by Gaelen Foley
“Now, Westwood, if you want to save yourself a great deal of pain, I suggest you start talking. You can begin by admitting in front of all of us what you’re really doing here. Or shall we go down to the torture room and have a more serious talk, alone?”
A slight shudder ran through him at that threat though he knew it wasn’t going to happen. He could not let them go down to the dungeon, for they’d see that Max and Emily were gone.
Drake strove for patience, planning his attack. He had to draw this out a little longer to give her and Max a few more minutes to speed farther away from the castle. He decided to distract his foe by goading him to anger.
“Niall, Niall,” he said with a casual sigh. “You don’t seem to grasp how your situation’s changed. I realize you’re jealous of me. That you think you’re entitled to lead this organization. But the brethren learned the hard way they couldn’t trust your father; and as you’ve been riding Malcolm’s coattails all your life—”
Niall muttered a choice expletive at him.
“Nobody has any reason to trust you, either.
“You lack experience, discretion,” Drake continued. “You can’t control your temper. Hardly anyone takes you seriously.”
“Is that a fact?” he asked through gritted teeth.
He could sense Niall’s fury building. Perfect. “The fact is, you don’t have what it takes. You know it, and so does every man here. That’s why they chose me instead of you to be their leader.”
“Well, that’s a mistake that I intend to correct,” he ground out in a tone that said he’d had enough, and he pulled the gun back a few short inches to get a cleaner shot.
Now!
With lightning speed, Drake dropped his body and drove his hands upward, shoving Niall’s arm high; he spun in a flash, steadied himself with a slight step to the left, and delivered a massive round kick to the outside of Niall’s knee.
Niall lost his balance with an oath, and Drake lunged for the gun; in the next heartbeat, he had stepped behind the red-haired giant, wrenching his arm up behind him. But Niall still clutched the pistol.
“Drop it,” Drake ordered, panting.
Niall hesitated.
Drake wrenched the pistol; Niall cursed again, his finger tangled in the trigger.
“Drop it now, or I’ll tear your goddamned finger off,” Drake snarled.
“Relax,” Niall rasped, and slowly let go of the gun.
As soon as Drake pried it out of his grasp, Niall suddenly rammed his elbow straight back into Drake’s midsection.
Drake bent forward with a low woof of pain, but quickly blocked the upright fist that came hurtling toward his jaw.
Immediately, Niall stepped away, and, reaching for his blade, he spun to face Drake.
The dagger came slashing toward him. Drake grabbed Niall’s arm and pulled as he took a deft step to the side, using his enemy’s own momentum to throw him off-balance.
Having deflected Niall’s attack, Drake retaliated with a sharp chop of his hand into the crook of the man’s neck.
At the blow to the sensitive nerves there, Niall went rigid and let out a gasp of pain, automatically dropping the knife. But, recovering quickly, he bent to try to retrieve his weapon; Drake kneed him in the gut.
Niall stumbled backward, the air knocked from him. Drake pursued and sent him sprawling with an explosive uppercut to his jaw.
Toppling onto his back, Niall winced as he banged his head on the stone floor.
Drake kicked him in the ribs for good measure, then, looming over him, pointed Niall’s own pistol at him.
“Go on, beg,” he taunted in a low tone. The darkness rose in him, eager for revenge.
“You won’t shoot me! You can’t,” Niall gasped out rather desperately, his chest heaving. “I know what you are! The Order’s code won’t allow you to kill an unarmed man!”
The chap had balls, to try a bluff like that, Drake admitted to himself. He’d give him that. But then his eyes narrowed as he saw Niall’s hand creeping toward another small knife discreetly hidden in his boot.
He smiled, much to the consternation of the men watching, who hadn’t noticed the weapon.
“You’re right,” Drake said softly, “except for one small point. I don’t work for the Order anymore.”
He pulled the trigger.
The others jumped at the bang.
Niall crumpled onto his back, dead, a bullet to the heart.
His few supporters started forward in surprise, but they froze when Drake glanced over at them.
The watching French guards, loyal to him, exchanged startled glances.
Satisfied, Drake threw the empty pistol onto Niall’s body. Then he surveyed the men, lightly dusting off his hands. “Are we through here, or would anyone else like to question my authority?”
They shrank back from him with murmurs of denial, terror stamped across their faces.
“Good. Then get back to your duties, and stay away from my prisoners.” He sent a meaningful glance over his shoulder at the closed dungeon door. “A few hours in solitary will make them more amenable. And bury this idiot,” he added in a lower tone, stepping over Niall’s body on his way out.
After that, Drake thought his own mother would have believed he had indeed become the true leader of the Prometheans. He’d half convinced himself.
When he returned upstairs to his chamber, he braced his hands against the chest of drawers and stared into the mirror, his heart still pounding after that near miss.
He had looked into Niall’s eyes before he killed him and realized the man had truly been on the brink of exposing him. Still, it had been harder to pull the trigger than he had expected because the red-haired bastard had looked so much like Virgil.
Drake let out a long exhalation and lowered his head, still leaning on the chest of drawers. He told himself he only had to keep the charade going for a few more hours and it would all be over.
