Sara shifted her attention back to whom the pickpocket might have been. The nervous young man who had brushed by her on his way out? He would have had time to call someone, for she doubted he was bidding for the manuscript on his own. If they wanted the manuscript seriously enough—and it appeared someone did—there would have been time to arrange it, especially if whoever the mastermind was had thought ahead with an alternative plan.
The other possibility was the dark-haired man who had purchased the Templar shield. He, too, had walked out before she completed her purchase. She looked around. He was nowhere to be seen either. And he had admitted he worked for someone else.
“We can arrange for someone to go with you to your hotel, if you wish.”
Sara gave the earnest guard a smile. “No, I’ll be all right. I just need to pick up my things and then I’ll head straight for Heathrow. Airport security these days is about as tight as I can get. But thanks.”
The guard nodded and opened the door of the cab and she slid gratefully into the darkened interior. She just wished she felt as confident as she sounded. Too bad that well-muscled package of pure testosterone had disappeared. She wouldn’t mind allowing herself to feel a little bit safe in his strong embrace.
* * * *
Lucas Ramsey felt the bristling fur begin to subside beneath the collar of his shirt as he watched the hack drive away. He tugged at his necktie. He hated wearing one on any occasion; when he began to shift it became a choke collar. But he couldn’t very well walk around a fashionable neighborhood wearing his kilt and sash, unless he wanted to attract attention, which was something he definitely did not want to do. It was, in fact, the reason he had sent Gavin to purchase the shield and bid on the manuscript, even though the vampire preferred to stay inside during the day. The fewer people who knew that Lucas still existed, the better.
He had waited in a car down the street and Gavin had just finished explaining that the manuscript was bought by an American when the black car made its entrance. Even though Lucas could move with supernatural speed when needed, he also had to control the wolf. It always wanted to break free at times of crisis. And if a colorful Scotsman walking down the street would attract attention, he didn’t even want to think what well-heeled shoppers would do at the sight of huge lobo loping along in the heart of the city. Even the brief time his arm had encircled the American’s slender waist and he had felt her soft breasts pressed against his chest had made the wolf growl.
The woman was safe now. At least for the moment. And he would be at the airport. He gave himself a moment to appreciate her. Long, glossy, black hair that had cascaded around his face like a curtain when she fell. And then when she tossed it back, the most startling shade of blue eyes, like looking into the depths of an ocean. An ivory complexion with high cheekbones, straight nose, and full lips. Luscious lips. The kind that made the man in him want to claim her and the wolf want to devour her. Don’t even think about the glimpse of creamy thigh when her skirt hiked up… He had gotten away as quickly as he could.
The wolf was the bane of his human existence. It tended to emerge in moments of passion as well as times of crisis. During the Dark Ages, it had been fairly easy to manage. Peasants, even though they made the sign to ward off the evil eye when they saw him, simply took him to be one of many wolves who roamed the countryside.
If only they knew whose evil eye they should be warding themselves against, he thought. Balor. Once a sun god, he became greedy for more power. Personal power. In her wisdom the Goddess banished Balor. Enraged, Balor swore to wreak havoc in the mortal world forever. And he had done that well. Never was the world so close to destroying itself. The time was close when he must be stopped. Well, that’s why I’m here. I’m the grandson he doesn’t know he has. He fingered the ancient gold Templar cross he wore on a gold chain. Although it kept him from recognizing—or being recognized—by other Immortals that might be about in the present day, it also protected his identity from Balor.
He refocused his attention on his friend, sitting in the driver’s seat of the Audi. “How are you feeling?”
Gavin shrugged. “The new meds make the light tolerable, but I still prefer the night.” He turned the ignition. “Where to?”
“To the flat, first. Then Heathrow.” Lucas slid the slim laptop out from its special compartment under the glove box and tapped in a request for airline flights leaving for the United States that afternoon and punched in a reservation for each carrier. Whichever flight she would be on, so was he.
Gavin put the car into gear. “You’re going after her?”
