Immortal Hope: The Curse of the Templars Read online

  He knew only one way to combat the fierce desire she awakened. “I must fight tonight.”

  * * *

  The air slowly left Anne’s lungs as her heart crept to a stop. Fight? Merrick couldn’t fight. As he dropped his bulging bags to the floor, her gaze flicked over his body in a frantic sweep. Black long-sleeved shirt, dark jeans—had she seen white or black beneath all his chain in her vision?

  Damn, oh damn, he couldn’t be going after the nail.

  She clutched at his hand and squeezed her eyes shut tight, willing the vision to come back. Her mind refused, her second sight blocked by an unseen barrier.

  “You can’t fight,” she blurted out.

  He gave her a look that said she’d be better off locked away in a remote tower. “Why not?”

  “I—ah…” She what? Think, Anne, think! She couldn’t tell him she’d seen him in death. Whether he believed her or not, that just wasn’t the sort of thing she could relay without the ability to explain how, when, or why. “Because…”

  With a perturbed grimace, he started for the door. “I will see you on the morrow.”

  “No!” She ran after him. Grabbing onto his elbow, she set her heels into the rug, trying to drag him to a stop. “You, ah, have to help me put these things away.”

  Merrick shook his arm free and frowned at her. “Do not be ridiculous. I am not a servant. I shall see you in the morn, Anne.”

  Darting in front of him, she flattened her back against the door and spread her arms across it. “Merrick, you’ve got to stay. Please.”

  “God’s teeth, woman, my purpose is to fight. Move yourself.”

  Anne shook her head. Desperate to find any means of preventing the future she’d foreseen, she swallowed her pride and tried the one thing she felt certain would change his mind. “I disobeyed you. I left and I tried to get into the inner sanctum. Farran had to rescue me.”

  That did it. His face clouded over with fury, his dark eyes shifted into hard coals. As he set his jaw, the scar along the side of his jaw pulled tight. “You will tell me no more falsehoods. Remove yourself. Now.” Low and menacing, the warning in his voice made her shiver.

  In defiance, she tipped her chin up and held his gaze. If she had to, she’d antagonize him to the point he forgot all about the demons—or detain him long enough that Mikhail sent someone else. “I swear it’s true.”

  “Nay.” He shook his head. “I would have heard. Lucan watched over you this night, and he brought no news of this. I know not what game you play, but it ceases here. Move, Anne.”

  He reached under her arm and turned the doorknob. Despite the fact she threw her weight into the door, he opened it with relative ease. When she stumbled sideways, the steady pressure throwing her off balance, he stomped past.

  The door slammed in his wake.

  Anne scrambled after him. “Merrick, wait!”

  He didn’t slow down, didn’t even glance over his shoulder as he started down the stairs.

  Time for a little more honesty. A different kind. The kind that galled her to admit.

  Anne sucked in a breath, and in a voice just loud enough he would hear it but it wouldn’t carry down the stairs, she called, “I’m scared you’ll get hurt.”

  One foot a step lower than the other, Merrick came to a standstill. Her heart drummed a heavy beat as he looked over his shoulder. Pain, bewilderment, and something else Anne couldn’t recognize reflected in his features, before he masked the emotion with the grim set of his jaw. Two slow steps brought him around fully. Another four determined strides, and he stood in front of her.

  Her eyes followed his hand as he settled two strong fingers beneath her chin. Tipping her head up, he brought her gaze to his. His eyes searched her face, the crease between his dark eyebrows deepening. “Aye,” he murmured. “You do mean it.”

  Anne nodded on a hard swallow.

  Merrick’s thumb brushed her cheek, and his expression softened. “’Tis my duty, Anne. You must not worry. I vow I shall see you in the morn. Now go inside before you wound me more deeply.”

  Wound him? All she’d done was tell him the truth. She didn’t want any of these men hurt. Yet as he cupped her face in his palm, and she held her breath wanting nothing more than to feel his mouth against hers, she knew it went deeper than the simple desire to protect someone from harm. It was Merrick. Merrick whom she worried for above all else. Merrick whom she cared for.

