Immortal Sacrifice: #4 The Curse of the Templars

by Claire Ashgrove

  Even now, removed from the brother he should be praising, he felt the vile disease spread through his veins. He had devoted himself to the Templar life with every bit of his being. Did he not deserve the same healing? The same chance to reclaim the light he had once carried in his soul?

  Yet four times now he had been overlooked. Punished for crimes he had never committed whilst those he was closest to found salvation.

  He squeezed his temples, desperate to drown out the objections he knew were wrong. ’Twas not as if the archangels chose based on merit. The more time he had spent with Anne, he came to realize their personalities would clash. Aye, all four seraphs were lovely to look at, all possessed qualities and gifts he admired, but none would ever satisfy him the way they satisfied their mates. Their pairings were preordained for a purpose beyond the simple healing of the taint that flowed within their knights’ veins. They healed souls. And the men who had been chosen followed the prophecy’s designs. Isabelle might be the jewel, but Tane did not possess the fortitude to pursue a woman who made her disinterest so evident.

  Nay, in his heart, he knew ’twas no injustice that he suffered. The darkness inside him, however, refused to allow him comfort.

  Besides, though he might have once been equal to his brothers, no longer did he share their honor. He had betrayed the Order, defied the very vows they swore to uphold. He did not deserve a seraph. It made sense now, why Merrick had agreed to Mikhail’s insistence that Tane should journey to Italy. ’Twas a test. A measure of his worthiness and a quest to prove his reliability. Place a seraph right in front of him, see if he could resist the salvation his soul cried out to obtain. A challenge he would fail if he did not manage to keep his thoughts in line and focus on the truths he understood.

  Sighing, he doubled over, pulled his mail hauberk off, and turned on the light. As he inspected the woven links for damage, he trained his thoughts to the teens in the shelter who had experienced more suffering than he could ever imagine. At least he had known his parents’ love. Had never known the ache of an empty belly or the chill of a blanketless night.

  He needed to return, to insure Iain had all he needed to manage the facility and Catherine did not need classroom supplies. He needed to insure Marie kept up with her college classwork. He needed to check on David, make sure he no longer struggled with his reading. Needed to insure twelve-year-old Susan no longer feared her abusive uncle could get through the shelter’s security systems. ’Twas only by the angels’ grace that Tane had not extinguished that bastard’s life. He would have, had Merrick not seen fit to allow Tane to return to the Temple two days after Susan’s arrival.

  He laid the chain shirt over the back of an armchair and went to the window to look down on the awakening streets of Sicily. Sitting on the corner of the intersection closest to the villa, a shaggy-haired young boy struggled against the wind to keep four framed canvases from toppling over. His tattered jeans and tangled hair marked him as a beggar. Tane squinted, trying to get a better look at what the lad was about. But morning had yet to break in full, and the light was still too poor to give him anything but a brief glimpse of the color red.

  He thumped a light fist against the window frame and headed for a morning shower. Begging teens—after eight hundred years of life he should be used to the sight. Yet it never became easier to confront children who paid for their parents’ wrongs.

  Today, regardless of Caradoc’s protests, he would take lunch away from his duty to the tears and wander the streets. Discover what that lad hawked on the corner, find out if there were any shelters within the city who could use a bit of volunteer labor. ’Twould be a welcome respite from this business of seraphs to expend energy driving nails into wood or hefting a paint brush. ’Twould also be enjoyable to practice the sport the teens in Missouri had taught him, the one they called basketball. If they played such here in Sicily; the recreation was still too new for him to know whether other countries shared the same.

  Aye, indeed, he would excuse himself from his brethren. First though, he must satisfy the obligation to the urn. In exactly five and a half hours, at precisely eleven-thirty, that sacred treasure would sit atop the auctioneer’s podium, and judging from the number of people he had witnessed appraising it on their arrival, the matter of securing it would not be easy.

  Duty first. Indulgence after. ’Twas the only way to appease both the Templar vows and his conflicted soul.

  ’Twas the only way he could guarantee Isabelle would remain free from his taint.

  On second thought, if he visited the beggar before they departed for Shapiro’s villa, he would not need to excuse himself from duty until after the auction concluded for the day. He could serve meals tonight. Take his own with those he understood.

