Immortal Surrender (Curse of the Templars)

by Claire Ashgrove

  God’s blood, even when he longed to despise her, his body refused to listen. He gritted his teeth together and tried to focus on what Phaneul was saying.

  “Bishop Alvarez began construction in 1308, but what you see now was completed in 1388.”

  Noelle reached out to trace a finger over an ornately carved stone column that supported the spanning arched ceiling. “If the early eleventh-century chapel was so honored, and the Church began housing relics before the bishop’s improvements, why then are there no marks of the Almighty’s master masons?” Her gaze settled on Farran in a pointed reference to the Knights Templar. “None of the artistry matches what I’ve seen.”

  “You are sharp.” Phanuel let out a short laugh and directed his answer not to Noelle, but to Farran. “Those who held our secrets became a threat to the corrupted Church. As Farran can attest, the year before, the Inquisition, under the directive of Azazel’s pawn, King Phillip IV, and the false papacy in Avignon, took great measures to eradicate our noble knights.”

  Snapshot images of his torture flashed within Farran’s mind. Though more than seven hundred years had passed, he could still smell the burning of his flesh, hear the false priest’s vile laughter. He dropped his hand to his belly and fingered the scar beneath his shirt. When he caught Noelle watching, he stuffed his hand into his pocket.

  “Although the knights were secretly pardoned at Chinon the same year Alvaraz commissioned work, Alvaraz himself was a product of Avignon. He had the sigils destroyed and new ones crafted in their place. Look here.” Phanuel tapped a small relief not much larger than a doorknob. “You can still see two legs of the Templar cross. They are disguised amongst the detail and have been compromised, but they are still present.” His grin broadened as he gave Noelle a wink. “Lazy masons.”

  The long heavy roll of thunder rattled a nearby stained-glass window. Phanuel looked toward the ceiling and frowned as if he concentrated on a distant thought. As the racket faded into silence, a heavy rain pelted down, and his jovial demeanor disappeared. He gave Noelle an apologetic look. “I’m afraid we must attend to other, more important, matters. You have the Sudarium.”

  Farran cursed beneath his breath. He had not intended to linger so long. Indeed, he had planned to return outside once Phanuel bade Noelle hello. Now he found himself unable to escape. Forced to stand at her side as she faced her misdeeds. He would share whatever judgment Phanuel decided.

  Noelle shrugged the satchel off her shoulder and passed it to Phaneul. “It’s inside, along with all the documents verifying its age.” Her confidence faltered for the briefest of seconds, her anxiety reflected in the shaking of her hands.

  As Phanuel released the lock and took out the fragile cloth, Noelle cleared her throat. Farran held his breath.

  “You’ll find a quarter-sized hole in the lower left quadrant. I apologize, Phanuel, for damaging the relic. I did not understand”—her earnest gaze shifted to Farran—“many things.”

  Phanuel clasped her by the hands, studying her. Farran’s pulse slowed to a stop. Afraid to do more than breathe, he watched. Would the angel whisk her away? Condemn her from this place? Or would he, as Noelle suggested Mikhail had done, grant her pardon?

  The archangel did neither. They exchanged no words. Confounding Farran further, she gave Phanuel an understanding nod. In turn, he bent to grace her cheek with a fatherly kiss. After a slight squeeze to her shoulder, he withdrew. “I have some other business to attend to. Father Ricardo will escort you to your room. Let us meet again tonight and take our evening meal together.”

  Her smile returned, as radiant as it had been before. “I’d like that.”

  “Then it is agreed.” At the lift of Phanuel’s hand, the first priest materialized from the shadowy hall. “Meet me in the Cámara Santa a half hour from now. No more.”

  With that, Phanuel stalked away, his long dark robes lapping at his ankles, the Sudarium tucked beneath his arm. Farran found himself at the mercy of Ricardo—and an imminent room with Noelle.

  Saints’ blood.

  * * *

  As Farran ducked beneath the door frame and entered the sparse room, Noelle eased the door shut. She had one opportunity for a few undisturbed minutes alone with him, and she refused to waste it. Phanuel and Mikhail had both forgiven her, yet Farran could not. His reasons couldn’t just revolve around the fact she’d kept secrets.

