Immortal Sacrifice: #4 The Curse of the Templars

by Claire Ashgrove

  Legs stretched out before her, ankles crossed, she leaned into the crook of his arm.

  “Tell me about your dream, Isa.”

  Her shoulders stiffened. “I thought we weren’t talking about all that.”

  Absently, he played with the long locks of hair that tumbled over her shoulder. “’Tis not something that stands between us. ’Tis not work or business. I see no reason why we should not.”

  In truth, the subject skirted the edge of their agreement. But if he was to have her oath, he needed to draw her into deeper conversation. The only way he knew how was to learn what kept her so distressed she could not eat. He would wager his very soul ’twas far more than the little she had disclosed the night before. Once he understood her discomfort, he could attempt to ease it with the promise she would eternally sleep at his side and never again experience the nightmare.

  * * *

  Isabelle almost chortled. Not something that stood between them—he’d realize how wrong he was as soon as he heard the name September. Then this tranquility that had only just begun would shatter. They’d go right back to arguing. The best thing she could do was play it off like she had last night.

  At the same time, the gentle way his fingers toyed with her hair and the seductive warmth that ebbed off his body urged her to take him into confidence. To let down all her protective walls and surrender this vulnerability to the one man who had the internal fortitude to shoulder the burden.

  She snuggled into his embrace and fixed her stare on the sinking red-orange sun. Her lips still tingled from his hard, hungry assault on her mouth. You take my pain away. He knew just what to say to break her down. It was more than that, though. One mention of his torture, and she’d been struck with the nonsensical urge to inflict damage on the people who’d hurt him. The thought of how he must have suffered turned her heart over. No matter how she’d like to deny it, how she’d like to pretend she could just walk away from Sicily and never look back, she couldn’t get around the pitiful fact she loved him. After all he’d done, all his hurtful words, that love hadn’t died.

  It never would. She needed him too much.

  His lips feathered over the crown of her head. Beneath her ear, his heart kicked a heavier beat. “Tell me, sweet Isa, what you did not say last night. A child’s calls for help should not leave you so distressed, lest there is more.”

  A whole world more.

  She heaved a sigh, and with the heavy exhale, her reservations floated away. Confide in Caradoc—nothing felt more right. She’d omit September’s name, but she could tell him all the rest. She gazed out at the sparkling sea-green waves and grabbed on to the deteriorating warmth of the sun. Nevertheless, a chill worked its way down her spine as the eerie cemetery flashed within her mind.

  “It’s dark, only a sliver of moonlight breaks through the trees to guide me,” she murmured.

  “And someone’s chasing you.”

  “Yes, but I’m not afraid. I keep hearing the voice. Hearing her calls for help.”

  Help me!

  September’s terrified scream brought tears to Isabelle’s eyes. The sunburst sky melted into a bleary watercolor of muted pinks, oranges, and streaks of red. She blinked, felt the salty scald trickle down her cheeks. Her voice dropped to a raspy whisper. “The path’s falling apart. I trip, and I hear this…noise. Like there’s a lion nearby, only, it’s not a lion. It’s hollow, malicious…Evil.”

  The motion of Caradoc’s hand stopped. His fingers wrapped around her narrow shoulder, and he held her tight to his chest. With his other hand, he caught hers and twined their fingers together.

  His nearness gave her courage. “That’s the only way I can describe it—evil. When I hear it, I’m passing a mausoleum. My fingers catch on the engraving in the stone. There’s a name there, Valguarnera. I don’t recognize it, only that it’s Italian.”

  Bit by bit, the dream worked its way out of her memory and into words. She reiterated her concern over being caught by whoever was behind her, detailed out the fear September’s screams generated. By the time Isabelle described the nightmarish fiend, she was freely crying, her words interrupted by sobs she couldn’t contain.

  Caradoc listened silently, a pillar of rock that grounded her to the present and refused to let her become consumed by the horrors of September’s lifeless body. When she broke down, unable to wrench out another syllable, he took her into his arms and held her tight, soaking up her tears with his suit jacket.