  Aye. Beggar first, urn to follow.

  Chapter 14

  When the grey of dawn gave way to an even greyer overcast morning, Isabelle hurried down the stairs, feeling the weight of a dozen sandbags in her legs. Breakfast had been a worthless venture; she’d eaten half of a tasteless pastry before anxiety forced her onto the beach for another run. Now, she was two hours early for the priceless ruby.

  Delaying her arrival, however, was out of the question. The minute she sat down in a quiet room, she’d fall asleep. While she would almost welcome the nightmare at this point, she couldn’t risk oversleeping and missing the gem.

  Her heels clicked against the villa’s marbled hall as she headed for the wide front doors. Against her better judgment, her eyes scanned the suits that milled in the lobby and gathered in the open-front restaurant for Caradoc. She told herself she searched to ensure he kept his distance, not that she actually wanted to see him.

  The jittery nature of her pulse made the excuse a lie.

  She did want to see him. Wanted to hear the brandy-smooth baritone of his voice. Wanted, more than anything, to run into him once more and decide for the last time whether his concern was passing happenstance or whether his emotions ran as deep as hers.

  To her disappointment, she reached the front doors without a sign of Caradoc. It shouldn’t surprise her; he’d always enjoyed sleeping in. After the late night, he was probably still sacked out, dead to the world.

  Like she would have been under different circumstances.

  She thumped through the doors into a humid, temperate morning that reinforced the sky’s promise of later rain. Great. Like she needed anymore bleariness added to her day. She already faced a musty cab ride through the crowded city and a dogfight with Thomas Dunn over the pigeon’s blood ruby. Let alone everything else—namely that Paul wasn’t answering his phone. Again.

  Even more than running into Caradoc, Isabelle wanted to talk to September. Isabelle traveled, yes. But mealtimes always meant a call from Mommy, and until September had started speaking, detailed updates from Rosa.

  The thought of Rosa, and all the phone calls Isabelle wouldn’t receive, knifed grief through her chest. She bowed her head, wincing. Such senselessness. Rosa didn’t need to die. She knew more mafia secrets than Isabelle’s own mother. Paul could have banked on Rosa’s silence.

  Head down, Isabelle didn’t notice the broad chest until she ran straight into it. Startled, she jumped back. Hot color infused her cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

  In a heartbeat, she recognized the roadblock. Caradoc’s dark-haired friend. As he grabbed her elbow to keep her from falling, a charming smile spread across a ruggedly handsome face. Deep green eyes sparkled like brilliant emeralds. “’Tis all right, milady. I had advance warning. I saw you coming.”

  His wink diffused some of her embarrassment. She twisted free of his supportive hold and extended her hand. “I’m Isabelle. You’re a friend of Caradoc’s?”

  “Aye.” He fit his palm neatly against hers then gave it a firm shake. “Tane du Breuil.”

  Tane. Not an easily forgettable name. But as sure as she knew her own, she’d never heard it before. Caradoc hadn’t mentioned him. “Do you work together?”

  “Aye.
We have for many years.”

  He slid his gaze down her body, and appreciation lit in those emerald portals. Not so much it made her uncomfortable, but enough she understood the shifting light. She took a moment to assess him with a similar roving glance. Almost as tall as Caradoc; she’d put him at an even six foot. Shoulders nearly the same width, but Tane’s build was stockier. Harsher. Even the angles in his handsome face were harder than Caradoc’s. Qualities that emphasized the sharp glitter to his naturally bright eyes.

  Handsome. Intimidating.

  Kinda like Caradoc had been when he’d stormed inside her room demanding to know what had made her scream. But she got the impression Tane wore the same kind of severity daily, where Caradoc kept his bottled up beneath the surface.

  Still, the guy wasn’t afraid of a gym, and his handsome face surely turned women’s heads. She smiled, amused by her assessment. “A pleasure to meet you. But I need to be going.”

  “You are headed to Shapiro’s?

  “Yeah.”

  “If you wait a moment whilst I put this up,” he lifted a painting that rested on his foot, “I am certain Caradoc and Gareth will be down soon. We would be happy to drive you.”

