Immortal Hope: The Curse of the Templars Page 5

  “Have you told her what you are?” Mikhail asked Merrick.

  “Nay.”

  Mikhail’s steely silver eyes settled on Anne. She blinked in surprise at his warm smile, at the beauty revealed. He didn’t possess the kind of rugged good looks Merrick and the other men did; he was more like a work of fine art. A living, breathing Michelangelo.

  Though they weren’t touching, his energy poured into her. A strange feeling of peace and contentment soothed her frayed temper, and though she tried, she couldn’t remember why she’d been so incensed with Merrick.

  “I believe…” Mikhail began in a thoughtful tone. He moved behind a massive desk and pushed aside a stack of tattered papers to uncover a thick, leather-bound book. Tapping the cover, he lifted his gaze. “We will begin here. I am Mikhail. You will know me better by words men wrote long ago. Gabriel, or as you call him, Gabe Anderson, sent you to me.”

  How did he know her boss? She didn’t remember telling any of them his name.

  Mikhail turned the book around. Etched in gold, two words shone against the darkened binding: Holy Bible.

  A subtle shift in the lighting gave Mikhail an ethereal appearance. His brown hair assumed a rich brilliance and glinted with shots of red. Against the stone wall immediately behind him, the ever-so-faint outline of a pair of majestic wings stood out like someone had traced them there. Certain the effect came from a trick of lights, Anne glanced around in search of the projector, but there weren’t any overhanging lights. In fact, she couldn’t see a single lamp—or for that matter a candlestick. For all intents and purposes, she should be standing in a cave as black as pitch.

  Impossible, her mind protested.

  Real, instinct countered.

  Oh God.

  Anne’s knees went weak. The floor rushed up to meet her, and the room took a drastic spin to the left. Struggling to breathe, she stumbled, but strong hands caught her from behind. Planes of hard steel pressed against her back. Bewildered, she looked over her shoulder to see who’d caught her, and for the first time since she’d met him, Merrick’s eyes softened.

  “I think I need to sit,” she whispered.

  CHAPTER 4

  Mikhail regarded the young woman thoughtfully. Her face was washed with white, her blue eyes wide. Gabriel had said she possessed spirit, informed them she was strong. But the things she must hear required far more energy than she now possessed.

  His gaze shifted briefly to Merrick. Whatever nonsense the weakening knight engaged in, Anne certainly put him in his place. In all of creation, Mikhail would have never believed he would witness a woman take Merrick to task. Or that Merrick would stay his hand and accept the punishment.

  Perhaps Gabriel was right. Perhaps Merrick would make a suitable tutor for her.

  Mikhail frowned.

  Regardless, Merrick had no choice. Gabriel had relayed the Almighty’s orders that Merrick would educate Anne on the Templar purpose. He would lead her on the path she had been born to take.

  Best to keep this conversation at a minimum. Tell her only the basics and save the rest for Merrick. He would learn when she was ready to understand. Presently, Merrick had things to learn himself.

  “Caradoc, Lucan, Tane.” Mikhail turned to the three beside Declan and Farran. “You will inform Declan and Farran what I omit when the five of you leave, as you have already heard what I have to say.”

  All three nodded in understanding. A surge of pride rushed through Mikhail. These six rarely questioned duty. Of all the knights under his command, Merrick’s men embodied Templar honor. Yet a wave of sorrow followed on pride’s heels. Whether they would survive these coming trials remained to be seen. Darkness infringed upon them all. Not a day passed when Mikhail did not pray for their tainted souls.

  He cleared his wandering thoughts with a brief shake of his head. “Lady Anne.” She blushed at his address, and he let out a soft chuckle. “Become accustomed to the title, for my dear, you are the truest lady these men will ever know. Do you know where you are?”

  She swallowed. Her gaze shifted to an ancient shield mounted on the wall, and she took in the four legs of the crimson cross emblazoned on its scarred surface. Quietly, she answered, “I believe so. But it seems impossible.”

