“Iain?” Farran’s voice pulled him from thought.
“Aye.” He shook off apprehension and schooled his expression into what he hoped was disinterest. “She claims the prioress gifted it.”
At that, Farran let out a hearty laugh. “Does such surprise you? We are a stain on the traditional Catholic histories. I suspect she would wish to be free of the trinket.”
Mayhap, but Iain could not shake the soul-deep suspicion that Azazel had something else underfoot.
I volunteer in the archives.
Catherine’s explanation echoed in Iain’s head, triggering centuries of warrior instincts. He abruptly rose, driven by a sixth sense he could not name if he wished to. “Pardon me, Farran, I must attend to something.”
He did not wait for Farran to bid good-bye. Striding down the hall, he struck a course directly to Mikhail’s office, where he thumped three times upon the door.
“Enter, Iain.”
He bristled. It still unnerved him how Mikhail greeted his men without ever hearing their voices. At least Raphael possessed the good grace to inquire who knocked, though ’twas unnecessary. Beating back an unpleasant chill, Iain pushed the door open.
Mikhail sat in the light his very presence created, bent over his desk, writing in the journal he occupied his days with. On the wall behind him, the faint outline of his wings stood out in bas relief. They undulated once, stirring the musty air. “What can I do for you?”
No note of warmth clung to Mikhail’s voice, reminding Iain he was not wanted amongst the archangels. Though men might understand his hesitation to support the Templar purpose, the Almighty’s servants condemned it.
“Armand Dupris—what happened to the boy he brought here?”
Mikhail lifted his reddish head and pinned Iain with a stare so hard, his heart shuddered. “I barely remember Dupris, and you expect me to recall a child who was a product of his wishful desires? Do not bother me with such trivial matters, Sir Knight, when there are more important things at hand.” His condescending gaze raked over Iain, taking him in from head to boots. “Such as the nature of your faith. Have you resolved your conscience effectively?”
In eight hundred years of service to the Templar, Iain rarely possessed cause to interact with Mikhail. But he would stake his very soul on the suspicion the Almighty’s greatest warrior knew far more about that mysterious boy.
“Nay, I still search for answers.”
Mikhail’s countenance turned as hard and unyielding as the many marble likenesses that stood scattered throughout the world. The light in his eyes became so harsh Iain had to lower his gaze. “Do not interrupt me again, Iain Donnelly, until you have decided whether you will honor your blood oath to this Order, or whether you will yield your eternal soul.” He pointed his quill at the door. “Leave me. Now.”
Seven
For what remained of the afternoon, Iain scoured through the temple library, searching for records on Dupris. He located documentation of the knight’s arrival, a vague record that logged payment to an unnamed nun within the timeframe Farran referenced. He even discovered an official ledger entry which documented the knight’s death, responsibility assigned to Azazel, his remains not disposed in the incinerator in the temple’s belly, but in a tomb, location unmarked, companion to three master masons.
No trace remained of the child. But the burial only cemented Iain’s suspicion that Mikhail knew more about Armand Dupris than he let on.
Iain mulled the reasons why around in his head whilst he sat in the parking lot, waiting for Catherine’s arrival. Each theory he tested only led to one conclusion—he cared naught for Mikhail’s secrecy. It implied the archangels possessed something to hide, and leaders who sought to bury truths oft misled their following.
Catherine jogged down the long set of concrete stairs, pulling him from his ruminations. At the sight of her blond hair swishing against her shoulders, the flush of color in her cheeks, and the smile that brightened her pretty face when she spied him, Iain’s breath caught. Saints’ toes, too much time had passed since a woman looked at him as if he mattered.
If circumstances were but different . . .
He squelched the thought and returned her smile as she neared the truck. Too late, he remembered himself enough to open her door for her. She ducked inside, smelling of flowers and the outdoors. “Hi.”
“Good afternoon.” He eased the truck into reverse and backed out of the spot. “How was your day?”