  A car ride with Caradoc and his friends? No way in this green earth was that going to happen. Caradoc alone was bad enough. But at least when they didn’t have guests, she didn’t have to worry what slipped off her tongue. Love him, hate him, she could say it all in private.

  She shook her head as she tapped her narrow leather watchband. Ignoring the hands that read seven-thirty, she explained, “I have an item up for auction I can’t miss.”

  Her attention waivered, drawn to the flash of bright crimson as Tane shifted the unframed painting to his opposite hand. She peered down at the canvas with a quizzical frown. Against his left thigh rested a brilliant portrait of the nearby harbor at sunset. Intricately detailed sailboats dotted the horizon, bobbing on waves she could feel, the artist had put so much life into his work.

  Awed, Isabelle covered a gasp with her fingertips. She lifted wide eyes to Tane. “Where’d you find that? I didn’t know the shops were open yet.”

  His chuckle held warm appeal. “They are not. ’Tis a beggar’s work. A lad no more than sixteen years.”

  Isabelle bent at the knees to get a closer look. Rich oranges, pinks, and yellows composed a sunset more lifelike than some of the paintings she’d seen in Chicago’s Art Institute. “A teenager painted this?”

  “Aye. He is quite good.”

  “No kidding. May I ask what you paid for it?”

  His green eyes twinkled again. “Aye, you may, but I shall only say ’twas far less than what I anticipated. Pocket change for any one of us.”

  She doubted the truth in pocket change, but accepted the piece was well within what she considered an affordable range. “Amazing. Where is he again?”

  Tane pointed to the south. “Just beyond that corner bus stop. His name is Dangelo.” He hefted the painting to his waist and flipped it around to admire it himself. “His name means of the angels. ’Tis fitting, is it not?”

  “Yeah.” For some unexplainable reason, Caradoc came to mind. She didn’t know the meaning of his name, and yet, she recalled it from the Arthurian legends as one of the knights. She could almost see him sitting beside this man, sword atop a great round table as they discussed the king’s business.

  Unsettled by the easy association, she stood and smoothed her skirt. “I really need to be going. Nice to meet you, Tane.”

  “The pleasure is mine, milady.” He caught her by the hand, lifted it, and placed a kiss to her knuckles.

  The odd etiquette would have left her unbalanced if she hadn’t become so accustomed to it in England with Caradoc. He’d greeted her the same way. Only Tane’s lip-knuckle-brush didn’t send a jolt of energy all the way down to her toes. She politely pulled free, gave him a friendly wave, and hustled down the walk to the taxicab stand, where she jumped in a waiting car and directed the driver to Shapiro’s luxurious villa.

  * * *

  At ten minutes to eleven, Caradoc followed the swing of Isabelle’s long ponytail through a dense clump of suits and into the grand hall. All morn she had pretended to be oblivious to his presence. Her avoidance stung, yet he stayed close enough he could keep one eye on her, the other on those who sought to approach her. Until this day, he had never comprehended the meaning of the word jealousy. Now, he found himself sympathizing with Tane and willing every man who came within five feet of Isabelle to fall over dead.

  The feeling was so foreign he began to question his sanity. ’Twas not normal, this desire to skewer mere strangers for committing no offense. Still, he could not deny the urge simmered in his blood, driving him near mad. She was his, and he would have the whole world know it.

  As she slid into a chair alongside the isle, Caradoc assumed the open seat beside Gareth. His gaze strayed to the empty hole at Gareth’s right. “Where is Tane?”

  “I left him to guard the necklace. A man was paying it particular attention.”

  Nodding in support of the decision, Caradoc extended his legs to relieve the ache in his knees. Soon they would possess the urn. Once ’twas obtained, he would leave Gareth and Tane to secure a clay pot Noelle had insisted belonged in the Templar storerooms. Why, Caradoc could not say, nor did he care. He wished only to be free of this crowded place, free from the confines of his suit, and free to soak his bones in a heated bath. The spar had done much to ease his restlessness, but with little time to rest after, physical exertion had only intensified his discomfort.

