Immortal Trust (32 page)

He pulled into a vacant parking spot and shut the engine off, retracting his hand from hers. A faint
tick-click
emitted as the engine’s hot metal met frigid air. Lucan’s low baritone rasped over her skin. “Are you asking if you may stay?” As he twisted sideways, the blue dash lights illuminated his probing stare.

Chloe held his gaze. A tremor rolled through her body. Fear, anxiety, excitement—all three set off a terrible racket of nerves. Her throat too dry to form even a fumbling response, she answered with a slow nod.

Lucan reached across the center console and laid his hand on her thigh. “You have no need to dance around your questions. I already made it clear my room is yours if you desire.” Casual. Noncommittal.

If she could kick him, she would.

He reached around to his back pocket and withdrew his room key. “Here. Let yourself in. I must take this package to Caradoc. You may bathe at your leisure.”

Resigned to the fact she’d have to work harder if she intended for this night to end up differently than the last several, Chloe muttered beneath her breath, snatched the key out of his grasp, and exited the SUV. Lucan waited at the rear bumper with sword in hand. He guided her up to and through the front doors with a hand on the small of her back. Once inside, he escorted her to the stairs and kissed her on the cheek. “I will join you shortly.”

She opened her mouth to tell him to hurry, then quickly snapped it shut. No, she didn’t intend to come off as desperate. Good things came to those who waited, as her grandmother had been fond of saying. She’d bathe, unwind, and take the time his absence offered to get her nerves under control and her mind at peace with her longings. Not to mention, a little bit of surprise might go a long way.

“I’ll be there.” With a smile she hoped was as equally unreadable as his bland expression, she sauntered down the hall.

*   *   *

Lucan cursed the saints a hundred times over for the torture that lay ahead in the hours to come. Today had been torment enough. Another full night with Chloe tucked against his side and his shaft so swollen he could scarce move would turn him into a madman. He dared not refuse her and leave her unattended to face the perils that waited, yet he did not know how much longer he could tolerate this yearning. Sooner or later, his body would cease to care what regrets morn would bring. At the present course he was on, ’twould be sooner, rather than later.

He stiffened his shoulders to ward off his imaginings of Chloe contenting herself in his bathtub and squinted at Caradoc’s door. Gareth would soon return, if he had not already. Mayhap Raphael bore news. Mayhap Alaric. News about the seraphs, Azazel, the relics—Lucan cared not as long as it prevented his thoughts from drifting to the woman in his room and the water she soaked in.

He rapped sharply. Waited as footsteps crossed the room beyond. The door opened confidently, as if Caradoc had been expecting him. “How did you fare at Picardie?”

Lucan entered Caradoc’s tidy room and perched on the back of the couch. He passed Caradoc the sealed envelope. “’Twas eventful. She learned much.” As had he. About her.

“Enough that you may say your oaths?” Package stuffed beneath his arm, Caradoc leaned against the closed door.

“Nay. She is coming to believe many things. But she is not prepared to accept what we are. The facts lay before her. She refuses to see them.” Much to his consternation. If Chloe had made the final mental crossing, tonight would not be a certain exercise in self-restraint. They could say their oaths. He could share the rest of what her position demanded she understand. Then, they could …

The silence that descended on the room alerted Lucan that Caradoc waited for an answer to a question he had not heard. He glanced up from his hands to meet his brother’s expectant look. “My apologies. What did you ask?”

“Master Reginald. Did he give you any difficulty in viewing the markers?”

Lucan shook his head. “I informed him who she was, and though he expressed surprise, he did not object. Where is Gareth?”

“I wait for him now. Trouble stirs at the forty-second gate. We must fight.”

Fight. A way to keep distance from Chloe and exhaust himself until her nearness did not disturb his sleep. Lucan leaned forward. “Trouble? What has occurred?”

“’Tis open. Demons cross through freely.”

Lucan slid off the couch to his feet and started for the door. “I shall inform Chloe we have business to attend to.”

“Nay.”

Caradoc’s sharp response held authority. An order, not an argument. Lucan slowed to a stop and frowned at his brother. Commander replaced friend, the stern lines of his expression unbending. Still, Lucan could not bring himself to back down from their purpose without an objection. “I shall fight alongside you, as we are meant to do.”