  When he stretched out on the simple iron bed and shut his eyes, pretending she didn’t exist as he had all day, she pounced. “When I hid the Sudarium, I thought you were crazy. I intended to leverage it for my freedom.”

  His body tensed. The hand at his thigh clenched into a fist. She ignored the signs of warning and stumbled ahead. Whether he wanted to hear it or not, she was going to explain.

  “The night I was attacked, I came outside to tell you. I understood my mistake then, but everything happened so fast. Then you were in the infirmary. When you got out, I frankly forgot about the damn thing.”

  Driven by determiniation and the hope he could not ignore her touch, she sat on the edge of the bed and rested her hand on his arm. “If you hadn’t left last night, I would have told you this morning. I wasn’t trying to deceive you.”

  He jerked his arm away and crossed it over his chest. “Leave it be, Noelle.”

  The burn of anger started in her belly. It crept through her chest, out to her fingers, and up her throat. “Leave it be? You kidnapped me, badgered me, humiliated me, and then made love to me. Now you want me to just leave it be?”

  He twisted onto his side, giving her his back. Incensed, she pried at his shoulder. But against her slight weight, rolling him over was like trying to move a boulder. At her wit’s end, she let out a frustrated hiss. Wanting a reaction, any kind of a response at all, she punched his shoulder.

  The strike succeeded. Farran bolted out of the bed. “Damsel, mind yourself!”

  “Or what?” She gestured at the sword around his waist. “You’ll run me through? Maybe you ought to. Murder would make more sense than your stubborn pride. Take me home—I’ve had enough of your abuse.” Leaping to her feet, she held two fingers in front of her face. “Two archangels have forgiven me, Farran! Who are you punishing me for? Was she so cruel you can find no goodness in anyone at all?”

  Like the lash of a whip, Noelle’s words cracked through the air. They pierced through Farran to clamp a vise around his chest. His ribs screamed against the pressure, his gut hollowed out.

  She stood before him, her chest heaving with fury. Her eyes blazed such scorching fire he was certain he would burn beneath their gaze. Righteous in her anger, defiant in her unyeilding stare, she dared him to confront the past.

  Brighid’s laughter and Alefric’s rejection roared within his head. The pain surfaced once more, tangling his insides into briars. He grimaced at the agony, the heartbreak, the overwhelming loss.

  In that instant, he knew Noelle had revealed what he could not bring himself to face. His anger was misplaced. Her error held no treachery, no malice meant to ruin him. She had done the only thing she could think of in an effort to survive. In her place, he might have done the same.

  His anger came not from her, not from the hiding of a relic. It came from Brighid. From the need to punish his traitorous, unfaithful wife.

  Instead, he punished an innocent. A woman who stood at his side when he least deserved a champion. A woman who knew naught but love. And now, he had lost her. Driven her back to the mindset where all she wanted was to return home.

  He staggered under the weight of understanding. At once he felt the need to move, to take her in his arms and apologize for all he was, all he had done. Yet he could do no more than swallow.

  Noelle took a bold step forward, her expression softer. “Tell me, Farran, was an oath all I ever meant to you?”

  Through his tightened throat he rasped, “Nay.” He found the strength to move and reached for her hand. “Noelle, I do not mean—”

  A deafening roar from th
e hall beyond squelched his apology. Stone splintered. Glass shattered. The ground shook, and she stumbled into his arms. He held her tight whilst horns of warning blared inside his head.

  As the tremor ebbed, Farran pushed her away. “Stay here!”

  Sword in hand, he bolted through the door to the sound of unholy laughter.

  CHAPTER 36

  Stone dust fogged the hall. One glance at the toppled beams, and Farran knew no act of man had caused the blast. The columns that had tumbled were the very ones Phanuel had referenced. Beyond, above, where he could recognize the earlier indiscriminate sigils of his brethren, the stone remained untouched.

  Sword ready, Farran pressed his back to the remnants of an interior wall and inched along the debris. Ahead, behind a mass of crumbled rock, a bright glow infused the rubble with golden light. As he drew nearer to the source, Phanuel’s voice rang out.