  He dipped his head and dusted a kiss across her cheek. “Go,” he whispered.

  Anne caught his shirt in both her hands, curled her fingers, and buried her nose against his chest. For several long moments, they stood unmoving, then Merrick slid his hand through her hair with a heavy sigh. “Anne…” His mouth feathered against the top of her head.

  She pressed a soft kiss to his heart. “Is it the nail, Merrick?”

  “Nay, little demon, ’tis just another hunt for Azazel’s minions.”

  Tipping her chin up, she searched his dark gaze for the truth. “Nothing too dangerous?”

  He closed his eyes for a heartbeat. When he opened them again, sadness filled the fathomless dark depths. “I cannot promise you such.”

  She curled her fingers tighter.

  Merrick took her by the wrists and gently pried her loose. With a gentle push backward, he held her at a distance and gazed into her eyes. The same look of longing passed across his face as it had moments before he’d kissed her both times, and Anne inched to her toes, hungry for the feel of his mouth on hers.

  Abruptly, Merrick withdrew. He turned crisply and hurried down the stairs.

  Anne slunk inside her room and leaned against the door. Maybe he wasn’t defending the nail, maybe this fight wasn’t as deadly as the one Mikhail referenced, but Merrick couldn’t promise he wouldn’t be injured. He’d walked into her world, turned it upside down faster than she could blink, and now he faced harm. Because she couldn’t stop him from leaving. She sank to the floor defeated. She’d failed with her purpose. She couldn’t warn Merrick without the gift of her second sight, and it had seemingly abandoned her. God, Gabe brought her into this, and she’d even let him down.

  As tears threatened, she shook her head. No. She wouldn’t cry. Merrick promised he would return. The man was obsessive about his word. He’d never dream of making a vow he couldn’t keep. Most important, he wasn’t defending the third nail. She needed to believe in Mikhail’s words.

  Easing to her feet, she worried her bottom lip with her teeth. In the meantime, she’d figure out how to get her second sight to cooperate. Her protection was all she could give Merrick, and she desperately needed him to return.

  CHAPTER 16

  In 924 years, Merrick had never known a woman’s worry. When he had reached an age where the frivolous romps with serving maids and whores lost excitement, he had already sworn the Templar oath. He had already discovered the scrolls, and what would have been a short tenure with the Order became eternal. Dreams of a wife and holdings of his own faded. He had cast aside the impossible ideals.

  Now, as the gift landed in his lap, the effect was monumental. His insides trembled like a frightened child. Terrifyingly, Anne forced him to confront the reality of his tenacious hold on life. As it was before he came upon his curse, each time he now raised his sword could be his last. Only the price he would pay would be far worse than pain and death. He would serve Azazel, the power of his sword turned upon his brothers.

  Whilst Anne’s concern gave his heart wings it dared not stretch, he could no longer pretend that he cared not if he returned to walk these halls. Indeed, he cared too much.

  Biting back an oath at the unfairness of his situation, he clenched a hand into a fist and lengthened his stride. ’Twas all meaningless. He could care until his heart bled, and ’twould change naught. His fate followed Fulk’s. All he could dare to hope for with each sunrise was that he might yet have time to honor their pact. Then, when he claimed his cousin’s vile soul, Farran would claim his.

  A
noble end. He could ask for little else, for Anne offered him naught but frustration.

  Frustration Merrick refused to allow to haunt him through another sleepless night. He would chase away this fruitless desire, no matter the cost. Anne had others to offer her protection. She did not need him.

  He let himself into his chambers and slung his heavy duffel bag over his shoulder. Aye, he would fight. ’Twas the only thing he knew to expend the anxiousness in his body. Anne had him so tight and tense he feared he might crack in half.

  In his doorway, he paused, debating which direction to take. Caradoc would sense his disquiet and prod too deeply. Lucan, he wished not to see, for fear there might be some small degree of truth in Anne’s claims she had disobeyed. Tane … nay, he did not trust himself to still his hand should Tane broach the subject of her. Which left Farran—he would not plague Merrick with conversation. He fought swiftly, cared little for camaraderie these days. Exactly what Merrick needed to take his mind off the beautiful woman in his charge.