  “Rest assured, ’tis not impossible.” Mikhail moved around to the front of his desk and leaned against it. Folding his arms over his chest, he offered her a smile. “You sit in the North American Temple, the stronghold of the Knights Templar. The men you see around you have fought Azazel’s evil for centuries. But the battle has turned in Azazel’s favor, and you, dear lady, are the key to their victory.”

  He held in a laugh as Merrick, Declan, and Farran all turned to him. Surprise etched into their features, glinted in their eyes. Oh how he loved to catch his knights off guard. So rarely did it happen, he cherished the opportunity.

  Anne’s frown, however, deepened. “I don’t understand. I just want to learn about this armband and go back home.”

  “Your life is here, Anne. As we speak, your colleagues spread the news that you have eloped with a secret lover.”

  “A what?” Bless her heart, she laughed. “No one would believe that. I’m not even dating.”

  “We did not wish to create rumor of your death, in the event there might be someone you wished to visit now and then. Or even if you choose to perform your work—when it becomes safe to do so—from the house in Atchison.”

  “Mikhail,” Merrick interrupted. “Spare us the lengthy prattle. We have not slept, and I wish to rest. Tell us our purpose here.”

  Mikhail considered drawing out Merrick’s wait simply because the knight could not curb his rudeness. He appraised the three returning men, took in the deep lines of weariness in their faces, the dark circles beneath their eyes. They had done more good in the last six weeks than the Order as a whole. Yet for their deeds, they paid a heavy price. Mikhail sensed the growing darkness in their souls, felt the contained hatred that waited for escape. He did not have the heart to make these men wait for rest.

  “Very well. Anne, the serpentine you bear is a symbol of the sacred snake, Nehushtan, of healing and salvation. It marks the time when the angels fell from grace, and it was crafted to identify those born from divine power.”

  Mikhail ignored Merrick’s displeased mutter. Focusing instead on soothing the rapid loss of color in Anne’s face, he forged on. “You are a descendant of the Nephilim. The blood that runs in your veins has been passed down for centuries. Undiluted, it is the very essence of the Almighty’s creation. I will allow Merrick to tell you the remaining theology therein. Right now, all you need to know is that you were put upon this earth for a greater purpose.”

  A commotion in the corner set Mikhail’s smile free. The three who had answered the summons Merrick and his men ignored, and already heard what was to come, had just made the connection. He grinned at Caradoc. “Take the men outside. The rest is for Merrick and Anne alone. Before you go”—he swept an arm toward Anne—“pledge your loyalty.”

  * * *

  Angels? A descendant of the Nephilim? Anne’s mind whirled with Mikhail’s ridiculous claims. Beyond the simple implausibility of them, doctrine stated the flood eradicated the Nephilim. No matter how she looked at it, what Mikhail wanted her to believe just couldn’t be true. Then again, a rational person would say her ability to read past lives was impossible. They’d tell her running into a reincarnated knight, who had never really left the Middle Ages, would be ridiculous. Yet she knew the reality firsthand from her visions. While she might doubt Mikhail’s claims about her lineage, she was absolutely convinced about Merrick’s legitimacy. Angels or no angels, she stood among Templar knights.

  And these men had the answers she needed. She would give anything to deny that this was real. Even considering the possibility made her feel as foolish as an adult who still believed in Santa Claus. But in thirty-one years, her visions had never been wrong. Her ability to read energy, when it was strong enough to make its pres
ence known, had never led her astray. Right now, the room buzzed with spiritual strength. A power so indomitable she couldn’t hope to ignore it. Every last particle swirling around her reinforced what she wanted to disbelieve. This was real.

  Five men lined up in front of her and dropped to one knee, thwarting her ability to consider things further. From their waists, they pulled their swords free and set them on the ground before their flattened feet. The scrape of steel against stone hung in the air.

  The man on the far left bowed his head. Shoulders easily twice the size of hers bent, and he leaned one arm on his knee, accenting the thick bulge of his bicep. His sandy-brown hair tumbled forward to cover his face. “Lord Caradoc of Asterleigh.”

  Asterleigh? She knew that name. It had once been a medieval village, but now was little more than dust and dirt. Good God, he was a noble! The realization sent goose bumps coursing down her arms. She waited for him to say more, expected him to stand.

