Horseman: A Nate Temple Supernatural Thriller Book 10 (The Temple Chronicles)

by Shayne Silvers

  I scanned the dark lawn, looking for…

  My son.

  But no one was outside. “ALEX!” I roared, panting as I bolted for the mansion. I didn’t know what that stupid plant had been referring to, but Pandora believed Alex to be important, and all I’d been able to think about was that maybe Mordred had snatched him up in my absence.

  I would never forgive myself if anything happened to him…

  I poured on the speed, screaming and shouting his name as I ran through the halls.

  This dad would burn the world if he had to. No one touched my family…

  Chapter 42

  After scaring all the people in the mansion half to death, I found Alex quite by accident. I’d run back to the Sanctorum to recruit Talon for help in my search, and saw Alex reading at the desk and Talon crouched a pace away from my satchel, his Eyeless spear out as if daring anyone to come too close. I skidded to a halt, panting, my adrenaline suddenly flickering out.

  “What is it?” they both shouted, jumping to their feet at the look on my face.

  I leaned over, placing my hands on my knees, panting. “Sweet baby Jesus. You’re okay.”

  Alex was suddenly gripping my shoulders. “What do you mean? Is everything okay—”

  I wrapped him into a tight hug, squeezing him hard enough to produce a grunt, and pounding his back. “Everything is fine, now. I thought you were in trouble,” I told him.

  He hugged me back, and I saw Talon watching us thoughtfully. As were the Ravens, perched up on the second-floor railing. I finally released Alex and shook my head in relief.

  “You look like you could use a drink,” he said, frowning at me.

  I waved away the offer. “No way. Alcohol is the devil,” I told him in mock seriousness.

  The two of them studied me, both wanting to demand answers, but sensing I wasn’t interested in discussion. To be honest, all I had needed to know was that Alex was okay. If I could have locked him up in the Armory, I would have done so.

  But Pandora had locked it down. Which was better anyway. I’d had no reason to think Alex was in danger from Mordred, but with that stupid potted plant’s comment, and Pandora believing him so important to me, I was done taking any chances.

  “If everything is okay, I was just getting ready to head out,” Alex said slowly.

  I looked up at him sharply. “No. I need you to stay here at Chateau Falco where it’s safe. There’s a mad man on the loose, and he’ll do anything to hurt me.”

  Alex smiled smugly. “Isn’t that fortuitous… You want me safe, right?” I nodded, not appreciating the sound of his amused tone. “That’s great. Because Midas invited me to Fight Night tonight – as a spectator,” he clarified before I could pounce. “Not a safer place in the world. That’s what you said earlier, right?” he smiled triumphantly, using my own words against me.

  “Oh,” I finally said, coming up with no logical argument to use against my own earlier suggestion that Alex visit the Dueling Grounds. “Just… stay safe,” I said lamely, knowing he was right. It really was the safest game in town. He couldn’t die there. “And always stick close to friends,” I added in a commanding tone. That way he couldn’t easily be kidnapped.

  Jesus. I really was turning into a dad.

  Alex nodded, and left the Sanctorum with a little more pep to his step than I would have liked, but he was smart enough not to rub my face in his victory.

  I turned to find Talon staring at me, demanding answers. I told him about my brief trip and relished in the stunned look on his face. Finally, he spoke, shaking his head. “We need to keep an eye on her. What do you think her plant meant?”

  I shrugged. “I have no idea, man. Maybe it was just screwing with me.”

  Talon frowned doubtfully. “It would have to know you in order to know how to manipulate you…”

  I sighed, harboring vague suspicions on the talking plant. Othello had told me about the Seed to the Tree of Knowledge being stolen. Was Quinn’s potted plant really the result of that seed taking life? Had she actually succeeded in stealing it, and then decided to not hand it over to Othello? It would explain how it had known so much about me… “I’ll look into it later,” I said turning away from him as I tried to clear my head. “Right now, we need to strategize.”

  When Talon didn’t respond after a few moments, I turned back around.

