“But your wounds heal. How did you scar?”
Merrick wrapped her fingers tightly in his. “A Templar blade will wound and leave behind the evidence. The holy steel, and Azazel’s demons, are the only weaknesses we have.” His mouth curled in a cruel smirk. “What better way to torture the devoted than to turn his sword upon him.”
Anne couldn’t stop a shocked cry from tumbling free. She bolted upright. “But the Inquisition could not draw blood.”
He shook his head with a snort. “They did. They hung me from the rafters with weights on my legs in my own property and carved on me to contrive a confession.”
Anne’s throat closed. Imprisoned at Chinon. Oh God. Impulsively, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to the timeless reminder of what his loyalty cost. Working her way up his body, she showered him with light kisses until she found his mouth. There, she settled in deep, telling him the only way she knew how that she shared his pain, his grief … That she understood.
A rumble of pleasure rose to the back of his throat, and clasping her body to his, he eased her into the pillows. One roughened hand covered her breast as he claimed her mouth with greedy hunger. Against her thigh, she felt the hard length of his arousal, sure evidence of his intentions. Resigning herself to a morning of absolute bliss, Anne looped her arms around his neck and made room for him between her legs.
The loud peal of a horn crashed through the pitter of rainfall against her windowpane.
Merrick leapt from the bed so quickly she almost believed he’d never been beside her. In seconds, he had his jeans on and was shaking out his shirt.
Anne sat up, her brows furrowed in confusion. “What is it?”
“Azazel has found the third nail.”
Her heart drummed to a stop. Not the nail. Shaking her head, she refused to believe his implication.
But as he reached for his sword and buckled it around his waist, she couldn’t pretend ignorance. The time for silence was over. They must discuss her vision now. She swallowed hard and asked quietly, “You’re going to fight?”
He paused only a moment, the look he gave her full of dark foreboding. With a short nod, he murmured, “Aye.” Merrick turned away to stuff his feet into his laceless boots. “Wait here. I will attend you before I leave.”
As he straightened, Anne clutched at his hand. He was leaving without their binding oath. Mikhail sent him regardless, and Mikhail swore none would return. This wasn’t happening. She had to stop it. Words rushed out, discombobulated and nowhere near as eloquent as she’d planned. “Don’t go, Merrick. You don’t have to fight. Stay with me. We can leave, we can go wherever, but don’t go to this battle.”
His stern expression squashed all the hope she’d harbored. “Never ask such of me again, Anne. I gave my word. I am sworn to the sword.”
With that, he stormed from her room.
* * *
Merrick descended into the lower chambers, then deeper, entering the inner sanctum. There, every man filed into place and stood at rigid attention, turning the spacious, circular nave into a sea of expectant faces. From atop the far dais, Mikhail and Raphael looked out amongst the gathered knights, patiently waiting for the slower members to arrive. Beside them, Caradoc, Nikolas, and Gareth stood silently.
Merrick joined them, his heart heavy. Hours from now, he would inevitably meet his cousin to fulfill their oath. But Merrick found the vow no longer mattered. The only thing he cared for lay upstairs in that great bed, and all he desired was the means to spend a life with Anne. But her proposition that they leave was unacceptable.
He stared out at his brothers, feeling the futility of their plight. No other seraph had arrived, and Anne knew not her intended. Without one strong enough, without the moral compass to lead the faltering knights, they were certain to fail. ’Twould be a better fate to surrender the third nail and rally for Azazel’s subsequent strike.
Looking to the three who gathered with him on the dais, he read the same futility in their vacant stares.
“Brothers in arms,” Mikhail’s voice rose above the hushed murmurs. The room fell silent. “Raphael has returned from Louisiana only a few moments ago. Gate three is strained to its limits. By nightfall it will fail. We have reason to believe all manner of darkness will converge upon the adytum along the Bayou Bourbeaux and the nail hidden in her stairs. Elspeth has been relocated to safeguard her life.”
