Immortal Sacrifice: #4 The Curse of the Templars Read online

  Too long she’d known this only in memory. Too long she’d relied on distant sensations to nurse her soul-deep yearning. But now it was real. Caradoc was here. Kissing her as if nothing had changed between them and they were once more locked away in a cottage in England, lovers who couldn’t get enough of one another.

  The slide of his hand along the length of her spine stirred her heartbeat into an erratic rhythm. Each staccato pulse shot zings of ecstasy to every nerve ending she possessed until they all stood on end and her body trembled with sensory overload. His powerful arms surrounded her. His mouth dominated. His broad chest offered shelter from every catastrophe she could imagine.

  She couldn’t get enough. Hungered for every bit of raw emotion that Caradoc had once exposed her to. Craved the feel of his skin sliding against hers, the sensation of taking him into her body and knowing him only as a lover could. She squirmed against the building ache within her womb and gave in to a soft moan.

  The sound, however, jolted her back to reality, and the harsh realism sent her crashing through ecstasy to land in a bruised heap on the cold hard truth. This wasn’t the man who made her believe in dreams and fairytales. This was the man who’d sworn his love then left her to wake up confused and alone.

  Isabelle shoved out of his embrace. “I’m not doing this,” she rasped. Not in a hundred years. Make that a hundred centuries.

  She straightened her skirt then bent over to pick up her purse that had landed on the floor some time earlier. Slinging it over her shoulder, she bolted for the door.

  “Isabelle, wait!” Caradoc caught up with her in four determined strides. His fingers wrapped around her wrist. “I did not mean for that to happen.”

  “Of course not!” She gave her arm a fierce jerk at the same time she opened the door. “You didn’t mean it before, why should you now?”

  The Curse of the Templars

  Immortal Hope

  Immortal Surrender

  Immortal Protector

  Immortal Trust

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Immortal Sacrifice: The Curse of the Templars

  COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Valerie M. Hatfield

  No part of this book may be reproduced, copied, stored, scanned, transmitted or distributed in any form or by any means, including but not limited to mechanical, printed, or electronic form, without prior written permission of the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  First paperback edition January 2014

  Cover Art © by Kim Killion, The Killion Group. All rights reserved.

  Untamed Spirit Publishing Logo Copyright Valerie M. Hatfield, All Rights Reserved.

  Publishing History

  First Edition, January 2014

  Print ISBN: 978-1495282690

  Published in the United States of America

  To my wonderful boys, Garrett and Pierce.

  Thank you for making my life beautiful.

  Contents

  Curse of the Templars Books

  The Curse

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Author’s Note

  About The Author

  The Curse

  In 1119, nine knights rode with Hughes de Payens to the Holy Land, becoming the Knights Templar. All were bound by marriage or blood. Eight were recorded over time. The ninth vanished into history.

  Beneath the legendary Temple Mount, the knights uncovered holy relics, including the Copper Scroll—a document written by Azazel’s unholy hand. For their forbidden digging, the archangels exacted a sacrifice. The knights would spend eternity battling the demons of Azazel’s creation, but with each vile death they claimed, a portion of darkness would enter their soul. In time, they would transform into Knights of Azazel, warriors veined with evil, destined to fight against the Almighty.

  Yet an ancient prophecy remained to give them hope. When darkness raped the land, the seraphs would return. Female descendants of the Nephilim would carry the light to heal their dying souls.

  Centuries have passed. Azazel’s might grows to intolerable limits. With the acquisition of eight holy relics, he will gain the power to overthrow the Almighty.

  Six Templars stand above the rest in duty, honor, and loyalty. But each is haunted by a tragic past, and their darkened souls rapidly near the end. As they battle both the overwhelming power of evil and the nightmares of lives they left behind, the seraphs are more than tools to victory.

  They are salvation.

  Prologue

  Whence comes the teacher, she who is blind shall follow.

  The one who digs in dust precedes the finding of the jewel.

  And she who understands the sword precludes the greatest loyalty.

  When darkness rapes the land, the seraphs shall purify the Templar and lead the sacred swords to victory.

  —Ancient Prophecy of the Knights Templar

  The sound of shattering glass stilled Rosa McGuire’s hands. As the hair on the back of her neck slowly rose to attention, she lifted her gaze to the closed door that separated her bedroom from the nursery. Goosebumps coursed down her arms. Her heartbeat kicked into overdrive.

  This morning, September had warned the shadow would come. Rosa had taken the little girl’s proclamation as another of her fanatical dreams, particularly given September’s deadpan expression. No fear, no hesitation. No different than the simple, matter-of-fact way September had passed Rosa a sheet of paper and said, “Mommy’s hotel number is here.”

  Rosa swallowed hard and took a tentative step toward the closed door. She reached out a jittery hand and turned the knob. Beyond, something heavy thumped against the floor.

