly. But if one reads between the lines, so to speak, there seem to be passages that could be referring to the Devil's Delight."
According to legend, the Devil's Delight was a twenty-four-carat ruby of perfect color and transparency. Some claimed it had been formed from a drop of Christ's blood. Others said that it was the stone that God gave to Aaron. Either way, according to Marcus's father, it had been stolen from him long ago, and that fact alone made it more than an ordinary gemstone.
There were vague references to it in ancient texts—Greek, Roman, Egyptian, and even Sanskrit. Various rulers throughout the early ages, including Alexander, Constantine, and Attila, claimed to have possessed the stone, but it never seemed to stay in one location for any length of time.
Those who owned it believed the stone gave them power. But others, primarily those who coveted it, believed that once it was possessed the owner was cursed, his goals and desires twisted into something heinous. And further they believed that if the ruby was possessed out of greed the owner's soul became the property of the devil. Hence the stone's name, and no doubt Marcus's father's motivation for wanting it to surface again.
After the thirteenth century, when the stone was allegedly stolen from the Vatican by a group of monks sworn to protect the sanctity of the church and its holy fathers, there was no further evidence of the ruby's whereabouts. Enter the monastery at Avignon and Theloneous Gerard. It had long been held that the guardians of the stone, such that they were, centered at St. Emilion. But there was no proof.
Until now. Marcus blew out a breath, pulling his thoughts to the present. "So what do the other passages say exactly?"
"There's mention of Aaron. Specifically that which once belonged to Amram's firstborn."
"That could be anything." Marcus fought to control his temper, wondering why in the hell he'd thought working with Celeste and her father could possibly yield anything more than frustration—on a variety of levels.
"Yes." Cedrik nodded. "I'd have to agree with you. But there's more. He also references the lord of gems, which refers to God's hierarchy of stones. Rubies at the top. And then he goes on to talk about the dark becoming the color of fire."
"Rubies have long been connected with heat and fire," Celeste inserted.
"All of which added together," Cedrik continued, "would seem to confirm that the monks of St. Emilion were in fact harboring the Devil's Delight."
"So where is it now?" Celeste asked, coming to stand behind her father, her proximity to Marcus sending his synapses into overdrive.
"He doesn't say." Cedrik frowned. "Only that he had betrayed his order, committing an egregious sin. I think this journal is meant as a confession, but the passages are rambling at best, nonsensical at worst. I'm having trouble following the thread. There's mention of capitulating
to the enemy. Hitler maybe. It's hard to be certain. The writing is nearly illegible."
"Well, the reference makes sense. Theloneous was abbot during the Nazi occupation. So he'd probably see Hitler as an enemy."
"So how did he capitulate?" Marcus asked—despite his longevity his knowledge of history was sorely lacking. For the most part he'd seen upheaval as nothing more than an opportunity for further plunder.
"It's well documented that he was a collaborator," Celeste said. "So maybe this egregious sin involves selling or giving the Devil's Delight to the Nazis?"
"But it's not solid confirmation. Maybe he's just talking about the art collection. He mentions that in there, too, right? Or maybe the bastard was crazy and the ramblings in the journal mean nothing at all." Marcus blew out a breath, his frustration building to the breaking point. He needed answers and he needed them now.
"The only way to determine the truth is to finish the translation, but I can't do that with the two of you hovering." Cedrik motioned them away, then seemed to think better of it. "Do you have a computer on this ship?"
Marcus noted the deference the man gave the word "ship." At least one of the Abbots listened. "Of course there's a computer." Marcus had little use for the thing, but Faust was quite handy with it. "Faust?"
His longtime friend emerged from the doorway, leaving no doubt that he'd been listening at the transom. Faust was an immortal, too. But unlike Marcus he had no known familial connection to any deity. Rather his state of forever seemed to be more a quirk of nature. The two of them had met in the middle of a fight on the high seas, each mortally wounding the other. When it became apparent that neither of them was affected by the other's blow, they had struck up a grudging relationship, one that had deepened into real friendship over the centuries.
"Would you mind showing Mr. Abbot where the computer is?" Faust nodded, his submissive posture negated by the twinkle in his eyes. If possible Faust loved a good adventure even more than Marcus, and although he disapproved of Marcus kowtowing to his father, he still couldn't resist the thrill of the hunt.
Cedrik picked up the journal and followed Faust. Marcus turned back toward Celeste, surprised to see that she was no longer in the room. Instead she stood at the railing, the moon silvering her hair.
After pouring them each a drink, he walked outside, the soft breeze filling his senses. He loved the water. Loved the freedom and the endless possibilities it presented. He walked over to Celeste and handed her the glass.
"Baccarat. Seventeenth century," she said, turning the faceted crystal in her hand.
"Good eye." He'd taken the glasses off of a French galleon simply because they'd appealed. It was only with time that they'd gained value.
"And the scotch?"
Also plunder, but this time of a more contemporary vintage, and it had been a wager, not out-and-out theft. "It's the Prince of Wales's private stock."
"You certainly don't have a problem with living large, do you?"
"I fail to see the value in living any other way. And fortunately it's never been much of a problem." Although there had been a time, just after Napoleon fell. Marcus had chosen the wrong side, and almost found himself at the end of a hangman's noose. Not that that had been the issue in and of itself. It was more the liquidation of his assets—most particularly his ship. A sweet little schooner named Sea Breeze.
"Not a bad way to go, I guess," Celeste said. "As long as the price isn't too high."
