Immortal Sacrifice: #4 The Curse of the Templars Page 4

  Sighing heavily, he dropped the SUV into reverse and jammed on the gas. Sweet heavenly Mary, could he not obtain a brief respite? If they were to be at further odds, he would never regain her trust.

  His anger at the archangels returned with the speed of a lightning strike. The archangels would not dream of sending their warriors into combat without swords, chainmail, and shields. But for some reason, when it came to the quest for seraphs, they seemed intent on leaving their knights unprepared.

  Tane leaned between the two front bucket seats. “Caradoc, stop at the edge of the city. I wish to find a shelter house to donate time. The hotel makes me uncomfortable.”

  “Nay, brother.” Caradoc glanced in the rear-view mirror, meeting Tane’s confused squint. “You are being tested, as you well know. I have it on Mikhail’s word that the hotel is a measure of your ability to control your envy.”

  Tane let out a muffled oath. He fell back, his scowl as dark as thunderheads. His would be a hard journey. He craved the wealth and respect he had once known as Lord du Breuil. Each day his soul contained Azazel’s taint, he struggled with the code of simplicity he had once embraced as willingly as the rest of the Order. But if he were to prove to Mikhail and Merrick that he could be trusted to maintain his duties, he must overcome the poison in his heart.

  As they all must...except for those like Gareth, whose good health, even Caradoc could not deny created a measure of jealousy. That wellness, combined with the unspoken knowledge that many of the younger European knights had once claimed ownership of lands the original Templar left behind, made working with Raphael’s warriors difficult.

  Caradoc’s gaze slanted to the man in the passenger’s seat who remained strangely quiet. “Something ails you, Gareth?”

  Gareth startled then shook his head. “Nay. Merely thinking, ’tis all.”

  “Do you wish to share?”

  Gareth’s jaw worked as if he chewed on his reply. He drummed his fingers on his knee, tapped his foot. Then, with a thoughtful cock of his head, he said, “’Tis too quiet.”

  Indeed too quiet for a city that housed both a seraph and one of the eight sacred relics Azazel coveted. Caradoc’s hands tightened on the wheel as he murmured, “Aye.”

  The villa rose up from the high, vegetation covered, Mount Pellegrino, a luxurious monstrosity overlooking the sea. Caradoc pulled into the main drive, avoided the valet, and continued on to the parking lot. He nosed into a narrow space designed for the smaller, more efficient European cars than the American SUV, and shut the engine off.

  Behind him, Tane reached over the seat into the cargo bay to retrieve their swords. He passed Caradoc’s and Gareth’s forward, then all three climbed out into the late twilight. Two steps away from the vehicle, Caradoc wrinkled his nose against a blast of stinking decay. He stilled, one hand on the hilt of his broadsword, the other on his sheath, prepared to draw his weapon.

  From the shadows at the rear of the villa, two yellowish-green eyes glinted. Nytyms. Simple beasts designed by Azazel. More annoyance to the Templar than any real threat. Caradoc took a purposeful step forward.

  A heavy hand clapped onto his shoulder, stilling him in his tracks. He gave Gareth a quizzical frown.

  Gareth returned the silent inquiry with a firm shake of his head. “You were ordered not to fight, brother. Go inside. Tane and I will take care of eliminating the beasts.”

  Every year Caradoc had spent at arms and all the training he had amassed rose up in violent protest. A nytym could not harm his soul. Nor could a handful of demons. He had not accumulated that much darkness. To turn away from his calling defied every law he had sworn to uphold when he took his vows and accepted immortality.

  Still, he had not made a habit of ignoring Mikhail’s orders, no matter how despicable they might be. Summoning every vile oath he knew, he cursed his commander and the rest of the archangels for this unfair limitation.

  Then, he cursed them all again.

  Disgusted with his forced helplessness, he stormed inside the hotel. How the archangels expected him to defend Isabelle if he could not wield his sword, he did not know. Yet one thing was certain—he would not allow Gareth or Tane to protect the woman sworn to him. ’Twas one duty he was not willing to forfeit. Even if it meant he forever lost his soul.