“Wonderful actually.” All the awkwardness of the morning forgotten, she answered with the rush of excitement. “I made progress with my principal on the textbooks we desperately need. He agreed to present it to the board and ask for funding. It may not go anywhere, but at least he’s supportive.”
Naught of what she said made sense, but her obvious happiness soaked into him, erasing the darkness caused by his time in the temple. “They might refuse something that is needed so greatly?”
Catherine settled into her seat, chuckling. “You clearly don’t listen to the news much, do you?”
He gave her a puzzled look. “What do you mean?”
Her grin widened. “Never mind. The long and the short of it is yes, it wouldn’t surprise me at all if the school board denied our request. But let’s not talk about that. I’ve had a wonderful day. How was yours?”
Miserable in comparison. “Curious. I have been researching Armand Dupris.”
In a blink, her smile faltered. “Oh?”
“Aye.” Now, how much to tell her? He supposed he couldn’t begin anywhere without first discussing the Order. “Do you believe the Templar still exist?”
“The Knights Templar?” She cocked her head, her expression rapt with curiosity. “You couldn’t convince me they don’t.”
A strange, unfamiliar warmth spread through him. Her willingness to believe would accomplish much. She would not doubt his sworn profession.
Iain frowned. Nay, he had no intentions of confessing his purpose or his curse. Whether she believed in the Templar mattered not. ’Twas the medallion and its connection to Azazel he wished to discover.
“So you subscribe to the legends?”
“If you ask me, they aren’t legends, though I think there’s quite a bit of exaggeration.” She pushed a lock of hair off her shoulder and twisted to face him more fully. “Maybe I’ve spent too much time in the archives, but there’s enough documentation in Catholic histories to give me a basic understanding. The Church persecuted several hundred. Thousands of men don’t just disappear.”
Pausing for a moment, she nibbled on her lower lip, as if she considered how her beliefs might sound. With less conviction she added, “I could see them going underground. And if they were that dedicated, they wouldn’t just fail to pass on their beliefs.”
What would she say if she knew how close she came to the truth? Iain took another turn, leading them deeper into the city. “I must drop off paperwork for Tane. If you have a moment to stop by the shelter with me, I will tell you what I learned of Armand Dupris when I am finished.”
Catherine ordered her smile to stay in place, despite the chilling effect Iain’s offer had on her system. Learn about her birth parents—she’d spent most of her life learning to let them go. She didn’t want to know them. Didn’t want the endless questions returning.
And yet, after this morning’s awkwardness, the last thing she wanted to do was ruin Iain’s seemingly good mood. So instead, she chose a logical solution. “I probably ought to see about renting a car. I’m pretty sure there’s no saving mine, and I need to get started on a car search.” Although where she would get the money for a new vehicle, she didn’t know. The one reason she still held her job was to satisfy the abbey’s requirement of no personal debts, and she was still trying to pay off heavy loans she’d incurred in college.
Iain gave her a funny look, part puzzled, part amused. Then, with a lopsided grin, he pulled alongside the curb in front of the shelter. “It seems you have just answered my quanda
ry over what we should do this eve.”
This eve? Catherine’s eyes widened. Beyond all the punishment Sister Helen Margaret would deal out if she missed evening prayers, she’d assumed Iain wouldn’t want to spend another evening with her. Too stunned to find a reply, she slid out of the car and followed him inside.
Chaos greeted her as she stepped through the door. From an adjoining room, Tane’s voice combated with a woman’s, each vying for dominance over the other. Frustration edged them both, not anger. When the scent of smoke reached her nose, the reason why they argued became clear. To Catherine’s right, two teenage boys—fifteen if she had to guess—lounged on plush sofas, arrogantly puffing away on cigarettes. A third, slightly older than the pair, sat at a table. He thumped a book shut, glared at the two smokers, and rocketed out of his chair. “Damn it, I can’t fucking do my work with you two jackasses filling the room with smoke.”
“Back off, bro,” the taller boy on the couch said. “Since when are you all books and school and rules and shit?”
