Immortal Hope (3 page)

She dropped her purse onto the dining room table, then shoved aside her stack of research materials so she could sit down. Sliding off the armband, she held it between both hands and closed her eyes. The energy attached to the piece buzzed against her fingertips, subtly increasing the more she opened her mind. When it filled her veins and she could identify it as a tangible entity separate from hers, she opened her eyes and stared at the serpents.

An image rose with the force of a fist. Clear, concise, it punched through her subconscious and swamped her with intensity. A clouded sky cast hues of gray on a barren landscape. Trees overhung a narrow lane, their leaves droopy with dew. In the distance, a solitary horse and rider stood atop a grassy hill.

She focused on the figure, expecting features to morph in slowly, to fit together like a puzzle until she could grasp a vague expression, a shrouded picture. But with digital precision, the man’s features leapt forth. A mass of unkempt dark hair tumbled against his shoulders. Through a hardened stare, dark eyes fixed on an unseen subject. Strong jaw, firmly set mouth. Harsh, yet oddly beautiful. Power emanated from his cold expression. He kept a hand on a broadsword’s plain hilt. The other held his horse’s reins. Her belly fluttered, unaccustomed to the strikingly accurate portrayal.

The image shifted, giving her a broader view. He was dressed in full chain mail, and a white surcoat hung from his shoulders. The cloth was pristine, despite the dreary landscape. Her throat slowly closed as she focused on his attire, the bold crimson cross against his chest unmistakable.

Templar.

Her pulse jumped to life with a buzz of excitement
.
A real Knight Templar had touched this hunk of brass. But when?

She struggled to identify what he stared at on the horizon. A battle? A building? Was he fleeing or arriving? Where were his companions? For that matter, where was he? Panning backward, she focused on the energy, asked it for more information. Yet the vision vanished, leaving her staring at the armband.

Templar. Her gaze riveted on the crosses in the serpents’ heads, and she stepped through the vision once more. He looked so regal sitting on that horse. Intimidating, though he’d been at rest. That long hair gave him a roguish appeal, his chiseled features almost threatening. And his eyes … Sudden recognition filtered a chill through her veins. She’d seen him before.

Slowly, she lifted her stare to the closed cellar door. The first day she’d walked through the house, she had touched that cross on the door. Like this bracelet, that emblem refused to grant her the vision after the initial revelation. But she hadn’t forgotten the picture—a dark-haired knight digging in soft earth in a torchlit tunnel. He had looked up, as if he’d sensed her, and those onyx eyes stared right back.

Determined to discover more about the handsome knight, Anne closed her eyes and focused once again.

*   *   *

Merrick crumpled under the weight of a heavy blow. His knees hit the hard cave floor, jarring his spine and forcing the air from his lungs. Evading an onslaught of claws and fangs that tore at his arms and face, he arched his back to assess the enraged nytym, one of Azazel’s demi-demons. With skin like cracked leather, it had two hate-filled orange eyes and a gleaming set of razor-sharp teeth protruding from a piggish snout—the word
ugly
did not do it justice. The stench rolling off it was enough to make any man nauseous, but Merrick had long become accustomed to the putrid smell.

He scanned the creature’s underbelly and tightened his hands around the hilt of his sword. In one swift upward thrust, he drove the blade deep into the nytym’s gut. The cretin let out a horrific scream and toppled forward, its face inches from Merrick’s. Foul breath washed across his cheek before its teeth slowly closed. Unholy life drained from its body, and the nytym’s eyes went dark.

Merrick drew in a breath, steeling himself against the death. Darkness oozed from the gaping wound. It rolled down his broadsword, disappearing into his sword’s unadorned, leather-wrapped pommel. The vileness seeped into his hand, crawled up his arm, and wormed into his blood.

A slow burn spread through his body as the evil spirit wrapped itself around what remained of Merrick’s soul. No longer able to support his own weight, he sank to his heels and bowed his head, struggling to catch his breath. God’s teeth, nearly a thousand years of fighting Azazel’s minions, and he had yet to become accustomed to the pain.

“Are you all right, brother?” Declan’s hand came down upon Merrick’s shoulder. The Scot’s firm squeeze pulled Merrick from the agony that blurred his vision.