In the meanwhile, his old beloved handler was avenged.
A sound from the doorway jolted him, still in his heightened battle state. He turned, ready to fight, then quickly reined in the instant wrath of his warrior response.
It was just the little boy.
The sight of him reminded Drake bitterly of the Prometheans’ hypocrisy. For all their talk, none of them had volunteered some loved one of their own for the sacrifice of “dearest blood.” Instead, they had kidnapped an unsuspecting child in broad daylight.
He nodded to the boy. “What are you doing, Stefan?” he asked, forcing his voice to sound calm.
“I heard a bang,” he said. “It woke me up.”
That’s because I just killed someone. The deed seemed even darker in light of the child’s innocence.
Drake rubbed his eyebrow. “Very well, you might as well come in for a moment. There’s something I have to talk to you about—privately. Shut the door, eh?”
Stefan did so, and Drake slapped the surface of the chest of drawers and stood next to it, one fist on his waist.
The boy hopped up to sit on it, which brought him closer to Drake’s eye level so they could talk, man-to-man.
“Now, then. Do you still want to be a knight, or have you changed your mind?”
Stefan’s eyes brightened. “I still want to!”
“You’re sure? It’s a very dangerous job. You have to be very brave. You’re sure you haven’t lost your nerve?”
“I can do it! Well—are there any wolves?”
“No,” Drake answered. “No wolves.”
He looked relieved. “I know I can do it, then!”
“Very well. Now, let me tell you something.” He sent a conspiratorial glance over his shoulder. “I don’t go around telling everyone this, but I actually am a knight myself.”
“Really?”
“Shh.” Drake signaled his little accomplice with a finger to his own lips. “No one but you and I must know. Now, knights, you know, we always have adventures. That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I actuall
y have one planned for tonight, but the truth is, I could use a little help,” he confessed rather ruefully. “Perhaps you would come along to help out, as my page?”
“I don’t want to be a page boy, I want to be a knight!” Stefan declared firmly.
Drake rolled his eyes. “Very well, you can be a knight, then, but you have to do exactly as I say, no matter what. Do you agree to these terms? I will not tolerate disobedience. This is only your first mission, after all. You have to listen to me.”
“All right,” Stefan said, wide-eyed.
“No, it’s ‘yes, sir.’ And salute.” He showed him.
“Yes, sir!” the boy said brightly, his flattened hand zinging from his brow.
Drake smiled in spite of himself. “There you are. Not half-bad. Remember, tell no one. Secrecy.”
“And be brave,” Stefan repeated.
“Right. Now, our mission will take place this evening. I’ll tell you more later, if you’re good. You’re going to have to wait the whole day until I come and get you, all right?”
“The whole day?” he whined.
“Knights do not complain, Sir Stefan,” he informed him. “Come on. I’ll walk you back to your room. You should stay out of sight to avoid Count Galtür.”
“He smells like onions!” Stefan said with a grin.
”Yes, I’ve noticed.”
“Do we get to wear armor for this?” the boy asked a moment later as they walked down the hallway toward the boy’s chamber.
Drake suppressed a laugh. “We won’t need it for this job.”
“Maybe next time?”
“Sure, next time,” Drake murmured grimly, depositing him in his room with an affectionate slap on the back. “Off you go.”
After locking the boy in for his own protection, Drake turned, took a deep breath, then went in search of Jacques.
He intended to settle his account with the French mercenaries and send them on their way before he unleashed Armageddon. If anyone asked, he would simply tell the Prometheans that he had given his hired soldiers forty-eight hours’ leave, to make sure they kept their noses out of the cult’s private business.
But the Frenchmen wouldn’t be back, and the Prometheans would never have the chance to realize it had been a lie. In the meanwhile, he had final preparations to make for the eclipse ritual that night.
It was going to be a long day.
The whole day had absolutely dragged, and still, there was no sign of Drake.
Emily waited with the others in the forest a few miles from the castle walls, her back braced against a tree, her bow in her hands. She couldn’t believe he hadn’t joined them yet. She scanned the dappled woods constantly, watching for Drake, waiting for him.
Where in the world is he? What is keeping him? Has something gone wrong? Oh, he’ll probably be here any minute. Just be patient.
It was just that she had been patient for so long.
Lord Rotherstone and she had escaped the castle walls easily before sunrise, and by midmorning had met up with his two fellow agents in the forest.
Drake had told Rotherstone about the secret entrance to the Prometheans’ subterranean temple. They had set out directly for the place.
The three agents were in there doing something, she knew not what, ahead of the midnight ceremony.
But all Emily could think about was Drake.
How much longer before he comes?
Every minute of the day crawled. She knew it would not be easy for him to slip away unnoticed, especially since he had to bring the boy. She hated being separated from him.
All she could think about was getting away from Germany, departing the whole blasted Continent. She wanted to go home. When she was back on English soil, she swore she’d kneel down and kiss the ground.
Inside the rock-hewn temple, Max and his mates strained their muscles, prying the great wooden cap off the old mine shaft.
At last it came free, and he nodded to them. “Let’s move it out of sight so they won’t notice it.”