"The price is always high. The key is to be willing to pay it." He leaned against the railing, looking out at the moonlight dappling the water. "It's all about choices, really."
"I suppose so," she said. "But aren't there times when there isn't a choice? Or if there is, it isn't really a viable one?"
He thought about it a moment, sipping his scotch, the yacht seemingly weightless in the gentle swell of the sea. "There's always a choice. Maybe not one you want to see or make, but that doesn't change the fact that it's there."
They stood in silence for a moment and Marcus was surprised at how companionable it felt. Over the years he'd learned to isolate himself from others—at least, emotionally—knowing that eventually living on without them would be far more painful than any joy coming from human connection. Immortality had its downside.
And of course there was always the risk that someone intimate would discover who exactly he was. Mortals were not capable of dealing with his heritage, particularly when it came to his father. He'd learned that lesson the hard way—centuries ago. And he wasn't about to repeat it.
The problem was that Celeste had an uncanny way of breaking through his barriers. She had almost done it before, but he'd quickly extracted himself from the situation and never looked back. It was a choice well made, and fate was not going to have another go. Time had taught him well when it came to self-preservation.
Women were a distraction, nothing more. An enjoyable one, to be sure, but there was simply no point in settling when there were so many to sample.
"Do you have a family?" Celeste said, breaking into his thoughts.
Not one that he was willing to talk about. "No." He shook his head to emphasize the point. "My mother died when I was born, and my father never really had that much time for me. I guess you could say I pretty much raised myself."
"No brothers or sisters?"
A lot of them actually, but he never gave them much thought, content pretty much to exist on his own. "I think my father had other children. But not with my mother."
"That's kind of sad."
"It wasn't a big deal." For some reason her sympathy made him angry. "I never had it any differently. So there's been nothing to miss."
"Still, it's nice to have family."
"Unless they smother you."
He saw her hands clench on the railing and knew that he'd hit home. Her father kept her on a short leash. And even if it was done from love, there wasn't anything admirable in the fact. "My father and I are very close. There's really just the two of us now."
"And your mother?"
"Same story as yours. I lost her when I was born. My grandmother raised me until I was old enough to travel with my father."
"Where is she now?"
"Dead."
Sooner or later everyone died. As an immortal, he thought it a bitter pill. "I'm sorry."
"No. It's all right. We had a wonderful life together. I'm just grateful for the time I had." She stared out at the water, the wind lifting strands of her hair. "But I do miss her sometimes."
Silence descended again, this one awkward. Talking was overrated as far as Marcus could see. Especially with a woman. Negotiating polite conversation was akin to sailing through mined waters in a fog-shrouded sea.
But he needed her continued help—or rather, her father's—if he was to succeed on his father's mission. And the idea of besting his brothers was too appealing to dismiss for the sake of avoiding uncomfortable ruminations. Besides, she wasn't exactly hard on the eyes. And it certainly didn't take much to remember what she'd felt like beneath him, moving with a fluidity that had almost made them seem one.
"You think it really exists?" she asked, looking up at him, her blue eyes as unfathomable as the ocean.
"The Devil's Delight?" He fought to make sense of her words, his body taking a completely different tact. "Yes. I believe it's out there somewhere. It's just a matter of tracking it down."
"For your client."
"Yes."
She frowned, her expression puzzled. "Of course I could be wrong, but I somehow got impression that you don't usually work for anyone but yourself. So why would you let something so rare pass into someone else's hands?"
"Let's just say he made me an offer too good to refuse."
"And if I made you a better offer?"
"Well"—he let his eyes travel slowly from her head to her toes and then back again—"it's tempting, but I'm afraid you can't possibly top what he's put on the table."
She studied him for a moment, then tilt
ed her head, the moonlight caressing her hair and skin. "It isn't about possession with you, is it? Everything is in the hunt."
He stared down into the water and then looked up again. She saw far more than he'd have thought possible. "There's something to that, I suppose. But make no mistake, I do love beautiful things." He stepped closer, framing her face with his hands, using libido to hide his cascading emotions.
She licked her lips, her tongue darting out and then in again, as if it were afraid. But then maybe it should be. He laughed at his whimsy and bent to kiss her, drinking her in along with the moonlight and the breeze.
She murmured softly in protest, but opened her mouth, her tongue dueling with his, giving and taking all at the same time. Their connection was effortless, almost as if there were other forces at work—guiding them.
But Marcus had made his father promise that there would be no hocus-pocus. And beyond that Marcus didn't believe in such things. Chemistry was nothing more than a calculation of combination. And what more basic combination was there than a man and a woman?
He stroked her hair, pulling her tighter against him, reveling in the feel of her body pressed to his. He slid one palm down her back to cup her buttocks, the feel of her quivering response enough to make him lose control. With a groan, he twined his fingers in her hair, using his tongue and teeth to arouse her even further.
Maybe there was something to this possessing thing after all. Just at the moment he wanted nothing more than to know that she belonged to him.
The sound of Faust clearing his throat shattered the moment and they sprang apart, Celeste gripping the railing, refusing to meet his eyes.
"Sorry to interrupt, Captain," Faust said, the title old habit. "But you're wanted inside. Apparently the old monk used the ruby to buy his way into a position of power during the war. And Abbot thinks he's figured out who took it as payment."
Chapter Four
"I've got two names," her father said, pointing at the open laptop. Celeste stood at the far corner of the little library. The room was small but cozy in a leather, whiskey, and man kind of way. The walls were primarily covered with books, but there was the odd piece of artwork. A tiny Rodin and a beautiful gold Venus that could only be Etruscan.