  Chapter 4

  Isabelle paced in front of her bed’s footboard in her room at the Villa Igiea Hilton. Too wound into knots to consider sitting, let alone eating, she gnawed down one fingernail after another while her thoughts ping-ponged against her skull. Paul had her daughter. Caradoc wanted to see her. September might be in danger. Caradoc was in the same hotel. No two more conflicting issues could reside in her heart.

  Anger over his audacity had given her the strength to make it to the hotel without breaking down. But now, as silence filled her ears, Paul Reid’s kidnapping left her on the verge of hysterics.

  If she’d taken September along with her, as she briefly discussed with Rosa, Paul wouldn’t have her locked away God-knows-where. That idea, however, had given way to practicality—Isabelle couldn’t focus on bidding on antiquities with a three-year-old in tow. September might be mild mannered and twice as intelligent as her young age, but she was still a toddler, and sitting still through hours and hours of auctioneering would push all of September’s buttons. So Isabelle left her daughter with Rosa.

  Rosa who was…

  Grimacing, Isabelle shoved the thought away. Allowing her imagination to envision what had happened to Rosa would push her over the edge. Rosa was every bit as much family as September.

  Isabelle stopped before the wide window overlooking the terraced gardens and pushed the thin sheer aside. She set a hand on the clear pane, staring at the lush greenery. Maybe someone in Sicily knew her father. Her grandfather for that matter. While both men walked on opposite sides of the criminal life, they’d been equally powerful. Grandpoppa hadn’t succeeded in his numerous jewel thefts without contacts. Her father, on the other hand, made no attempt to hide the fact his mafia ties originated in Sicily.

  Problem was, Isabelle had been so adamant to sever all those connections and reclaim legitimacy for her small family, she didn’t know a damn one to try. If she walked into the alleys and started mentioning the Speranza name, no telling what kind of trouble she might find. She could as easily run into an enemy who didn’t understand she wanted nothing to do with their ways of life, as she could run into someone willing to help on a conditional basis.

  Then again, conditional didn’t apply to the mafia. Even if she could find the right people to contact in Sicily, she wasn’t entirely certain she wanted to spend the rest of her life indebted to the mob. That was how it had all started for her father. Only, he’d possessed the street smarts to rise to the top and overthrow the murdering fiend he served. More reason to suspect he had more enemies than friends over here.

  Grandpoppa on the other hand…

  She tapped a stubby nail on the glass and cocked her head, trying to glimpse the city down below. Damn it, she couldn’t even remember which town he’d grown up in. He’d died when she was seven.

  Isabelle slowly curled her fingers into her palm and pressed her forehead to the glass. There had to be something she could do, some sort of leverage she could use against Paul to insure nothing happened to September.

  But what in the world could a half-Italian, second-generation American fine jeweler, who didn’t know the first thing about her Sicilian roots, do to protect her child with an ocean between them? She couldn’t very well pack up her things and go back to Chicago. Not until she had the diamonds in her possession.

  Talking sense into Paul wouldn’t work either; she’d already tried. He refused to answer both his cell phone and his business phone. Call the cops? Probably not the wisest thing, and convincing the St. Louis police—where Paul lived—that their most affluent resident had kidnapped a child would be near impossible. Even if she could talk them into believing her, Paul’s three-story mansion could easily h
ide a child.

  Not to mention, she didn’t have any proof September was even there. He’d phoned from his cell. He could be in any one of his vacation homes, or hell, on his yacht in the Ozarks. By the time she located his hiding place, she would already have the diamonds, and the need would be over.

  Isabelle lifted her gaze to the bright blue sky. “God, please,” she whispered. Tears rose up to choke off the rest of her prayer.

  Turning away, she brushed a stray drop off her cheek and sniffed to stop the remainder from falling. Crying solved nothing. Worse, if she let that dam break, she wasn’t certain she could patch it back together enough to survive the next three days. She folded her arms around her torso and resumed her back and forth path across the length of the room.

  Maybe she should meet with Caradoc. Maybe he had contacts he could call if he knew, if he cared, that he had a daughter.

