Immortal Hope: The Curse of the Templars Read online

  She wanted him. But it was more than physical. It was what he was, what he stood for. The history he possessed. He fascinated her mind as much as he stirred her fantasy. And behind all those grumpy scowls, he hid compassion. A touch of playfulness she’d bet he’d deny in a heartbeat.

  She turned down the heavy quilt and stripped off her jeans. With just her black trouser socks and Merrick’s shirt still on, she slid into the bed. Wriggling her toes, she bemoaned the necessity to keep her ankle covered. She hated sleeping with socks on, and while she didn’t really believe Merrick would walk in on her while she was asleep, she didn’t dare risk he might.

  His intended.

  Trying to deny everything was useless—no amount of logic could explain all she’d witnessed or experienced. She had some purpose here that directly related to Merrick. And she had a week to not only discover, but fulfill that purpose, before her career suffered. One week to gain his trust enough to tell her what she needed to know.

  But how to gain his confidence without revealing her tattoo or taking an oath that he claimed was the only way she could learn the secrets of the inner sanctum? How could she crack through a knight’s armor when he knew how to shield his weaknesses? She suspected whatever it was he hadn’t told her tonight held a key to solving that dilemma. He’d avoided something important.

  She carries the light that will balance one knight’s tainted soul.

  Maybe Mikhail’s statement wasn’t literal, but rather spiritual. It wasn’t as if she had any secret powers—well, maybe her second sight.

  Groaning, she dropped her head against the headboard, feeling very much like an idiot. Her gift had to be her purpose. She’d see a vision, and by telling Merrick what she saw, she’d save one of his men.

  Now if she could just get her second sight to cooperate with Merrick, she’d be set. In the meantime, she needed to convince him to confide in her and show her the inner sanctum, where surely she’d find the proof that the Order had been sabotaged.

  Her eyes widened and she sat up straighter. Good Lord, she should have thought of it right away—Sophie would know what to do. She’d always been able to get men to eat out of her hand. Tomorrow she’d borrow a phone, give her sister a call, and discover exactly how to seduce Merrick into telling her what she needed to know.

  Only, what to tell Sophie posed a larger problem.

  I’ve been relocated by immortal Templar knights, and I’m trying to seduce one who’s nine hundred years old or so. Oh, by the way, the archangel Mikhail lives in a temple beneath the Odd Fellows Home in Liberty, and you know that present Gabe sent you? Yeah, well, we’re both descendants of the Nephilim. That’s right, angels.

  Right.

  Sophie would have her committed.

  Anne sank back down into the downy mattress and wriggled around until the feathers cocooned her. The outside air made her nose feel like she stood in front of an open freezer, but beneath the weighty comforter, she was snug and warm.

  As long as she could explain without sounding like a nutcase, Sophie would help with effectively seducing him. She didn’t need to know about angels and demons anyway. Gabe would eventually take care of that.

  * * *

  Mikhail closed his book and picked up the piece of paper Merrick left him. Leaning back in his chair, he opened it again and scanned the neat handwriting.

  Dr. K.,

  Working on research. I’ve discovered a fascinating lead on the Templar theory. I’ll be gone a week or so, but will return and share my research with you. You’ll be amazed.

  Anne.

  Slowly, he crumpled the note in his hand. Opening his palm, he narrowed his gaze and concentrated his powers on the ball of trash. With a soft pfft, it burst into blue flames, then winked out of sight, leaving not even a speck of ash behind. It would not have mattered what she had penned—no message would reach her colleagues beyond the one Gabriel issued. The Almighty’s messenger received his instructions from the only one who mattered, and Mikhail would not intervene with the master’s plan.

  Anne would come to accept her place in time, as all seraphs must. He only hoped it would be soon enough. That she would swear her oath, give her light to her intended knight, and the serpents would form the holy barrier to eternally block Azazel’s vile taint from entering the Templar’s soul. If she did not hurry in her acceptance, the risk ran high she would be too late.

  He did not allow the thought that as a mortal, a being given divine freedom of choice, she could refuse to linger in his mind.

