Immortal Sacrifice: #4 The Curse of the Templars (12 page)

’
Twas only one way to discover the answers.

Caradoc paused at the door as another concern laced his
lungs together. He had done all he could to protect Declan, to force him out of combat in order to save his soul. Would he now have to take arms against one called brother?

He shudder
ed. Whilst he had taken the lives of fallen Templar without hesitation, he could not fathom confronting a brother who did not yet wear the ebony armor of Azazel. Especially not one he was so close to.

Nay, he could not allow himself to believe Declan was capable of harming a woman.
Beneath the dark veil that surrounded him, he possessed a good heart. More than once, he had executed wayward knights who defied the laws of the land and mistreated women, even those they had rightfully conquered. He would not forget the etiquette they had both spilled blood to uphold. No matter how dark his soul became.

What then, brought their tarnished brother here?

Fed up with the constant questions and the utter lack of answers, Caradoc yanked open the door. He would have explanations. Tonight. From the very man who eluded them all.

Taking the stairs two at a time,
he hurried to the registration desk where a petite young brunette gave him a radiant smile.

“
Signore
, you need help,
si
?”

“Aye.
I wish to know the room of Declan MacNeill.”

Dark,
bushy eyebrows puckered as she tapped something into the computer to her left. After a few moments she nodded enthusiastically. “Here he is,
Signore
. Room 111. Down the rear hall to the left.”

“My thanks.”

Giving her no opportunity to ask if she could be otherwise of service, Caradoc strode down the hall. As he walked, he glanced to the ornate ceiling above, praying that the Almighty would choose to lend aid.

Chapter
11

Isabelle dropped her foot into the sudsy water with a
plunk
. Sighing, she leaned her head back against the cool marble edge of the oversized tub. Heaven. Hot steam, scented bubbles, and cleanly shaven legs were as glorious as the pearly gates themselves.

Not to mention one self-induced orgasm, courtesy of Caradoc’s too-close presence and his too-stirring kiss.
That alone had stripped the tension right out of her limbs. Allowing his body to do sinfully wicked things with hers, even if just in her imagination, also left her mind blissfully numb. No nagging fear for September, no unrelenting worry about being watched—nothing but exhaustion registered.

Enough so she could embrace sleep.

She lazily lifted her arm out of the blanket of bubbles. Rivulets of water rolled from her fingertips to her elbow, on down to the band of bronze she wore just above her bicep. In the refracted light, the tiny serpents’ eyes gleamed bright. Salvation. She’d finally reached a physical state where this trinket could override her subconscious and grant her peace.

S
he used a short nail to trace a cross etched into one of the serpent’s heads. Definitely a charm. One of considerable age too. If she were smart, she’d take it some place and get it authenticated. In fact, Nigel Urston was bound to be at Shapiro’s, if he wasn’t already. He drooled over ancient jewelry. Any era, any design—he could name most every one within a few minutes. His reputation as the premiere expert on private collection antiquity jewelry garnered him some of the most elite clients. Surely, he’d know where this one originated, and if he didn’t know off the top of his head, he’d figure it out in a handful of days. When she saw him, she’d ask.

Maybe then she’d understand what kind of blessing it held.
If she could discover the era, she could discover their spiritual beliefs. And, just maybe, she could find another, even stronger, than this one.

Dropping her hand into the water
, she levered herself upright and fished out the washcloth. A few quick rinses removed the clinging bubbles from her body then she exited the tub. That’s exactly what she’d do—ask Nigel and track down another charm. Even if a second one didn’t hold more power, using two together was bound to make an even greater difference. When she wanted to welcome the dreams, she’d take them off. But for now, absolute silence in her head ranked above any possible benefit her second sight had ever brought.

Not that it had ever been anything but a hindrance
—with the solitary exception of forewarning her September would come a month early. If she hadn’t held that advance knowledge, Isabelle would have never asked Rosa to come along on what should have been a brief business trip to New York. She’d have given birth all alone, the flight too long to put Rosa there before September arrived.

Isabelle toweled off slowly, her eyelids already drooping.
She pulled a lightweight nightgown over her head, dimly aware of her surroundings. She navigated across the room with robot-like precision and fell onto her bed, inhaling the scent of clean, fresh linens.

Sleep.
Finally.

She summoned enough energy to twist onto her side and wrap her hand around the
serpentine torc. Glancing at the ceiling through lowered lashes, she said one last meaningful prayer for a long, uninterrupted sleep.

* * *

The silence beyond Declan’s door did little to improve Caradoc’s ever-darkening mood. Between the barrage of questions about his brother’s purpose and mounting frustrations over Isabelle, he could scarce quiet the racket in his head. A noise that seeped into his body and aroused all the lingering pains he tried to ignore.

If he could but exercise his sword, he would find a brief respite.
But that too had been denied to him. The archangels had thrust him straight into a more damning hell than even Azazel could create. There was no escape, save for sleep, and he was too agitated to accomplish even a brief nap.

Turning on his heel, he headed for the stairs and the brothers he trusted most.
At this hour, they would still be awake—if they were in their rooms and not out hunting.

He grimaced as he slowly took the stairs.
The very thought Tane and Gareth might be engaged in a test of skills with demons annoyed him further. What use was a knight who could not fight? He had not succumbed so greatly to the darkness to warrant such a punishment. For that matter, if any of them truly deserved to be rendered useless in battle, ’twas Tane. His soul’s unstable state had already made itself apparent several months ago.

