Immortal Sacrifice: #4 The Curse of the Templars (7 page)

“You linger in your thoughts overmuch, brother
,” Tane observed, his voice low and respectful.

Caradoc took another bite and shook his head.
“Nay. ’Tis appreciation for a decent breakfast.” His favorite meal of the day, by far. One that centuries of nocturnal fighting made difficult to enjoy.

“
’Tis not thoughts of Isabelle?”

Isabelle.
Caradoc’s body tightened automatically. He had tried hard not to think of her since dawn roused him from his bed. He scowled, the sweet lemon suddenly too tart. “You are as nosy as a woman.”

Tane’s eyes lit with humor, and a wide grin
split across his face. He shook his head on a chuckle. “I find it difficult to believe her presence here is mere coincidence. I am well versed in the prophecy.
She who digs in dust precludes the finding of the jewel.
Does Isabelle not work with—”

Abruptly
Tane fell into silence, his head cocked to the side, his expression alert. Wary. As if he listened to some distant voice.

Caradoc’s icy smooth granita went down like a lump of coal as dread
rolled around in his belly. “What is it?”

“Do you not smell that?”

“Smell what?” He lifted his nose and inhaled. On observing nothing unordinary, he gave Tane a puzzled squint.

Tane’s dark eyebrows bunched into a severe frown.
“How can both you and Gareth be ignorant to the scent of rot when it floods my nose? ’Tis twice now I have observed it when you have not.”

The hair on Caradoc’s forearms lifted as apprehension tingled at the base of his neck.
He lowered the chunk of brioche to his plate and lifted his gaze to the restaurant’s sparse inhabitants. Inhaling deeply, he searched for some faint recognition of Azazel’s dark presence.

Breathing
nothing, he returned Tane’s dark frown. “I smell naught.” Nor did he witness anything of concern. An aging couple sat near the tall windows, both immersed in reading. Two men sat beside a marble column, engaged in animated conversation, their hands subtly intertwined on the tabletop between them. In the far corner of the room, a pretty brunette dined alone with naught to entertain her.

All perfectly ordinary for the early hour.

But Tane would not contrive something of such importance. Particularly not now, when he longed to redeem himself and prove his worth.

“He hides amongst us, Caradoc.”
Tane leaned forward, glanced around as if to insure no one could overhear, and lowered his voice. “Mayhap he has created another man-possessed demon like Julian. ’Twould be the perfect place to embed a servant. He would go unnoticed with all the collectors Shapiro’s death has brought.”

At the mention of
Julian, the man who had nearly killed the last seraph, Caradoc could not help but shudder. Demons were to possess man, not the other way around. That Azazel had found the means to transfer souls from their mortal form, into a demon’s, and use the mortal’s spirit to create an identical twin, was more blasphemous than any vile act the dark lord had previously performed. That Azazel might have done the same more than once, made Caradoc’s stomach revolt. He pushed his breakfast aside and reached for the terrible coffee. “We should not speak of that now, Tane. Not here.”

“Aye, I know we should not.
But do you not think ’tis possible? He knows the tears dangle from the necklace. He knows they will activate the spear. Why should he avoid creating a plausible look-alike to insure he obtains the diamonds?”

All questions Caradoc did not wish to consider, for in giving them thought, he could not separate Isabelle from the equation.
If Azazel knew of the tears, he would soon know of the newest seraph. And should he seek to claim her for himself—as they all knew he desired—Caradoc did not wish to face a foe he could not identify. He would cut out his own heart should Isabelle suffer the same fate Chloe, Lucan’s seraph, had experienced in Azazel’s hellish pit.

Sipping from his mug, Caradoc allowed his gaze to roam through the adjoining terrace and then the hotel’s vast front lobby.
“I do not…”

’
Twas his turn to fall into silence as the front lobby doors opened and Isabelle stepped inside. Long blond hair bobbed freely from her ponytail, loose tendrils framing her face even as she pushed them out of her eyes. Her cotton shorts clung to the tops of muscular thighs that he had dreamed of holding him a thousand times or more. Tiny spots of color stained her cheeks and added sparks to her already brilliant eyes.

Everything inside him ground together in
to a tight ball of yearning. Motionless, he watched her stroll through the lobby, past the front desk, and toward the hall to the solitary elevator at the rear. Saints’ teeth, she might carry the blood of the Nephilim, but even in such simple garb, she was more beautiful than any angel he had ever encountered.

She is staying here.

In that instant, Caradoc knew he would not survive another day of this chasm that spanned between them. All thoughts of his conversation with Tane forgotten, he set his cup on his saucer, rose, and mumbled, “Excuse me.”

