Immortal Hope (30 page)

Shaking his head, Merrick explained, “Nay. Again an error of man’s. The scribes misinterpreted doctrine. Such can be expected when languages differ, when words are not common for others, and when time passes. Satan is a thinker. He plots. He plans. He wishes ill and guards the depths of hell. But Azazel holds the power. He acts. He solicits souls to work his evil.”

“Merrick, you can’t expect me to believe that. All the major religions in the world reference the devil as the greatest evil.”

“Let me illustrate the linguistic issues, as most of this occurred in the years following my birth. The name differs in Hebrew. ’Tis not a proper name, but rather a description of an adversary. In Judaism, the prince of all evil points such evil out to God. He does not create, nor act on it, and is powerless.”

Anne considered with a short nod. Truthfully, she didn’t know Scripture well enough to make much of an argument. Merrick continued before she could comment.

“In English, the word Satan descends from the Greeks, which translates loosely as one who slanders. Again, ’tis a nondescript word, not a proper name. The word devil appeared in the thirteenth century. This too began with actions, not as a proper name. ’Tis only in modern understandings of the original Hebrew that all three have become the same and have transformed into one being.”

“Okay,” she replied hesitantly. “I’m not sure where you’re going with this.”

“Beelzebub is used as a synonym. He was in fact an ancient Philistine god. Leviathan, Metatron—all names used to signify the same. Each, however, are different entities. Leviathan was correctly described as a sea monster. He sits now in the depths of the waters, waiting to sink ships. Metatron is the highest of the angels according to some Scripture.”

Anne furrowed her brows, his circular references difficult to follow. She held her tongue, waiting for him to make his point, though the urge to interject and argue made her want to squirm in her seat.

“Is it not possible that in translating acts, in describing deeds, names were used interchangeably and some of the accuracy has become lost?”

“Well…” She paused, glanced out the window in thought. “I suppose it isn’t impossible.”

“Then consider, for this I can personally attest to. Morning Star—would you agree ’tis a reference to the prince of darkness?”

“Of course.”

“In my family’s era, the bright light in the heavens we believed as such was proven in your family’s era to be Venus.”

In the silence that followed, Anne tipped her head to the side and watched Merrick’s features. Through the light of streetlamps, his expression filled with animation, a testament to his convictions.

“If this could be proven false, can it not also be possible the rest of what is
written
today is the result of different cultures attempting to understand, and relate, the
basis
of a truth?” He glanced at her briefly, lifting his eyebrows before he returned his stare to the road.

She shrugged her shoulders. “I guess.”

“Regardless, Anne—is the name particularly relevant? The principle is the same. A great evil bent on destroying man. One who covets the kingdom on high. ’Tis Azazel who has the power. ’Tis he who has the ability and fortitude to ascend. Satan is but his counselor.”

He had a point—they were arguing semantics. Who did what, who held what name, was insignificant.

“Ask Mikhail. He will tell you the same. They are brothers, after all.”

“Okay, okay.” She held her free hand up in a gesture of surrender. “Go back to this ascending.”

Merrick flashed her a grin as bright as the moonlight outside. He nodded toward the windshield, and Anne’s gaze drifted where he indicated. They’d parked, sat now in front of the temple’s exterior house.

“Let us go in, and we shall talk some more. I will tell you more of the relics that so fascinate you, when you are seated at my side where I may kiss and touch you as I desire.”

Her cheeks flushed with color, and she dipped her head. This new side of Merrick would take some getting used to. She’d become accustomed to his distance, but now he didn’t hesitate in voicing his wishes. All night long, he’d sneaked in a comment or two that had her remembering their afternoon together, along with a few that made it clear he intended to pick up where they’d left off before dinner.

He got out of the vehicle before she did, and as she reached for the handle, her door opened. Taking her elbow, he helped her out of the SUV, then threaded his fingers through hers and shut the door. He caught her chin with his other hand and tipped her face to his. Slowly, he took her mouth. The tip of his tongue traced the seam of her lips, nudged them apart. When it danced against hers, the heady flavor of Merrick soaked into her soul. Masculine richness, fringed with the spice of desire, stirred warmth through her veins. She gave in to a murmur of delight and settled her free hand on his shoulder to keep her weak knees from giving out.

