Immortal Sacrifice: #4 The Curse of the Templars

by Claire Ashgrove

  Once, Tane would have shared the same appreciation for feminine flesh. He had not changed so much he failed to recall the days of his youth, when maidens existed simply for the pleasure of taking them and skirts were meant to be tossed. But in his current mind frame, Gareth’s unquenchable thirst for pretty faces and warm soft flesh only stirred Tane’s agitation. ’Twas as if neither of his companions understood the gravity of their circumstances. With Isabelle present, Caradoc could not keep focused, and Gareth approached this assignment as if they were on a lark.

  Lips pursed, Tane choked back the oaths that rose to the tip of his tongue and measured his response. “I am quite certain that bikinis shall remain in fashion if you should miss seeing a few. We have more important work to accomplish today.”

  Gareth leaned forward to clap a reassuring hand on Tane’s shoulder. “Nay, my friend. We have a statue to obtain at ten. Mayhap one adorned with healing powers, but a statue all the same. At four, we have a wooden cross, no bigger than my thumb, to purchase. ’Tis work we could do blindfolded. A distraction shall help keep my yawns at bay.”

  “’Tis not any cross, Gareth. ’Tis carved from the True Cross.”

  “As is the urn and Noelle’s pot tomorrow and the jewelry box another day hence. What do the archangels intend to do—reconstruct the splintered beams? ’Tis no substance in those pieces. If we failed to procure them, our storerooms already hold vast quantities.”

  This flippancy was yet another reason Tane could not abide by Gareth’s early morning presence. Whilst his words held truth, ’twas no excuse to approach their assignment with such frivolity. He opened his mouth to say such, when the undeniable stench of decay filled his nose once more. Faint, but unmistakable, as if a rat had died beneath the very marble tiles their table stood upon.

  He snapped his jaw closed with a shudder. Testing the air once more, he confirmed ’twas not a figment of his imagination. The odor lingered, directly between him and Gareth. But the casualness of Gareth’s expression told Tane he did not recognize the presence.

  “You cannot smell it.” ’Twas a statement, not so much a question, and when Gareth cocked an eyebrow in question, Tane did not bother to explain. He shook his head, dismissing his remark.

  “Smell what?” Gareth urged.

  A chill slammed into Tane like a glacial fist to the spine. He jerked upright with a gasp, drawing Gareth’s full attention. Before he could explain, a ghostly whisper stirred the hair at the nape of his neck.

  “Remember the gift.”

  Tane squeezed his eyes shut and gave a violent shake of his head. When he opened them once more, the restaurant had returned to normal. No foul odor lingered in the air. The only cool breeze wafted down from the overhead air conditioner. He turned a frown on his companion. “Did you say something, brother?”

  Gareth’s eyes widened, and he drew back in startled surprise. “Me? Nay, I was just observing that Mikhail has sent another to join you.” He nodded in the direction of the glass front doors.

  Following Gareth’s indication, Tane looked to the entry. All thoughts of demons and whispered words he could not explain vanished as his gaze settled on Declan.

  * * *

  Declan entered the grandeur of the Villa Igiea with purpose. Shoulders proud and head erect, he walked toward the front desk, unable to keep a smile from playing at his mouth. He had at last pleased Leofric enough to warrant an escape from the temple. Had done his duty well enough to be granted the opportunity to do more than skulk amongst the corridors and spy on the suffering men within.

  Though his purpose had changed little, for he was to do no more than observe the three brothers here and report on their activities, ’twas progress. Evidence that his devotion to the Kerzu’s purpose had not gone unnoticed.

  Halfway across the wide front foyer, a movement in the corner of his eye brought him to an abrupt halt. He turned to look, blinked as he sighted Tane and Gareth. He had not anticipated finding them so soon. In fact, he had hoped he might not happen upon them at all. That he could, mayhap, linger in the shadows, observing from afar.

  A niggling sense of guilt seized his innards, and he looked away without so much as an acknowledging wave. For eight centuries, he had stood at Tane’s side. Together they had spilled blood, both that of men and demons. Together they had suffered the intolerable misery of the archangels’ curse. They were still brothers, despite their differences. He should greet Tane, even if he ignored Gareth.