  He was crouched down again, this time practically at my feet. “You Named me, Wylde,” he said in a strained whisper. “You. Not my parents. You.” His eyes were desperate, frustrated, and frightened. “Why did you give me this name? Talon. The Devourer.” I hated seeing the hurt, the frustration, the impotence, in those eyes.

  We both knew it meant something significant, but neither knew how I had done it. There was no way I could have chosen to name Carl and Talon so specifically. And… my parents, in Hell, had told me that both Carl and Talon were vital to me. It had to be connected.

  I clenched my fist, angrily. “I don’t know, Tal. Without remembering my Fae childhood, I have no idea…” I admitted. “Maybe Pan would know, but he’s gone, and I don’t know where.” Which was probably by design. A subtle hint that he probably knew I would lean on him, perhaps do something reckless to find my answer…

  And being Pan, he probably knew my action would only make things worse, so he was removing the temptation, hiding from me. I both hated and loved him for it.

  Talon dropped his chin, scratching at the floor with a razor-sharp claw. His gaze drifted to the Round Table after a few moments. “You know Mordred wants that more than anything…”

  I grunted. “Maybe we just give it to him.”

  Talon frowned, slowly turning to look at me. “Never quit never quitting…” he reminded me.

  I thought about it. Not his words, but a half-formed plan that had been percolating in my mind. At first, I’d considered it just to let off some steam, a way to trick myself into thinking I wasn’t just running around in circles. I didn’t really see an end-game in my idea, but it would give me some intelligence on Mordred…

  Whatever that was worth.

  “I’m not quitting, Tal. But maybe we could use it as bait. To draw him out. All this time, I’ve been reacting. What if…” I chuckled at the bad pun, “I turn the table on him.”

  “We can’t just hand over the Table, Wylde. What if it makes an already incredibly dangerous enemy even more dangerous? We can’t gamble with it until we know why he wants it.”

  I turned to him. “Maybe we should just go ask him what he wants with it. Tonight.”

  Talon groaned. “Give up our only two advantages? Time and the Table?” he asked, exasperated.

  I met his eyes, letting him know how serious I was. “Let’s face it, Tal. Mordred is too strong. Anubis said I would have to use every tool at my disposal. My magic, my Horseman’s Mask, and anything else I could beg, borrow, or steal,” I added, quoting Anubis. “And even with all that, I don’t think Mordred is going to just stand around as we poke holes in him, leeching out the Nine Souls one-by-one. And what about his own soul? Does he technically have ten? The Nine Souls and his own soul?” I laced my fingers behind my head. “Even if he did stand still, we don’t have an extra Devourer to help contain them before sending them back home to Hell. That’s why Anubis told me to find another Devourer. Mine isn’t strong enough to…”

  I trailed off, frowning suddenly. Souls. Home.

  “What is it?” Talon asked, squinting at me suspiciously.

  Never quit never quitting. Cheat like a bastard to win like a king.

  If it was all hopeless, then maybe I should just take all hope from the game.

  Change the rules.

  Cheat like a bastard.

  Turn Mordred’s very real scheme into…

  Nothing but a game.

  I finally turned to Talon, a very dark smile on my face. “I need you to find Grimm and make sure that – no matter what – Alex does not leave Chateau Falco tonight.”

  Talon nodded
obediently, even though I could see he didn’t understand my change of heart regarding Alex.

  “Then I need you to round up the boys. We’re going to have a night out. We’re going to play a fucking game, Tal. A game to make even Neverland jealous…”

  Chapter 43

  I studied my reflection in the metal elevator doors as it ascended. I wore a pair of dressy, but comfy dark jeans, dark boots, and a black dress shirt. I wanted to look respectable and respectful, but to also be functional.

  Everything was in motion. All that was left was for me to set the hook. To rattle Mordred’s cage. To fling poo at the monkey and hope for the best. My only other option was to sit back and let events unfold as Mordred dictated – at Chateau Falco tomorrow – forcing me to react to his no-doubt extensive, meticulously diabolical plan.

  And that hadn’t worked out too well for me at the speech, my last encounter with Mordred.

  The elevator door opened to reveal a swanky Penthouse suite in downtown St. Louis.