Merrick drew back, breaking the kiss. “I have waited all night for that,” he whispered. “I hunger for you, damsel.”

She stood up on tiptoe and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. “Take me inside.”

Grinning like he’d just brought home the spoils of a great battle, Merrick escorted her to the door. He opened it, ushered her inside first, then turned toward the stairs.

“Merrick.”

The curt, masculine call brought him to an immediate halt. Not particularly in the frame of mind to share him with his buddies, Anne groaned inwardly as Merrick turned them around. Her gaze settled on a very serious-looking Caradoc who leaned against the entryway to the large common room.

“Caradoc,” Merrick acknowledged.

His friend didn’t smile as he folded his arms across his chest. “Mikhail sent me to retrieve you upon your immediate return.”

At once, Merrick stiffened. The same tense line Anne had become so familiar with settled into his jaw, and he turned to her. Yet instead of annoyance flickering in his dark eyes, they shone with warmth. He took a step closer, bent his head near her ear. “Go on upstairs. I will join you soon.”

With little room to argue, she nodded. “Can I use your phone? I’d like to call my sister while you’re gone.”

Merrick brushed his lips across the top of her head and fished his cell phone out of his back pocket. “Stay in your chambers, damsel.”

Anne didn’t bother to respond. Twisting free of his embrace, she jogged up the stairs. Though she no longer needed Sophie’s advice, her twin was probably worried sick. She’d understand, however, when Anne explained she’d been studying the Templar legends. She wouldn’t mention a word about the chain of recent events, but Anne intended to find out if Sophie’s armband had brought her any surprises.

Inside her room, she dialed her sister’s number. The line rang four times before her voice mail picked up.

Anne hung up. No sense in leaving messages when her sister hadn’t bothered to return the others. Instead, she dialed her own phone, certain Sophie would have left a dozen messages or more. But as she pressed the button to transfer into her system, her empty mailbox greeted her.

Frowning, Anne pressed the disconnect button. Strange. Damned strange. They talked every night. Under any other circumstance, Sophie would be worried sick. Her voice mail should be full of hysterical questions.

Where in the world was her sister?

A feeling of unease churned around in Anne’s stomach. Desperate to settle a rise of nausea, she dialed Sophie again.

*   *   *

As Caradoc eased Mikhail’s office door closed, Merrick stood in front of the archangel’s massive wooden desk. Hands clasped behind his back, he stared at the ornate sword above Mikhail’s head. Fashioned similarly to the Templar blades, the broadsword bore the same golden cross in the pommel. But in stark contrast to Merrick’s plain blade and unguarded hilt, Mikhail’s sword had a golden guard, and intricate etching adorned the flattened length of steel. Beautiful, yet deadly.

“I am glad you are both here. I needed to speak to Caradoc about Maggie’s adytum in Georgia.”

Merrick slid his gaze down to Mikhail’s face. The archangel looked between them both, his gaze resting on Merrick a fraction longer than necessary before he turned his focus to Caradoc.

“I had intended for you to take the men to Georgia, Caradoc.”

“We are ready for your command, Mikhail.”

Mikhail shook his head. “You will not be going. Raphael’s men will tend to the repairs.”

“Sir,” Caradoc cut in. “We are more than capable of—”

“’Tis not a matter of capability.” Standing, Mikhail moved across the room to a large, comfortable chair and sat down on an overstuffed arm. The formality in his voice vanished as he continued. “There is increased activity at gate twelve. Too much for our men here. Raphael’s visiting knights shall handle the repairs. I require my strongest men present, as I anticipate Azazel shall strike again.”

Caradoc’s affronted pride relented with a respectful dip of his head.

Merrick shifted his weight, the meaning in Mikhail’s words unmistakable. Should Azazel attack, Merrick would be called upon to fight. Whilst he would offer no complaint and would honor his eternal oath, the difficulty the shades had given him made the condition of his soul unavoidable. Another battle would surely claim the last of his remaining light.

“I want the both of you to gather Nikolas and Gareth of Aletorp. Use Nikolas’ knowledge of his archers and formulate a strategy to defend Elspeth’s adytum along the Bayou Bourbeaux, should the need arise. Gareth shall prepare the remaining men from Europe to reinforce our knights.”