  Yet Declan’s purpose here refused to grant such pleasantries. He sighed inwardly and blocked regret from taking root in his heart. Better to stop it now, for if he could not halt it with Tane, ’twould possess him once he encountered Caradoc, the man who had done all he could to prevent Declan’s inevitable transformation.

  As he stepped to the marble-topped counter, Declan forced a smile to his face. A woman with her black hair pulled into a severe ponytail greeted him. “Buongiorno, Signore. How may I help you?” Her thick Sicilian accent carried the distinct flavor of Italian warmth.

  Declan’s smile became more genuine. “I have a reservation—Declan MacNeill.”

  Her fingertips clicked across a keyboard hidden beneath the counter as she scanned a computer terminal. Lifting a cherry-red nail, she tapped the screen he could not see. “And here you are, Signore MacNeill. Everything’s all taken care of. Do you have need for aid with your bags?”

  “Nay.” He shifted his weight, adjusting the heavy duffle bag on his shoulder. “I shall manage.”

  “A moment please.”

  He lounged against the countertop, surveying the tall marble columns, the lavish painting on the ceiling in the adjoining room. Everywhere he looked, the villa held beauty—old world charm combined with the necessary modifications to insure modern man had everything he needed. But ’twas the older pieces, the works not made by machines and factories that stirred uncustomary warmth inside Declan’s heart. Too many years had passed since he had last set foot in Europe. He had fair begged to be assigned to France, the country that had become his home when he had fled the moors of Scotland. Yet he had been denied…till now.

  Memories stirred. Visions of himself and the five he had once considered his closest brothers laughing beneath the shade of skyward-reaching bailey walls. Of riding powerful destriers through foreign lands, their singular purpose to rid the world of Azazel’s foul creations. For a time, though the darkness lurked within their souls, they had known happiness. He had known peace. Utter contentment.

  He had made a difference, until this foul taint threatened to claim his sanity.

  “Here is your key, Signore.”

  The woman pulled Declan from his remembrances, and the weight of certain death sank into his bones. Mayhap once he had believed he could overcome the poison of his curse. Now, it took insurmountable energy and sheer force of will to find the faintest flickering of hope. He was not long for this world. Too soon, he would leave it, wearing the ebony garb of a transformed knight.

  He palmed the key and thanked the woman with a nod. His belly rumbled in protest of the long hours aboard a midnight flight without food. The weariness of centuries of combat cramped his muscles. A meager meal would give him the energy to withstand several more hours of wakefulness.

  As he made his way to a small table far from his brothers who still inhabited theirs, a black thought fingered at the base of his skull. If he killed Caradoc, ’twould be no chance his brother could succumb to the faltering Templar purpose. Nor would he have to suffer this sense of disloyalty when he reported Caradoc’s certain failures to Leofric.

  Declan blinked hard as the startling idea buckled his knees and forced him into his chair. Nay! He could not kill the only family he could claim. No matter their failures, the brothers who remained were as close as kin as any blood relation.

  He pressed the base of his palms to his temples to drown out the appeal of the vile thought. Och, nay. He would not entertain the idea. What ailed him? It pained him enough to relay the fai
lures of Lucan. He had come here to insure another foul creation like Julian could not be crafted. And though Declan would never dare admit such to Leofric, a small portion of his being could not help but celebrate that through it all, Lucan had secured another seraph. He had risen above the rest. Now the Templar were three stronger for the coming battle.

  As the oppressiveness of dark suggestion retreated to a distant corner of his mind, Declan dragged his hands down his face and lifted his gaze to a waiter standing at his side. The expectant look on the young man’s face said he had asked a question Declan had not heard. Clearing his throat, Declan struggled to regain his composure. “My apologies. I didna hear you.”

  The young man forgave him with a smile. “What may I get you?”

  He ordered automatically. “Water. A poached egg, and a small loaf of ciabatta.” ’Twas best to keep it simple. For too long he had enjoyed the splendor of Anne’s chefs. The Templar oaths demanded sacrifice, and mayhap if he forced himself to maintain the most basic of edicts, he would never again suffer such a disgraceful thought.