Chapter
6

Tane watched his brother stride down the hall, a man driven by ghouls as yet unseen, but present nonetheless. The all too familiar discomfort slid down his spine and tightened iron bands around his ribs. He breathed shallowly. In the depths of his heart, he carried a fervent hope that the lovely Isabelle would indeed heal Caradoc. He had led men to greatness, nearly forfeited his life to the Saracens prior to taking immortal oaths. Whilst many deserved the promised salvation that came with a seraph’s vows, Caradoc’s honor, integrity, and loyalty had never once faltered.

And yet, Tane could not help but suffer a degree of resentment.
Caradoc did not share the same torments as many of their brothers. His pains came from tortures of the body. He knew naught of how it felt to slowly be eaten away by afflictions of the mind. To question motives of those best known, as Lucan had suffered. To lose faith like Merrick, or wither away from betrayal like Farran.

To look upon one’s brother and envy the very fact that he might live to know the peace they had all once shared, as Tane struggled with upon each waking.
He despised himself for what he knew was wrong, for succumbing to the darkness in his soul. But no matter how he tried to look beyond it, ’twas his eternal curse.

Tane flinched.
Aye, how he despised himself. He did not deserve a seraph. He would be lucky to see even his full status as a Templar knight restored after the wrongs he had committed. Whether Isabelle was meant for Caradoc or not, Caradoc and the others would certainly see their souls saved before Tane would ever look upon his seraph’s face. Isabelle did not belong to him.

It took every smidgeon of decency he possessed to temper the sneer that threatened to creep across his mouth and tear his gaze away from Caradoc’s march to the elevators.
But the lavishness that surrounded him only made him long for the grandeur he had willingly sacrificed to the Order eight centuries past. He forced his stare to his half-eaten pastry and focused on the steady in and out rhythm of his breathing. If he did not escape this villa for even a few moments, he would surely succumb once more. When they left for Shapiro’s, he would speak with Gareth. Mayhap he would grant what Caradoc would not.

As if Gareth could read his mind, he appeared at Tane’s side and dropped into the chair Caradoc had deserted.
“Good morn!”

Slowly, Tane looked up.
On seeing Gareth’s jovial smile, he grimaced inwardly. “’Tis morn. Though I would argue ’tis good.”

“Ah, Tane, look around you.”
Gareth’s voice took on an air of false reverence, as evidenced by the mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “We are in the finest villa Sicily has to offer. Our beds are soft, our bellies full, and our balconies overlook the pool.”

Unable to hold back a scowl, Tane unleashed it on Gareth.
“Do not tell me you are already chasing skirts.”

“Skirts nay.
Bikinis, aye indeed.” The light in Gareth’s brown eyes deepened as amusement puckered a dimple in his cheek.

Once, Tane would have shared the same appreciation for feminine flesh.
He had not changed so much he failed to recall the days of his youth, when maidens existed simply for the pleasure of taking them and skirts were meant to be tossed. But in his current mind frame, Gareth’s unquenchable thirst for pretty faces and warm soft flesh only stirred Tane’s agitation. ’Twas as if neither of his companions understood the gravity of their circumstances. With Isabelle present, Caradoc could not keep focused, and Gareth approached this assignment as if they were on a lark.

Lips pursed,
Tane choked back the oaths that rose to the tip of his tongue and measured his response. “I am quite certain that bikinis shall remain in fashion if you should miss seeing a few. We have more important work to accomplish today.”

Gareth leaned forward to clap a reassuring hand on Tane’s shoulder.
“Nay, my friend. We have a statue to obtain at ten. Mayhap one adorned with healing powers, but a statue all the same. At four, we have a wooden cross, no bigger than my thumb, to purchase. ’Tis work we could do blindfolded. A distraction shall help keep my yawns at bay.”

“’Tis not any cross, Gareth.
’Tis carved from the True Cross.”

“As is the
urn and Noelle’s pot tomorrow and the jewelry box another day hence. What do the archangels intend to do—reconstruct the splintered beams? ’Tis no substance in those pieces. If we failed to procure them, our storerooms already hold vast quantities.”

This flippancy was yet another reason Tane could not abide by Gareth’
s early morning presence. Whilst his words held truth, ’twas no excuse to approach their assignment with such frivolity. He opened his mouth to say such, when the undeniable stench of decay filled his nose once more. Faint, but unmistakable, as if a rat had died beneath the very marble tiles their table stood upon.

He snapped his jaw closed with a shudder.
Testing the air once more, he confirmed ’twas not a figment of his imagination. The odor lingered, directly between him and Gareth. But the casualness of Gareth’s expression told Tane he did not recognize the presence.

“You cannot smell it.”
’Twas a statement, not so much a question, and when Gareth cocked an eyebrow in question, Tane did not bother to explain. He shook his head, dismissing his remark.

“Smell what?” Gareth urged.

A chill slammed into Tane like a glacial fist to the spine. He jerked upright with a gasp, drawing Gareth’s full attention. Before he could explain, a ghostly whisper stirred the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Remember the gift.”