  He turned left, his pace determined and swift.

  At Farran’s door, he gave the rough-hewn wood a sharp rap. Inside, a chair moved over stone, boots drew nearer. The door opened, and Farran ducked his head outside. On seeing Merrick, he swung it wide.

  With a curt nod, Farran bid hello. “Merrick.”

  Merrick shifted the heavy weight dangling from his shoulder. “I need your arm.”

  He offered no argument, merely stepped inside and picked up bag and sword. “Mikhail sends us to a gate?”

  “Nay. ’Tis I who needs the sport.”

  Shouldering past Merrick, Farran entered the hall. “I shall drive.”

  Grateful for his brother’s lack of words, Merrick fell into step at his side.

  * * *

  Farran eyed the three shades gathered around Merrick with disgust. Though he longed to drive his blade in deep and snuff out their evil existence, he sensed his brother needed the outlet far more than Farran required victory. ’Twas not as if a shade posed great difficulty, even in a small pack. Unintelligent creatures, they knew only Azazel’s simple command to fight. For a man with Merrick’s experience, the shadowy beings carried the ease of conquering an angry dog.

  Merrick parried a well-aimed strike of claws, then arced his body forward and brought his blade around with the swiftness of a cyclone. One shade let out a bloodcurdling scream as an ethereal arm severed in half.

  Nay, Merrick needed no assistance.

  Content to keep a watchful eye open for the arrival of a nytym or a demon, Farran sheathed his sword and folded his arms over his chest.

  Merrick had said little during the drive to the fifty-eighth gate, forty-five miles south of the temple, in Harrisonville. Nor had he rested, as he was so oft to do prior to a battle. Merrick’s stare fixed out the passenger’s window, and Farran observed then, as he did now, the war that waged in Merrick’s features. Something plagued his brother, and Farran did not need to guess what. Or more precisely, who.

  ’Twas why he said naught about Anne’s encounter with Ranulf and Gottfried. He would tell Merrick of the trouble later, for should he not, someone else would. Common sense said the knowledge would only further agitate Merrick’s spirit.

  Another powerful arc, timed with the twist of Merrick’s torso, and a second shade expired with a ghostly moan.

  Farran waited to see if the darkness would affect his brother. His hand on his sword’s hilt, he prepared to step in and alleviate the last from life. The only time a shade posed any real danger came when knights succumbed to the infusion of darkness in their veins.

  Merrick stood strong, his paces unhindered.

  Releasing his grasp on his sword, Farran moved to the cracked portal that filled the tiny cavern with the stench of death. He leaned his shoulder to the tall barrier stone and heaved with his legs. The thick slab inched over the narrow opening, sealing off the gate. Enough of the swordplay. Their souls were too damaged to take the risk.

  Behind Merrick, the last shade swept in with a frenzied scream, tentacle-like arms flailing at Merrick’s head. Clinks and pings echoed through the cavern as claws made contact with Merrick’s mail. The sound of a human bellow, however, told Farran at least one set of talons found his brother’s face.

  As if the blow strengthened Merrick’s resolve, he lunged forward. On a powerful thrust, the tip of his holy blade sank deep into the shade’s shadowy gut. With a twist of his arm, Merrick dragged the blade skyward, neatly severing the creature in two.

  Farran took a step forward, prepared to clap his brother on the back in unspoken praise.

  But as Farran’s heel connected with the dampened stone floor, Merrick dropped to his knees. His sword tumbled from his hands, clattered to the floor forgotten. He doubled over with a low moan, bending until his forehead touched the cool rock.

  Warily, Farran waited. Such a display, such an anguished effect of the invasion on a soul came in the later days before a knight turned. If Merrick were this close, one shade’s paltry darkness could be enough to turn him from holy warrior to evil nightmare.

  Another agonized groan tore from Merrick’s throat as he collapsed in a heap. His body heaved as he panted, twitched as muscles fought the strain.

  “Brother.” Farran crossed to him. Squatting at his side, he set a hand on Merrick’s shoulder. “You should not be here.”