  Dear God, was this retribution? Had all the Speranza family’s illegal profits come back to haunt this poor, innocent little girl? Was she now to become a pawn in a game of power?

  Not while she’s in my care.

  Clenching her teeth, Rosa took a deep breath and forced instantaneous panic aside. In thirteen years of service to the Speranza’s, she’d never once feared the late night encounters with thugs or the guns tucked inside carefully hidden holsters. When Joe Speranza, September’s grandfather, ordered the family into hiding shortly before his death, Rosa hadn’t so much as shivered. When September’s mother, Isabelle, had received threats to turn over the jewels her grand
father had stolen, Rosa had locked them in the safe herself. She wasn’t about to let a potential kidnapper spook her senseless now. While the two male figureheads of the family might deserve to rot in hell—and God willing, they were—Isabelle and her daughter most certainly did not. They were precious innocents.

  With her free hand, Rosa grabbed her pepper spray off the fireplace mantle and yanked the door open. A beacon of light spilled into the dark nursery, illuminating the shadowy figure of a man near the canopied bed. September slept like a rock—as she did each time her head touched the pillows. She’d slumber through a freight train barreling through the middle of her bedroom unless someone touched her.

  Rosa poised her spray. “Get away from her. You leave this family alone, you hear me? It’s over. The ones you want are dead now.”

  “Hm,” a deep masculine voice rumbled.

  The sound sent another bout of chills coursing down Rosa’s spine. She shivered in the doorway and willed strength into her suddenly trembling hand. An oppressive weight enveloped her, tightening her lungs, making it near impossible to breathe. The urge to run as fast as her stubby legs would go and race as far as possible from this room, from this house, possessed her.

  “Dead you say?” The man turned in the shadows, revealing a regal profile. He took one step forward, into the fringes of light. Sandy brown hair tumbled recklessly over one eyebrow. A smile played on his face.

  Rosa’s eyes widened. Isabella’s most recent client—what was he doing in September’s bedroom? “Paul? What’s going on? Isabelle’s not here, she’s in Italy. You know she left this morning.”

  “Indeed. I booked the flight myself.” His smile widened as he stepped further into the stream of yellow that spilled across the floor. “She has something I want very much. I intend to have it.”

  Understanding slammed into Rosa. September was a bargaining chip. A tool to make sure her mother returned with the piece of jewelry Paul Reid had hired her to procure. But the malice glinting in his dark eyes didn’t fit with that purpose. He’d know Isabelle wouldn’t leave September unattended. He couldn’t have hoped to break into the Speranza estate and not get caught.

  Rosa took a step backward as Paul invaded her personal space. “Isabelle won’t break her word. She’ll bring your jewels back. You don’t need to take September. If you do, I’ll have to call the police, and then where will we all be?”

  “Oh, that won’t be necessary.” His chuckle rasped low and guttural. “You’re going with her.” He stepped forward and caught her by the wrist. Long slender fingers stroked the inside of her arm. Intimate light danced in his gaze as his eyes locked with hers.

  Trapped by a warm, sensual smile that spoke erotic words to her long-neglected heart, Rosa could do no more than/ suck in a deep breath. Her senses dulled, awareness narrowing to a sharp pinpoint of scalding sensation where his fingertips touched her skin. Warmth traveled through her veins to her shoulder, following the slow caress of his hand. He trailed one finger along her collarbone. Traced the plunging v-neck of her off-white sweater.

  Swallowing thickly, Rosa fought through the haze of suggestion. Keep September safe. This wasn’t right. She had to make Paul leave. It might have been a long, long time since a man had looked at her like he found her desirable, but this wasn’t the time or place. He wasn’t the right man.

  She glanced down at the solitary finger atop her left breast, breaking the magical spell of his hungry gaze. It took a moment to make sense of the crimson warmth spreading down the front of her sweater. Down the length of her arm.

  Everything clanged together in one agonizing thunderstroke. Blood. Her blood. It poured in rivulets across her abdomen, dripped off her fingertips to pool on the floor. The fingernail that depressed the soft tissue of her breast transformed into a gnarled, ebony claw that slid slowly through her flesh.

  Pain ricocheted through her body. A scream bubbled in the back of her throat.

  Before it could rip free, a grotesque hand locked under her jaw and thrust her head back, forcing her gaze to meet a fathomless dark stare. A touch of beauty clung to his shadowy form. His long limbs bore grace; his face carried the glory of God despite his wicked sneer. Ethereal onyx wings extended from his back to feather against the tall ceiling.

  Pure terror took root in Rosa’s limbs and stifled her building scream. Dear God, save me.

  “Call to him all you wish.” Unholy laughter echoed through the room. “But you shall look upon Azazel as you die.”