  With a cursory nod, the waiter fled the table. Declan spanned his hands before him on the white tablecloth, studying the nicks and scars of time. The years when he had acquired them seemed so distant. An era of bygones, only evidenced that they had ever inhabited this earth by ruins left to crumble.

  Yet he knew he had lived then. Knew the memories as well as he knew his name. That the world sought to preserve history meant little…they had forgotten the men and women who now rested in the grave. If he had never thought to marry, he too would have joined his kin. He would have lived and ruled as his station demanded, and he would have known the greatness of looking down upon his body as ’twas laid to rest amongst the lairds he descended from.

  He would have come and gone, never once knowing the conflict of existing with one foot in the grave and the other in the Almighty’s light.

  Aye, if he had never joined the Templar, he would have known the meaning of peace.

  Sighing, Declan leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands together. In truth, he regretted not his choice to accept the archangels’ curse. He had done all he could to uphold his oaths and serve the Order’s true purpose. ’Twas what brought him here—the oaths he believed in. The vows he would gladly honor until the last bit of light faded from his soul.

  ’Twas why he agreed to serve Leofric, and why he must not allow the weakness of a faltering spirit to lead him astray. ’Twas why, no matter the difficulty, he must do as ordered and insure Caradoc did not stumble. If he did, ’twould be Declan’s responsibility to acquire the necklace and surrender it to Leofric, who would present it to Mikhail.

  Then, the Kerzu would be recognized, and the sins of the Templar acknowledged. The archangels could not allow this quest for seraphs to lead the noble Order into eternal downfall once the failures were exposed.

  Chapter 7

  Two strides away from the elevator, Caradoc caught Isabelle by the elbow, forbidding her to enter the opening doors. The feel of her soft skin beneath his fingertips sent a rush of electrifying sensation pummeling through his veins. One touch. One forbidden capture, and his body cried out for more. He stumbled over a thickening tongue and managed only, “Isabelle.”

  She stilled but did not turn to look at him. Her stare fixed on the closing elevator, she said naught at all.

  A thousand apologies swamped his ability to form cohesive thoughts. Along with the jumbled words came a soul-deep plea for her love. To know once more the bliss he had experienced for such a short time. He swallowed hard. This nonsense must end. Now. Already too much time had spanned between them. But the rigid nature of her spine, combined with the rock-hard set to her delicate jaw, warned him spitting words out haphazardly would doom him further. He must choose whatever he said with care.

  “Please,” he whispered, his voice failing him. Clearing his throat, he tried again. “Please, give me a moment. ’Tis all I ask.”

  She took a determined step forward and jerked her arm to wrest free of his hold.

  “Isa!” Frustration forced Caradoc’s protest out more harshly than he intended. He snapped his mouth shut before his tongue could run away from him and easily matched her brusque, purposeful, stride. She would not run. Not this time. He had allowed her to avoid this confrontation too long. They had things to say, and even if she should spew venom, he wished to hear her words.

  He refused to give her any other option but to hear his.

  Pulling on Isabelle’s elbow, he drew her in a half-circle, bringing her so close to his body he could feel the warmth of her skin. Smell the intoxicating aroma of her summery perfume. His skin prickled, anticipating the way she had so oft snuggled her cheek against his chest.

  “Isa, stop this nonsense,” he murmured as he brought his hand to her face and cupped her chin. “Look at me. There is too much between us for enemies.”

  The resistance in her neck lessened, allowing him to tip her face up to his. As those indigo eyes locked with his, Caradoc’s heart skipped a heavy beat. For one brief moment, the woman he loved beyond all means gazed up at him, her expression as soft as he had remembered, the depths of her heart exposed. But with her blink, every particle of revealed emotion morphed into sharp lines of worry. Dark circles inhabited the fragile skin beneath her long strawberry lashes. Her mouth held the tightness of a rusty iron hinge.

  Not at all the expression of a woman who wished to escape an uncomfortable conversation. Nor was her countenance that of anger. She looked almost…haunted.