  CHAPTER 11

  Sophie shimmied into her new scarlet chemise and shivered at the feel of the fine silk smoothing over her bare skin. She glanced in the mirror and readjusted the spaghetti straps so it fit trimly over her breasts before stepping back to review.

  It offset her long dark hair and her coloring perfectly. Short, flattering, tastefully sexy—just the right thing to drive Chandler out of his mind.

  She fingered the armband Gabe sent and smiled. After polishing the thing up, it gleamed in the dim light. It was actually almost pretty now. Combined with her nightgown, it reminded her of something Cleopatra might wear. Since she couldn’t get the damn thing off, she decided to use it to her advantage.

  Gabe and his oddities. Why Anne put up with them, Sophie didn’t know. Sure, the man was nice enough, and he was certainly easy on the eyes. She guessed him near fifty, but his smart taste in clothes, and the way he took care of his body, made him look ten years younger. Only his gray hair revealed his age. And that, he kept fashionable too—in long, thick, strangely distinguished dreadlocks that draped to the middle of his back. He smelled good also. His vanilla-spice cologne permeated the paper inside the package.

  But he was weird, and everything he gave Anne had some sort of weirdness about it. The bellows for Anne’s fireplace came with a two-hundred-year-old ghost. The mirror for Anne’s bedroom reflected a heck of a lot more than the mortal world. The chair for her sitting room—Sophie had to do some serious negotiating with a very unhappy, very dead, Revolutionary War general to get him to let her sit there the last time she’d visited.

  This trinket, however, took the cake. Standard-issue ghosts didn’t attach to it, yet she could feel energy shifting inside the metal. Energy that evidently made the brass swell after time, for the thing was firmly lodged on her arm. Although it didn’t hurt, oddly enough.

  She didn’t dare ask Anne if the matching piece Gabe referenced in his note had the same problems. Sophie kept her ability to see ghosts locked away. When dealing with politicians, producers, and the crème de la crème of Southern California, coming off as slightly crazy could be advantageous. But an affinity for seeing ghosts tipped the scales away from her favor.

  Still, it would be nice to know if Gabe stuck them both with armbands she suspected would somehow lead to trouble.

  She fingered the cross on the top of one serpent’s head and chuckled. Anne was probably having a heyday trying to trace this to her silly Templar theory.

  “Sophie, darling, are you staying in there all night?”

  Chandler’s soft voice disrupted her thoughts. “Be right out.” She hastily dragged a brush through her hair and gave the gown one last tug. Three weeks of working together and pretending they didn’t want to rip each other’s clothes off was about to pay off. Big time. Hence the reason for her new negligee.

  She opened the bathroom door to find Chandler lounging on her bed. Bare-chested, he leaned on one elbow and patted the mattress. She took a moment to appreciate him, assessing fantasy against reality. Her gaze skimmed over broad shoulders, a smooth hard chest, and came to rest on his already-tented cotton boxers.

  She moved toward him, flipping off the light as she passed the table. Moonlight illuminated the room. “Hey, handsome,” she purred as she set a knee on the mattress.

  Trailing manicured nails along his thigh, she watched his eyes shift from appreciative to hungry. Teasingly, she traced the length of his erection, listened to him suck in a
sharp breath. As she tucked her fingers inside his waistband, the light glinted off her armband.

  “What’s that, beautiful?” Chandler murmured as she tugged the fabric down.

  Flashing him a sultry smile, she twisted to present him with a side view. She batted her eyes. “Don’t I look like Cleopatra?”

  The light in his heated stare intensified. He sprung upright and caught her arm, his fingers digging in cruelly. “Where did you get this?”

  Sophie tried to twist free, but Chandler tightened his grip. He yanked her closer. “Where did you find the serpents?”

  Sophie froze, her blood cold. The difference in his voice, a guttural sound so unlike his usual smooth bass, set her senses on red alert. She swallowed and dragged her gaze from his fingers to his face.

  His usually warm and inviting brown eyes glittered like pieces of amber. But something wasn’t right. It was dark, his pupils should be wide and round. Not tiny slits that opened vertically. She’d seen a ghost like that once. It had terrorized her first apartment in Kansas City. When her butcher’s knife had vaulted through the room and lodged in the cabinet above her head, she’d fled to California.

