Kissed by Moonlight (16 page)

I forced my thoughts away from their maudlin path and cast my gaze back to the scenery. Willing myself to relax, I tried to recapture my daydreams of holidays and Inigo.

"We're here." Jack's voice interrupted my fantasies. Dammit.

He'd pulled off to the side of the road in front of the world's smallest village. Most of the buildings shared common walls. Only the varying pastel colors on the shutters gave away the fact that they were, indeed, separate dwellings.

I expected villagers to pop their heads out of the open windows to inspect us. Classic behavior in small towns everywhere. But they didn't. If there was anyone home, they were inside, firmly minding their own business.

In the dead center of the village was a small circle of grass with an old pump well in the middle. Once upon a time, it would have been the only source of water for the village. Now it was a curiosity. Charming, but useless. Like that clump of parsley they dump on top of your cheeseburger at restaurants.

On the other side of the town "square" was a small stone church that looked like it had been there for centuries, possibly even longer than the houses. More buildings of indeterminate use lined the village next to the church, their empty windows staring blankly on the world. The village was cute, I'll admit, but there wasn't even a bakery. How did one get fresh croissants in the morning?

Jack hopped out of the Land Rover, slamming the door behind him and startling me out of yet another reverie. What was wrong with me lately?

I hurried to catch up as he strode along the road and across the square toward the church. Okay, that made sense. It had been a priest who had called him, after all, and Jack had been a Templar. Templars and churches sort of went hand in hand.

The inside of the church was dim and silent. The plain, simple plaster walls and high arched ceiling spoke of antiquity. Norman, maybe. I held back a sneeze as the thick, musty air tickled my throat. Between the heavy dampness, unpleasant odor, and the rock-hard benches, I wondered that anyone bothered to come to church.

"Now what?" I stepped up next to Jack, waiting for... well, I had no idea what we were waiting for. There was nothing other than the unlocked front door to indicate anyone had been inside the church in ages.

Jack didn't answer. He just stood there, arms crossed, an aloof expression on his face. I wondered what sort of memories this place held for him. He'd been his usual uncommunicative self the entire ride over from the airport. It was getting on my nerves. Nothing new there.

A stirring toward the front of the church alerted me we weren't alone. I tensed my fingers, reaching for a hidden blade, but Jack seemed unconcerned, so I relaxed. Not entirely, of course. I'm not that dumb. I kept my hand close enough to the knife that I could grab it in an instant.

The man who stepped from the shadows didn't look much like a priest. For one thing, he was dressed in the simple brown robes of a monk instead of the more priestly vestments. For another, he was barefoot, and his long reddish-brown hair was in a queue down his back. His craggy features lightened the minute he saw Jack.

"What kind of a priest is he?" I kept my voice barely above a whisper, knowing Jack could hear me.

"The good kind."

The two men embraced like long-lost brothers, tears in their eyes. There was a lot of back thumping in that way guys do when they're hugging but still want to look macho. I don't think I'd ever seen so much emotion from Jack for another person. Not even me, back when we'd been together, for all he'd accused me of making him weak and distracted.

They spoke in French, or something like it, for a moment, and then Jack turned back to me. "Morgan, I'd like to introduce you to one of my oldest and dearest friends, Father Jean-Pierre. JP, this is Morgan Bailey."

John Peter. Two of the most famous apostles. "The Rock" and "the Beloved." Interesting. Or not. Who knew with priests?

I stepped forward and shook the father's hand. His handshake was warm, firm, and a tingle of power radiated from him. Double interesting. I was pretty sure he was human, but he was tapped into something big, and it wasn't the Church.

"Nice to meet you, Father."

"And you, Ms. Bailey. Jack has told me so much about you," Father Jean-Pierre said.

Wonderful. I can imagine the horror stories Jack told him, but the priest's voice, lightly accented, was sincere and without judgment.

"Please," I said, "call me Morgan."

The priest's smile lit up his face and made him almost handsome. "And you please call me JP. It's what Jack insists on calling me, and I've grown rather fond of it." He laughed, and I couldn't help but join in. I felt myself being sucked under his spell. The priest had a startling way of drawing you into his little cocoon of warmth and friendship. Was it a natural priest thing, or something more?