  She wound her arms around his waist and held on for dear life. The steady beat of his heart worked to temper her rapid pulse and keep the usual nausea at bay. She’d done it. She’d survived telling him without the details of September’s bloodied blond hair and strawberry nightgown. The victim in her recitation remained nameless and faceless, and Isabelle hadn’t shattered the beauty of simply being with Caradoc.

  He hadn’t denounced her claims either, or written them off to her imagination when she described that thing. That alone gave her a modicum of relief. She couldn’t cope with another of his denouncements.

  As sunset faded into twilight, music from the village drifted up the mountainside, bringing with it a lightness that slowed her tears. She sniffled, rubbed her cheek on his lapel.

  “This is no dream about a stranger, Isa. ’Tis about September, is it not?” His low voice stirred her hair.

  Chapter 24

  Isabelle’s heart seized. Brief panic kick-started it with a shuddering thump, and she remained utterly still, afraid her body would betray the truth before she could find the right answer. Tell him, and delve down the forbidden subject. Lie, and suffer through it alone.

  Her tongue overruled her fear. “Yes,” she whispered.

  She tipped her head back to search his expression for a hint to his thoughts. Instead, she found his gaze on her, those hazel eyes warmed by compassion. Not resentment, as she’d feared, not annoyance that September had entered their discussion. Breathing more easily, Isabelle relaxed her tight grip on his suit coat. “How’d you know?”

  He stroked his thumb across her cheek. “I know you, Isa. ’Tis not a stretch to realize the child that haunts your dreams is the one who lives closest to your heart.”

  Someday, she’d stop trying to hide things from him and realize he’d always see what she tried to disguise. And if she really wanted to be honest with herself, when she stopped looking at all the reasons she should keep him at arms’ distance, she’d also realize she could read him just as well. Like the tenderness in his expression that changed him from handsome to breathtaking. He cared. He genuinely cared, no matter how much she wanted to believe he didn’t.

  Yet that same knowledge and understanding gave her the ability to read his uncertainty in the slight tug of his brows. Here it came, the trip down that dark path of accusations, disbelief, and doubt. Tension inched down her spine.

  “Are you certain ’tis not just a mother’s worry? The fear of being unable to protect that which is most precious to you?”

  She’d anticipated another battery of questions about September’s parentage, not an attack on her ability to glimpse the future, a gift he’d said he believed in. Affronted, she flattened her palms against his chest and shoved out of his embrace. “I don’t believe you.”

  The evening air assumed a frigid chill, not unlike the shadows that descended on her brief happiness and warded away the blooming warmth in her heart. She rose to her feet and moved closer to the high ledge. Gazing out at the lavender sky, Isabelle wrapped her arms around herself and huddled into her body. “I told you there’s a difference. A halo of light.”

  Pebbles skipped across the ground, crunched as he moved behind her. He didn’t touch her, yet he stood so close the warmth of his skin caressed her stiffened shoulders. A passing breeze carried the rich earthen scent of sandalwood to her nose.

  His lack of words unnerved her. She rubbed at the goose bumps coursing down her arms and squinted at a distant sparkle of light that breeched the sky, marking the dawn
of night. She should leave, before darkness descended and she couldn’t make her way down the path alone. She hadn’t come up here to fight.

  One lone finger swept her hair over her shoulder, then trailed slowly down the center of her neck. “I do not question, you, Isabelle, but the gift itself.”

  As he traced his fingertip across her wide collar, from one point of her shoulder to the other, Isabelle closed her eyes. The gentle caress squelched the brimming fire in her pride, and to her chagrin, she leaned back, moving closer to the beckoning call of his body heat.

  “The thing…I can’t make that up, Caradoc. It’s not something I’ve seen in movies. Not something I’ve read about. It’s real, and it means to kill her.”

  His hands dropped to her hips, strong fingers splayed over bone. Steady pressure turned her around to face him once more. In the growing shadows, his gaze became darker. More intense.

  “You said it had claws and resembled a man?”

  Isabelle nodded.

  “Tell me, Isa, did this dark creature possess wings?”

