Immortal Surrender (Curse of the Templars)

by Claire Ashgrove

  Steeling herself against inevitable confrontation, she trained her expression into what she hoped was complacency and approached the door. She half expected that when she opened it a fraction, he would barrel through. When he didn’t, she widened it enough to stick her head outside.

  Anne stood on the threshold, a hesitant smile on her porcelain face. “Noelle, I’m sorry to disturb you. But while the men are away, I’d like to talk to you.”

  Noelle cocked an eyebrow. While the men were away? Could that mean Anne only pretended at the same game? As the memory of how Anne had exchanged affectionate looks with Merrick rose, Noelle’s brow furrowed. Surely that couldn’t be faked. Then again, maybe it could be. Maybe pretending just came naturally to some women. She could attest to that—couldn’t she?

  Noelle stepped back, allowing Anne entrance. “I’m not sure there’s much to say, but come in.”

  “Thank you.” Anne’s smile widened as she stepped into the room.

  “Have a seat, I guess.”

  Holding Scat Cat close to her chest, Noelle followed Anne to the sofa. To her shame, the redhead carried herself with grace Noelle could only dream of. Although they shared the same short stature, Noelle felt somehow smaller. More insignificant. Almost as if Anne’s very presence commanded a level of respect Noelle couldn’t quite define.

  A feeling that only added to the particles of ice that clung to her veins. She didn’t know this woman. She wasn’t a head of state or some notable figurehead in the scientific community. There was no reason Noelle should treat Anne any differently than any other stranger.

  She pushed her discomfort aside and took a seat on the opposite end of the couch. “How can I help you?”

  Auburn eyebrows pulled tight and creases cut into Anne’s smooth forehead. She considered Noelle for several silent seconds before she tried her smile again. It fell short, quivered at the corners of her mouth. “You don’t look pleased to be here.”

  Understatement of the year. Noelle bit back a burst of laughter, opting for a shake of her head. “I have work waiting on me. Archaeologists I promised answers. The Egyptian Supreme Council of Antiquities is waiting on results. The curator of—” Noelle stopped, before her thoughts ran away with her tongue. She licked her lips and folded her hands in her lap. “No. I’m not happy to be here at all.”

  She waited for Anne’s disapproving frown. Anticipated a lecture. When Anne’s smile returned, brighter than before, Noelle drew back in surprise.

  Anne let out a soft, musical laugh. “I wasn’t very fond of it either.”

  “No?” A spark of hope lit. If Anne sympathized, maybe she could find an ally who would talk some sense into Farran.

  “Not at all. But I didn’t come here knowing the things Farran’s told you.” She paused to regard Noelle with a measured stare. “Farran did tell you, right?”

  “You mean that nonsense about Templar knights and seraphs and predestined fates?”

  The frown Noelle had been expecting registered behind Anne’s bright blue eyes. It lasted only seconds, however, before she quickly covered it with a blank expression. Her voice assumed a faraway quality as she stared at the cabinet of antiquities. “I didn’t understand why Gabriel chose me first until this moment.”

  “What?” Noelle cringed at the harshness in her question, and gave herself a sharp mental kick. Snapping at Anne wouldn’t win her any friends. “I’m sorry. What do you mean?”

  “I used to teach college. The prophecy names me the teacher, and you the blind. I understand now.” Anne looked back at her with a wistful smile. “You don’t know anything, do you?”

  It took every bit of Noelle’s concentration to keep her tongue in line and not return the insult. She pushed her cat out of her lap and clenched her hands together. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, that’s for sure.”

  “You really don’t believe in a higher power, do you?”

  At that, Noelle’s laugh slipped free. She cut it off short and cleared her voice. “You mean some mystical being who controls our lives like we’re puppets on strings? Or do you mean the higher power who randomly chooses who will live and who will die? Or, are you referring to the social dependence on the need to believe in order to give meaning to life?”