And looking forward to it. He hadn’t met a woman that plucky in centuries—not since Gwenhwyfar had been tied to the stake and spat at her would-be murderers—but perhaps this woman wouldn’t need any more dramatic rescues. He hoped not. She had been scared—the wolf could smell it—but she hadn’t showed it. Damn brave of her. And she was smart too—had kept her wits about her and not let loose of that case.
“I have to. If there’s any chance the manuscript is genuine, I must see it. It would hold the answer to the Templar treasure. Or, at least, the part I need.”
“I failed at getting the manuscript,” Gavin said in a dismal tone, “although I did get the shield.”
Lucas glanced at him. The two of them had been lucky to have escaped the arrests that fatal Friday in 1307. He knew Gavin had tried his best.
“Doona worry about it,” he said, slipping into the natural brogue he preferred using. “Ye did well enough.” Reaching into the back seat he brought the shield forward and unwrapped it. “Tis really priceless. The fools dinna know what they had.”
Gavin gave it an appreciative look before he turned his eyes back to traffic. “It’s the one then? Jacques de Molay’s?”
“Aye.” Lucas still felt a moment of pain when he remembered standing in the crowd, helpless to do anything while the Grand Master burned. The wolf had nearly gotten the better of him that day. That evening he had loosed the beast, allowing it to tear out the throats of two of Jacque’s tormentors.
He forced himself back to the present. “The shield is much older than that though. It has been passed down from the very first Templar.”
“Godefroi de Boullion?” Gavin asked.
Lucas shook his head. “Older still.” At Gavin’s puzzled look, he explained. “A king near Jerusalem who was a friend of Joseph of Arimathea’s converted to Christianity and changed his name from Evelake to Mordrains to prove his complete conversion. His uncle gave him this shield. He called it the Shield of Wisdom. Anyone who was not worthy to carry it would be severely maimed.”
Gavin slid a quick glance at Lucas. “Who was the uncle?”
“Peter the Fisherman.”
Gavin whistled. “Saint Peter was the first Templar?”
“No. For centuries, the shield laid hidden in the tomb of Nascien, Mordrains’ brother. And then, a descendent of theirs—a knight pure in heart—found his way to the abbey on a quest for something else entirely.”
“What?”
“The Holy Grail.”
Gavin almost missed a turn. “You’re saying Galahad…?”
“…was the first Templar. Yes.” Lucas leaned back and let that sink in. Not only did the Templars adopt the square, red cross that Galahad had worn on a white mantle, but much of the original Templar philosophy had been taken from him. Refusing to accept Lancelot’s wealth or his title, he had pursued his quest as a poor man, pure in heart and chaste. Lucas grimaced at that. A lot of the brothers had protested that rule, but Lucas had obeyed it stringently, mostly because he was afraid he’d lose control of the wolf in the midst of climax and hurt his partner. Even today, he kept his emotions tightly under control, lest he loose the animal.
The Templars had been what he needed to still the wolf. By the early Middle Ages, civilization had reared its head again and the wolf did not want to be tamed. A century or two of strict adherence to discipline and penitence had been what he needed, although he al
lowed himself to fantasize if an alluring woman caught his eye.
Which brought him back to the dark-haired beauty who owned the manuscript.
Getting it from her would be only half the challenge. The other half would lie in keeping her safe from the beast inside. Lucas liked strong, independent, clear-thinking women and this one also had a natural sensuality about her. He squelched thoughts about running his hand up her thigh, letting his fingers slowly stroke between her folds and sighed. The best thing he could do was keep his hands off her. That would take some doing on his part.
* * * *
Adam Baylor adjusted the patch over his eye and surveyed the sorry lot of men who sat in front of his magnificently polished black oak desk in the massive library that he took great pride in. Encased in a glass tome on an original Chippendale lamp table was the handwritten first draft of Mien Kamph, given to him by Adolf Hitler himself. A good man, Hitler. One of his best.
“So you let the manuscript get away from us?” he said in a soft voice to the nervous-looking young man who had been at the auction.
The young man, Toby, gulped, his Adams apple bobbing in his thin throat, only too aware that the soft voice spelled danger more than any shouting could have done. “I’m sorry, Sir. It was when that other man shot the price up—“
“What were your orders?”