  “You have found a weakness, but you will not have the strength.” The light intensified, blinding in its intensity. A tortured howl rang out, one Farran recognized as part demon and part man. A dark knight.

  He rounded the column of crushed rock and crumbled mortar, and set his eyes upon the radiance. Priestly robes shed, Phanuel stood in full glory. He bore no sword, no staff. He wore no shield, nor armor. Cloaked in pristine white, he held his hands before his body. At his feet lay the Sudarium. With the beat of gossamer wings, a ball of light shot from his hands. It barreled toward Azazel’s knight and sank into its skin. Another bellow filled the cavernous hall, and the fallen Templar crumpled in a lifeless heap.

  Phanuel’s brilliance dimmed. Once again, the man took form. But the halo that crowned his dark head proved Farran’s eyes did not see tricks. Phanuel moved to the shadowy form and bent at his side. His words were hushed, murmurs Farran could not make out. But as Phanuel straightened to his full height and picked up the relic, his voice rang clearer. “Go home, where you have always belonged.” He made the sign of the cross over the man’s punctured chest.

  As if in answer, a sigh whispered through the air. From the pile of shadows, a faint, wispy beam of light rose heavenward.

  Phanuel strode past Farran with the instruction, “Stay back. I will not have you sacrifice your soul for a handful of dark knights. Azazel has forgotten we are equals.”

  The warrior in Farran objected. His hand tightened around the pommel of his sword. He was trained to fight. Bound by duty. To turn away went against every principle he knew.

  “That is an order, Sir Farran.” The air stirred with the fluttering of wings Phanuel had disguised. “I must return this cloth.” He gave the Sudarium he clenched in his left hand a shake.

  Farran felt the presence before it spoke. The hair at the nape of his neck lifted. Chills drifted down his spine. Deep inside, the darkness in his soul stirred to life.

  “Phanuel, you are a fool!”

  Fear pressed down upon Farran, his skin breaking out in a sweat. Slowly, he turned. What stood before him struck terror in his heart. The same imposing vision he had glimpsed moments ago loomed in the place where Phanuel had stood. Only this one bore no trace of brilliance. Ebony wings spanned full against the wall of stone. With their subtle undulation, the shadow seemed to grow in height. The face that Farran looked upon held equal beauty to the archangels he served, but in its fair creation, he saw malice.

  “The coward shows his face at last,” Phanuel exclaimed. “Be gone from here, Azazel! This is a holy place!”

  Azazel. Farran’s blood curdled. He had heard tales, knew the legends by heart. But all who had witnessed the dark lord paid the price with their life.

  The mighty fallen chuckled, a sound not unkind to the ear, yet evil nonetheless. “And you stand in taint. Give unto me the cloth and the seraph, and I will spare you for the final battle.”

  At the reference to Noelle, Farran’s stomach heaved. But before he could do more than exhale, he found himself trapped between the clash of light and darkness. Behind him, Phanuel’s brilliance cast great shadows on the floor. Ahead, Azazel blocked out the divine light.

  “Move!”

  The voice bellowed inside Farran’s head. Distantly he made the connection why he had not heard the words Phanuel exchanged with Noelle. A bolt of light shot forth, grazing his shoulder as it passed. The force shoved Farran to the ground and rolled him aside. He lay against the wall, stunned into motionlessness, and watched.

  The angels came together with the fury of the Titans. Walls shook, stone crumbled. Phanuel gained easy advantage and sent Azazel to his knees. But with a mighty shove, the Lord of Darkness slammed divinity into the high ceiling. A jagged crack issued between the columns, large enough to let the rain drip in.

  Farran dared not move. Between the chunks of falling rock and the terrific blows of battle, he could do little more than shield his face with his arm. His sword lay on the wreckage beneath the angels, dropped when he had fallen to the floor. Without it, he was naught. Though even had he held it, ’twould have been worthless. Ten men could not confront Azazel and expect to become victor.