  Anne chuckled. “I guess that pretty much answers everything.” She stood and dusted her hands on her ankle-length skirt. Clasping them behind her back, she wandered to the glass-encased artifacts. “You’ll learn. It’s inevitable. Please trust me, Noelle. It’s uncomfortable now, and nothing makes sense. But Farran will teach you if you let him. You’ll realize this isn’t such a terrible place.” She looked over her shoulder to add, “In fact, it’s really pretty wonderful.”

  “Right. As wonderful as a trip down a rabbit hole. You’ve even murdered time.” The sarcastic jibe slipped free before Noelle could stop it. Eyes wide, she covered her mouth with her hand. Please, please, please don’t let her get that.

  Laughter rippled through the room, hearty and genuine. Anne’s blue eyes danced with merriment as she turned around. “I suppose it would feel a bit like that. I’d never quite thought of it that way. Farran must love your wit.”

  In the wake of Anne’s amusement, Noelle’s apprehensions filtered away, and she began to relax. This was a woman who understood her wit and her intellect. Not to mention she didn’t take offense at her tendency for bluntness. Outside this crazy scheme, they might have been close friends.

  The opportunity to express the full weight of her frustrations was too great to let slip by. She grabbed at it like a life raft and let out a snort. “Farran could give the Queen of Hearts a run for her money.”

  Anne’s shoulders slumped, and her expression twisted with sorrow. She returned to the couch and sat down on the edge of the cushions. “Don’t be hard on him, Noelle. He’s a good man. Aside from Merrick, I know no one more loyal. He’ll take care of you, if you’re patient with him. His secrets are his to share, but I know his past. What he must overcome…” She trailed away on a sad shake of her head. “In time you’ll understand that as well.”

  The uncomfortable twist in Noelle’s gut returned with a vengeance. Her stomach knotted down so tight she couldn’t breathe. A spark of irritation ignited at the discomfort, and she shifted in her seat to keep her annoyance at bay. She didn’t care what Farran had gone through. She refused to sympathize with him. Whatever had happened in his past didn’t concern her, and she wasn’t about to let the insinuation he suffered emotional scars weasel under her skin.

  “Let me see your hand.” Anne reached between them, her fingers outstretched. “I see things by touch. Maybe I can tell you something that will make this easier.”

  Noelle tucked her hand between her thighs. “I don’t think that’s necessary. Anne, you seem like a smart woman. I don’t really know how you let them convince you into this cult, but I don’t plan on being a part of it. I’m not staying.”

  “You don’t have a choice.” Anne set her hand on Noelle’s knee. She closed her eyes and tipped her head to the side as if she listened for voices. Her brows puckered, relaxed, then furrowed deeply. Then she snapped her eyes open and withdrew, her features suddenly pale. With a toss of her long red hair, she leaned back against the throw pillow.

  “No wonder you have so much to learn. You’re a new soul.”

  Exasperation gripped Noelle and she snapped, “A what?”

  “There are old souls who have been on this earth before, and new souls. I’ve only met one other completely new soul. When I did, I didn’t know what I was seeing, and I asked my mentor. I see wisps when I look for your past.” Her mouth pinched in thought, and she fell silent. After several expansive seconds, she explained, “It’s hard to describe. You’ve seen pictures of space and the stringy particles of matter up there?”

  Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Noelle nodded.

  “It’s like that. Wispy. Only full of colors. Like a river of the energies of life.” She waved a dismissive hand in th
e air. “Never mind. What’s important—you’re a new soul. Completely untainted and utterly innocent.” Her eyes locked with Noelle’s and intensified with meaning. “You were created for this purpose, Noelle. And you better accept it in a hurry.”

  “Uh-huh. I suppose lightning will strike me down if I don’t?” So much for believing Anne might be sane. She’d just shot that theory all to hell. She was as crazy as the rest of them and perfectly suited for their little game of charades.

  All traces of humor and sympathy vanished from Anne’s expression. She hurried to rise, and opened her mouth as if she intended to say more. Evidently thinking better of it, she snapped her mouth shut just as quickly. Three purposeful strides took her back to the door. There, she hesitated again. Her head bowed, her shoulders bent forward. Her heavy exhale was audible in the silence that spanned between them.