He swallowed again. “To buy the manuscript.”
“Did I tell you how much to spend?”
“No, Sir.”
“Did you think I couldn’t afford more than $25,000.00?”
“N…No, Sir. It’s just…”
Adam Baylor raised his eyebrows. “Just what?”
“Just…just that you’ve never given me more than that to spend and…and you weren’t there in the back of the room when I turned around,” he finished in a rush.
“I ask again. What were my orders?”
The young man looked at the floor. “To buy the manuscript, Sir.”
Baylor sighed and then sounded almost concerned. “And I gave you a second chance. When you called that you had failed, I initiated Plan B. You failed at that as well. You weren’t able to snatch the portfolio from that American bitch.”
“No, Sir,” he said in a voice that was barely audible.
“You have disappointed me.” Baylor kept his voice soft, almost sympathetic. The stooge in front of him paled. He lengthened the silence for effect until even his bodyguard shuffled a foot and then snapped back to attention. “You do know what happens when someone disappoints me?”
A moan slipped out of Toby, but was quickly stifled. “Yes, Sir.”
The small group of his other go-fors that Baylor had wanted to witness what he did with failures, looked away.
Baylor nodded at the bodyguard who went to the closet and retrieved a medieval cat-o-nine-tails.
Shaking, Toby removed his shoes and socks and then stood to disrobe. In his boxer shorts he walked over to the patch of marble tile in front of the fire place and started to kneel.
“I prefer you naked,” Baylor said and quickly squelched the quiver of excitement from his voice. “Fear and pain give a powerful erection. I want to see that.”
Toby hesitated only a second before he closed his eyes and stripped. He slipped to his knees on the hard floor. The bodyguard handed him the whip.
His hand visibly trembled as he took it and began the self-flagellation. He swung the scourge over his left shoulder and winced as the knotted cords stung his thin back.
“That barely left welts,” Baylor said disinterestedly. “Again. In the same spot.”
The young man scrunched his eyes shut and flogged himself again, biting his lip as the ends split his flesh.
“Again.”
He whimpered and did as he was told.
“Now the other side.”
He fought to control the tears as the blood flowed from open wounds.
Baylor leaned forward over his desk. “Still no erection, I see.” He nodded to the bodyguard who took the whip and pushed the young man down unto his elbows, exposing buttocks and the soles of his feet.
“Feet first.” Baylor said.
The scourge bore down, flaying the tender insoles and then attacking the heels. The young man flinched and Baylor grunted in satisfaction. It would be several days before walking could be done without excruciating pain.
Toby was crying openly now, making no attempt to withstand the pain. He screamed when the deadly whip began its assault on his bony buttocks, slashing the tender skin and causing blood to flow into his buttocks’ crevice, and over his testicles and onto the floor. Lifting his eyes, he began praying which caused Baylor to laugh. The tormentor began to drag the whip over his body slowly, almost tickling him with it. The light touch blended with the pain and he hardened suddenly.
“Ah.” Baylor leaned back. “You could have spared yourself a lot of this if you’d just let that happen earlier.”
“Y…yes, Sir.” With a sigh of relief he rose to his knees, but Baylor held up a hand. The guard dangled the cat-o-nine tails over his penis.
“Make yourself come.”
In sheer terror, tears rolling down his face, Toby grabbed himself and started jerking as though his life depended on it. It did.
* * * *
Baylor frowned at a small spot of blood that had dripped onto the carpet as the guard led the stooge away. He thought he had made a suitable impression on his small audience. It should be a long time before any of them thought not to follow his orders to the letter. He almost laughed to himself how quickly the others had asked to be excused to see to his other requests.
Which was okay since he had satisfied his own rather lustful urge watching the whole thing and needed a bit of tidying himself in his executive washroom.