“Nay, you shall not. Your duty is here with Chloe and the relic. I will not risk your soul for a handful of demons and nytyms when your salvation is so near at hand.”

Lucan bristled. They shared the same burden, all of them. He should not see pardon from duty when his brothers confronted the same risk. He narrowed his gaze. “And yours? Send Gareth then, if you are certain no dark knights await. A handful of demons and unintelligent nytyms he can easily slay. You do not need to risk your transformation either.”

Caradoc’s frown darkened by fathoms. His eyes glinted with harsh light. “Here, I am commander, Lucan. ‘Tis not your place to question my decisions. You shall stay with Chloe, where you belong. Gareth and I shall close the gate.”

Centuries of fighting alongside Caradoc told Lucan that further protest would fall on deaf ears. The man who stood as second in command of the American Knights Templar would yield only to two—his commander, Merrick, and the archangel Mikhail. Lucan let out a disparaging sigh and pulled open the door. One foot in the hall, he stopped, unable to walk away without making his personal objections known. He would not allow Caradoc to embark on a self-inflicted death sentence with any guise of acceptance.

“You are also my brother, and I care not to lose you.”

“Such things are out of our control,” Caradoc murmured.

The weight of Caradoc’s hand on the door forced Lucan to exit. Behind him, the chain lock scraped into place.

*   *   *

Caradoc took the envelope to the coffee table and dropped into the couch cushions. All he had once owned lay within this bulky package. Reduced from vast holdings that would make any man proud, all that remained were sales records, demolition documents, and a few photographs. Pictures that taunted more than the destruction of time. For he had taken them the last time he walked through his homeland. And in those remembrances lay his eternal pain.

He would be glad to escape it. The transformation of his soul into complete darkness at least offered the benefit of unfeeling. Two months ago, he had fought his inevitable demise. Swore that he could withstand the archangels’ punishment until salvation found him. But the return to Europe shattered what remained of his resolve. He would never be free of the memories. He would never escape Isabelle.

And so he fought. ’Twas the only way to block the fire in his bones. Fight until he dropped to his knees. Sleep so he could battle again. In both he found freedom from her.

He ripped open the envelope and shook out the contents. A stapled stack of papers dropped out. Four photographs fluttered to the wood surface. One landed face up. Caradoc stared at long golden blond hair and a face so lovely it could make the angels weep. Indigo eyes radiated indescribable love.

Grimacing, he turned the picture over. Not now. Later he would study the face he had never forgotten. The documents he could confront more easily.

As he picked up the stack of property records, a folded square of paper slipped from between the sheets. Curious, he set the others aside in favor of the slip that bore his name in Mikhail’s lavish handwriting. He opened it, quickly scanned the message, and crushed it into his hand.

Damnation!

Sicily. Mikhail was pulling him out of France!

A sharp knock made him stifle budding rage. Annoyed by the interruption, Caradoc stormed to the door and yanked it open.

Gareth stood on the other side, looking hale and hearty as usual, the passing of centuries having done little to his youthful appearance. With a self-assured smile he let himself inside. “Shall we? I hunger for a bit of demon blood.”

“Nay.”

The younger man’s smile vanished. He drew back in surprise. “Nay? The gate—”

“Speak with Mikhail about the bloody gate. He has forbidden me to fight.” Caradoc’s frustration rose to a head. He slammed his open palm against the wall. The sting of impact ricocheted up his arm, lessening his fury somewhat. Drawing in a deep breath, he braced his forearm on the wall and leaned his forehead against it. “Antonio Shapiro has died. Mikhail is sending me to oversee the estate auction and the relics in his possession.”

“Shapiro?” Gareth asked with surprise. “I did not recall hearing his health failed him.”

“It did not. Monsanato shot him.”

A long, low whistle drifted across the room. “After thirty years he finally accomplished it. I suspect war will erupt in the streets.”

“Aye.” Caradoc hauled himself off the wall. “’Twill bring a change of power amongst the families.” He fixed Gareth with a stern look. “You know what he harbors. ’Tis my duty to see it restored. Lady Anne has fallen ill, else Merrick would have been assigned the task. I depart on the morrow.”