  When he finished with the soak, he intended to pay Isabelle another visit. Tonight she would not find him so agreeable about leaving. With her status as a seraph revealed, and the knowledge she freely wore the mark of her angelic blood, he could not leave her safety to fate. If he must, he would arouse her body until she could not hope to dismiss the desire that burned so fierce within her eyes. He would accept the aftermath of waspish words, so long as her soft moans included the seraphs’ oath.

  And they would. He would show her every fantasy he had harbored these last three years to ensure naught else. If that did not soften her to her destiny, he would use all he had learned about her body in England. Zounds, the mere thought sent heat rushing through his veins and into his cock. It swelled in an instant, her effect as powerful as ever.

  The lift of her hand as she bid snapped him out of his thoughts. Shifting to alleviate the tightness in his groin, he squinted at the auctioneer to see what had sparked her interest. But the sea of dark heads blocked his view, and the large screen that had run throughout the bidding the previous day was dark. Vaguely, he recalled an announcement regarding technical difficulties. At the time, he had cared not. Now he found himself cursing the lack of dependable electronics.

  His wait, however, did not last long. The auctioneer banged a gavel. “Sold to number 4351, 16th century pigeon’s blood ruby pendant, five hundred thousand, even.”

  Isabelle’s number. Pride burned through Caradoc’s chest. The figure spoke to her overall position amongst her peers. No buyer would give her control of such grand sums if she had not proven herself as an expert.

  Honeysuckle tickled his nose as she walked down the aisle. When she refused to look at him, something inside Caradoc snapped. Anger flared in his gut, burned slow through his body. Damnation, he was not invisible. She could pretend she did not see him all she wished, but ’twould accomplish naught. Their fates were intertwined. Her soul cried out for his as certain as his called for hers. By the Almighty’s grace, he was done with this masquerade!

  He turned to Gareth. “Take care of the urn.”

  In his haste to follow Isabelle’s departure, he nearly knocked over his chair. Were it not for Gareth’s quick reflexes, ’twould have clanged into the man’s shins behind it. Ignoring Gareth’s disapproving frown, Caradoc ordered his feet to walk, not run, down the aisle. He exited the grand hall in time to catch her ponytail bob through the open-
air arches into the manicured garden. She wove around a collection of businessmen enjoying cigars and struck off down the cobblestone path that led deeper into tall palms, flowering green shrubbery, and clipped grass.

  With her in plain sight, Caradoc slowed his pace. As he approached, she cupped a bright pink flower in her hand and breathed in its perfume. The simple gesture pulled at his heartstrings, reminding him of her deep appreciation for wildlife and how she had found so much joy in the English countryside he called home. He paused, content to observe the picture of feminine beauty that she cast against a backdrop of palm fronds. No more lovely woman existed.

  His chest swelled with feeling even the word love belittled. Taking a deep breath to loosen the iron bands around his lungs, he moved to her side. “Isabelle.”

  Though his voice was soft, she jumped as if he had blown a horn. That she did not immediately grimace and shy away should have brought him concern. The ashen color of her face, however, overrode all other awareness. Dark circles gave her beautiful eyes a sunken appearance, and those indigo depths no longer held their natural brightness. Something was very wrong with Isabelle.

  He stepped closer, gathered her hands in his. His eyebrows knit with worry. “Isa, you look ill,” he murmured.

  She chuckled, as if she sought to shrug off his observation. But on closer inspection, Caradoc observed the trembling of her lower lip. He spread their joined hands apart and pulled her into his body. Winding his arms around her narrow waist, he guided her head to his shoulder with his chin. When she did not struggle against his offered comfort, he rested his cheek against her hair. “Tell me.”

  * * *

  Isabelle’s shoulders shuddered as she tried to choke down a sob. In a powerful wave, all the words surged to the tip of her tongue. There, they jumbled together in mass confusion, making it impossible to link one after the other and form coherent speech. It had finally hit her while she bid on the ruby that she was aiding a criminal. A kidnapper. A man who had committed murder. She hadn’t slept a full night in weeks, and she couldn’t remember when she’d last eaten a complete meal. Miles away from September, caught in a nest of lies and crime, she’d never felt more helpless in her life.