  Mordred was waiting for me in the massive living area directly in front of the elevator, sitting in one of two oxblood chaise lounge chairs. “Welcome, Nate,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you to call on me, old friend.”

  I knew that no one else would be present, because Mordred had nothing to fear from me. He needed to be healthy and whole for our meeting tomorrow. But even if I was stupid enough to attack him right now, it wasn’t like I was anywhere near strong enough to take on him and his Nine Souls – in the center of downtown St. Louis, in the hotel room he’d signed for, after I’d signed in at the lobby downstairs to request a private meeting.

  A fight between us would destroy buildings. No way to hide it. So, this really was just a talk, believe it or not.

  I tightened the strap of my satchel like it was a gun holster, and aimed a fifty-caliber smile between his eyes. “Me too,” I admitted, walking up to him.

  He opened a new bottle of twenty-year Ardbeg scotch, poured it into a fresh glass, and swirled it around with one hand. Then he slowly lifted it to his lips, took a liberal drink, swallowed it, and then opened his mouth.

  Proving it wasn’t poisoned.

  Not wanting to swap fluids with someone from the Middle Ages, I shook my head politely, patting my satchel lightly. “No offense, but I’m used to bringing my own just in case the host’s selection is sub-par.”

  He found my comment amusing rather than offensive, chuckling as he motioned for me to proceed. I reached into my satchel and pulled out a bottle of Macallan and a glass. I poured a drink, set it on a side table beside a second oxblood chair, and took a seat.

  I sank into the cushions with a pleased sigh, discreetly assessing Mordred. He hadn’t flinched, hesitated, or even blinked as I reached into my satchel to grab my drinking gear. Not a flicker of concern that I might whip out a weapon or something. The chair, I also noticed, was almost an exact replica of my favorite chair at Chateau Falco. The one I had placed on my lawn to watch dragons and werewolves tear each other to pieces the same night I had helped Mordred escape Hell.

  The same chair I’d sat in after Kai had sacrificed his life to save me.

  From the look in his eyes, Mordred knew all of this. Neither of us found it necessary to openly acknowledge any of these facts.

  “To get the preliminaries out of the way,” he began in a polite, but rote, tone, “I have no animosity towards you, Nate. I also have no fear of you.”

  I didn’t react to his subtle challenge. I was too busy assessing the painting to my left, nowhere near Mordred. I murmured approvingly at it before turning back to my host. He had a very perplexed look on his face, having expected me to flare up at his overly polite, threatening, non-threat.

  I chuckled, lifting my palms in a whatever gesture. “Dude. Chill out.” I lifted my glass to my lips, and did as suggested, taking a long, relaxing drink. Then I hung my arm over the armrest, swirling my drink contentedly. “This is nice, isn’t it? Two powerful wizards, hanging out at the top of a tower, drinking good scotch, and sharing prison stories. The opportunity doesn’t come up as often as you would think.”

  He watched me in silence, eyes calculating. He was entirely different from how he’d acted during our speech where he’d been in complete control of the situation. Eventually, he repositioned himself in his chair to get more comfortable, more relaxed, and took a drink. I figured he was trying to marry the Nate Temple he saw in front of him with whatever psych eval his source had given him about me.

  Readjusting.

  Restrategizing.

  Calculating a hundred minute variables.

  Which was entirely intentional, on my part.

  I knew what people said about me, what they thought and felt about me, how I typically reacted to emotional triggers… I’d meticulously considered all that before walking up to his hotel. Mordred’s source of intelligence had handed over a big fat personality profile on Nate Temple.

  And I was casually lighting it on fire with all the respect for authenticity one would give a tabloid magazine.

  To be able to maintain character, I’d had to convince even myself that this was all just a game, a charade. None of it mattered. At least, that’s what I needed Mordred to see from me. That his assessment of his foe was grossly incorrect.

  In that way, his anger might subconsciously be redirected to whoever had been giving him information on me in the first place, distracting Mordred enough to hopefully fumble into my new game unwillingly.