  The hard edge to his voice made her feel like someone had just walked over her grave. A tremor coursed all the way down to her toes, lifting the fine hairs on her skin. “No. I don’t think so.”

  “Good.”

  His voice was smooth and steady, but she didn’t miss the obvious wash of relief that softened his gaze before he wound his arms around her and gathered her close. That tiny fragment of unexpected emotion shot shards of ice between her ribs. He wasn’t just concerned for her well-being. Caradoc was worried.

  “Enough of this.” The base of his palms glided over the tight muscles along her spine just hard enough to work out bits of stress. “We came here to relax.”

  True. And reliving her nightmare wouldn’t accomplish anything close to relaxation. Tomorrow, when this little foray into shameful paradise had passed, she’d confront all the things she didn’t understand. All the fears.

  She laid her head above his heart and released her troubles with a sigh. “Mm. That feels good.” Heavenly enough to make her forget every worry lurking in her mind.

  “Come back against the wall where the breeze does not reach and the gravel turns to earth, and I will give you more.” He stepped away, tugging her back into the deeper shadows to where they’d been sitting before.

  At the gesture of his hand, Isabelle dropped down on the ground. While she peeled off her heels, Caradoc stripped out of his jacket. He folded it three times, dropped it on the sparse grass, and gave her a lazy grin. “Rest your head there, if you wish.”

  Isabelle hesitated, worry for her daughter urging her to do something other than sit on this idyllic cliffside and bask in the contented peace Caradoc wove so easily around her. But with briefly closed eyes, she drew strength from what she knew she could control. September will be fine. You’ll have the necklace tomorrow, and all this will go away. She will be okay.

  Determined not to let their conversation or her helplessness against September’s situation intrude on this precious peace, Isabelle stretched out, arms folded over his makeshift pillow, chin resting on the back of her wrists. She crossed her ankles but otherwise dismissed the awkwardness of her skirt.

  When Caradoc sat beside her and those strong, magical hands settled onto her shoulders, a quiet moan rumbled in her throat.

  * * *

  For the first time in the passing of too many uncountable hours, the silence did not hold undertones of distance. Caradoc worked his hands over Isabelle’s slender back, content to knead out the multitude of knots in her muscles. Though she kept her eyes closed, the faint smile that graced her lips told him she was awake.

  The reminder of the creature she witnessed in her nightmare drove home the truth—Isabelle had not contrived, nor confused, her gift. What she saw was as real as the flimsy white blouse beneath his fingers. For a moment, however, he had feared mayhap the dark lord had come for September himself. Shades did not possess the ability to morph into any form. Nytyms could assume only rudimentary animalistic figures. Demons could morph into any creature known to man, but their natural form, that of vile darkness, was not oft described as human. They could not maintain both forms for more than a few moments before their powers faded and they must yield to one or the other.

  But the absence of wings erased his brief worry. Azazel took great pride in his angelic nature. He would not conceal the very thing that marked him as one who knew the Almighty’s glory. His pride would not hear of it. What Isabelle had seen could only be a demon, and ’twas quite possible for Isabelle, who had not witnessed one in person, to become confused by the horrific appearance.

  Nevertheless, a demon posed little threat. One properly aimed strike of Caradoc’s sword would guarantee the death Isabelle witnessed would never occur. Tomorrow they would discuss this further. Once he had her oath and hunting demons together would not jeopardize her life. Then, they would find the beast who thought to harm her daughter and eradicate it from this earth.

  Isabelle’s shoulders shook with silent laughter.

  “What amuses you?”

  “I was just thinking.”

  “About?”

  He dipped his thumbs into the loose waistband of her skirt and kneaded the tops of her buttocks. Beneath him, she shifted restlessly. She uncrossed her ankles, crossed them the opposite way. Squirmed ever so slightly. A smile stole across his face at the evidence of brimming arousal. His heart thumped a heavy beat, his own body not unaffected. How he loved touching her. The gentle incline of her waist, the graceful slope of her well-toned bottom, the strength in her thighs. His hands followed the nature of his thoughts, gliding all the way down to one shapely calf.