"Okay, then, JP. Lead on."

He lifted a rusty eyebrow. "Lead on?"

Jack sighed. "I think what Morgan is saying, in her usual abrupt manner, is that she'd like to see the evidence from the break in." He made it sound as if I'd done something rude and embarrassing.

I glared at Jack. Why did he always insist on throwing me under the bus? And just when I was starting to like him again. "I don't see the point in beating around the bush. JP called us for help and we're here. Let's do what we came to do."

"Quite right," JP said with a nod. "If you're going to find who took the book and get it back, we need to move quickly."

"Book?" I hadn't heard anything about a book. Jack had just mentioned something had been stolen. He hadn't been specific, and he had refused to go into detail no matter how much I threatened.

JP glanced at Jack, then back to me. His hazel eyes caught mine and held, as if willing me to understand. "Yes. I will explain everything to you, but first I'd like you to see it with unprejudiced eyes. Please, follow me."

When I nodded, he turned and hurried back up the aisle of the church and across the front area to the right. I admit, I tended to keep out of churches as much as possible so my knowledge of technical terms was pretty limited, apart from apse jokes.

We ducked through a doorway at the side of the church's main room into a tiny chamber that looked like it might be used either as storage or a mud room. On the other side of the chamber was another wooden door, which JP pushed open. It led into a small courtyard surrounded by flower beds, and behind them, a wall of low shrubs. Someone, probably JP, had filled the beds with herbs instead of the usual roses and pansies. Their rich green tang was a welcome relief from the musty interior of the church.

We followed JP across the courtyard to a narrow gap in the shrubbery, where he swung open a wrought iron gate. On the other side of the shrubs lay a wide field with a narrow, muddy footpath winding its way lazily through the rich green grass. The daffodils were so thick, they perfumed the air with their scent. Bees buzzed as they hopped from flower to flower, and birds chirped in the trees a few hundred yards away, down along the river.

Once again, I found myself lost in fantasy, forgetting for a moment we were here on serious business. I could have stayed in that meadow for hours enjoying the scents and sounds of spring, the warm sun on my face, and the faint breeze tugging at my hair. Instead, I hustled along in JP's wake, Jack stomping along behind me.

***

The path meandered along, dipping down by the creek before heading back up the slight hill toward a grove of evergreen trees. I eyeballed the thicket with suspicion. The last time I'd been lured to such a place, it had been to face down the Fairy Queen's psycho brother, Alberich. It hadn't been a particularly fun experience, and not one I wished to repeat. My hand drifted close to my knife again.

What waited for us on the other side of the trees was not a lunatic Sidhe, fortunately. Instead, we found a charming little chapel that looked older than the church. Its stone walls were dark and cracked with age, softened here and there with bits of moss and lichen. The roof was low, many of the slates having been replaced in recent years with brighter red ones that set a jarring note against the dull gray of the older slates. The windows were hardly more than slits high up on the walls, built during a time when glass was almost unheard of.

The narrow path led straight to the chapel door. After fumbling with the ancient lock, JP ushered us inside.

I waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Only tiny trickles of light dared intrude on the sacred space. Dust motes danced in the narrow rays of sunshine. I could feel the zing of energy dancing along my skin. It had nothing to do with religion and everything to do with spirit. And I'm not talking ghosts.

The only piece of furniture in the place was a simple altar at the front of the room. No benches, offering boxes, or fountains here. Not even a cross, which I found unusual.

"Someone broke in?" I asked. "How can you tell?"

JP beckoned us to follow him. "This way."

He strode to the altar with Jack and me hot on his heels. The altar had been carved from a single piece of granite. The only adornment on the otherwise smooth stone was a carving in the front of a double cross: the Cross of Lorraine. It was the symbol of the Knights Templar.

I started to ask about it, but before I could get anything out, JP pressed his fingers along one side of the carving. With a scraping sound that grated against my eardrums, the altar slowly swung to one side, revealing a staircase that descended into the depths of the earth. I stood there with my mouth hanging open as JP and Jack started down the stairs.