Merrick eyed Mikhail as he mentally processed the grounds, the coordinated plans, and where the knights would have the largest advantage. If Elspeth no longer resided in the antebellum home, then he would need to assign several men to guard the front doors. He would take that position as well—for most assuredly Fulk would strike for the nail ensconced beneath the sweeping stairwell. Meanwhile, Uriel would lead a handful of the European knights in rebuilding the time-decayed gate between Azazel’s realm and man’s.
“The cars are ready. You will depart in groups of ten, close quarters, I know. Fill the vehicles and depart immediately. Your placements will be given in cipher over your phones. I am sorry I cannot better prepare you with our strategy. Our time is too short, the travel too long.”
A low rumble broke through the ranks as the men grasped the urgency. Even Merrick felt the thrum of anxiety. After centuries of fighting, the call of battle ran so deep in their blood they could not help but anticipate the conflict. Too long their skills lay idle, tested only in brief skirmishes at ruptured gates with creatures who offered no severe threat.
“Begin your personal preparations. Attend to your prayers, your armor, your thoughts. Gabriel shall return to look after the temple in my stead, and I will fight, as will Raphael, beside you. Go now. I shall see you all along the banks.”
The men filed up the stairs in pairs, their voices somber, if they spoke at all.
In no mood for conversation, Merrick evaded Mikhail’s expectant look and fell into step beside Gareth, following Caradoc and Nikolas. At the top of the stairwell, Gareth clamped a firm hand on Merrick’s shoulder. His usual jovial smile missing, he gave Merrick a hard look. “She loves you.”
Like a blade slicing through his flesh, Merrick’s heart bled. He grimaced, the truth too powerful to confront. “Mayhap,” he allowed in quiet murmur.
“Go from this, Merrick. What proof have you that her intended still lives? Take her away. Take yourself from this madness.”
Stiffening, Merrick set his jaw. “I cannot. I swore my oath, the same as you. Another as well. Whilst I might accept the condemnation of the Order, I pledged salvation to my cousin. Until he rests eternal…” Merrick shook his head. “Nay. I cannot break my vows.”
“Then pray well, and I shall stay at your side.”
Merrick turned away from Gareth’s earnest stare. Grief poured down upon him in great buckets. He had but found her. He cared not about her intended, she had rooted herself so deep into his heart, and that disregard bore down on him like a vise. That he could turn from his brothers so easily spoke to the stain upon his soul. ’Twould be a better fate for all, should he not return. Whilst Anne would mourn, she would not bind herself to one who possessed no honor.
Aye, he would welcome his fate, take comfort in the knowledge Gareth would send him unto the Almighty when the felling blow forever claimed his soul. Anne would rise above her sorrow, become a great lady among the men. She would suffer no more of his selfishness, of his dishonorable acts.
Accepting what he could not change, Merrick shoved his way into his chambers. He looked to the bed, pictured her sleeping there. She lived in the table, still positioned where they had recorded marks. Her perfume clung in the air, a scent he longed to capture and take with him.
Closing his eyes, he stifled tears that had not risen since his mother’s death. God’s teeth, he would never forget his demon Anne.
CHAPTER 32
An hour of ghostly silence had Anne jumping at every sound. Below, the house was as still as death, the only interruption in the deafening silence, the occasional sla
m of car doors and a departing silver vehicle.
Merrick had been annoyed with her plea, might very well have left without saying good-bye. Her chest heaved in unison with her empty stomach. She’d never forgive him if he had. This wasn’t happening. Couldn’t be. It didn’t make sense either. Mikhail had mentioned the vow. Had specifically said with it, Merrick would be forced to lead. Yet he was leading anyway. There had to be a way to make him see reason and choose her, their love, over all the deaths, the risks.
Another set of footsteps preceded the slamming of the front door, and Anne darted for the window once more. Ten more men piled into a silver SUV, swords in one hand, duffel bags in the other. The vehicle’s lights cut through the heavy rain as it reversed. Barreling through the open iron gates, it disappeared down the narrow street.
She’d had enough waiting. Oath or no oath, she’d convince Merrick to leave with her. If she could have just ten minutes alone with him, she’d tell him everything. Somehow, she’d make him agree.