  She dismissed the thought as quickly as it surfaced. She couldn’t tell Caradoc. The very real possibility loomed that if he did want to step into the role of father, September’s kidnapping gave him ample room to claim child endangerment and take her away. It would take a stretch to get a judge to buy it, but that kind of hell wasn’t something Isabelle intended to put September through.

  Worse though, if Caradoc turned away from their daughter, Isabelle couldn’t deal with that kind of heartbreak until September was once again at home, safe and secure. And Paul Reid was where he couldn’t ever threaten her again. Behind bars, in the dirt, at the bottom of the sea—Isabelle didn’t care where he ended up.

  No, she’d find a way to get a hold of Caradoc and tell him about his daughter later. Meanwhile, she’d stay as far away as possible from his pretty words and pathetic excuses. No woman who had any pride at all would give him the time of day.

  Her phone rang, startling her. September!

  She dove for the small desk near the entry where she’d stashed her purse and snatched her cell out from the clutter of receipts and personal effects. Unable to breathe through her fierce hope, she flipped open the cell.

  Dismay sank her heart into the depths of her churning stomach. Not Paul, not September. Just a client who had asked her to inquire about the Monet. She tossed the phone onto the desk, not bothering to answer. The woman might have millions, but she’d never afford that painting. Not with Stiebel in town. Damien, their premiere buyer, probably had a silent client already lined up with a hefty deposit paid on commission charges. The Monet would return to a private collection, where it would remain forever lost to the public.

  Isabelle’s gaze strayed to the crisply made bed, despair weighing heavily. The combination of events and jet lag left her more exhausted than she’d been in years. She’d give anything for a nap. But sleeping meant the dreams would come. They came with a vengeance now. Had ever since she’d found brief peace with Caradoc.

  September shared the gift as well, the ability to see the coming, and occasionally the past, through sleep. Though Isabelle had become accustomed to the unsettling glimpses of the future, she couldn’t worry about the nameless, faceless child in her current nightmare.

  Nor could she take another terrified scream and a child’s plaintive wail for help. The dark scene rang chords that sounded too similar to September’s present situation. Before her daughter had been dragged into this, the reoccurring dream had been difficult enough to stomach. Now, it was another impossibility among many.

  No, she’d wait until she was so exhausted that the charm her gemstone supplier, Gabriel, had given her could ward the horror off. Reflexively, she rubbed the band of bronze around her arm before huddling deeper into her suit jacket. It helped. But minimally.

  The ache in her calves, however, refused to allow her to remain on her feet. She toed off her high heels and dropped into the desk chair. She thumbed through the rumpled stack of papers she’d reclaimed from Caradoc, looking for the notes she’d taken on the diamonds. Focus on the jewels. If Paul has them, September will be fine. Paul might have killed Rosa, but most hardened criminals drew lines when it came to children. She’d be all right. So long as Isabelle came home with the necklace, September would be just fine.

  She had to be.

  * * *

  As a nytym’s haunting death moan bounced off the tall mountainside and faded into the dark of night, Caradoc pushed away from his private balcony’s iron railing with a displeased mutter. He stalked through his room and opened his door, knowing his brothers would soon return. If he could not fight, he expected a full report.

  The lavish hall was empty. He stepped out, leaned against his door, and prepared for Gareth and Tane to arrive.

  Heavy boots on the stairs announced them within moments. As they entered the far end of the corridor, Caradoc straightened. He waited until they had observed his presence before he motioned them to follow him inside his room.

  When they had both assumed a chair in the antechamber of his suite, he perched on the arm of the small sofa. “What did you encounter?”

  Gareth stretched his legs before him and folded his hands behind his head. His sword poked neatly through the open space beneath the chair’s velvet-covered arm. “Two nytyms, two demons.”

  Caradoc’s gaze jerked to Tane, searching for some outward sign the darkness might have pushed him further into Azazel’s taint. Had he killed a single nytym, ’twould not concern Caradoc overmuch. But striking swords with a demon brought darkness that might shatter Tane’s already fragile soul.

