Immortal Hope (12 page)

As fanciful as the legends were, none made mention of immortality or archangels or demons. Whatever the Templar found, they’d completely silenced the discovery. So much so, they eradicated the truth. Something powerful scared the Church and she was about to discover what it was.
Dear God in heaven, thank you.

Unable to keep her tongue silent, she tipped her face up to look at Merrick. “What was down there, Merrick?”

He shook his head. “We shall speak of it later.”

Her stomach flip-flopped like she’d just gotten off a roller coaster, the same excitement and rush of the ride running in her veins. Tonight she’d prove her thesis. Tomorrow, when she met with Dr. Knowles, she could tell him he didn’t have to be concerned about his retirement, she would have her promotion in the bag.

Drawing up short, Merrick stopped in front of another unadorned, heavy wooden door. He banged his fist on it, but didn’t wait for an answer before he tried the handle. The door opened easily, revealing yet another simple chamber. Didn’t
anyone
find modern electronics remotely entertaining?

“Ah, Merrick. I wondered when you would come.”

Merrick released Anne to take a seat on a heavy wooden chair. “’Twas wisdom that guided your sword today, brother.”

Caradoc glanced up at her, his expression curious, but he didn’t acknowledge Anne. He focused on Merrick, his voice strong and lacking any trace of shame. “I did what must be done.”

Leaning back, Merrick tossed one ankle over his knee. “Mikhail sends you away for your actions.”

Again, Caradoc’s eyes crept her way. He took her in, in one sweeping glance, leaving her feeling exposed. Seeking to escape the sudden feeling of self-consciousness, she moved to the window and looked out on an enclosed courtyard where two men sparred. Pretending to watch, she tried to hide her impatience at having to wait for the knowledge she yearned to discover.

“Aye. He has told me thus. We shall leave within the week. Tell me, brother, what brings you both here?”

“We come to inspect your mark.”

A low chuckle reverberated through the room. Hoarser, harsher, it sounded nothing like Merrick’s rich baritone. “I fear Lady Anne looks unenthused.”

She turned around to find Caradoc half dressed. His long-sleeved Henley in one hand, he twisted at the waist, presenting her with a view of his back. On his left shoulder blade was the most magnificent tattoo she’d ever seen. With wings that were so detailed they looked lifelike, a beak so sharp it could shred skin, and a long sinewy tail, a regal griffin struck an impressive pose—chest puffed out, its head turned sideways. In tiny eyes, uncanny wisdom glinted. One clawed paw showed off a powerful lion’s body.

“’Tis yours?” Merrick’s question held a touch of impatience. Or maybe it was excitement—Anne couldn’t decipher his anxious tone. She pulled her gaze off the brilliant symbol for protection and shook her head.

“Yet you recognize it,” Merrick pressed.

“No. No.” She glanced back, catching a brief view of the beautiful artwork before Caradoc covered it with his shirt. “It’s just … beautiful.”

With a grunt, Merrick pursed his lips. “Do not taunt me so, Anne.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but sensed the futility and quickly snapped it shut. Wherever he found his logic, she didn’t share it. Arguing her reaction with him would only spoil the temporary truce they’d established, and she needed him in a good mood when she asked him to tell her the history.

“I trust ’tis all you needed?” Caradoc asked.

Merrick eased to his feet. “Indeed. We shall leave you to your privacy and seek out Tane.” He reached out an arm, fingers extended toward her.

Apprehension tightened Anne’s spine. Tane bothered her more than Farran did—at least Farran’s eyes didn’t have the same shifting quality Tane’s held when he had knelt before her. Grumpy she could deal with. But Tane … She’d be perfectly content if she never had to see the man again.

With an impatient wag of his fingers, Merrick beckoned. Reluctantly, she slid her palm into his and told herself she’d misread Tane’s expression. It had to have been her imagination—these men wouldn’t call an untrustworthy man brother.

“Good luck, milady,” Caradoc called as they exited.

Shutting the door, Merrick didn’t give her a chance to voice her thanks. He guided her two doors down and thumped his fist against the dark wood.

Silence answered.

“Tane.” Merrick banged again. His scowl returned as he pressed one ear to the door. With a mutter she couldn’t decipher, he stepped away and started down the corridor. “We shall keep one eye open for him in the dining hall. Mayhap he is eating.”

