Des knew damn well Rinehart wasn’t checking out the dancer. He was in avoidance mode. “You invited him.” It wasn’t a question; more a statement of disbelief.
“You might make your dislike a little less obvious,” Rinehart commented, sidestepping a direct answer.
“I don’t trust him,” Des said. “The guy shows up out of the blue one day and he’s a Knight, no training needed. He’s already trained. By who? And where?” He shook his head. “Makes no sense.”
“Jag trusts him,” Rinehart offered.
Des ground his teeth and wished for another tequila. “Right. I forgot.”
Rinehart snorted. “You’re just pissy because Jag won’t tell you Max’s story. For once, you’re like the rest of us. You’re being told things on a need-to-know basis, and apparently, you don’t need to know.”
Des shot Rinehart a “go to hell” look. “Drink your damn light beer and shut up. If I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.”
Rinehart tilted his beer back, but not before he fixed Des in a far too perceptive stare and let out a bark of laughter. They both knew Rinehart had hit the nail on the head with his assessment, but probably not for the reasons Rinehart thought. Jag’s recent closeness to the Knights’ creator, Salvador, was part of being their leader, a part of the new powers he’d been gifted when he’d found his mate. Des understood that.
Yet Des’s exclusion from Jag’s inner circle bothered him and not because he wanted to have his damn hand held. He worried about what Salvador had told Jag about him. Des knew full well he walked a little too closely to his Beast. Jag had always worried that Des embraced his Beast too readily. Des argued it allowed him control over his darker side. But maybe Salvador knew just how close to that dark side Des felt some days.
Max appeared beside the table, snapping Des out of his reverie. “Looks like they’ll let anyone in this place these days,” Des said, grinning as he acted as if joking, though they both knew he wasn’t.
Grabbing a chair from an empty table, Max turned it so that his arms rested on the back, legs straddling the seat. “You’re afraid I’ll steal some of the attention,” Max said, with a half smile.
Max enjoyed egging Des on. In some ways, Des enjoyed it, too. Kept things interesting. He sort of liked disliking Max. Gave him somewhere to put all the tension when he wasn’t on the battlefield or in bed. “Hey,” Des said, giving a nod. “If you can earn it, take it.” A hint of challenge laced his tone, subtle but evident, by intention. “How’d you even know we were here?”
“I told him,” Rinehart admitted, grinning, the look in his eyes daring Des to give him crap about it.
And Des wanted to. His hand itched to reach up and smack Rinehart’s big-ass cowboy hat right off his head. Instead he said, “I’d say you owe me a tequila, cowboy.”
Des shifted his gaze to Max, about to tell him he was buying the next round after Rinehart paid up, but before he could get the words out, his cell phone rang. He frowned when he noted the number.
He glanced up at Rinehart. “It’s Jag.”
All three of the Knights were instantly on alert. Jag wouldn’t call to simply say hello. Des stood and started walking, punching the button to answer the call while he worked his way to the back of the room where it was quieter. An unnecessary attempt to find quiet considering the call lasted all of sixty seconds. Jag’s instructions were short and to the point.
“Duty calls,” Des reported to Max and Rinehart when he returned to the table. “We need to hightail it back to Brownsville.”
Rinehart’s brows dipped, his expression registering concern. “Any idea why?”
“Nope,” he said, not elaborating because the truth was, when he’d opened his mouth to ask, he’d been met with a dial tone.
Rinehart and Max were already standing. “He didn’t give you any idea?” Max probed, as if he thought Des was hiding something.
Des grimaced. “What did I say, Maxwell? He said nothing.”
“Max. The name is Max.”
Waving off the words, Des had nothing else to say to the guy. Max set his teeth on edge. The man had a dark edge that cut like a knife. Once during battle, Des had even thought he’d seen a glimpse of red in Max’s eyes. That, along with the secrets Max kept, rang a bell in Des’s head. Max was trouble. His secret was trouble. Maybe Jag didn’t tell Des about Max’s history because it was so damn dirty, Des might flip out.
