Immortal Sacrifice: #4 The Curse of the Templars

by Claire Ashgrove

  Isabelle let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and glanced over her shoulder, looking back the way she’d come. They’d catch up to her soon.

  “Help me!” a strangled childlike voice called from the darker shadows around the bend.

  Isabelle’s heart wrenched, and her pulse skyrocketed. She pushed away from the tree and plunged down the uneven path, oblivious to the thickening shadows. Visions of September flashed in her mind, pushing her beyond fear. The voice wasn’t hers, but the fact it belonged to a child erased Isabelle’s concern for herself. No child should know whatever terror this one was experiencing.

  A gut-curdling scream ricocheted through the night. Then silence.

  Absolute, maddening silence.

  Isabelle bolted upright, smacking her elbows on the smooth desktop. For several minutes, she stared at the wall and willed her pounding heart to slow down. She drew in slow, even breaths as she took in her surroundings. Elegant floral print wallpaper rose twelve feet or more to an elaborately molded ceiling. At her right, the flat screen television sat atop a deep cherry dresser. The bed, still crisply made, waited at her back.

  Just the dream.

  She closed her eyes, relaxing. She was in her room, not in a forgotten garden, and not chasing after a child she didn’t know, but one who desperately needed help.

  When would the damn thing happen? Though she sensed whatever she’d find at the end of the path would haunt her eternally, she wanted the inevitable over. Anything to escape the constant, unrelenting, warning that it was coming.

  Pushing out of her chair, she winced at the needles that pricked her feet. She shook out one ankle, then the next, trying to restore blood flow. When that didn’t work, she gingerly hobbled to the antique wardrobe where she pulled out her thick terry cloth robe and slid into it to ward off the soul-deep chill.

  Maybe if she’d gone to the indoor gym—the last thought she remembered clearly from the night before—she could have avoided that terror all together. With no sleep at all she’d still feel like a truck ran her over, but her heart wouldn’t be racing like she’d just encountered Freddy Kruger, and she wouldn’t be freezing cold.

  She spied her cell phone on the corner of her desk, and September, the memories of Paul’s words, crashed into her. In a lunge, she swiped the phone off the desktop and punched in Paul’s number.

  “Good morning, Isabelle,” he answered with his usual smooth charm.

  Every bit of hatred she’d ever experienced burst free at his casual tone. “You fucking bastard! You’re terrorizing my daughter.”

  “Now, now, Isabelle, I haven’t harmed her. I even gave her a new dolly.”

  “She hates dolls.”

  “Too bad.” The brittle edge crept back into his voice. “I suggest you stop concerning yourself with insulting me and focus on the reason I sent you to Italy.”

  Grinding her teeth together, Isabelle stalked to the window and yanked open the sheers. “I want to talk to her, and none of this one-word bullshit. I want to talk to my daughter.”

  “It’s the middle of the night. I don’t think you really want to wake her.”

  Oh, hell yes she did. He might not have hurt her, but September must be terrified. The subtle undertone of warning, however, stopped Isabelle from pushing further. “Why are you doing this? I’ve dealt with single gemstones more priceless than these diamonds and haven’t once been tempted to sell them out from under my buyer.”

  “Precisely why I hired you.”

  “Then why are you doing this to my daughter?” her voice rose to a near screech. Fearful someone in an adjoining room might hear, she quickly lowered it. “My reputation is impeccable, Paul.”

  “And it will stay that way, won’t it? Now, goodbye, Isabelle. If my memory serves me, you’ve got a cabochon sapphire ring up for auction this morning. Bring me my jewels, and all will be as it should be.”

  The line went dead before she could say anything else. Fighting back a surge of unbidden tears, she sank onto the edge of the mattress and stared, unseeing, at her reflection in the wide mirror on the opposing wall.

  For the first time in her life, she could understand why her father went around the law and sought out his own personal justice against those who’d wronged him. She’d like nothing more than to point a gun square at Paul Reid’s chest and squeeze the trigger. Twice.

  Hang in there, baby. Mommy will be home soon.