  Fighting back a shudder, she tugged on her arm. “You’re hurting me, Chandler.”

  He let out a snarl and flung her onto the bed. He pounced on top of her, pinning her hands above her head as he pried at the armband. When it didn’t budge, he lifted his arm and backhanded her. “Who gave you the serpents, bitch?”

  Holy shit.

  A thousand tiny needles stabbed into her face where his knuckles met her cheekbone, followed by a wash of heat. She struggled against his hold. Kicked her feet. Thrashed. “Get off me!”

  Chandler sat on her legs. His fingers attacked the band of brass around her bicep with a vengeance. Nails dug into her skin as he tried to pry the serpents’ heads apart. The trinket filled with warmth and tightened like a clamp.

  She lunged forward, breaking his hold on her wrists. Her arms free, she flailed and pushed, using surprise to her advantage. God, she’d never realized how strong Chandler was. That so much strength could come from what was otherwise a rather average build.

  “You will surrender the serpents one way or another,” he growled as he hit her again. Her head snapped sideways, and her other cheek broke out in throbbing pain.

  “Get the hell off me!”

  With strength she didn’t know she possessed, she used the mattress for leverage and bucked him loose. It took less than a second to scramble off the bed and race for the door. She slammed it shut as he bolted after her. To buy a few minutes of time, she propped a chair beneath the knob.

  Sophie snatched at the phone and punched in 911.

  From behind the bedroom door, an unearthly growl shook the walls.

  The phone clattered to the floor as her bedroom door splintered apart. Chandler emerged, her heavy bedside lamp in his hands. He tossed it aside and stalked toward her, the malicious gleam in his eyes unmistakable.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck! She had to get out of here.

  Her eyes darted around the room as she backed up, searching for something she could use to defend herself.

  Chandler moved faster. He caught her unadorned arm and jerked her around to face him. His fingers dug into her shoulders as he stared down at her. “Seraphs die.”

  Seraphs? What the hell? Didn’t matter—die was more important. She had no intention of complying. “Get the hell away from me.”

  She brought her knee up, ramming it into his groin. The unnatural howl he let out sent a fresh new burst of fear surging through her. She struggled to believe it came from the man she’d invited home for what was supposed to be a night of exceptional sex. It held an animalistic quality, a hollowness that mirrored the spiritual voices she’d become accustomed to. But this was no simple ghost.

  He dropped to his knees, and the thought briefly occurred that he was at least somewhat vulnerable. Whatever he was, he wasn’t all-powerful.

  She sidestepped him, reaching for the lamp he’d discarded.

  His hand shot out and latched around her ankle. A firm tug snatched her feet out from under her, and she fell. Her elbow smacked against a glass-topped end table, knocking it sideways. Glass shattered.

  She ignored the warm wetness that flowed down her arm and scrambled to her knees. Using her free leg, she kicked with all her might, driving several blows of her heel into his head. His fingers loosened, and she lunged for the lamp.

  Chandler swayed to his feet, his mutterings now unintelligible.

  Panting, she rolled onto her back and clutched the lamp in both hands.

  As he reached for her, Sophie swung the heavy brass like a baseball bat. It smashed into his face. Blood poured from where his nose had been, and he covered his face with his hands. She swung again before he could right himself. The lamp hit him in the temple, and Chandler toppled backward.

  He swayed on unsteady legs.

  Sophie jumped to her feet and threw the lamp away. As she raced for the front door, a heavy thump sounded behind her. She glanced over her shoulder to find Chandler in an unmoving heap. Not willing to see if he would rise again, she jerked her coat off the peg and dashed outside.

  She didn’t stop running until she rounded the corner two blocks away. There, she sagged against the side of a brick building and sucked in deep lungfuls of air. Hugging herself, her hand grazed the metal beneath her coat, and she closed her fingers around the hidden armband. Good God, what had Gabe sent her?

  This couldn’t be real. She should go to the police. From the sound of distant sirens, they were already en route anyway. Turning herself in would be the smartest thing.