Rohan hefted the thick wooden circle up onto its side, and Jordan helped him roll it toward a back section of the cave.
“Come on,” Max urged, hurrying them along though they all were fascinated by the place. “Watch your step.”
It was getting darker by the minute, but they did not dare light a lantern as the firedamp fumes from the depths of the mine shaft began drifting out to permeate the temple.
“We’d better get out of here.”
They headed for the long, curving staircase hewn into the cave’s stone wall.
Rohan eyed the pair of statues there darkly. “This looks a lot like that place Kate and I found in the Orkneys—the Alchemist’s Tomb.”
“Wished I could’ve seen it,” Jordan murmured.
“Aye, you would’ve loved it,” the duke said with a grin. “Instead, you had to content yourself with translating the Alchemist’s Scrolls.”
Jordan nodded with a mysterious twinkle in his eyes.
Then they walked in single file under the arch formed by the figures’ joined hands: a heroic male figure and a giant, devilish Prometheus, a large torch between them at the apex.
As they began climbing the stairs, Max paused, pointing toward the sky doors that Drake had described. “It’s closed now, but there’s the shaft that Emily will need to aim for.”
Rohan sent him a skeptical glance. “Can she really do this?”
Max shrugged. “Drake has no doubt she’s skilled enough.”
“But will she?” Jordan murmured.
“He made her promise.” He looked from one to the other and shook his head. “We’ll see. Come on, march. Let’s get out of here.”
“Right.”
They bounded the rest of the way back up the long, carved steps, then slipped back out into the woods, rejoining Emily.
Max warned them all to keep quiet, then they moved through the woods, seeking a higher vantage point from where they could watch all that would be happening down there that night. He wanted to see the full parade of the robed Prometheans approaching for their bizarre moon ritual.
More importantly, Max mused, glancing at Emily in private foreboding, they needed a good position from which their fair archer would be able to make her shot into the temple’s open sky doors at the moment of total eclipse.
Chapter 22
Drake could scarcely fathom how his life had come to this . . . The night of the gathering.
The night of the eclipse.
Darkness had descended over the forest, and a huge full moon had crept up over the jagged peaks.
Robed figures, scores of them, faceless in their hooded cloaks, made their solemn trek through the indigo night in silence, snaking up the road from the castle and disappearing into the lightless opening in the mountain.
No lights were lit so that their eyes could adjust fully to the darkness, the better to view the celestial ballet of the stars and the bright moon and the earth’s black shadow.
Drake, clad in the same dark flowing garment as they, oversaw them all, standing by the entrance. His hood pushed back, his face was expressionless as he watched them warily, accepting their bows to him as leader as they streamed past.
Beneath his cloak, he was heavily armed in case anything went badly.
Meanwhile, his little assistant “knight,” Sir Stefan, waited safely behind the iron door in the underground tunnel that James had made Drake check for wild animals. That was where the sacrificial victims were normally kept until it was time for them to be brought in. Since Drake appeared to be following all the proper protocols, no one seemed to realize yet that anything was wrong.
Inwardly, Drake supposed that half of him was terrified, the other half, oddly serene. He had more or less made peace with his own death, which was imminent, but given the need to focus, he ignored all the churning emotion inside himself and, with cold control, fixed his mind and all his will on the task at hand.
All that mattered on this surreal night was en
ding this war for good and making sure the boy got out alive.
The Prometheans kept coming in their solemn parade across the moonlit field. It was a beautiful, clear night, but dashed eerie. Drake glanced around, discreetly scanning the tree line. Max and his team should be hiding somewhere in range, with Emily under their protection.
Meanwhile, from inside the cave, an ever-growing chorus of deep male voices made the macabre stone vault resonate with the Prometheans’ ancient chants.
The great wooden sky doors sealing the stone shaft remained closed, waiting for all the men to gather. The longer they stayed shut, the better, Drake knew. Opening them would be a high point of the ceremony as the believers turned their attention to the night sky.
Nodding to the last of the men to arrive, again Drake mentally rehearsed the lines he had to say in praise of a force at odds with the beauty that surrounded them. The very shape of these majestic mountains proclaimed the mighty power of their Maker, but the Prometheans were pledged to the rebel angels’ side, the sworn enemies of God.
He wrapped his hand around the hilt of the dagger under his robe and reminded himself of the motto of the Order of St. Michael the Archangel, savoring every word. “He makes His angels winds, and His servants flames of fire.”
When the last Promethean had entered the temple, Drake personally pulled the great stone door shut and made sure it was locked.
No one would be getting out alive.
Then he pulled up his hood, his eyes gleaming in the darkness, and began walking slowly down the rock-hewn steps. He could detect no smell of the fumes that had been building up all day in the temple provided Max had done his part.
Because the explosive gas was odorless, Drake had no evidence to put his mind at ease. He could only pray that his fellow agents had opened the old mine shaft.
There was no remedy now but blind faith to hope that this plan was going to work.
It had to. The Order had never in all its centuries-long history had a chance like this. For him, that left no choice but to trust his four allies with his life.
His shoulders squared, Drake walked under the arch with its towering satanic figures. The brethren cleared a path for him, their chosen leader, as he crossed toward the altar.