Jack turned around and gave me a look of impatience. "Well. Are you coming?"

"I am spending way too much time underground these days," I grumbled as I followed them down into the darkness.

Chapter 24

The stone steps were ancient, worn smooth by thousands of feet over hundreds of years so they dipped awkwardly in the center. I ran my hand along the masonry wall as we descended deeper and deeper. Each stone was perfectly cut and carefully nestled into place without the use of mortar. The work of expert stonemasons. It made sense; Templars were the precursors to the Masons, or so it was said.

And that made me wonder: how many modern day Masons knew the truth? About the world, the supernatural, and the secrets Jack had kept for nearly a millennium. Did they know about Atlantis, for instance? Or the SRA? More to the point, did they know about me?

I shook my head. That was a question for another time. If the modern Masons did know anything, they played it very close to the vest. Couldn't say I blamed them. Could you imagine George Washington running around dusting vampires?

Actually, come to think of it...

My feet finally touched the bottom. In front of me was an intricately carved stone archway, rich with symbols I recognized from documentaries I'd seen on the History Channel. Templar Knights had always been something of an obsession of mine. Too bad Jack had refused to share much of his past. I paused to trace my fingers over roses, double crosses, and more arcane carvings. A few of them looked like they might be Atlantean, or at least Atlantean inspired. Another connection to my ancestry.

Through the archway was a large room. It was a replica of the one above, except instead of the plainness of the upper room, the walls and arches were richly carved in symbols. A secret Templar chapel underneath the public one.

"What is this place?" I asked as JP came to a stop in the center of the room. "I mean, I know it's a Templar chapel, but why all the secrecy? Templars were incredibly powerful and had chapels everywhere. They didn't need to hide underground." Not until that fateful day, Friday the Thirteenth.

"Ah, but the leaders always knew there might come a day when their influence would wane." The priest's expression turned grim. "And there's nothing more endangered than a power whose time is up."

Jack had been unusually quiet during our trip. Not that he was ever very chatty. I wondered how this blast from the past was making him feel. I couldn't even imagine how bizarre it must be.

"Blood on the water," he mumbled under his breath.

No kidding. The entire time the Templars had been in power, the French kings and even the Church had been jealous. The minute the Templars' influence began to fade, King Phillip was all over them like white on rice. And while the Church may not have been quite the culprit some stories had painted it, the pope still hadn't stood in the way of the king's atrocities.

"Okay," I said, turning slowly to take in the room, "I get why this place was important then. But why now?"

"Because it is well hidden," JP explained.

"This book you mentioned. It was here?" I asked.

"Yes. It was the safest place. Or so we thought."

I nodded. It made sense. The chapel was so out-of-the-way it would be nearly impossible to find. But someone had found it anyway.

Jack watched me, his demeanor silent and brooding. He was being singularly unhelpful. Either this was a test, or he was being a jackass. As his former lover, I'd have liked to go with jackass. As the Key of Atlantis, I had a feeling it was a test both of my deductive skills and of whatever supernatural powers had currently taken up residence in my body.

"Where exactly was the book kept?" I asked, glancing around the room. My guess was the altar, since there didn't seem to be any place else to store a book. It just seemed a little dumb to leave it lying about in plain sight.

Father Jean-Pierre stepped behind the altar. He pressed a series of symbols on the wall, and then stepped back as one of the stones popped out. "Here," he said, pulling the stone from the wall and placing it on the altar. "It was kept in this space."

I stepped closer and studied the hidden chamber. It was small. About six or seven inches across, maybe five deep, and with the height of a mail box slot. It would have held something about the size of a pocketbook paperback. Now it was completely empty. Not even a cobweb.

"When did the book go missing?"

"I'm not sure," JP admitted. "The book is old and somewhat fragile. It's best to leave it alone, sealed within the wall. I check on this chapel about once a month to insure things are in order, but I only inspect the book perhaps once in six months to avoid exposing it to the elements." He hesitated. There was something he wasn't saying.