  This was a stage play. And I was both the lead actor and director. I smiled at him, careful to keep my grin care-free, unconcerned, and not remotely arrogant or scheming.

  A slow smile split his cheeks. “You know, this is much more fun than I had been led to believe.”

  “Right?” I agreed emphatically, patting my armrest and chuckling.

  Mordred chuckled along with me, drumming his fingers on his glass as he studied me like I was an exotic purple pigeon he had found in the park. “Why exactly are you here tonight, Nate?” he finally asked.

  I laughed as if he’d told me an inside joke. “What a funny coincidence! I came here to ask what you’re doing in St. Louis!” I said, shaking my head at the serendipity. “I figured I should hear it from your own lips rather than relying on hearsay, which is often terribly inaccurate…” I added, winking jovially.

  No missing that reference – how his source of information on me had been nothing but false fluff.

  Mordred sighed, hanging his head in admission. “It seems I should have done the same. But it’s water under the bridge, now. It’s not like I can bring my source back from the dead to reprimand him.”

  My heart might have fluttered at those words, but I kept my face calm, merely arching an eyebrow.

  Mordred lifted a glass in cheers. “To Tomas Mullingsworth,” he said in an honorary tone.

  And my mind kind of winked on and off a few times as I struggled to keep a straight face. Tomas Mullingsworth had been Mordred’s source? The dragon hunter? I recalled reading the article about his disappearance, and forced down my instinctive shudder.

  “Tomas was quite fond of you, Temple, even to the end,” Mordred said in a somber tone, snapping me out of my reverie. He looked slightly frustrated, so I must have maintained my façade. “His loyalty made me resort to more… medieval tactics to learn what I thought I needed to know about you.” He let out a sigh. “And to learn that, ultimately, his death meant nothing… Pity. Live by the sword, die by the sword, as they say.” He sipped at his drink, watching me.

  I managed to cock my head and frown in disappointment. “Out of all the people you could have chosen… you picked a man I hardly knew, from years ago…” I said, hiding the very real pain threatening to consume me. “And rather than admitting that personal mistake, you… tortured him to death?” I asked distastefully. Mordred nodded, gauging me for any cracks in my composure.

  My composure was slipping, though, and I could think of only one way to maintain it. I focused on t
he few funny moments I had of Tomas – when I had snuck into his apartment to leave behind a stalker’s board of pictures that sent his date running and screaming from the building, or when his crew of dragon hunter pals had knocked me off the roof of a strip club with a blunt crossbow bolt to the kidney.

  And… I laughed.

  A belting, eye-watering, soul-deep laugh. For Mordred’s sake, I made it insulting, but inwardly, it was me paying homage to the dragon hunter. He’d stood no chance against Mordred, so I held no ill will for him giving away anything on me. The fact that he was now dead told me he had fought to the end.

  My laughter finally faded as I noticed the tight look on Mordred’s face. “Sorry. It’s just… well, it’s all rather ridiculous, isn’t it?”

  And I took a drink, managing not to rattle the glass against my teeth under Mordred’s very controlled glare. Tomas hadn’t been a saint, but he’d been a damned fine guy, overall. And to feign nonchalance right now felt like the worst kind of betrayal, but I also knew it was a form of tribute. To prove – with my laughter – that Tomas hadn’t given Mordred anything useful. If Tomas was up there somewhere, looking down on me, he’d be laughing his ass off, cheering me on.

  I just knew it.

  And that belief was the only thing that let me pull off my charade for Mordred.

  He finally waved a hand. “It seems his death was doubly pointless, then.”

  “Just for the record,” I said, giving him a polite, but stern glare. “I don’t appreciate you murdering associates and acquaintances of mine. It’s very… sloppy, if I’m being honest.” And I gave him my best dad look, silently saying, I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed… “Perhaps we can get back to more pressing business…” I suggested, and Mordred nodded tightly. I gathered my thoughts, deciding where to start, first. “Your personal vendetta is with Camelot, where you already have an army on the march.” He didn’t seem surprised by my knowledge, so I pressed on in a polite, but firm tone. “Why make a spectacle of yourself, here, in St. Louis?”