At the top of the third floor landing, Caradoc grumbled an oath.
This idleness would send him into insanity. What he needed was exertion. Physical strain he would find if he had to issue the order to take up arms. Despite Mikhail’s limitations, he still commanded this mission, and Tane and Gareth had no choice but to listen to directives, so long as they did not conflict with the archangels’ desires.

He marched to Gareth’s room, determined not to let his gaze stray sideways to the heavy door that barred him from Isabelle.
Long ago, he learned the quickest way to victory lay in waiting out one’s opponent. Whilst Isabelle was not his enemy, they were indeed at battle. Conquering her would require more patience than a siege upon a well-supplied stronghold. He needed to think on tactics before he rushed in headlong and followed his natural urges.

The mere thought of her, however, sent tension crawling through his limbs.
As he stopped before Gareth’s door, his eyes betrayed his will. He turned his head, unable to ignore the fact she resided a mere ten feet away. His raised hand stilled, and he expelled a heavy breath. Did she still slumber in T-shirts? Did she still pull that long hair into a braid before she set her head upon her pillow?

God’s blood, she belonged to him.
He wanted everything; the lightness of her laughter, the headiness of her kiss, and the absolute heaven of her body as it moved beneath his, her soft moans of pleasure filling his ears.

The vibrant memory of making love to Isabelle sent heat rushing to his groin.
His cock swelled, craving the reality of unfulfilled fantasies. He had spent one too many nights imagining her silken skin, the scent of her perfume, the taste of her arousal. Three steps, and her kiss said he could know it all again. She might fight him tooth and nail, but she would yield. Willingly.

He took a step toward the center of the hall and came to an abrupt stop.
Aye, she would yield for the night. Morning, however, would find them at opposite sides of towering stone walls, and he on the unprotected green with her holding a crossbow. Nay, best to suffer the torment until he had completely disarmed her.

Caradoc
faced Gareth’s door once more. He knocked sharply and counted the seconds until heavy footfalls beyond announced someone’s approach. Tane answered, looking surprised to see him.

“I thought you had retired by now.”

Caradoc’s frown deepened. “I do not have the pleasure of working myself into slumber. My limbs are restless with idleness.” Resentment laced his words, and he winced inwardly. This sentence was not Tane’s doing. Tane did naught but follow orders.

Caradoc
forced out a chuckle, attempting to soften his response. Instead, it came out harsh and choked.

Pity filled Tane’s eyes as he visibly flinched.
Stepping back, he opened the door wide. “Do you wish company?”

“Nay, I wish a bit of sport.
Take up your sword and meet me behind the villa.”

Behind Tane, Gareth pulled himself from his sprawled position on the couch and stood.
“Caradoc, we cannot go against the archangels’ instructions. You may not fight with us.”

The simple logic snapped what remained of Caradoc’s straining self-control.
He balled his hands into tight fists and pressed them into his thighs to keep from striking both men. “Damnation! I have never violated orders, nor will I begin to now!” His gaze narrowed on Tane, venom heating his blood. “I am not as heedless as some. I wished to spar.”

Crimson splashed Tane’s cheeks as he dipped his chin in chagrin.
He lifted his left hand, bidding Gareth to hold his tongue. “I will get my sword.” Angling his shoulders, he edged past Caradoc, into the hall.

Instantly, Caradoc regretted his choice of words.
His reference had been toward Declan, not Tane’s previous wrongs. He clapped a hand on Tane’s thick shoulder, halting his brother. A squeeze of his fingers apologized. “’Tis no need. I have reconsid—”

A blood-chilling scream filled the narrow hall.
Caradoc dropped his hand to his hip, reaching instinctively for the sword that stood in his room. His gaze jerked to Isabelle’s door as fear tightened a fist around his heart.

* * *

Isabelle bolted upright, panting. One hand clenched at the base of her throat, she scrambled to sift dream from reality and ground herself in the dim confines of her bedroom
.

Not September.
For God’s sake, her daughter couldn’t be the child screaming in the nightmare. She hadn’t seen September huddled at the base of cloaked marble statue. The faceless head hadn’t looked down on her lifeless body, and foreboding broken angels’ wings had
not
cast her in grey shadows.

Isabelle
refused to believe it was anything other than a product of the combination of her reoccurring nightmare and her worry for her child.

The sudden, fierce banging at her door, however, told her the sound that had ripped her from sleep wasn’t just the imaginary child’s terror.
She’d screamed as well.

She pushed
a mass of damp hair away from her forehead, threw off the covers, and slid from the bed. The thumping became more demanding.

“
Signorina
! Open the door, or I shall have to let myself in,” a rich Italian voice barked.

Hotel security, no doubt.
Damn. Had she really been that loud? Or were the walls just paper thin?

Grumbling, Isabelle made her way through the dark to fumble with the chain lock.
“Just a minute.”

Before she could finish turning the handle, the door flew inward.
She stumbled, catching herself on the thick frame. Four men filled the narrow entryway, one dressed in a crisp villa uniform, two she didn’t recognize but who looked like they’d have been more than capable of turning her door into splinters if she’d waited a moment longer.

And Caradoc.

She swallowed hard at the deeply-etched concern on his face. He couldn’t really care, could he?

“
Signorina
, are you hurt?” The Italian peered through silver wire-framed glasses. His salt-and-pepper mustache twitched at the corners of his mouth.

Though she answered the employee, her eyes remained locked with Caradoc’s.
“No.” She swallowed to wet her sticky throat again and summoned a shaky smile. “I’m fine. I didn’t mean to concern you. It was just a dream.”