  Slowly, she focused on her reflection, noting the smeared mascara beneath her eyes and the darker circles that haunted her cheeks. Her face looked pale, like she’d recently been ill. Even her lips held a faint greyish pallor.

  Her gaze strayed to the closed mini bar, and for an instant, she debated getting lost in the tiny bottles within. In the next, however, sense warned her vehemently that attending an auction two sheets to the wind would only worsen her present situation. As it was, she had little less than three hours to pull herself together and go to bat for a ring that Thomas Dunn from Cartier had already mentioned he was interested in.

  Besides, before she’d found out she was pregnant, she’d tried finding answers in the bottom of a glass. It didn’t work. The questions still lingered when the blissful haze wore off.

  Running, however, worked out kinks. The lulling ocean tide soothed tight knots.

  She stood, renewed in her ability to survive this horrible ordeal, and shucked her clothes. Leaving them all in a pile on the floor, she quickly pulled on a pair of cotton running shorts, a long-sleeved shirt, and her sneakers. A few quick whisks of her brush, and she’d fashioned her hair into ponytail. She held the power to insure September’s safety. She wouldn’t allow worry to override logic.

  Isabelle hurried out of her room, down the three flights of stairs to the main level, and jogged out the rear terrace doors. The steady rhythm of her feet took her quickly through the romantic garden with its budding springtime flowers, down to the private stretch of beach the hotel owned. There, she took a few moments to stretch her legs on a jutting rock, then struck off down the dry sand to the cadence of the waves.

  The gentle lapping didn’t comfort as it should have, however. It reminded her of the day she and Caradoc had fled Kiddington and spent the afternoon in Dorset, taking in the magnificence of the English coast. He wanted to talk to her. Why now, after all this time? Because he happened to run into her and maybe felt a little guilt? She couldn’t convince herself his conversation had anything to do with genuine apologies—if he’d regretted walking away, he could have contacted her. He knew where she lived. The name of her business. Hell, he knew everything.

  Maybe it was nostalgia. The sex had been incredible. They shared very similar interests. They could talk for hours. Maybe he’d decided to indulge a little in Sicily, hoping to briefly enjoy the sparks they’d ignited in the past. That seemed most plausible.

  A slow burn of anger spread through her limbs, and she ran faster, trying to snuff it out. If he thought for one minute he could sweet-talk her back into bed, he’d obviously forgotten a whole hell of a lot more than she had.

  She closed her eyes for a brief moment to block out the bitterness. In that fraction of time, a vivid snapshot of his compelling hazel eyes staring into hers, his expression soft and tender, blasted across her eyelids. I love you, Isabelle.

  God, she’d been such a fool to believe three weeks could open those kind of emotions. They had for her. She didn’t question that. But his charming smile was enough to tell her he clearly knew his way around women. She should have known when she stumbled onto him, sitting in a far corner of Kiddington lands beneath the turning leaves of a red maple, that he was a drifter. One of those guys who carried a backpack and roamed because they couldn’t settle down. He’d told her as much. Said he’d spent most of his life traveling. That he’d come to England only to say goodbye to what had once been home.

  Isabelle jerked her attention back onto the beach and shoved Caradoc to a far corner of her mind. He was a dangerous distraction sh
e couldn’t afford with September’s safety in question.

  When she’d run as far as her lungs could carry her, she stopped, doubled over and sucked in air. One hand on her hip to ease the nagging pain in her side, she turned back for the hotel at a casual walk. Sweat trickled down her face, cooling her skin in the crisp morning breeze. Her limbs felt sturdier, the gnawing anxiety having retreated.

  Caradoc could rot. He’d lied to her, sworn he couldn’t have children, gotten her pregnant, and abandoned her. No matter how he persuaded, she would not be his fool again.

  * * *

  Though his blood ran in Britain’s fertile soil, and his heart knew only one homeland, America offered one comfort Caradoc treasured. Good coffee.

  He stared into the black depths of his mug, willing the bitter dark roast to gain flavor. He would sing Europe’s praises until air ceased to flow through his lungs, but he could not fathom how she failed with such a simple concoction.