Foregoing shoes, she ran from her room, down the stairs, and skidded to a stop in the vast commons area. The television sat dark and silent. The chairs were empty. Anne rubbed her arms as a chill crept down her spine. She’d never seen the house so desolate.
Following the sound of hushed voices, she made her way to the stairwell that led to the private rooms beneath the house and descended into the stone depths. As she walked the halls, she passed small gatherings of knights, all absorbed in conversation. For the first time since her arrival, no one turned to look. Not a single man noticed her presence.
She stood in the centermost corridor, debating whether to try Merrick’s room first or whether he would be with Mikhail. Deciding to try the closer destination—his room—she pivoted around, only to collide into a wide chest. Startled, she backed up, an apology ready on her tongue.
Farran’s grim features silenced her words. He caught her by the shoulders, steadying her, all the while studying her with his usual dark frown. Anne flinched beneath his scrutiny, certain he’d send her back upstairs, tell her she had no business down here.
Instead, Farran turned her around and pointed toward the narrow doorway that led to the inner sanctum.
Anne looked at him in wide-eyed disbelief. The man who didn’t know the meaning of a smile wanted her to enter?
“Be quiet, milady. Stay out of the way.” With the hushed warning, Farran gave her a nudge toward the stairwell.
Her heart skipped a beat over the prospect of finally discovering the Templar secrets. She checked a threatening squeal of delight and forced her demeanor to look calm, disinterested. The history would wait a little longer. Merrick’s life wouldn’t.
Still, her curiosity refused to step aside as she slowly descended and studied the time-honored symbols etched into the walls. A bright sun, a quarter moon depicted with a face, the star of David, a horse bearing two riders—all carried meanings she and her colleagues had only guessed at through the years. Would she learn their true purpose? Was there, somewhere down here, a key to the pictorial cipher?
At the bottom of the never-ending, crude stone steps, Anne came to a standstill, and a soft gasp tumbled loose. The air was cooler, tinged with dampness. But where the stonework above was simple and crude, this was nothing less than breathtaking. A page ripped straight from ancient Europe reached out all around her.
Towering vaulted arches, nearly fifty feet tall, supported a mosaic ceiling painted in bright color. Fleurs-de-lis, crosses, knights and a dozen other mystical symbols were carved into the massive stone blocks that created the base of the arches. In the joints, the areas designed to give cushion to the shifting of the earth, intricately detailed gargoyle heads merged with floral patterns and ornate scrollwork.
She took a tentative step into the candlelit nave and spun in a slow circle, amazed by the exquisite hand-tooled art. As she turned, her eyes followed the designs, and another piece of history clicked into place. Like the Temple Church in London, this too mimicked the layout of Jerusalem’s Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Only, where the others opened into a larger, rectangular area, the nave here branched in two opposite directions, two short halls, both lit with torches that illuminated a series of wooden doors.
Moving to her right, Anne rounded a thick column. Her gaze followed the bright play of lights and the glitter of gold filigree along the walls to a stone-topped altar draped in crimson cloth. Head bowed, Merrick bent on one knee before an ornate golden cross.
He wore the regalia recorded by scholars—pristine white surcoat over a hauberk of chain. His sword extended beyond his left thigh, and his long dark hair dusted across his shoulders. Anne’s heart tripped at the sound of his low voice, the deep baritone murmur echoing off the massive walls. He spoke in Latin, a melodic language she hadn’t heard beyond the classroom.
One hand braced on the column of stone, Anne stared speechless. The reverence of the temple soaked into her. Men lived and died here. They had been doing so for centuries. Each swore his life to the cause, and had done so willingly, even knowing the threat he faced. No one forced their hands. No one pressed them into service.
The low melodic cadence of Merrick’s prayer mingled with her awe, each hypnotic syllable unveiling secrets that had been beneath her nose the entire time. The threat the Church feared had nothing to do with symbols, or relics, or even battles. What cowed the mighty clergy was faith. Faith in brothers, in mankind, and above all, in the Almighty. The symbols meant nothing if no one believed. An ark was a box, a grail a basic cup.