Gareth expelled a heavy sigh that mirrored the weightiness in Caradoc’s heart. He accepted that he would fight alone with a curt nod. His hand gripped the sword belted around his waist. “Then I take my leave.” He departed without haste.

When the door closed and Caradoc once again faced the quiet of his room, he sat down on the edge of his bed and raked a hand through his hair. Why could Mikhail not have sent Tane? He craved a chance to prove himself. Thirsted for the opportunity to right his wrongs. He would most assuredly leap at the chance to venture to Sicily and settle the affairs of a Mafia don.

Jesu,
he did not desire this assignment. His duty was to fight. To combat Azazel’s minions until his soul could take no more and the brother who stood at his side cut off his head. ’Twas not to mingle with the rich and disguise himself with airs whilst safeguarding a relic. Others could perform that duty more appropriately. He would have been content to stay in the shadows, offer support with his sword, and guard those chosen to bring the sacred tears home.

Alas, ’twas not his good fortune. He would go, as duty demanded. And he would count the days until he could once again return to the ways of demons and death.

CHAPTER 30

Lucan flipped the channel on the television in search of a show that might drown out the splashing beyond the closed bathroom door. Each plunk of a washcloth strained his nerves. Each slosh as the water shifted conjured fantastic visions of Chloe’s slick skin sliding through the bubbled surface. He ground his teeth together, shifted restlessly in his seat.

’Twas no use. Caradoc’s unexpected determination to keep him from battle doomed him to disaster. He could no more keep his mind from Chloe than he could cease his lungs from drawing air.

The rush of water as she let down the drain redoubled his convictions. He would find a way to control these lusty thoughts, no matter the difficulty. He had gone centuries without suffering this disturbing reaction to a woman’s nearness. He could survive a few short hours in Chloe’s company before sleep took her.

When the bathroom door opened and a sliver of light poured out, Lucan held his breath. If she entered without clothes, ’twould be his undoing. He would have her here on the floor, if he must.

She stepped into the room wearing the flimsy ivory gown she had two nights previous, and Lucan nearly groaned aloud. With the bright light at her back, sloping curves silhouetted against the silk. His entire body coiled tight. Before he could fully appreciate the shadow of weighty breasts, a waist his hands could easily span, and long slender legs, his cock filled uncomfortably. God’s teeth, the nightgown was more damning than if she had worn naught at all. Quickly, he jerked his gaze back to the television and feigned interest. In what, he could not say.

“That was quick,” Chloe commented. The mattress sank as she sat on the edge.

“Aye.” Too quick. Though he would not tell her such.

“Did Caradoc say anything about what the team did today?”

“Nay.” Lucan gave himself a swift mental kick at the terseness in his voice. He swallowed through a thickening throat and tried for a friendlier tone. Forcing himself to look only on her face, he turned toward her. “He was leaving with Gareth. We did not speak long at all.”

Chloe chuckled. “I guess I’ll get my lecture tomorrow then.”

“Lecture?”

Her eyes danced like burnished brass as she nodded. “The one my brother’s going to give me. I haven’t played hooky from work since college.”

He gave her a disapproving frown. “’Twas not playing hooky. You learned things, did you not? Information you can apply to your research.” Inclining his head at the window, he continued, “And other things as well.”

“Yes,” she murmured. A long slender hand picked absently at the fabric beneath her bent leg. With her quiet answer, her smile disappeared. She looked to the drawn curtains, and a touch of haunting sadness fringed her pretty face.

Lucan sat up on the couch. The one way he could keep his mind from barreling down a path of erotic fantasies had just presented itself. Conversation. Not insubstantial babble, but something meaningful that required actual thought. “Chloe, there is no need to fear the creatures in the night.”

Her short laugh cut through the air like a bullwhip. “Right. You saw what they did last night. When does their strength override mine? What happens then?” Her soft mouth twisted cruelly. “I’ll tell you what happens. That’s when I’m the next dead body whose killer can’t be found.”

The sudden
tap-tap
on the window produced a bitter laugh. “See? Even they agree. That spell will wear itself out in time, and then I’m demon food.”