  Grimacing, Caradoc took a neat sip. Zounds. ’Twas no better than week-old grounds warmed over a fire. Disgusted, he set the cup aside and picked up his brioche. He gestured at the disappointing brew. “It can get no worse.”

  “Oh, aye. It can,” Tane argued. “Have you sampled the packets in our rooms?” He wrinkled his nose in distaste.

  With a mutter, Caradoc ripped a chunk of brioche off and dunked it his lemon granita. “I shall not, now, to be certain.”

  “You will be glad for that decision. Where is Gareth?”

  Caradoc shrugged. He chewed on the tasty morsel, savoring the one luxury this assignment afforded—fine accommodations with even finer dining. He had grown so accustomed to the magic Anne’s new chefs worked in their American temple that he had come to fear this extended trip abroad would quickly lead to starvation.

  Mayhap he treasured something else about his forced homeland after all. Or, mayhap, he had simply become weary of the Templar sacrifice. Most likely ’twas the latter. Anymore, it required monumental effort to convince himself his purpose had merit.

  “You linger in your thoughts overmuch, brother,” Tane observed, his voice low and respectful.

  Caradoc took another bite and shook his head. “Nay. ’Tis appreciation for a decent breakfast.” His favorite meal of the day, by far. One that centuries of nocturnal fighting made difficult to enjoy.

  “’Tis not thoughts of Isabelle?”

  Isabelle. Caradoc’s body tightened automatically. He had tried hard not to think of her since dawn roused him from his bed. He scowled, the sweet lemon suddenly too tart. “You are as nosy as a woman.”

  Tane’s eyes lit with humor, and a wide grin split across his face. He shook his head on a chuckle. “I find it difficult to believe her presence here is mere coincidence. I am well versed in the prophecy. She who digs in dust precludes the finding of the jewel. Does Isabelle not work with—”

  Abruptly Tane fell into silence, his head cocked to the side, his expression alert. Wary. As if he listened to some distant voice.

  Caradoc’s icy smooth granita went down like a lump of coal as dread rolled around in his belly. “What is it?”

  “Do you not smell that?”

  “Smell what?” He lifted his nose and inhaled. On observing nothing unordinary, he gave Tane a puzzled squint.

  Tane’s dark eyebrows bunched into a severe frown. “How can both you and Gareth be ignorant to the scent of rot when it floods my nose? ’Tis twice now I have observed it when you have not.”

  The hair on Caradoc’s forearms lifted as apprehension tingled at the base of his neck. He lowered the chunk of brioche to his plate and lifted his gaze to the restaurant’s sparse inhabitants. Inhaling deeply, he searched for some faint recognition of Azazel’s dark presence.

  Breathing nothing, he returned Tane’s dark frown. “I smell naught.” Nor did he witness anything of concern. An aging couple sat near the tall windows, both immersed in reading. Two men sat beside a marble column, engaged in animated conversation, their hands subtly intertwined on the tabletop between them. In the far corner of the room, a pretty brunette dined alone with naught to entertain her.

  All perfectly ordinary for the early hour.

  But Tane would not contrive something of such importance. Particularly not now, when he longed to redeem himself and prove his worth.

  “He hides amongst us, Caradoc.” Tane leaned forward, glanced around as if to insure no one could overhear, and lowered his voice. “Mayhap he has created another man-possessed demon like Julian. ’Twould be the perfect place to embed a servant. He would go unnoticed with all the collectors Shapiro’s death has brought.”

  At the mention of Julian, the man who had nearly killed the last seraph, Caradoc could not help but shudder. Demons were to possess man, not the other way around. That Azazel had found the means to transfer souls from their mortal form, into a demon’s, and use the mortal’s spirit to create an identical twin, was more blasphemous than any vile act the dark lord had previously performed. That Azazel might have done the same more than once, made Caradoc’s stomach revolt. He pushed his breakfast aside and reached for the terrible coffee. “We should not speak of that now, Tane. Not here.”

  “Aye, I know we should not. But do you not think ’tis possible? He knows the tears dangle from the necklace. He knows they will activate the spear. Why should he avoid creating a plausible look-alike to insure he obtains the diamonds?”