  When Caradoc didn’t move, Merrick jabbed an elbow in her side. “Return his blade,” he whispered.

  Rising, Anne bent to retrieve Caradoc’s broadsword. Not expecting the heavy weight, she almost dropped the thing before she managed to hold on tight enough to lift it up. Holding the flat of the blade in both hands, she presented it to Caradoc. With a crisp nod, he accepted his weapon, stood, and sheathed it.

  As Caradoc walked away, the next man in line bowed his head. Built with the same incredible strength as the other two, she admired the way his ribs tapered into a trim waist. His hair was dark like Merrick’s, but it hung straight and smooth, contrary to Merrick’s untamed waves. He was not nearly as handsome as the other two, but she found something about his demeanor pleasing. Maybe he bowed with a bit more grace.

  He spoke in a low, smooth voice, “Lucan of Seacourt.”

  Again, Anne made the connection to a lost medieval village. Although inventoried by the Normans, the tiny town was nothing but rubble by the mid-1400s. Moved by the fact these two had lost even the history of their origin, her heart swelled. She presented him his sword with reverence and managed a hesitant smile.

  The third man repeated his companions’ actions, but before he bowed his dark head, she caught a flash of deep green eyes behind thick lashes. “Tane du Breuil.”

  Something about the way he glanced up at her made her uneasy. A flash of envy? Desire? Whatever it was, it made the hair on the back of her neck rise. Moving more quickly, she returned his broadsword with grace.

  Blond hair tumbled as the surly driver dropped his gaze to the ground. She noticed for the first time that this man also doubled her in size. Good grief, compared to her petite stature, they were all giants. But man, they were nice to look at. A girl could get used to this.

  His voice was brittle, full of underlying anger, as he said, “Farran de Clare.”

  Anne’s eyes widened in recognition of another noble family’s name. Why it surprised her, she didn’t know. To be Templar, a man had to have descended from nobility. But seeing these men bow before her, she who didn’t have a drop of blue blood and would have been a peasant in that long-ago time, felt somehow wrong. She returned Farran’s sword, all too anxious to have this procedure over with.

  The Scot’s easy smile lessened her discomfort. He bent over his knee with grace and flourish, and dipped his reddish head. “Declan MacNeill.” As she bent to retrieve his sword, he tossed her a wink. She smiled as she handed it to him but quickly sobered under Merrick’s smoldering stare.

  Moving as a collective unit, the five men rose and filed out the door in silence.

  The room now empty, save for Merrick and Mikhail, Anne returned to her chair and focused on their leader. His smile had disappeared, his features the same grim mask that Merrick wore. Great. She let out a sigh, pushed her hair out of her face, and looked to Mikhail. “I have students that expect midterm grades. I’ve got a thesis to finish by Christmas, or I lose a promotion. While I would love nothing more than to stay and learn your histories, I can’t stay here indefinitely. How long are you thinking I’ll be gone?”

  “Eternally. You cannot go back. The things you will learn, the secrets you shall be trusted with—your place is here. I am sorry we do not have the necessary time to prepare you better. But this is more important than any grades, any test, and any promotion you might believe you need.”

  Her stomach tightened with a knot of apprehension. Throw away her promotion? No way. Who knew when she might get another opportunity at a department chair? Another college would expect her to put in years of teaching that she’d already obtained at Benedictine. She’d thrown herself into medieval France and the Knights Templar since her parents’ plane crash, devoted everything she was to fulfilling her father’s research and proving the theories he began, and published internationally respected papers on many of them already. She had no intentions of starting over. Not when she was so close. The promotion meant far more than professional success. Her father died while traveling to prove the Church’s motives. Her thesis was personal.

  Mikhail moved in front of her and caught her hand.

  As if to assure she wasn’t trapped in some crazy dream, her second sight rose to the surface with a chilling image. Put to death in the Romans’ preferred method, an unclothed man suspended from a thick wooden cross. His chin rested against his chest. Long hair tumbled about his face. At his feet thousands wailed as legionaries whipped them, threw stones and rocks. A few even went so far as to kick the mourning in the gut and spit on their prostrated bodies. Her focus narrowed on the dead man’s bended head, lingering on a crown of twined thorns.