Des eyed Rock, noting how well Veronica had taken him into oblivion. Letting out a heavy sigh, he accepted defeat. Rock wouldn’t be finding satisfaction after all, and they’d all feel the pain of his bad mood tomorrow.
He exchanged a look with Rinehart and held up two fingers an inch apart. “We were so close to getting him taken care of.”
“Another week of his grumpy ass,” Rinehart said, shaking his head. In a defeated tone, he added, “I’ll get him.”
The waitress appeared with Des’s drink and he grabbed the shot glass from the tray, downed the contents and returned it to the tray. He shoved money into her tip glass. “Thanks, sweetheart.”
But the drink did nothing to calm the rush of adrenaline already shooting through his blood. The low hum of edginess that had started taking form with Max’s entrance turned to an outright scream. He reached deep, in a way he’d taught himself years before, pushing away the discomfort, wrapping himself in control. He inhaled and let it out as a smile touched his lips.
He needed to funnel his Beast. Trouble was brewing, and Des couldn’t wait to introduce himself.
Des brought his motorcycle to a stop in front of the main house on the Jaguar Ranch, a fifteen-thousand-square-foot property where the Knights of White both lived and trained. Oh, they did other things here, such as horse breeding, but only for the purpose of hiding their true operation from the rest of the world.
As Des approached the house, he found Jag standing on the porch with his wife, Karen, by his side, the two making a striking couple. At well over six feet, Jag’s muscular body towered over Karen’s petite frame, his long, dark hair contrasting with her blond hair, his dark skin against her fair. She was the first of her kind, a mate to a Knight of White. Perhaps one of a kind. None of them expected they would find a mate. It was unheard of before Karen. And the situation that had brought her to Jag had been a complicated and emotional one. Karen had been Jag’s wife in her prior life as well, killed by the Beasts as Jag had watched. No doubt, finding each other again, so many years later, had been destiny.
Karen spotted Des, waving at him. She kissed Jag’s cheek and headed inside the house. Des liked Karen, and he was happy Jag had found her again. Himself, he didn’t expect to be anything but alone in his life. In the nearly hundred years he’d lived, that was how it had been. The way he saw it, that was how it was supposed to be, too.
Des stopped at the bottom of the porch steps and rested his foot on the second step from the top, his elbow on his knee. A jumbo-size mosquito—the only way they made them in Texas—landed on his arm and he brushed it away. The night was hot and the air thick, bringing the giant bugs out in armies.
“What’s going down?” Des asked, prodding Jag when his leader didn’t immediately speak.
Jag crossed one booted foot over the other, leaning against one of the white pillars framing the steps, the porch light illuminating his features.
A smile touched Jag’s lips for the briefest of moments. “I expected you’d make it back before the others.”
Des narrowed his gaze on Jag, trying to read between the lines. “Which means you planned it that way.”
“It worked out for the best,” Jag commented, reaching up and running his hand over his goatee. He took several long seconds, stroking it, seeming to think about his words. Finally, he said, “You’re one of the few people I’ve ever told about the day I became a Knight.” He fixed Des in a direct look. “Just you and Karen and she lived through it.”
Des nodded. The secrets they’d shared made Jag’s recent silence harder to swallow. �
�As I’ve shared things with you I have with no other.”
“I know you have,” Jag agreed, taking a seat on the top step of the porch. “I trust you, Des. I trust you as no other Knight.” A moment of silence. “I trust you as a friend.”
Des didn’t know what to say to that. It had always been that way. He and Jag had been close, though they’d never used the word friend. His chest tightened with an unfamiliar emotion. He tried not to let such things inside, where they could hurt. But it was too late. It was there, ripe, alive. Maybe he should be happy for that. The Beast didn’t completely own him or he’d feel nothing.
“I’d like to think we are,” Des said simply, adding nothing more because Jag appeared to have a point he was working on revealing.
“That’s why I’m putting a sensitive task in your hands.”