  But as surely as her arm throbbed and her face stung, she knew the police couldn’t help her.

  Someone, or more correctly something, wanted this armband. Until she found a way to get rid of it, this wasn’t going to stop.

  She lifted her gaze and studied the street. Shadows hugged the walls, footsteps echoed in the darkness.

  She couldn’t stay here.

  She turned toward the streetlamp and hurried down the sidewalk. Her pace quickened and she broke into a jog. Four blocks down, Sophie stopped in front of the welcoming glow of St. Michael’s Cathedral and stared up at the white double doors.

  It had been a good fifteen years since she’d been inside a church. She wasn’t Catholic—they might turn her away.

  Screw it.

  Determined, she marched up the stairs and pushed the doors open.

  Inside, a man in a long black robe attended to a large arrangement of fresh flowers in front of a massive wooden cross. “I’ll be right with you,” he called out warmly.

  Shoot, how did she address him? Sir? Mister? Reverend … Father. That’s right. Mary Sue had always talked about Father Leopold when they were growing up.

  “Father…” She began in a shaky voice. “I think…” Oh dear God, she couldn’t begin to say this, could she? Turning toward an elaborate mosaic on the wall, she pretended interest while her mind worked at the words.

  “Yes?” he prompted.

  Sophie gulped. If anyone was likely to believe her, it would be the Catholics. They still believed in possessions and exorcisms. She expelled a deep breath and whispered, “I think a demon just attacked me.” She winced at the ridiculousness and waited for the priest’s certain laughter.

  “Sophie MacPherson, I’ve been waiting on you.”

  Wide-eyed, she turned around. Her gaze settled on a head of thick, cropped gray hair. Arms outstretched, he beckoned her into his embrace. Familiar blue eyes smiled in warm welcome, and the comforting scent of vanilla spice assuaged her fears.

  No freakin’ way. Despite his chopped hair, he looked exactly like Anne’s boss.

  “Gabe?”

  “Father Gabriel, for now. Come. We have much to discuss.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Bright sunlight brought Anne out of an erotic dream. As she opened her eyes, she half expected to find Merrick looming over her
, his mouth at her breast once more. Her body throbbed, her heart banged hard. Beneath her thong underwear, she was shamefully moist.

  Agitated, she kicked the covers aside and sat up. This had to stop. She refused to confront another night of restless sleep because the man she wanted—who seemingly wanted her as well—was too damn hot and cold. But until she could speak to Sophie, she needed to keep her mind on something else.

  She slid out of the bed and headed for her bathroom. Beyond the wide arch that separated the sink and wall-length mirror from the bedroom, she surveyed her surroundings, seeing the luxury for the first time. Marble countertops. Brass fixtures. Double sinks. Her eyes fell to the bathtub, and her cheeks heated. It was large enough to make a man Merrick’s size comfortable; someone clearly chose the tub with something other than bathing in mind.

  Damn Gabe. She didn’t need images of Merrick in that tub when she was trying to keep her mind off her reluctant knight.

  She went to the glass-enclosed shower behind her and turned the faucets on. As the water ran, she stripped out of her clothes and left them in a heap on the floor. When she stepped inside, she let out a blissful sigh and turned her face into the warm droplets.

  Clean at last.

  Her mind wandered to her conversation with Merrick while she lathered. She now realized the house Gabe helped her find hadn’t been a coincidence. Abigail Montfort wasn’t killed by thieves, and the house hadn’t been sacked for her spell book. It was all Azazel’s doing.

  How could crucifixion nails give a demon the power to overtake God? What other relics did he have his eye on? Merrick hadn’t elaborated on that. Probably because the relics had something to do with the things in the inner sanctum since he’d shut down with the convenient excuse her intended had to reveal that secret place.

  She dismissed the frown that pulled at her brow and focused on the pieces of history that fit into Merrick’s puzzling tale.

  She already knew the Templar’s rise in status came from hush money. Saint Bernard and Pope Innocent II wanted something kept silent, and they’d sacrificed a great deal to see it done. Merrick proved legend true by admitting they had found relics beneath the Temple Mount. Important relics. What held the kind of threat that could bend the only true power to its knees?