“You know you aren’t supposed to be smoking in here. It’s on the sign, Clance,” the third continued. “If I fail this test Monday, I’m done. Done, Clance. And I don’t know about you, but I don’t wanna go out like E. J. Fuckin’ bullet in the face, man. If I go out there”—he thrust an arm at the window—“that’s exactly what’s gonna happen. If you get me kicked out of here, swear to God, I’m gonna—”
His tirade came to an abrupt end as Iain stepped into the room. Without a word, he walked calmly up to the boys on the sofa, plucked their cigarettes from their mouths, and dropped them in a can of Coke. Folding his arms over his chest, he cocked his head, eyebrows lifted in a question neither could mistake—did they intend to protest?
In the same instant, Catherine connected the boy with the book’s words. E. J. Tratham. He wasn’t one of her students, but he’d attended her school. Gossip in the halls had him living on the street when he’d been shot for somehow offending a gang leader.
Damn it! This must be Darrin. Catherine had overheard Diandra Phillips whispering something about Darrin, one of E. J.’s friends lighting out of town because things were getting hot.
Catherine entered the room. “Darrin?” she asked quietly.
The boy’s sudden deer-in-headlights look confirmed her suspicions. She glanced at Iain, subtly inclined her head toward the door. With a nod of understanding, he pointed at the smokers and jerked his thumb toward the exit. “Twenty bucks if you can best me in the weight room.”
Wow. In a hundred years she’d have never pegged Iain as a guy who could relate to troubled teens. But both boys levered themselves out of their seats, neither offering complaints. More noticeably, as they shuffled out of the room, they didn’t roll their eyes or pull sarcastic faces as most were prone to do when corralled by an adult.
Just like that, warmth returned to her veins, pleasantly drifting through her bloodstream until her heart skipped several beats. She ran an unsteady hand down her skirt and smiled at Darrin, who looked from her to the door, like he might bolt at any minute.
“I won’t tell anyone you’re here. I promise.” She took a step forward and gestured at his book. “What are you studying?”
Darrin glanced at the turned-over textbook, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and shrugged. “Nothing special.”
Okay—one of those kids. Terrified of adults, paranoid about letting his smarts show, and too worried he might lose face with his crowd if he let on that he cared. Unfortunately, she dealt with too many boys like him. He probably had a home. Probably parents too. Only they probably didn’t give a damn.
Catherine turned the textbook over. “English?”
Darrin shrugged again.
As she opened the cover to the freshman English I textbook, she noticed a gap between the pages. Lifting an eyebrow, she flipped to the marked spot. Tucked into the spine, she discovered another smaller, paperback book. Her eyes widened as she read the title—King Lear. Shakespeare was only offered to senior honors students.
Catherine set the book down, crossed to the door, and shut it. Then she faced Darrin. He stared at his feet, nervously twisting one worn-out tennis shoe into the carpet.
“Test Monday, huh?”
“Yeah,” he answered quietly. “Essay.”
“On?”
He reached for his book, flipped a few more pages, and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. When he passed it to Catherine, his hand shook. “The function that the Fool serves.”
She read the typewritten topic, handed it back to him. Pulling out a chair, she inclined her head at the one he’d abandoned. “Want a study buddy?”
The smile that struggled on his lips as he slowly eased into his seat made missing evening prayers worth every scathing remark Sister Helen Margaret could conjure.
Eight
It was dark by the time Catherine called the study session to a halt. She closed the textbook—Darrin’s King Lear safely hidden inside once again—and pushed it across the table at him.
He gave her a wide grin. “You’re not too bad for a teacher.”
She chuckled. “I think you’ll do just fine on your test.”
“You don’t think, maybe . . .” Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, he stared at the tabletop. “Maybe you could help me some more before then?”
Before then? Catherine grimaced inwardly. A full weekend in the archives awaited her. No way would she get free from the abbey—especially after skipping prayers and turning her cell phone off tonight.
On the heels of young, masculine laughter, the door behind her opened, forcing her to hurry a response. “I’ll see what I can do.”
She turned as the two boys returned, with Iain laughing along right behind them. His hair was wet, and even from a distance she could smell the clean scent of a fresh shower.