Des sat down, following Jag’s lead, certain something big was about to be exposed. “I’m listening.”
“A museum has announced the discovery of the long-sought-after Journal of Solomon, which legend says contains a map to a treasure box. In the box is said to be a list of angelic bloodlines. In short, these bloodlines are magical, and will be considered a threat to the underworld. Those on this list will hold special gifts capable of battling evil. They will be in danger, hunted by our enemies.”
“Legend.” Des said the word in a flat tone. “We don’t know if any of this is real.”
“It’s real,” Jag assured him. “And so is the danger to the people who are part of those bloodlines.” Des nodded his agreement. Jag continued, “The box does have a form of protection. It will self-destruct if evil touches it. But we both know the Darklands won’t let that deter them. They’ll find a way around that.”
In the back of Des’s mind, he wondered what that meant about him. Could he touch it? How much darkness had eroded his soul? He wasn’t sure he wanted to find out. Shoving the thought aside until later, he asked, “Can’t Salvador tell us where the list is buried? He does have the upstairs connection.” They all knew Salvador spoke directly to the Archangel Raphael.
“Even if he knew, which I don’t think he does, he can’t interfere. You know that.”
“Right,” Des said dryly. “The rules.”
Jag ignored his comment. The abstract rules were often a source of frustration for Des and they both knew it. “This is going to be your show,” he said. “Take Rinehart, Rock and Max with you and get that journal.”
“You’re not going?” Des asked, surprised.
“I want Karen by my side. I’m not risking her becoming some sort of leverage in all of this. And taking her isn’t an option. She’s not leaving Eva while she’s adjusting to the ranch anyway.”
Karen’s sister, Eva, had been claimed by a Beast and saved by Salvador, the only female Knight in existence. Normally, the Darklands killed the women, recruited the men. But Eva had been leverage used against Karen to get to Jag. Though she’d transitioned well, she was still learning and changing, adjusting daily to her new life.
Des nodded his understanding. “I’ll find the journal.” That brought him to another subject. “I need men I trust to do this right. Max—”
Jag interrupted. “I trust him,” he said, giving Des a direct look. “He’ll be important to you, Des. Trust me, even if you don’t him.”
Though Des considered objecting further, he decided against it. Instead, he gave Jag another quick nod. “I do.” And he did, but he didn’t trust Max.
“Besides,” Jag said, pushing to his feet, Des following, “Max could hack into Fort Knox. You’ll need his skills to get into the museum. Speed will be imperative. The journal is scheduled to arrive at the museum sometime this week, and there is a charity black-tie event soon after to unveil it to the public. I imagine the chaos of the party will be a good time to extract the journal, if not sooner.”
The sound of Max’s motorcycle engine roared loudly behind him. Immediately after came the crunch of gravel beneath the tires of Rinehart’s F-150 pickup.
“Consider this handled,” Des said, assuring Jag he’d come through.
“I’m counting on it,” Jag said. “I’ll leave you to your team.”
Jag went into the house as Des turned to find Max approaching. “What’s the story?” he asked as he stopped at the bottom of the steps.
Rinehart and Rock joined them before Des had a chance to answer, not that he was going to anyway. He was still fighting uneasiness about Max, despite Jag’s assurances. Nevertheless, Jag had a point about his skills. Max had installed a new security system on the property that was as state-of-the-art as it came, yet still discreet enough that it didn’t invite questions.
“Pack up, boys and girls,” Des said to all three of them, rubbing his hands together and grinning. “We’re going to the Big D, and yes, I do mean Dallas. We have us a treasure hunt to go on.” He eyed Max. “Whatever you need to work your technology magic, bring it along.” Again to all of them. “We’re pressed for time. Meet me at the van in fifteen minutes. I’ll fill you in on the road.”
As Des headed for the front door, he didn’t feel like laughing anymore. Something stirred inside him, a feeling of destiny. A premonition of some life-changing event.
Chapter 2
Sitting in her corner office at the Dallas World Museum, a place she normally considered her comfort zone, Jessica Montgomery decided she was definitely, irrevocably, in hell.