  Merrick’s breath came in hard gasps. “Aye,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

  “I will not see you sacrifice yourself over a wench. Come. I know a better recourse.”

  As Merrick hauled himself to unsteady legs, Farran pulled his cell phone out of his duffel bag. He punched the number he found himself dialing oft and listened to the ring. When a sweet, feminine voice answered, he replied, “Meet me in twenty minutes. I have a friend with me.”

  He waited only long enough for Leah’s agreeing murmur before he tucked the phone back into his bag. Then he bent at the waist and shrugged out of his surcoat, his mail. Helping Merrick to do the same, Farran took in the jagged scratches across his brother’s face. They bled at a trickle, the wounds long but not deep. His apprehension over Merrick’s soul increased. Marks so benign should have already healed.

  Merrick closed his eyes and heaved in a deep breath. He said naught as he dragged his bag over his shoulder and struck off down the corridor. But Farran knew his thoughts. Had battled them too oft of late. Sometimes a man could not help but wish the change would already come upon him. For though his soul would hate, he would lack the capacity to care, and all the wretched feeling would cease.

  He followed at a respectful distance, honoring Merrick’s silence. At least the women would help. For a time they could both forget. Pretend they were young men again, who knew naught of demons or relics. Men who cared only for the rush of battle and the spoils of victory.

  * * *

  Long blond hair glided across Merrick’s chest, soft curls he once would have twined through his fingers and relished. The maid’s manicured nails tickled across his abdomen as she let out a husky laugh. A whore. Farran’s recourse was a whore. Whilst Merrick would admit the wench was comely enough—he could find no complaint with her body—the heat in his blood had naught to do with her masterful touch.

  Nay, where this maid had blond hair, he saw only rich auburn. Her blue eyes were naught like Anne’s, and each time she looked at him through a veil of dark lashes, Merrick’s gut churned in protest.

  Turning his head to the side, he avoided her seeking mouth. He did not want this wench.

  Farran brought him to this tiny apartment, intent they should both work off their restlessness. On their arrival, the one Farran called Leah threw herself at him with such exuberance Merrick’s thoughts barreled right back to Anne. He had watched, dimly aware of the blonde, as Leah rubbed herself against his brother. Each press of her lips, each caress of her hands took Merrick back to Anne’s bedroom, and before he could realize the full effect of witnessing such a display, his body responded wi
th a lion’s fury.

  When Farran escorted Leah away, the blonde tumbled into Merrick’s lap, purring like a cat. She had landed on his erection, and on discovering his arousal, manipulated him to hardened steel. He had shoved Anne aside long enough to slide out of his shirt and allow the blonde to lead him to the bed. But he could not find enjoyment despite her willingness. Her skin was too rough, her perfume distasteful, and the kohl around her eyes too unnatural.

  Her hand delved beneath the waistband of his jeans, and Merrick sucked in a sharp breath. Though his loins burned like fire, he gripped his hands around the wench’s hips and eased her off him.

  Without explanation, he rose from the too-small bed and retrieved his shirt off the floor. The sounds of grunting, of pleasured giggles, drifted from behind the closed door. Like a strong fist clamped around his cock, the noises taunted with fresh images of all he would like to do to Anne.

  “Something the matter?” the woman asked.

  As he glanced over his shoulder, she sat exposed in the middle of the bed. Her full breasts heaved with her shortened breath, her cheeks glowed with unspent passion.

  Merrick shook his head. He pulled a wad of bills from within his wallet and set them on the nearby dresser.

  “No skin off my back,” the blonde quipped. Her retort came with the squeaking of the bed. She moved behind him, the soft rustle of clothing telling Merrick that she dressed.

  He exited the apartment and took a seat on the topmost stair. Below, a solitary car rolled through the parking lot. The November air served to cool him somewhat, and he took in a deep, frosty breath.

  Anne.

  Not beast, not whore, not duty could keep his mind from her. He could have fought until his soul turned as black as pitch and never expelled her from his system. The early years of his life, where he had fought to overcome his bastard’s status, seemed like a carnival ride in comparison to the trial of denying what he most desired.