I hope not.

Steering her down another set of corridors that looked identical to every other hall they’d been in, Merrick walked with long, purposeful strides. He led her around a bend, then took a sharp right hand turn and rounded a smooth stone corner illuminated by an antiquated torch. The light flickered across the rough wall and exposed a recessed opening in the stone. Smooth stairs led down into the darkness. From deep within, the muffled sound of masculine voices rose in reverent intonation.

Anne stopped, her abrupt halt bringing Merrick around to give her a quizzical look. She pointed to the doorway. “What’s down there?”

“The inner sanctum.”

Drawn by the lilting rise and fall of chanted Latin, Anne took a step closer to the stairs. “Show me?”

Merrick grabbed her elbow, his firm hold not painful, but not pleasant either. He dragged her away from the arched doorway and gave her a nudge down the hall. As if a shade had lowered over his face, his features morphed into the firm lines of resolve. “When you have sworn the oaths of loyalty to your intended, you may view the sacred heart of the temple. Not before.”

Goose bumps lifted the fine hairs on her arms. Sacred heart—if this temple held secrets, they’d be in those dark depths. Oh God, she was so close to the facts she needed, she could taste it.

Not much longer.

If she’d harbored any doubt at all about staying, that doorway erased it. If she had to wait longer than tomorrow night, she would—Dr. Knowles would forgive being stood up for dinner when she presented him with cited references documenting the Church’s malicious designs.

CHAPTER
8

Tane counted to ten, then twenty before he felt certain enough Merrick and Anne could not hear his exhale. He left his place between the bathroom door and his bed, and dropped heavily into his chair. Staring at the armrest, he traced the intricate carvings with his index finger and studied the wear. Centuries of use stained the wood a dark color. In places, the once-precise patterns were worn smooth. Once a regal symbol of his father’s status, the chair was all Tane had left of a life he longed to forget.

He ought to burn the thing.

But destroying it meant accepting he had naught. At one time, he would not have hesitated to part with something so sentimental. Yet now he could no more curb the jealousy that raged inside him than he could stop the darkness from overtaking his soul.

And he despised himself for what he could not control.

He thumped a fist against the sturdy arm and shoved out of the chair. Were he not faced with the consequence of becoming Azazel’s knight, he would spend himself in battle and leave these disturbing thoughts behind eternally. Yet even death offered no relief. The only difference he would see was the inability to comprehend wrong from right, evil from goodness.

He stalked to his tall wardrobe and flung open the doors. He stared at his clothes, noting their plain colors, the utter lack of anything that symbolized he was naught but a common man. Aggrieved, he closed his eyes to the shameful resentment of his position and shuddered out a sigh.

Anne had turned these thoughts to intolerable levels. One look at that comely wench and envy suffocated him. He could not stand to look at her, for she spiraled him down this dark course faster than lightning could strike. Nor would he consider the possibility she was meant for him—he was a disgrace, a shame upon the Templar knights’ principles.

Yet he wanted her like fire craved air.

With the wench’s affections, his empty coffers, his tattered clothes would mean little. People would look on him with the respect they once had.

Snarling against the traitorous thoughts, Tane forced the images aside. He would not allow the darkness to pit him against Merrick or his fellow brethren. This was the life he chose, the greater purpose than the wealth he had willingly cast aside. No amount of coin could make the difference the Order did. He did not need respect. What he needed was to be free of this maddening envy.

He jerked an armful of packaged blankets off the topmost shelf and stuffed them into his duffel bag. Only one thing made the war inside him sufferable—spending time with those who had less. Marie and her brother David would be cold beneath the bridge tonight. If he arrived early enough, mayhap he would stop her from selling herself for a scrap of fabric, a bit of bread. A child should never face such a decision.

Hoisting the bag over his shoulder, he stomped through the door and struck off down the corridor. He jogged up the stairs to the temple’s first floor and hurried to the recently renovated kitchens. There he pulled two loaves of wheat bread from the refrigerator and grabbed three cans of tuna. ’Twas not much, but ’twould help.

With a glance around to ensure no one witnessed his unauthorized departure, Tane darted outside and jogged across the darkened lawn to a communal truck. He tossed the duffel bag across the seat, then carefully set the bread and cans inside.