It didn’t matter that she had her favorite candle lit, the room scented with its warm, cinnamon flavor. Nor did it matter that she was surrounded by pictures of all her favorite destinations. Or that her favorite burgundy wingback chair sat nearby, on its cushion a history book open to the last page she had read.
What mattered was the man who had just charged into her office unannounced. “What is this I hear about someone trying to steal the journal?”
Jessica blinked up at her father, his presence taking her off guard. Ever since the journal had been found a week before, he’d been a wreck, worried over its safety, his mood uncharacteristically edgy. Her father was a senator well respected in the community, his dark hair as perfectly groomed as his three-piece black suit. He rarely allowed sharpness in his tone. Yet, there was no mistaking the sharpness of his voice and mood, now.
And Jessica understood why. Her mother had died while hunting for that journal. Though her father had sworn off the world that Jessica inhabited, the one obsessed with history, he still held his wife’s work close to his heart. Finding that journal had been her dream, its safety the safety of her memory.
Jessica kept her response soft, reassuring her father without reserve. “The journal is in a vault and it’s safe. Besides, the creeps who tried to steal it were after a decoy. They were never close to the real journal.”
“You’re certain it’s safe? Who would want to steal it?”
“Yes,” she said, lying to make him feel better. She had been fighting the feeling that the journal was still in jeopardy. Which was silly. Security at the museum was equal to a maximum-level prison. “I watched them lock it up myself. As for who would want to take it—we both know the journal is a valuable piece of history, not to mention a religious artifact that could impact religious beliefs. These things make it a target to many.”
He eased into a chair, a breath sliding from his mouth. “You’ve actually seen it with your own eyes?”
A smile touched the corners of Jessica’s lips. “Oh, yes. Not up close, the way I want to, but I’ve seen it.” It was impossible to hide the thrill she felt over the journal. She’d grown up hearing her mother talk about this discovery. The journal held ancient history but also evolved into a part of her present life story.
Senator Montgomery eyed his daughter. “So like your mother,” he said. “You get as excited over history as a kid does candy.”
For almost a year after her mother’s death, she’d taken a job working for her father. Grief had turned to blame, and he’d turned the pursuit of history into the enemy. He’d loved history
, loved his wife’s work—even traveled with her often. That was until she had encouraged him to run for the Senate, swearing she’d let her team do the fieldwork. And she had—until the journal. It had become an obsession, and she had trusted no one else to hunt for it, acting as if it were a life-or-death discovery. Upon losing his wife, the love of his life, her father feared Jessica would get the same kind of obsession over history and that she, too, would be taken from him. She’d agreed to a brief departure from the museum because he’d needed her close, and at the same time, being around it had kept the pain of losing her mother alive. But staying away for long had been impossible.
“I love it here,” she admitted.
Something dark flashed in his eyes. “I wish I could be happy about that.”
Jessica knew he feared she would become obsessed over her work as her mother had. Jessica worried because at times her father seemed irrational about her work. He agonized that Jessica’s job would somehow lead to her demise, as he claimed her mother’s had.
Kate Montgomery had died of breast cancer that might have been cured if it had been caught early enough. She’d missed her checkups and been diagnosed late, a fact her father blamed on her fixation on the journal. His wife had spent the last two years of her life at a dig site in Mexico, away from those who loved her, claiming an urgency for finding that journal as the reason that no one but her understood.
“I still can’t believe you kept funding Mom’s team, Daddy.” Her father had turned bitter upon her mother’s death, and Jessica had assumed he’d ended the search team’s efforts to find the journal. Now she knew otherwise.
“I feared your mother would turn over in her grave if I did otherwise.” His tone and expression were serious, as if he believed his words. “I better go.” He pushed to his feet.
Jessica stood as well, intending to give him a hug. Her intercom buzzed and she made a frustrated sound. Her father leaned over the desk and kissed her cheek. “See you this weekend.”
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