“Aw, c’mon, man, you know it was dumb luck,” the shorter teen teased.
“If you believe such, we can try again tomorrow.” Grinning as he stepped into the room, Iain looked away from the kids. His gaze locked with Catherine’s, intensifying by several degrees. Her heart clanked into her ribs. Oh, man, the guy was really something. Two seconds, and she was all warm and jittery.
He looked away, giving her a few necessary seconds to get her breathing back under control. There should be laws against the way he commanded a room without doing much of anything.
“Iain, Catherine, may I speak with you both?” Tane ducked his head into the room. He nodded at the kids who gathered around the sofa. “Marie has fixed a simple dinner if you wish to join her in the dining room. Do you intend to stay the night?”
Catherine rose from her chair, observing the way the three teens exchanged glances. Darrin, who had been so self-assured moments ago shrugged, deferring to the tallest boy, Clance, the evidential leader of their little band, who in turn answered Tane with the same noncommittal lift of his shoulders.
“We’ll snag some of that food. Not sure how long we’ll stay.”
Moving to Iain’s side, Catherine desperately tried to ignore the way her body perked up the closer she drifted. When his fingers slid against hers, she nearly stumbled, the shock was so delightfully pleasing. He bent his head near to her ear, and whispered, “Did he fare well?”
She gave him a short nod, fell into step at his side, and ordered herself not to think about the perfect way her palm fit against his. Or how equally perfect it felt to have his shoulder brush hers and his forearm supporting her own.
Leaving the teens to their own devices, Iain led them down the hall to what she presumed was Tane’s office. A comfortable desk sat in front of a wide window with two fat armchairs positioned in front of it. Papers scattered across the top and sat in a tidy pile on the floor to the left of Tane’s chair. Iain shut the door behind them, and Catherine dropped into the closest chair, hating the fact she had to release Iain’s hand.
Tane gave them both a welcoming smile and gestured for Iain to take the opposite chair. “Thank you bot
h for assisting with the young men.”
“Make the beds, if you haven’t,” Catherine urged. “Those kids are staying, though they’ll do everything they can to make it look unintentional.”
Chuckling he nodded. “Marie said as much. She convinced them to come in this eve, though we are not yet officially open. My apologies to you both that she and I were unavailable. We were quite unprepared for their arrival.”
As he lowered himself into the chair, Iain’s low voice scraped pleasantly over her skin. “’Twas enjoyable. Physical exertion changed their attitudes.”
Catherine tipped her head thoughtfully. “What were you three doing for so long, anyway?”
“I took them to the weight room. The younger boy, Samuel, would benefit from self-defense classes.” Leaning back in his seat, he stretched his long, muscular legs in front of him. “I do not believe he meant for me to overhear, but ’twould appear he is afraid to leave the shelter.”
“They all are,” Catherine added quietly. Iain’s gaze pulled to her, thoughtful and questioning.
“What makes you say such?” Tane asked.
“Darrin—he’s a student at my school. His friend E. J. was killed less than a week ago. I heard the kids talking about it in the hall. Seems Darrin’s mixed up with the trouble.” She blinked as another thought occurred—his upcoming test. “Oh good grief, his test! He can’t go in on Monday. A girl at school mentioned the same thug that gunned down E. J. is hunting for Darrin now.”
Both men frowned simultaneously. Iain, however, beat Tane to a response. “I can exchange the truck for one of the SUVs and take him in.”
Tane’s concern didn’t particularly surprise Catherine—he obviously cared about teens given he’d created a shelter. But Iain’s offer both surprised and touched her. This wasn’t his project, even if Tane was his brother. Iain had just met the kids and he was offering to go out of his way.
Still, touching and generous as it was, in her heart Catherine knew it wouldn’t work. She shook her head. “He’ll never go. He’ll flunk that test before he’ll ever accept a ride from any one of us. We’re old enough to be his parents—someone will think he really is afraid. When you’re a street kid, even if you are afraid, you never let it show.”
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