  With the gravity a surgeon would give to a patient’s waiting family, she twisted to meet Noelle’s gaze. “No. But you will die.”

  As the door quietly closed, Noelle flopped back against the sofa’s arm. This was too much. Where these people came up with these ridiculous things, she couldn’t explain. Still, she had to admit their game was tight. They took their role seriously, played the part to a T, and came up with things more fantastic than what she’d heard before. Anne’s little drama had even succeeded in sending another shiver down her spine.

  Priceless.

  A chuckle worked its way free from her tightened throat. She gave in to the lunacy and began to laugh. Big, unchained bursts of amusement that stirred tears behind her eyes. She tossed her right arm over her eyes to swipe away the straying drops. Beneath her sweatshirt sleeve, something hard rubbed against the bridge of her nose. Something snugged securely around her bicep.

  Her amusement strangled in the back of her throat. In slow motion, she sat up and looked to the place near the door where the torc had bounced to a stop.

  Empty floor met her gaze.

  * * *

  Farran’s body strained against two days of little sleep. Arm raised, he blocked the demon’s baseball bat and shuddered against the heavy blow. His shoulders ached with the weight of his sword. His thighs burned from the effort of holding himself upright against the heavy blows. Yet he pushed the agony from his mind and eyed Azazel’s foul minion, anticipating the next attack.

  Behind him, Caradoc grunted against an onslaught of nytym claws. His back brushed Farran’s, their close quarters a defensive tactic to improve their outnumbered strength. Farran used the momentum of Caradoc’s stumble and lunged forward. In a powerful strike, he arced his sword across his body, aiming for the demon’s unprotected arm. The blade sliced through flesh like a knife put to butter. A bone-chilling howl cut through the air, blending with another to Farran’s left, and the demon stumbled off the road’s shoulder into the tree line.

  Farran pursued, unwilling to give the creature a moment’s respite. One more blow, a well-timed drive, and the beast would return to the hellish pit it spawned from.

  The demon surged forward, its once-human features now twisted with the evil of its spirit. Yellow fangs gleamed in the moonlight. Darkness shrouded its face, illuminating goatlike, yellow-green eyes. Baseball bat still clenched in bony fingers, it rushed headlong with a ghastly bellow.

  Exactly what Farran awaited. He had played the demon, using his fatigue to his advantage. Now the illusion of being the weaker would give him the final upper hand. He bided his time, kept his pace deliberately slow. All part of his planned deception.

  With a scream that could chill the very fires of Azazel’s realm, the demon swung wildly. Farran sidestepped to avoid the blow. Gathering the last of his faltering strength, he thrust across his waist and sank his blade into the demon’s exposed side. He jerked his broadsword up, deepening the wound. Shadows poured forth, ran in rivulets down the demon’s leg.

  Shock washed across the creature’s widened eyes. As Farran sucked in a heavy breath, he gave his sword one last twist and wrenched it free. With a haunting moan, his opponent folded in on itself and vanished.

  Farran braced himself for the darkness that would come next. Nine hundred years of combat, and he had yet to become accustomed to the invasion on his soul. He closed his eyes, dropped his elbows to his knees. In his mind’s eye, he saw the shadows roll down his blade, soak into his hand. Darkness flooded into his veins, raced to his heart where it burst through his body. He gasped against the searing heat. ’Twould seem as if the pain intensified the closer he came to joining Azazel’s ranks. Mayhap it did. Mayhap ’twas an effect of anticipating the agony. He could not know for certain.

  As his heart faltered against the evil, struggling to maintain the rhythm of life, Farran dropped to his knees. Hard, wet earth jarred his bones and soaked through his jeans. Gradually the feeling of clawed hands turning him inside out faded, leaving pinpoints of light to flicker behind his eyelids. He breathed long and deep and lifted his chin to open his eyes.

  Through blurry vision, he made out a figure as dark as the sky above. Ebony armor clad a powerful frame. Scratches on a heavy shield cut through the onyx color to glint silver in the moonlight. Eyes he had no doubt known once before peered down at him with hate. A dark knight, a fallen Templar. A transformed brother Farran had no hope of overcoming alone, given his exhaustion.