  All questions Caradoc did not wish to consider, for in giving them thought, he could not separate Isabelle from the equation. If Azazel knew of the tears, he would soon know of the newest seraph. And should he seek to claim her for himself—as they all knew he desired—Caradoc did not wish to face a foe he could not identify. He would cut out his own heart should Isabelle suffer the same fate Chloe, Lucan’s seraph, had experienced in Azazel’s hellish pit.

  Sipping from his mug, Caradoc allowed his gaze to roam through the adjoining terrace and then the hotel’s vast front lobby. “I do not…”

  ’Twas his turn to fall into silence as the front lobby doors opened and Isabelle stepped inside. Long blond hair bobbed freely from her ponytail, loose tendrils framing her face even as she pushed them out of her eyes. Her cotton shorts clung to the tops of muscular thighs that he had dreamed of holding him a thousand times or more. Tiny spots of color stained her cheeks and added sparks to her already brilliant eyes.

  Everything inside him ground together into a tight ball of yearning. Motionless, he watched her stroll through the lobby, past the front desk, and toward the hall to the solitary elevator at the rear. Saints’ teeth, she might carry the blood of the Nephilim, but even in such simple garb, she was more beautiful than any angel he had ever encountered.

  She is staying here.

  In that instant, Caradoc knew he would not survive another day of this chasm that spanned between them. All thoughts of his conversation with Tane forgotten, he set his cup on his saucer, rose, and mumbled, “Excuse me.”

  Chapter 6

  Tane watched his brother stride down the hall, a man driven by ghouls as yet unseen, but present nonetheless. The all too familiar discomfort slid down his spine and tightened iron bands around his ribs. He breathed shallowly. In the depths of his heart, he carried a fervent hope that the lovely Isabelle would indeed heal Caradoc. He had led men to greatness, nearly forfeited his life to the Saracens prior to taking immortal oaths. Whilst many deserved the promised salvation that came with a seraph’s vows, Caradoc’s honor, integrity, and loyalty had never once faltered.

  And yet, Tane could not help but suffer a degree of resentment. Caradoc did not share the same torments as many of their brothers. His pains came from tortures of the body. He knew naught of how it felt to slowly be eaten away by afflictions of the mind. To question motives of those best known, as Lucan had suffered. To lose faith like Merrick, or wither away from betrayal like Farran.

  To look upon one’s brother and envy the very fact that he might live to know the peace they had all once shared, as Tan
e struggled with upon each waking. He despised himself for what he knew was wrong, for succumbing to the darkness in his soul. But no matter how he tried to look beyond it, ’twas his eternal curse.

  Tane flinched. Aye, how he despised himself. He did not deserve a seraph. He would be lucky to see even his full status as a Templar knight restored after the wrongs he had committed. Whether Isabelle was meant for Caradoc or not, Caradoc and the others would certainly see their souls saved before Tane would ever look upon his seraph’s face. Isabelle did not belong to him.

  It took every smidgeon of decency he possessed to temper the sneer that threatened to creep across his mouth and tear his gaze away from Caradoc’s march to the elevators. But the lavishness that surrounded him only made him long for the grandeur he had willingly sacrificed to the Order eight centuries past. He forced his stare to his half-eaten pastry and focused on the steady in and out rhythm of his breathing. If he did not escape this villa for even a few moments, he would surely succumb once more. When they left for Shapiro’s, he would speak with Gareth. Mayhap he would grant what Caradoc would not.

  As if Gareth could read his mind, he appeared at Tane’s side and dropped into the chair Caradoc had deserted. “Good morn!”

  Slowly, Tane looked up. On seeing Gareth’s jovial smile, he grimaced inwardly. “’Tis morn. Though I would argue ’tis good.”

  “Ah, Tane, look around you.” Gareth’s voice took on an air of false reverence, as evidenced by the mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “We are in the finest villa Sicily has to offer. Our beds are soft, our bellies full, and our balconies overlook the pool.”

  Unable to hold back a scowl, Tane unleashed it on Gareth. “Do not tell me you are already chasing skirts.”

  “Skirts nay. Bikinis, aye indeed.” The light in Gareth’s brown eyes deepened as amusement puckered a dimple in his cheek.