The engine rolled over soundlessly. Foregoing headlights, he ambled down the long drive to the street beyond the temple’s iron gates. He glanced heavenward, murmuring a simple prayer he would not arrive too late. Then he flipped the lights on and sped out into the night.

*   *   *

Anne sat at a table of twenty or so men in the long dining hall, Merrick across from her. A couple hundred more gathered at the surrounding tables. While he talked with the men flanking him, she tuned out the noise and turned her concentration inward.

The sudden failure of her second sight when it came to Merrick bothered her more than she wanted to admit. She hadn’t really realized how much she depended on it, until it refused to tell her anything more about the knight who was assigned as her guardian. It’d be so much easier to discover what she wanted if her vision would cooperate. She could get the answers and never have to explain a thing to Merrick. She could disappear before he ever discovered her tattoo, and this business about having to take some oath wouldn’t be an issue.

If she didn’t have the sneaking suspicion that taking those vows would tie her up here eternally, she was half tempted to tell him their marks matched just to learn the Templar secrets. Then again, aside from the fact doing so would be completely devious, the memories of his death put an abrupt halt to that line of thought. Being bound to someone who would eventually die couldn’t possibly end well for her.

No, it would be best if she stayed just long enough to accomplish her purpose and then leave, having never told a soul about their identical tattoos. Thanksgiving break began this week—as long as she delivered a note to Dr. Knowles, she had time to explore the secrets here. Maybe when she was back at home she and Merrick could work out some sort of agreement—as much as she hated to admit it, the man was kinda growing on her. Grumpy and arrogant as he was, she couldn’t deny the effect he had on her system. That damn smile of his turned her world upside down almost as much as the prospect of proving her thesis did.

“Dine,” Merrick insisted as he jabbed at her bowl with his spoon, the gesture jerking her out of her thoughts.

Anne stared down at the greasiest bowl of … glop she’d ever seen. Merrick said it was stew. But her eyes—and her stomach—refused to consider this mushy concoction as anything but garbage. “Oh. Hell. No.”

She pushed the bowl away and fought back the urge to whimper. She was so hungry her stomach was in knots. But even starving people had their standards, and that bowl of crap defied the minimal ones she possessed.

Spoon poised near his mouth, Merrick lifted one reproachful eyebrow. The men on each side of him—men Merrick hadn’t wasted time in discovering they weren’t meant for her—stared at her as if she’d just committed blasphemy. A blush crept up her cheeks, and she offered Merrick a weak, apologetic smile.

“’Tis food, Anne.”

“No it’s not.” No wonder everyone around here had massive chips on their shoulders. How long had it been since they’d had a decent meal? “Is there maybe some salad somewhere?”

Merrick’s other brow shot up. “Salad?”

His companions continued to stare. Behind Merrick, a stranger with long ash-blond hair turned to looked over his shoulder. His gaze narrowed. Cold blue eyes flashed. Dangerous energy assaulted her.

Anne swallowed down unexplainable foreboding and met Merrick’s soothing onyx stare. The uneasy tension in her belly dissolved. “Yeah, you know—lettuce, celery, carrots, croutons?”

A chuckle shook his shoulders, but he refrained from smiling. “A man does not eat leaves.”

Just like they didn’t believe in radios. Somehow that didn’t surprise her. She dropped her spoon to the table, folded her arms over the scarred surface, and gave each gawking face a sugary-sweet smile. The two men hastily turned their attention to their meal. Behind Merrick, the nosy stranger abruptly turned back to his meal. Anne gestured at her bowl. “If I’m going to eat greasy crap, I think I’ll take McDonald’s. Or maybe Pizza Bob’s. He delivers, you know.”

Merrick indicated her food with his spoon. “What did you tell me earlier? Ah, aye,
get used to it
.”

“Not on your life, big guy. Where’s the chef?”

“Our
cook
attends the kitchens in the mornings. Before dawn, he prepares the daily meals.”

Well no wonder the stew looked like some Sci-Fi Channel alien slime. Slow cooking was one thing, but twelve to thirteen hours would turn lead to liquid. She pointed at the loaf of bread sitting at Merrick’s elbow. “Pass me that, would you?”