  Caradoc frowned, concern for her well-being replacing all else. “What troubles you?”

  She pulled on her arm. “Let me go, Caradoc. I’ve got things to do.”

  “Nay.” His brows drew together more tightly. “They can wait a few moments.” Softening his tone, he slipped his free hand into the wealth of blonde hair that slipped free from her ponytail and framed the side of her face. With his thumb, he smoothed the creases at the corner of her eye. “It troubles me to see you worry. Tell me what makes you frown so?”

  Isabelle blew out a harsh breath and pursed her lips. As the elevator dinged open behind her, she twisted sharply, breaking his loose grip on her elbow. “It’s none of your concern.”

  Caradoc lunged after her, but before he could recapture her arm, she slipped inside the sliding brass doors. His fingertips grazed the smooth metal panel seconds before it sealed shut. “Damnation!”

  Refusing to be dismissed so easily, he drew back and looked up to the glowing numbers on the panel overhead that ticked off the floors. She could run, but she could not hide so easily. If he ran fast enough, he could make it up the stairs before she entered her room. At the very least, if she was not present in the hall, he would know her door stood close to the elevator.

  One way or the other, he would find her.

  The numeral two glowed steadily, then blinked off, only to have the numeral three light up an instant later. Beneath Caradoc’s feet, the marble floor pitched sideways. His floor. She had spent the night mere feet away from him.

  Turning on his heel, he dodged around a trio of laughing women and started for the stairs. But at the base of the lavish red carpet runner that cloaked the well-worn wood, Tane stepped into his path, halting Caradoc’s forward progress. Saints’ toes, he had no time for talk of unseen demons. Annoyed, Caradoc shouldered him aside.

  A heavy hand planted into his chest. “Caradoc, cease. ’Tis important.”

  Caradoc ground his teeth together. Naught could be more important than righting the wrongs he had committed against his seraph. Now he could not hope to catch her before she took cover in her room. Slowly, he turned his head, making his displeasure known with a tight scowl. “What is it?” he snapped.

  “’Tis Declan.”

  The absurd mention of the brother left in America only served to flare Caradoc’s temper. Declan might be causing trouble in the Temple, but his strange behavior meant naught at the moment. Lest he had killed one
of their brethren, Caradoc cared not to hear. He bit off a vile remark about Tane’s misplaced priorities and scolded him with a baleful glower. “We will discuss this at Shapiro’s.”

  “Nay, we cannot.” Tane inclined his head toward the restaurant. “He is here. I wish to know why.”

  All the heat fled Caradoc’s veins as surprise doused over his head. Unable to believe Tane’s claims, he looked around his brother’s wide shoulders to witness the impossibility himself. True enough, their secretive brother dined alone, his unruly auburn hair unmistakable though he kept his head bent and his face disguised.

  Caradoc blinked once. Twice.

  Spluttered.

  Mikhail had mentioned naught of Declan’s joining them. What in the name of the saints was he doing in Sicily? Why had Merrick, at the very least, not seen fit to phone and alert them of Declan’s arrival?

  “You were not expecting him, then?” Tane asked in a low voice.

  “Nay.” He slid wide eyes back to Tane’s expectant stare. With a shake of his head, he emphasized, “Nay. I received no news of his arrival.”

  * * *

  With the door firmly shut behind her, Isabelle sagged against the aged wood. Her stomach trembled, as did the hand she lifted to her mouth. Caradoc knew. He could read her so well. Worse, she’d almost spilled it all right there in the middle of the villa’s lobby. She’d wanted to. Wanted nothing more than to turn into his arms and pour out the whole story about September’s birth, her kidnapping, and the nightmare that kept Isabelle up at night.

  Damn it! A few simple words, and she’d nearly forgotten how he’d used her. She’d almost bought into his claims of concern. Could she be any more foolish?

  As tears brimmed, she slid down the door to sit on the carpet. When he’d touched her, her stupid heart had even fluttered. When he called her by the nickname he’d given her, she had melted. Three years and one unexpected child that he’d left her to raise alone, and Caradoc could still turn her into putty without effort.