But the floor was a careless mistake. The blood cleaned up from the marble easily—it was why he had it there—but the carpet would have a brown spot. He’d have to check and see if the cleaning lady was married or had kids. Perhaps he would arrange for a small accident. Nothing major. Just enough to let her know that in the future she should be more circumspect with his Persian carpets. She wouldn’t dare to tell him the spot hadn’t been there earlier.
He poured himself a cognac, settled in an ultra-soft leather chair, lit a Cuban cigar and pondered the outcome of today’s work. He was not pleased that he had lost the manuscript, but the girl could be traced. And the bitch would pay when he caught up to her. He would think of special torture to compensate himself for this extra waste of his time.
But what annoyed him more—he wouldn’t use the word “worry”—was the purchase of the Templar shield. It held its own subtle magic vested by that meddlesome Merlin long ago. Baylor recognized it immediately. De Molay had been carrying it when King Philippe sent his men in to arrest him. He smiled, remembering how easy it had been to instill insatiable greed into the French king and the weak pope…well, Clement hadn’t even given a Christian protest. Not when the Templar treasure might be his.
Not that Baylor had any intention of letting the pope keep the relics.
He frowned. That was one mistake he hated owning up to. The Templar treasure had been whisked away before the arrests were made which meant someone within his ranks had turned traitor. He’d spent most of the first half of the fourteenth century trying to find him and he never did. And Baylor hated losing. So the Templars and their treasure had become a personal vendetta for him. And that’s why the manuscript was so important. His informants had been quite serious that it was a map to the location of the Holy Grail. He smiled again. The Grail lore was nonsense, of course, but if this were the Chalice—one of the four ancient Hallows—then the other three would reveal themselves as well.
The squared power of four—the Spear, the Sword, the Dish and the Grail—well, together they would give him the power to be a god again. And he would return to the Isle and do the final battle with that bitch grand-daughter Goddess, Brighid. He would rule the world. Literally.
An
d then he frowned again, remembering the man who had appeared in time to save the American broad. It was the Templar who had killed two of his best men the night that de Molay had burned. The Immortal who probably still wore the cross that protected him.
Baylor’s eyes hardened. So the war wasn’t quite over.
Ah, but he already had some players in place. Terrorists were like children, easily led and gullible. How easy it was to make people intolerant and living only to hate. And those jihad fanatics thought they were killing for their GOD.
He tittered. If only they knew.
Chapter Two
Feeling the effects of jet lag slightly, Sara sank gratefully onto the overstuffed settee in Mr. Smith’s study while he examined the manuscript. Twenty-four hours ago, she’d been in London and here she was, back in a pre-summer heat wave.
She had been nervous going through airport security and had carefully scrutinized the passengers in front and behind her before she’d laid the portfolio on the conveyor to pass through the x-ray machine, but no one had seemed particularly interested. She had also kept alert to whom sat next to her in the waiting area, but again, no one had seemed sinister or threatening so perhaps the incident with the car had been coincidental…or the pickpocket had no idea of where she went. Her friend, Michael, always teased her about “situational awareness”, but then he had a natural bent for it. He was a warlock.
For the most part, the flight had been uneventful. Except for the good-looking cowboy in boots and tight Levis who looked remarkably like her hero from earlier. If the clothes hadn’t been such a drastic contrast to the well-dressed hunk, she would have sworn they were the same man. He took a seat behind her and across the aisle. Well over six feet, his broad shouldered, well-muscled frame had hardly fit the coach seat. For a moment she had wondered why he wasn’t in First class or at least Business class where he’d have more room to stretch those long, muscular legs. He had shoulder-length tawny hair, the color of a lion’s mane, full and luxurious. The kind she’d love to run her fingers through. He wore glasses with lens shaded dark enough that she couldn’t tell the color of his eyes, but they did nothing to disguise the strong cheekbones or the straight nose. Full sensual lips and a chiseled jaw made him look like Adonis. Since he hadn’t even noticed her—well, how could he with all those female flight attendants blocking the aisle and hovering over him?—she figured he was a cover model, or more likely, an actor. Her defenses went up. She’d had enough of those. Still, it had made the trip a little more pleasant. Okay. A whole lot more pleasant.
The Immortals I_Lucas Page 2