  “Petty fool,” the knight hissed. “The forest is mine. Your life belongs to me.”

  Farran clenched his hand around his sword. He would not surrender his life without a fight. If he must die, he would inflict what damage he could so his brothers could send the spirit home to the Almighty. He straightened his shoulders and flattened a foot to rise.

  The gust of air caught him first. It rustled his hair, stirred the stench of death. He drew back in reflex. From the corner of his eye, he saw the shield. Before he could do so much as clench his teeth, it slammed into the side of his head.

  A ringing erupted in Farran’s ears. His vision failed him completely, turning shadows into pitch black. The sword in his hand tumbled free.

  CHAPTER 15

  “Farran!”

  Merrick’s bellow lured Farran from the swimming of his thoughts. He fought for consciousness, struggled to silence the buzzing in his head. He squeezed his eyes shut and groped on the ground in front of him for his fallen weapon.

  “Get back!” Closer now, Merrick’s order came from his right. On trembling arms, Farran crawled backward what he hoped was four or five feet. Merrick could handle the knight. With his oath in place, his sword would emerge the victor. Whatever blows Merrick might take, immortality would heal.

  He opened his eyes to find three of Merrick and the knight. His sword forgotten, Farran scrubbed at his face and bit back a stream of curses. Damnation! There had been no warning of a dark knight, just nytyms and demons, beasts easily overtaken by their small band. Had any of them anticipated that Azazel would send a knight to the very fringes of the temple, they would have roused the entire Order and combed the sparse woods.

  Nay though, they had not, and the oversight nearly cost far more than Farran’s life. Noelle’s purpose would be for naught with his death—a blow the Order could not withstand. He was proof enough of their weakened state.

  The three images of Merrick merged into one, and Farran watched as his commander parried off the fiend’s attack. Steel clanged against steel, ringing a death knell. The healing Anne’s light brought to Merrick could not be more evident. His sword arm moved with lightning quickness. His body arced with the practiced grace of one born unto battle. A frisson of envy sliced through Farran. If Noelle had but uttered the oath, he too would know the might he had once possessed. He too could step beside Merrick and fight off the glancing blows.

  He would not be a useless heap upon the sodden ground.

  Merrick lunged forward, entering the dark knight’s open stance. With the deft thrust, his blade pierced through links of ebony mail and slid deep into the knight’s gut. Though embedded in flesh, the broadsword gave off
an odd, bluish-white glow that seeped through the rent skin. In the faint light, blood poured forth, thick and dark.

  The knight doubled over on a vile hiss, and Merrick pulled his broadsword free. Taking it in both hands, he arced it over his head. In the moonlight, the ornate hilt that marked Merrick’s sword as equal to Mikhail’s glinted bright gold. He brought it down in a furious slice that sent the knight’s head toppling from his shoulders. It tumbled to the ground, rolled chin over brow, and came to a stop before Farran’s knee. Ghostly eyes stared up, unblinking.

  Farran nudged it aside, unable to look upon the face of the brother he had once known. Too many he had lost. Brave men who sacrificed everything to uphold the Almighty’s name, only to die for evil’s purpose. A shudder rolled down his spine, and he grimaced. Dimly, he heard the plaintive sigh of expiration, the last sound an avenged spirit would make before it ascended to the heavens.

  Merrick’s boot entered his field of vision. Farran looked up to meet his commander’s grim expression.

  “’Tis done.” Merrick nodded at the men behind Farran. “There is naught left of Azazel here. Those we could not slay fled. How do you fare?”

  “I live.”

  Merrick extended his hand to aid Farran to his feet. As he struggled to rise, he observed the way his commander kept his weight off his left leg. A glance down revealed Merrick did not escape the attack unscathed. His injured thigh bled through Merrick’s white surcoat, staining it with crimson. Farran lifted a brow. “You tore open your wound.”

  Merrick glanced down as if he had not realized the injury. He gave a curt nod before releasing Farran. “Anne will mend it.”

  “If she does not injure you more.” The hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of Farran’s mouth.