The vows these men took, the noble purpose they truly lived by, generated thousands of followers, numbers so high and property so vast they could have easily formed their own nation. In a time where clergy could be bought, where power came from purchased loyalty, the Templar jeopardized the Church’s reign of fear. Tied so tightly to the corrupt vassals of religion, one word contradicting the Church’s position on anything, and the Templar possessed the ability to turn religion upside down.
Sabotaging them became a necessity.
Goose bumps lifted the hairs on her arms. Merrick couldn’t leave with her. She didn’t dare even ask. This wasn’t just something he participated in, something he could turn away from. It made him. Men counted on him, angels depended on him. Like this simple stonework that picks and chisels turned into art, the simple man born a noble bastard transformed into beauty with purpose. In every sense of the meaning, every fiber of his being, Merrick was Templar.
As he rose and crossed himself, he turned toward her. His stormy eyes locked with hers, and Anne’s heart swelled. She loved him. More than the knowledge she’d craved, more than the career she’d worked for. Merrick du Loire meant everything to her, and just as she couldn’t ask him to abandon what he was, she couldn’t walk away. Somehow, she had to find the courage to stay. She could art over her tattoo, fill her role—whatever it was—without ever taking the damning oath that would claim Merrick’s life.
Anne rushed across the floor. “Merrick…”
He grabbed her to him. In the fierceness of his kiss she felt his love, heard the silent words her heart longed for. When he released her, the hitch in his breathing made her belly flutter. He touched his forehead to hers and gathered her hands between them to press a kiss against her knuckles.
“Come back to me, Merrick,” she whispered.
He withdrew, closing his eyes to pain she couldn’t understand. When he looked at her again, those onyx portals filled with sorrow that clawed at her soul. His throat worked as he swallowed, and he pulled in a deep breath. “I cannot come back to you, Anne. You belong to another man.”
The claws raked deeper, shredding her into pieces. “No,” she protested.
Firm resolution turned his features hard. “You will write down your mark and leave it with Gabriel. You shall be safe whilst I am away—Tane will fight with us, then shall be removed from the Order.”
“Merrick.” She tugged at her hands, desperate to touch him, to draw him back into h
er arms and convince him out of this insanity. He loved her. She loved him. This business of her stupid tattoo was all red tape. She’d tell him. He couldn’t make her swear an oath that would kill him. But he’d know who she belonged with, and he’d have to return.
He held her wrists fast. “No, little demon,” he murmured. Leaning forward, he pressed his lips to hers in a lingering, chaste kiss. “You will always have my heart, but you are not mine to love.”
“But Merrick, I—”
A firm bellow she knew all too well cut her off. “Anne!”
I love you.
Merrick whipped around. Over his shoulder, Anne glimpsed Gabe’s unmistakable gray dreadlocks. Ignoring her former boss, and God’s messenger, Anne pulled on Merrick’s shoulder. “Merrick, I belong with—”
Gabe caught up to them and clasped her elbow. “Anne, let Merrick go. You have plenty of time to kiss him later. Come with me—I must teach you your role in this battle.”
Merrick kissed her cheek then released her hands. “Always my heart,” he whispered as he turned away.
Torn, Anne took a step toward him, intending to stop his retreat. But Gabe held her fast, the pressure on her arm forcing her to follow him. “Oh, for God’s sake, let me go, Gabe. He’s leaving.”
“Yes. As is every knight.”
“But you don’t understand.” She plied at his fingers. “I have to tell him I love him, or he’ll leave me!”
With a shake of his head, Gabe led her into one of the connecting rooms and laughed. “Don’t be silly. The oath you took won’t let him leave you. If you’re fighting, it will work out. You two are bound for eternity. Or did Merrick neglect to tell you that?”
The hair on the back of Anne’s neck lifted. Something wasn’t right. Gabe was entirely too jovial in the face of death. If they were bound for eternity, that implied Merrick couldn’t die. She stared at Gabe, afraid to even breathe.
His smile vanished. His eyes dropped to her arm, as if he could see the armband beneath her sleeve. “You did take the oath didn’t you?”
Immortal Hope: The Curse of the Templars Page 31