Tane squeezed his eyes shut and gave a violent shake of his head. When he opened them once more, the restaurant had returned to normal. No foul odor lingered in the air. The only cool breeze wafted down from the overhead air conditioner. He turned a frown on his companion. “Did you say something, brother?”

Gareth’s eyes widened
, and he drew back in startled surprise. “Me? Nay, I was just observing that Mikhail has sent another to join you.” He nodded in the direction of the glass front doors.

Following Gareth’s indication, Tane looked to the entry.
All thoughts of demons and whispered words he could not explain vanished as his gaze settled on Declan.

* * *

Declan entered the grandeur of the
Villa Igiea
with purpose. Shoulders proud and head erect, he walked toward the front desk, unable to keep a smile from playing at his mouth. He had at last pleased Leofric enough to warrant an escape from the temple. Had done his duty well enough to be granted the opportunity to do more than skulk amongst the corridors and spy on the suffering men within.

Though his purpose had changed little, for he was to do no more than observe the three brothers here
and report on their activities, ’twas progress. Evidence that his devotion to the Kerzu’s purpose had not gone unnoticed.

Halfway across the wide front foyer, a movement in the corner of his eye brought him to an abrupt halt.
He turned to look, blinked as he sighted Tane and Gareth. He had not anticipated finding them so soon. In fact, he had hoped he might not happen upon them at all. That he could, mayhap, linger in the shadows, observing from afar.

A niggling sense of guilt seized his innards
, and he looked away without so much as an acknowledging wave. For eight centuries, he had stood at Tane’s side. Together they had spilled blood, both that of men and demons. Together they had suffered the intolerable misery of the archangels’ curse. They were still brothers, despite their differences. He should greet Tane, even if he ignored Gareth.

Yet
Declan’s purpose here refused to grant such pleasantries. He sighed inwardly and blocked regret from taking root in his heart. Better to stop it now, for if he could not halt it with Tane, ’twould possess him once he encountered Caradoc, the man who had done all he could to prevent Declan’s inevitable transformation.

As he stepped to the marble-topped counter, Declan forced a smile to his face.
A woman with her black hair pulled into a severe ponytail greeted him. “
Buongiorno, Signore
. How may I help you?” Her thick Sicilian accent carried the distinct flavor of Italian warmth.

Declan’s smile became more genuine.
“I have a reservation—Declan MacNeill.”

Her fingertips clicked across a keyboard hidden beneath the counter as she scanned a computer terminal.
Lifting a cherry-red nail, she tapped the screen he could not see. “And here you are,
Signore MacNeill
. Everything’s all taken care of. Do you have need for aid with your bags?”

“Nay.”
He shifted his weight, adjusting the heavy duffle bag on his shoulder. “I shall manage.”

“A moment please.”

He lounged against the countertop, surveying the tall marble columns, the lavish painting on the ceiling in the adjoining room. Everywhere he looked, the villa held beauty—old world charm combined with the necessary modifications to insure modern man had everything he needed. But ’twas the older pieces, the works not made by machines and factories that stirred uncustomary warmth inside Declan’s heart. Too many years had passed since he had last set foot in Europe. He had fair begged to be assigned to France, the country that had become his home when he had fled the moors of Scotland. Yet he had been denied…till now.

Memories stirred.
Visions of himself and the five he had once considered his closest brothers laughing beneath the shade of skyward-reaching bailey walls. Of riding powerful destriers through foreign lands, their singular purpose to rid the world of Azazel’s foul creations. For a time, though the darkness lurked within their souls, they had known happiness.
He
had known peace. Utter contentment.

He had made a difference, until this foul taint threatened to claim his sanity.

“Here is your key,
Signore
.”

The woman pulled
Declan from his remembrances, and the weight of certain death sank into his bones. Mayhap once he had believed he could overcome the poison of his curse. Now, it took insurmountable energy and sheer force of will to find the faintest flickering of hope. He was not long for this world. Too soon, he would leave it, wearing the ebony garb of a transformed knight.

He palmed the key and thanked the woman with a nod.
His belly rumbled in protest of the long hours aboard a midnight flight without food. The weariness of centuries of combat cramped his muscles. A meager meal would give him the energy to withstand several more hours of wakefulness.

As he made his way to a small table
far from his brothers who still inhabited theirs, a black thought fingered at the base of his skull. If he killed Caradoc, ’twould be no chance his brother could succumb to the faltering Templar purpose. Nor would he have to suffer this sense of disloyalty when he reported Caradoc’s certain failures to Leofric.

Declan blinked hard as the startling idea buckled his knees and forced him into his chair.
Nay!
He could not kill the only family he could claim. No matter their failures, the brothers who remained were as close as kin as any blood relation.