  Chapter i

  Palermo, Sicily

  If ever an archangel deserved eternal damnation, ’twas most assuredly the mighty warrior, Mikhail. In nine hundred years of service to both the Templar Order and the venerable servants of the Almighty, Caradoc could not recall a time when he had been more infuriated with their commander. If ’twere possible, he would lead Mikhail to Azazel’s fiery realm and chain him there beside the Dark One. If ’twere possible, he would raise his sword against his esteemed leader and lob off his head.

  If ’twere possible…

  Grinding his teeth together, Caradoc silenced the thought. ’Twould serve no purpose, beyond further stimulating his anger, to enumerate the torture he would like to inflict upon Mikhail. Orders remained orders. Naught would change the fact he was bound to Sicily for the immediate time, yanked from battle and instructed to reclaim the priceless necklace that housed Christ’s tears.

  Still, the acknowledgement he could not change his circumstances did little to combat the fiery ache that ravaged his body or the discontent of his tormented soul. Nor did it soothe his absolute hatred of the starched shirt and crisp suit jacket this temporary distraction required.

  He stuffed a finger into his collar and tugged, longing to rip the dark blue tie around his neck into pieces. God’s teeth, ’twas misery worse than any finery his former status as Lord of Asterleigh had ever demanded.

  “Aye, I feel like a noose is about my neck as well,” Tane remarked as he mirrored Caradoc’s attempt to gain breathing room.

  Caradoc pursed his lips and fixed his stare on the long table across the wide, marble-embellished room, where the recently deceased Antonio Shapiro’s antiquities lay in glass cases. Two weeks travel together had allowed Tane and Caradoc time to sort out their differences and rekindle the bonds of brotherhood that Tane’s disloyalty had strained. And yet, striking an amicable conversation with the brother who had kidnapped the first seraph felt somehow traitorous. Caradoc would like to. Aye, he would like to forget the entire ordeal had ever occurred. However, he could not. Not until Merrick could embrace Tane as the brother he had once been.

  Gareth shifted his weight with a grimace. “Saints’ blood, remind me if I should ever come across the maker of these shoes, that I should love to run him through.”

  Caradoc could not help but chuckle at the pained look etched into Gareth’s youthful countenance. For the first time in centuries, the European knight knew the meaning of miserable. ’Twould serve him well to experience even a small portion of the misery his American brothers suffered. Too long now the Europeans had lived in comfort, the dark stains on their souls lacking the venom others bore.

  “Four days, and we shall be free of these threads that are worse than chains,” Caradoc grumbled. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Four days until he could return to battling demons and his eternal quest to escape the pain that worsened with each sunrise. Then this insufferable existence would end. He would confront the demon that would forever extinguish the light in his soul, and his brothers would bring him blessed death. A fate that could not come soon enough.

  The faint scent of honeysuckle tickled his nose. Every muscle in his body coiled into knots at the familiar perfume. Isabelle. He squeezed his eyes shut more tightly to block the association, but no matter how he tried to bar the memories from rising, her deep indigo eyes bored into his soul. Lush rose-pink lips tormented him with memories of their silken feel against his bare skin.

  Laughter, more lyrical than
the words of Keats, echoed in his head. Faint, distant soprano tones blended with a richer alto that rang in harmony. The lilting cadence drifted through the layered remembrances, rising to the surface. Dancing closer.

  Caradoc’s eyes snapped open as his heart drummed to a standstill. Nay! It could not be. Someone had kidnapped her laugh.

  As a cluster of suits blockaded his view and the sound died off, he let out a harsh breath. In the next moment, however, all the relief that flooded into his veins morphed into particles of ice as waist-length golden hair broke through the crowd of dark-coated men. Caradoc’s gaze riveted on the blonde, his throat so tight he could not begin to pull in air.

  Isabelle.

  Here. In Palermo. Standing less than twenty feet away.

  As his heart thundered into an erratic beat, the pain in his body compounded. He grabbed the table behind him to keep from doubling over from the force of it. Visions of the long ago days he had spent in the rack, his body stretched beyond its limitations, pounded through his head.

  Isabelle. He had done all he could to keep from seeing her. To force her out of his life, knowing he could never fulfill her needs. Yet, it seemed as if the Almighty would grant him no quarter. Not only had she haunted his every waking moment for the last three years, he must now confront the reality of the only woman he had ever loved.

  Try as he might, he could not tear his gaze off her slender body. To his utter shame, the hope rose that she might turn around and gift to him her brilliant smile. To see that angelic light one more time… His heart twisted.

  To touch her one more time.

  Longing fisted around his innards, and he swallowed hard.

  “Brother?” Tane’s hand fell to Caradoc’s shoulder. “What ails you?”

  Naught could force a single syllable through the narrow straw his throat had become. Time moved in slow motion as Isabelle turned, glanced over him, looked at the paintings on the wall to Caradoc’s left. Her eyes snapped back and locked with his. For one tumultuous thrum of his pulse that warmed him from the inside out, she held his gaze.