  Dark green eyes held Caradoc’s stare, flickering with a touch of insulted pride. The creases on his brow deepened. “You do not trust me to advise you when I am no longer able to fight?”

  The censure in Tane’s question made Caradoc flinch. ’Twas not that he feared Tane would say naught. Nay, he did not harbor the same need to hide truths, like their brother Declan. ’Twas Isabelle who concerned Caradoc—and Tane’s ever-increasing jealousy. Merrick might have spared Tane’s life for taking Anne, but Caradoc did not trust himself to still his sword, should Tane abscond with Isabelle.

  Before the brimming tension could intensify, Caradoc swallowed down a wash of guilt and expelled a heavy breath. “Nay, I trust you will.” He focused on the narrow scrapes across Gareth’s cheek, wounds that would not be present with morning’s light. At once, Caradoc became conscious of the fire in his joints. He shifted position, trying to relieve the pressure on his hips. “You saw no dark knights then?”

  Gareth shook his head. “Nor did we find any indication other beasts lurked nearby.”

  “I am certain they do.” Caradoc held his breath for a heartbeat as another burst of agony lanced through his body. He rose to his feet, walked to relieve the discomfort. “Azazel is no idiot. He knows the relics he needs, and he knows where they have been hidden. His foolishness with the Sudarium is all that keeps him from attempting to take the tears on his own.”

  “I believe he fears Raphael.” Gareth gave in to a smug smirk.

  “Nay,” Tane interjected. “’Tis strategy. He has succeeded with too much to take foolish risks. Once he obtains the tears from within the necklace, he will become more bold.”

  “Lest we find the remaining seraphs first.” Slowly, Gareth’s gaze crept to Caradoc’s. Curiosity lightened his brown eyes.

  Caradoc looked away, unwilling to feed his brother’s suspicions that they would encounter a seraph whilst they were in Sicily. ’Twould not be difficult to make the connotation, for every relic assignment brought another seraph. But confirming Isabelle’s status, before he could make amends to her, he would not do.

  “If you do not mind, Caradoc, ’tis late.” Tane stood and smoothed his hands down his dark suit pants. “I have ripped my coat and must rise early to find another.”

  Laughter rumbled from Gareth. “Aye, these garments were not made for swords.” He leaned forward, cocked his elbow, and pulled at a flap of torn material. “Nor claws.” Rising, he beckoned Tane to the door. “Come, Tane, I am not so opposed to finery as the both of you. I have an
other jacket in my room that you may use.” He glanced at Caradoc. “May we have your leave?”

  “Aye. Go rest. We must be at Shapiro’s villa by ten.” An early hour for those accustomed to a nocturnal life.

  Caradoc followed to the door and locked the deadbolt behind them before extinguishing the nearby brass lamp. Light spilled from his sleeping chamber into the small room, giving the marble floor a slick sheen. A breeze stirred up from the hotel’s private harbor, swaying the broad-leafed plants outside his window and rushing through his bedroom. Once, he would have welcomed the Mediterranean breeze, would have left the balcony doors open and bathed in the cool air as he slept.

  Now, the brine-fringed wind chilled him to the bone and made him ache all the more. He hurried to close the glass double doors. Silence settled around him. He stood stock still in the center of his bedroom, uncertain. Instinct ordered him to do something other than sit and wait for Isabelle. And yet…his hands were tied. He did not even know which hotel she occupied.

  He sighed. Tonight he would shower. Then he would lie in his bed and allow the memories to consume him.

  As he had each night since he left her to wake alone.

  Chapter 5

  Moonlight filtered through thick overgrown trees, casting eerie shadows throughout the decaying garden. Beneath Isabelle’s feet, clumps of grass rose between the pavestones, threatening to trip her. She stumbled around a cracked marble bench and caught herself on a rough tree trunk. From the corner of her eye, a whitened face broke through the darkness.

  A scream rose to the back of her throat. But as she turned to confront the ghostly specter, relief washed through her veins and relaxed her shoulders. Just a statue. A time-weathered angel, whose left wing had broken off long ago. As she looked more closely, a faint golden hue framed the marble’s greying presence.