  She closed her eyes when the image faded. Logic and reason combated with her spiritual affinity until her head felt dizzy all over again, but in the wave of nausea, those balmy sensations she’d experienced earlier returned to ground her. The tentacle of fear that reached out for her retreated, and she couldn’t fight back the overwhelming feeling of peace.

  When she opened her eyes, Mikhail pulled his hand from hers and peered down at her in earnest. “You must listen carefully, Anne. Your fate lies with one of my men. You are bound to him. It was written in the heavens long before any of us touched this earth. There is a mark upon your body, a scar, a birthmark, perhaps even art. Something unique, that in its shape, its creation, or its meaning holds significance. It matches one of the men’s, and he who bears the identical symbol is your intended mate.”

  She shook her head. “You can’t be serious.”

  Mikhail didn’t flinch. “Deadly.”

  “You really mean this nonsense? I’m some descendant of an angel? I’m supposed to give up my life and hide underground with a man I’ve never met?” She let out a soft snort. “I don’t think so.”

  As if her remark didn’t warrant a response, Mikhail turned his attention to Merrick. “By Gabriel’s, and thus the Almighty’s, order, you will help pair her. Until her intended is found, you will protect her. She is your charge, Merrick. I expect you to devote yourself to her safekeeping. Now give her your oath.”

  Anne spluttered as Merrick dropped to one knee. He bowed his head and tossed his sword carelessly in front of him, the clang as harsh as his expression. If body language said anything, the man was seriously pissed. She couldn’t blame him. Stuck with arrogant Merrick? What had she done to deserve misery?

  “Merrick du Loire.” His tight-lipped response sounded more like a snarl.

  She was half tempted to let him retrieve his sword on his own, just to see how long he would sit there on a bended knee. When several seconds passed and she hadn’t moved, he tipped his head up. His eyes spoke silent fury. That telltale twitch tugged at the side of his jaw, and he clenched his teeth so hard his lips turned into a tight, cruel line.

  “Fine,” she muttered. Bending over, she picked up his sword and thrust it toward him. He snatched it out of her hands, jumped to his feet, and stuffed it into the metal scabbard that dangled from his waist.

  “What is the meaning of this, Mikhail?” Merr
ick demanded. “She is a woman. Not strong, not a fighter. How can she help us?”

  Anne stiffened at Merrick’s condescending remark. No wonder he hadn’t hesitated to carry her like a sack of potatoes and gave little thought to what she wanted. His brain was still firmly rooted in the twelfth century. Good God. She was supposed to stay with him until this supposed predestined husband was found? She wrinkled her nose and opened her mouth to protest, but Mikhail didn’t give her the opportunity.

  One coppery eyebrow arched, and a rueful smile spread across Mikhail’s face. “You cannot mean to tell me you’ve forgotten the prophecy, Merrick. She carries the light that will balance one knight’s tainted soul. She is a seraph.”

  Anne almost laughed aloud at the absurdity of Mikhail’s statement. Ludicrous. Light in her? Someone evidently neglected to tell Mikhail she’d had a little too much fun in college. So much so, she had almost flunked her freshman year. It had taken five more to graduate. Her parents’ death the following year finally pushed her into responsibility, but it had still taken another three years to get her master’s, and then another two for her doctoral thesis. By now, she’d settled down. She might look light and innocent, but there was far more darkness in her soul than she cared to admit.

  The way Merrick’s face drained of color and his mouth parted suffocated her humor. Whatever Mikhail meant by those cryptic words, Merrick took seriously. Too seriously for her liking. Fighting down a sickening sense of foreboding, she asked, “Balance?”

  Mikhail nodded. “You will keep someone alive, Anne. Now go, and discover who it is.”

  Keep someone alive? He had to be kidding. She didn’t want that kind of responsibility. She killed plants for God’s sake. Gabe had made a mistake. A terrible, awful mistake. She wasn’t cut out for this kind of thing. Not by any means.

  Thwarting her protest, Merrick clamped his hand around her wrist. “Let us get this over with quickly. I have no care to stay here long.”