  “If someone overheard our conversations these last couple of days they’d think we were both looney. Creatures with claws, immortality, psychic gifts.” She shifted again, a subtle arching of her back. “Mm. That feels so good.”

  Unable to resist, Caradoc pushed his hands along the length of her bare leg, high up to work his fingers into the fragile skin of her inner thigh. Her feminine heat warmed the back of his knuckles. She lifted her hips a fraction, spread her legs even infinitesimally less, but the invitation blasted through him. She would be damp. He sucked in a sharp breath as blood coursed to his groin. The sudden, maddening need to hitch up her skirt, cover her with his body, and embed himself in her waiting flesh pounded through his senses.

  He dragged one knuckle over the thin veil of her panties and silently swore when moisture kissed his skin. Aye, wet and ready. But she was saying something, something unrelated to desire. With a grimace, he forced away the image of how she would rise up into him should he nudge that scrap of satin aside and push two fingers inside her slick sheath.

  “She’s always telling me about angels.”

  “September?”

  “Yeah.” Isabelle uncrossed her ankles, only this time she did not cross them again. She sidled down the ground a fraction, aligning her moistened flesh with the back of his index finger. Her voice dropped to a husky whisper. “That feels good too.”

  “Does it?” His own voice filled with gravel as he slipped his finger beneath the satin and stroked her sensitive nub.

  She gyrated against his hand. “Mm-hm.”

  “What does she say about angels?” To keep his own body from springing to attention before he was ready, he focused on the conversation. If he did not, he would never survive the necessary discussion he was intent on having before he made love to her again. But the soft gasp that tumbled off her lips made it near impossible to concentrate.

  So did the flutter of her flesh against his fingertip. Caradoc grimaced as his cock pulsed, threatening to override logic and insist on its own demands.

  “She knows them…by heart. She says there is…” Isabelle’s hips lifted forward, seeking the fulfillment he provoked. Her low moan filled his ears.

  Damnation. He could not converse like this. Nor could she. Closing his eyes, he held his breath as he gave her what sh
e desired and slid two fingers inside. She lifted off the ground, allowing him the room to swirl his thumb over her sensitive bud. Slowly he withdrew. Slower still, he pushed back in.

  She moved against him, a perfect counterstroke that clamped his lungs down tight. His body strained against a blast of fierce desire. He wanted her. Wanted her on her knees, his hands on her breasts, his cock slipping through her slick flesh. He ached to feel the press of her bottom against his groin, the clamp of her muscles as she took him deep.

  If such were possible, his shaft swelled even more at the thought. Caradoc breathed shallowly, the scrape of Isabelle’s short breaths a torture to his over-sensitized nerves. In a desperate measure to override his tumultuous hunger, he pushed her to the point of breaking by countering the backward motion of her hips with a firm press to the hardened bud between her legs.

  Isabelle let go with a guttural moan. Her flesh pulsed around his fingers, teasing him with the exquisite remembrance of how perfect that clamp and release felt around his shaft. Eyes closed, teeth clenched tighter than a vise, Caradoc guided her through her climax and willed his own to subside.

  His fingers trembled as he eased them from between her legs and ran a hand down the smooth length of her thigh. Her hips quietly fell to the ground. He did not dare to look at her as she rolled over for fear the sated pleasure radiating in her eyes would devastate him completely. Instead, he focused on the conversation she had begun. His rough voice grated over her ragged breathing. “You mentioned…angels?”

  The subject matter might not be more than a child’s illusions, but ’twas the perfect opportunity to lead to the conversation he desired. When he had finished that necessary exchange, he could cast aside this exercise in torture and yield to the need that ran rampant in his veins.

  “Yes, angels.”

  If he could withstand the coy way her fingers drifted up his bent leg to stroke the length of his swollen arousal over his trousers, he would be a saint. His eyes snapped open at the light touch. Hissing in a short breath, he caught her hand in his and restrained her wandering fingers. Hesitantly, he braved her heavy-lidded expression. Her parted lips called to his own, but the bright fire in her eyes that he most feared had dimmed, offering him a modicum of relief. He breathed easier. “What does she say of them?”