  Phanuel hurled Azazel into a cracked column. The impact provoked an agonized scream. Blood as black as night spilled to merge with the crimson stains that spattered the foundation. They both bled. They both weakened. They both made costly mistakes. Azazel rushed too quickly, giving Phanuel opportunity to throw another ball of light. It thumped into a chest of ebony. Phanuel saw victory too soon and moved in for the kill. His hands held high, he did not witness the shifting of Azazel’s body.

  Within striking distance, Phanuel summoned once more the light. Azazel’s hand shot out. Claws fastened into gossamer wings. With one swift downward jerk of his arm, he tore off the bent and tattered limb. Phanuel’s cry wailed into the night.

  At once the victor, Azazel scrambled to his weakened feet. His body heaving with exhaustion, he clutched Phanuel by the throat. “The folly of salvation has always been the belief in honor. The cloth is mine.” He plucked the fragile wrap from Phanuel’s bloodied hands. “And so are you.”

  Grabbing Phanuel by the neck, Azazel lumbered toward the darkened hall. There his voice rang out with harsh authority. “I have the Sudarium. Find the seraph. Bring her to my hall. The others await you there.”

  In the next instant, the dark presence that bore down on Farran vanished. Eerie silence filled the ruins. His mind raced, his eyes widened with terror. Noelle. He must get her out of here.

  With a sharp breath, he struggled to his feet and retrieved his sword. As he turned around, a familiar image filled the narrow exit. Broad of shoulder, significant in height, and adorned in garb Farran had worn too many times to count, a fallen brother raised an onyx blade.

  Despair launched through Farran. To get to Noelle he would have to kill the knight. In so doing, he would take the being’s place. Anne’s prophecy pounded in his head. He would kill her after all. God’s teeth, why had he not learned to listen to the seer’s gift?

  Mayhap there was hope yet, and he could avoid combat all together. He glanced around the chamber in search of another exit. When naught but blocks of stone rose beneath his seeking gaze, he swallowed hard. Nay, he would not kill her. He would bait the knight. Pretend he lacked the strength to battle, and in so doing gut his foe severely enough to stop his purpose, but with the precision required to prolong Farran’s life by keeping the darkness at bay.

  ’Twas a risk. One that could easily backfire. But ’twas the only way he could buy the precious moments needed to beg for Noelle’s oath.

  * * *

  As a deathly stillness descended on the cathedral, Noelle sat in the dark that had emerged in the absence of electricity. Her nerves strained with the restless need to move, to know the reason for the deafening noises and terrible screams she’d heard only moments ago. She chewed on her nail, her worry for Farran turning her belly into a mass of quivering worms. He was out there with whatever creature had made that racket. Hurt? Gasping for his last breath? Dead?

  A chill enveloped her wit
h the thought she’d already lost him. She’d never survive that kind of emptiness. Not even with a hundred angels to guide her through the pain. He had become everything to her, even if he didn’t feel the same.

  As she exchanged one fingernail for another, her thoughts drifted to Phanuel’s last words. Be strong. For you will need all your faith soon. Was this it? Some sort of test designed to challenge her strength? If it was, she wanted no part of it. Sitting and doing nothing didn’t have a thing to do with strength.

  She shoved off the bed to her feet. She wouldn’t sit. If Farran was out there injured, she’d move heaven and hell to get him help. She wouldn’t just wait around because he’d told her to stay put, and let him die. With a shaking hand, she cracked the door open.

  The same unearthly stillness waited beyond. Distant light marked the place where the ceiling had caved in. Faint movement beyond the resulting pile of rubble drew her attention. With slow footsteps, she followed the sound. All around, the ornate columns she’d admired lay in crumbled heaps. Where stained-glass windows had portrayed brilliant pictures of the divine word, now gaping holes opened to the storm outside. Good God, what had happened here? She tripped over a sliver of ancient timber. Bending, she picked it up in case she needed a club.

  She poked her head around the narrow crevice separating her from the noise. A flash of lightning brightened what had once been the cloister. The very place they were to meet Phanuel. Movement caught her eye, but vanished as the lightning passed. Breath held, she waited for her eyes to adjust again.