“Aye,” Merrick managed through clenched teeth. “’Tis no worse than any other.”

Declan gave him a short nod and released his hold. He stepped out of Merrick’s line of sight, giving Merrick a clear view of their third companion, Farran, as he sliced off a grotesque head. Farran sheathed his broadsword and joined the pair. The darkness hit him as well, and the younger man dropped to his knees with a groan.

Merrick shuddered as the last of the effects rolled through his body. He sucked in a deep breath and rose on shaky legs. “’Tis the last of them. Declan, move the stone.” He inclined his head toward a massive slab of rock against the far side of the cavern. There, in the cold dark depths beyond, the stench intensified. Noxious fumes rolled through a jagged crack and filled the cave with death, warning them if they waited to seal the gate, more creatures would soon arrive.

As Declan gave the stone a mighty heave, Merrick sheathed his sword. He tugged off his gauntlets and tucked them into the thick belt at his waist. The weight of his chain mail felt three times heavier than when he had dressed, and his body ached from head to toe. He would not survive much more of this. The weakness worsened with each vile life he claimed.

Farran struggled to his feet, equally affected by the evil’s power. His features pulled tight, grim lines that spoke to the pain none of them could escape. Behind the blond man’s eyes, anger burned. Fury that had no outlet. Once they had held laughter. Merrick could recall a time when Farran entertained them all with wit and humor. Now those emotions were as tainted as their souls.

“I am for the truck.” Without so much as a faint smile, Farran shouldered past Merrick and strode back the way they had come.

“’Tis sealed, Merrick.” Declan’s thick brogue echoed in the dimly lit cavern. He picked up their lantern and brought the warm light to Merrick’s feet. “What say you to visiting the temple? Many months have passed since we have seen our brethren.”

Three, to be exact. Merrick suspected Declan’s count was slightly off. Declan had never particularly cared for Fulk to count the days since Azazel claimed him. Yet Merrick knew the precise hour evil overtook his cousin’s soul. “I cannot, Declan. I must find Fulk. I gave him my oath.”

“Och, one day, Merrick. ’Tis a pity Fulk now fights for Azazel, and well you ken I would expect the same from you, were it me. But one day willna make a difference.”

Merrick shook his head. One more day was one more night of killing innocents—a fate Fulk would despise. They had formed a pact hundreds of years ago. The first to convert from a Templar into a knight of Azazel, the other would free with death. Merrick would not rest until he had reclaimed Fulk’s soul and sent it home to the Almighty. “You go on. Take Farran with you. I am too full of aches to sit in the truck another two hours. I shall stay at the adytum tonight and meet you here in the morn.”

A frown turned the Scot’s mouth into a tight line. “Mikhail ordered our return. He bears news he willna relay over the telephone.”

Merrick ground his teeth together to temper a rush of annoyance. “You may bring this news to me. I have no need to hear words of hope. I have three, mayhap four, fights left in me. Less, should you consider the toll darkness will take, once I put an end to Fulk. Tell Mikhail to send for me when he has more than words to share.”

Merrick unfastened his sword belt and set it on the ground. He jerked off his dingy white surcoat, then bent at the waist to shrug his hauberk over his head. Merrick stuffed the articles into his duffel bag, skipping his cursory damage assessment. If the mail was damaged, he could do naught until he found rest. His eyes would never survive the strain of mending links of steel.

As he fastened his belt around his waist, he felt Declan’s heavy gaze settle on his shoulder blades, heard the reproach in his silence. Bollocks! ’Twas not as if he wanted to shirk his duties all together. He simply could not tolerate the camaraderie of temple life until he had fulfilled his oath.

Ignoring Declan, he zipped his duffel bag and slung it over his shoulder. “I shall be glad to see Abigail and remind myself what pleasant company is like. God be with you, brother.”

He left the brooding Scot in the middle of the cavern and struck off down a darker, narrower corridor. Whatever Mikhail had to share made no difference. Merrick did not have time to believe in fanciful promises of a day they would turn the tide and forever hold advantage over Azazel. A thousand years had not granted such. A thousand more, Merrick would not live to see.