Bristling at the mention of the young knight Anne had so shamelessly bestowed her favor on, the same one who had pushed him beyond all reason and driven him to obliterate his oaths, Merrick watched Mikhail through narrowed eyes. He would rather run the man through than work at his side.

“You two are to act as each other’s second. Should one of you fall unto Azazel’s power, the other will be informed of our plans. Merrick, you will lead the men. Caradoc you shall assume his place, if such becomes necessary. Whilst you arrange this, have Gareth tend to the weapons stores and report to Raphael what we lack.”

“Do you anticipate an attack?” Merrick asked.

Mikhail lifted a solitary dark eyebrow. “Do you not?”

Nodding, Merrick stayed silent. After the recent events, to expect anything less would only be wishful thinking. Azazel would strike. ’Twas only a matter of when, and with how many former Templar knights.

“That is all, Caradoc. I will speak with Merrick alone now.”

Merrick lifted his chin a fraction, his stance at once rigid. There could only be one reason Mikhail abruptly dismissed his second most-trusted knight. The reason Merrick believed he had been summoned to begin with—Anne.

Caradoc shot him a brief, supportive glance before he exited the spacious chamber and pulled the door firmly shut.

Returning to his desk, Mikhail pushed a surcoat and sword across the scarred surface toward Merrick. “I believe these belong to you.”

Merrick allowed his gaze to fall to the folded surcoat and the broadsword as he slowly let out a deep breath. “Aye.”

“I shall spare you the tediousness of reminding you of your oath. Of all the men in this temple, you understand the gravity of your actions.”

A wash of shame rolled through Merrick, and he gritted his teeth against it. All evening, he had fought back the rising guilt, focused only on the way Anne lightened his spirit. But now, he could no longer pretend an afternoon of pleasure broke only the ritualistic vow of chastity. He had claimed what did not belong to him. Sullied another man’s honor. He had cared naught for the vows of brotherhood and cast them aside as he might toss away a scrap of rubbish.

His shoulders bent under the weight of full realization. “Aye,” he murmured.

Mikhail leaned back into his chair and studied Merrick for several long moments. As he did, the commander’s sober expression gave way to compassion, and his brows crinkled with the hint of a frown. “Do not look upon me as your general, Merrick. I am your friend. Speak to me as such. I know your heart. You would not do this out of simple lust. What is it about the maid?”

Merrick turned away from Mikhail and stood before the well-worn kite shield that bore the marks of time. Deep scars gouged into the painted planks, paired with smaller punctures, remnants of long-ago arrows that sought flesh beneath. He studied the emblazoned crimson cross and searched for the words that would answer Mikhail’s question. At length, he bowed his head and stared at his feet. “She gives me hope.”

The creaking of wood signaled Mikhail had risen. Heavy feet moved across the stone floor, and a hand settled on Merrick’s shoulder. “You are certain she is not meant for you?”

Shaking his head, Merrick closed his eyes. He had looked. God in heaven, he had searched every part of her body the second time he had made love to her, in hopes she would bear a mark in some place he bore a scar, a freckle, anything he might recognize. She had refused to remove her socks, swearing the room was far too cold. But even if she had, he knew it would be futile. He had naught of significance on his.

“She is not mine,” Merrick answered on a sigh.

Mikhail’s grip tightened on Merrick’s shoulder. “I will not attempt to order you away from her, Merrick. You would not listen should I try. Yet know this.” He turned away, Merrick’s gaze following as Mikhail resumed his place behind his desk. “The men who witnessed your surcoat already grumble. You must be careful. I cannot afford to lose your skill on the field, should her intended seek to avenge the wrong you have done to him.”

Merrick returned to the desk and scooped up his belongings. “It will not matter, Mikhail. I am not long for this world. When I am gone, Caradoc may see to her keeping. He will not fail as I have.”

A dark frown engulfed Mikhail’s features. “Are you so close, brother?”

“Aye. I have but a few more battles left in me.” He pulled the door open and paused in the entryway. “Mayhap you should give her to Caradoc’s keeping now.”

“Nay, Merrick.” Mikhail’s low voice filled with unspoken emotion. “Know love before you know Azazel’s hate.”