He trudged down the damp corridor, the fatigue in his limbs weighing him down. Abigail would have food in the cupboards. A bit of bread, mayhap some cheese, and his energy would return enough to take himself up the stairs to bed. In blessed sleep, he would find relief. Let Declan and Farran dine with the men, let them hear the empty words Mikhail offered to rally their dying spirits. He would rest and regain what fragile energy his soul had left.

At the end of the short tunnel, he braced his shoulder against an iron door. It swung open with a
creak
. Darkness greeted him, the familiar light at the top of the stairs shielded by the upper door. The hour must be well toward dawn, for Abigail never barred their way.

He shifted his duffel bag to a more comfortable position and took a step forward.

His foot connected with something large and unmovable. Losing his balance, he stumbled. The armor in his bag gained momentum. It swung forward, taking him with it. He toppled to the ground, barely catching himself on his hands before his nose met the stone floor.

“Saints’ blood!”

With another embittered mutter, he heaved himself off the ground. Had it been so long since knights sought the adytum that Abigail became lazy? He would have to speak to her about this. Remind her Gabriel’s orders dictated the passage should remain clear.

His arm twitched as he picked up his bag and mounted the stairs. He was spent and exhausted, and each step required sheer determination. Were it not for his abject pride that refused to sleep on stone, he would as soon bed down in the basement than face another flight of stairs. Mayhap he would choose the sofa. Unlike other adytum caretakers, Abigail never minded waking to unexpected guests in her parlor.

He opened the door to the first-floor landing and found a lamp burning at the end of the hall. But ’twas not the distant light that made him frown. The scent of rot hung in the air, making him stiffen. Reflexively, he dropped his hand to the sword at his belt and took a deep breath. Though it was faint, the pungent odor engulfed his senses. A stench he would recognize anywhere.

Demons.

His fingers tightened on the hilt, and he eased his duffel bag to the floor. With a cautious step forward, he braced for confrontation. The house was quiet save for the refrigerator’s low hum. Not unearthly still, but full of the comfortable silence that came with a house at rest.

He followed the light, his pulse tapping a rapid cadence as he anticipated a surprise attack. Whatever lurked here waited for something. And for whatever reason, Abigail had not banished it.

Approaching the doorway to the parlor, he watched the light flicker as a shadow moved through the adjoining room. Merrick drew his sword with a wince. Pain rippled through his shoulder. Sword poised at the ready, he stepped into the light. Best to finish this before he collapsed.

His gaze swept the room and came to an abrupt halt on a woman. She stared back with eyes as wide as saucers and as blue as a cloudless English sky. God’s teeth! Demons could assume a hundred forms and shapes, but this surpassed all trickery he knew, for he would swear upon his immortal soul, he had never seen a more beautiful creature.

Long auburn hair framed features more delicate than porcelain. Flushed with spots of color, her high cheekbones held a noble air and offset a gently sloped nose. Her parted lips were full and soft, the kind of mouth that begged a man to sample its sweet flavor. His heart kicked against his ribs. With the heavy beat, a sensation he had not experienced in centuries surged through his blood. Desire, as he had never known, rose fast and hard.

By God, Azazel grew bold.

Merrick shoved his shock to the wayside and raised his sword. “Tell me your name, demon. I wish to curse you as you die.”

CHAPTER
2

Convinced the man standing in her doorway was part of the odd dream of Templar knights and Egyptian pharaohs that she’d been enjoying until a thump from the basement woke her, Anne blinked. When he didn’t go away, she scrubbed her eyes. Every massive inch of him loomed inside her door frame. Broad shoulders, T-shirt snug across a wide chest, faded jeans that hugged thick thighs—nothing about the rugged stranger was small. He was more than imposing. More than intimidating. He would be magnificent if his features weren’t full of silent fury and he didn’t have a sword in his hand.

A sword, for God’s sake. She was about to be robbed at sword point.

Vaguely, his accusation filtered through her chaotic thoughts. Demon? Had she heard him correctly? At a loss, she gave him an incredulous look. “What?”

“Do not play coy with me. Tell me your name so I may condemn you with it.”

Yep. She’d heard him right. What the hell? Who barged into a house with a
sword?

He took a step forward.

She backed up, her stare glued on the blade. “I, ah.” She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. “Look, I don’t know who you are, but if you want money, my purse is to your right.” Maybe, if she were lucky, he would take the satchel and disappear.