Immortal Hope (4 page)

A sword.
She struggled with the absurdity. He looked like he knew how to use it too. The weapon had to be heavy, yet he held it as easily as he might a glass.

“I do not need your money. Tell me your name, demon.” He took another step forward, fully entering the light. He thrust the sword at her heart.

Her gaze followed the length of the blade to his face, and Anne sucked in a sharp breath. Dark hair. Eyes like chips of onyx. Strong jaw set in a familiar, grim manner. The same man from her visions with the cross, and the armband, stood in front of her.
Oh God.

The room took a sharp tilt to her right. She grabbed at the table to keep from wobbling and stared in stunned silence.

“Mayhap I should carve off a limb?” He lowered the blade, bringing the sharp tip against her wrist.

Her heart jumped to her throat. He was serious. He actually meant to hurt her if she didn’t tell him her name. Good God! She swallowed hard. “A-Anne.”

“Anne?” He let out a disbelieving snort. “’Tis a human’s name. Tell me the name Azazel gave you.”

Vision from the past or not, he was nuts.

Her gaze slid sideways to the door. If she could draw him deeper into the room, she could make a mad dash for freedom. Pretending to cooperate, she edged away from the table and met the invader’s frosty glare. “Anne MacPherson is my name. Who’s Azazel?”

Eyes narrowed with suspicion, the man ignored her question. His gaze swept down her body, canvassing her worn blue jeans and loose blouse so thoroughly a strange chill tumbled down her spine. She took another step toward her purse, then stopped as reality sunk in, and with it, despair. As tall as he was, he would catch up to her in three strides.

Which meant she would have to disarm him. Although how, eluded her. Her self-defense classes had covered knives, not three-foot-long swords. What she would do once she had him disarmed, she didn’t know either. He was too large to tackle, too heavy to throw. She fought back a rush of panic, determined to keep her wits. She could outsmart a man who clearly wasn’t right in the head.

She extended an arm toward her purse. “I’m going to get my wallet. I’ll give you whatever’s in it.”

The stranger’s gaze riveted on her outstretched hand. “How did you come by such?”

She followed his stare, noting she still held the armband. Relief washed through her. Gabe must have given her some black-market artifact. Some trinket that the existing Freemasons didn’t want revealed. If this man wanted the armband, she’d surrender it. It didn’t seem to want to tell her anything further anyway. “This?” She offered it to him. “Take it.”

He crossed the room in two strides, disproving her theory that it would take three to intercept her run for the door. Sword pointed at the ground, he snatched the armband from her hand. Their fingers brushed, and trapped by the unfamiliar jolt of energy that arced up her arm, Anne couldn’t move. With the surge, a picture of a man at rest emerged in her mind. Not just any man, she realized. This man. Dressed in chain and the same white surcoat with a crimson cross he’d worn both times before, he clasped his broadsword against his chest.

Not at rest. Dead.

“Stay here,” he ordered.

She held back a renegade laugh. Like she was going anywhere. Not as long as he had that sword in hand.

Backing up, the invader kept his gaze fastened on her. He stumbled over a duffel bag she hadn’t noticed before, and the oath that hissed through his teeth stirred her amusement once again. She bit down on her lower lip to stifle a giggle. She must be in shock—she couldn’t think of any other reason to find anything remotely funny about this situation.

He righted himself, and with the armband dangling from his pinkie, he fumbled inside the bag. When his one-handed search only annoyed him, he set the blade down and shoved both hands inside. His stare left her, his focus on his search.

Instinct took over. Anne grabbed her purse. Using all the strength she could muster, she swung it, clocking him in the temple. He staggered forward, and Anne didn’t wait to see if he fell. She raced for the door.

A thick arm wound around her waist, halting her escape. Like an iron band, he fastened her against a chest that felt like steel. A slight lift, and her feet came off the floor. She let out a shriek and clawed at his arm. Kicking with all her might, she sought contact with a shin, a thigh, whatever part of his body she could strike. He grunted with each drive of her heel, but his hold never faltered.

He carried her across the room and tossed her onto the sofa. When she lifted her glare to his face, a storm of fury brewed in his features. Black eyes glinted like brittle glass. His mouth pulled into a grim line. A muscle twitched along his jaw.

“You tempt me sorely,” he ground out through clenched teeth. “You will explain how you came by such.” He pointed to her arm, and to Anne’s horror, she found the armband firmly in place.

She opened her mouth to protest, but words failed her. Just
what
had Gabe brought home? “Look, I don’t know anything about this armband.”

The stranger cut her off with a glower. “You will wait.” He flipped open a cell phone. One eye on her, he dialed. Wisely, she kept her mouth shut, sensing if she did so much as twitch, he would make good on his threat.

He spoke into the phone. “Come to the adytum. I found a demon who possesses the serpents.”

Anne blinked several times in rapid succession. He had friends? Coming here? Oh Lord above, if she got out of here alive, she would never,
ever,
accept another of Gabe’s strange gifts.

The stranger snapped his phone shut. Sword once again in hand, he pointed it at her throat. “Now speak.”

Anne swallowed hard. “My boss gave me the armband.”

Again his gaze narrowed, suspicion glinting behind his dark eyes. “What charm did you place on it, demon Anne?”

“I’ve already said…” Anne trailed off as movement behind the stranger caught her attention. A shadowy form spanned the wall from ceiling to floor. It shifted on its own accord, no mere product of the dim light. Two arms took shape, followed by an elongated snout. The faint scent of rotted flesh wafted through the room.

Her words came faster as she glanced back at her invader. “I don’t know anything about demons. But I’m not one.” She looked over his shoulder, her throat tightening as the shadowy form drifted—no floated—across the floor.

Anne pointed, and her voice took on a higher pitch. “I’m pretty sure that is though.”

*   *   *

Merrick realized too late that the rotting smell he had assumed came from Anne in fact came from behind him. As the woman let out a shriek and scrambled over the back of the couch, claws raked down his back. Heat seared through his skin. He bit back the pain with a low growl and wheeled around to confront Azazel’s fiend.

His sword thumped into the nytym’s side, jostling it off balance. The weight in his arm felt more like a lump of useless steel than any weapon of defense, and Merrick willed his body to cooperate. Widening his stance, he deflected another barrage of claws.

Almost a thousand years of training overpowered the weakness in his limbs. Parry, thrust, parry, slice, he fell into routine. The nytym gave strike for strike, meeting Merrick’s advance with speed and accuracy. Pinpricks of pain stung his arms, his hands. He ground his teeth against the annoying stings and pressed forward, forcing the nytym back.

Enraged by his advance, Azazel’s minion sought an overhead attack. Massing its grotesque form toward the ceiling, it loomed over him, poised for a deadly assault of fangs. But in so doing, the nytym made a fatal mistake. Its vulnerable underbelly stared Merrick in the face. He arced his sword across his body in a powerful slice that nearly cut the creature in half. It screeched in outrage. Teeth snapped as it writhed and hissed.

Merrick jerked his sword free, assuring a speedy death. Another unholy scream filled the room as a stain of ebony poured down Merrick’s sword. With a shudder, the nytym fell still. Its horrendous form waivered in the light, then slowly disappeared, leaving only a pool of shadows on Anne’s carpet.

Fatigue consumed Merrick. Lacking the ability to prepare for the inevitable surge of vileness upon his soul, he dropped to his knees and elbows, panting. As the nytym’s vile spirit soaked into him, his shoulders quaked. He fought for a normal breath. A low hum broke out in his ears, warmth filtered through his body, and a frightening feeling of weightlessness settled over him.

“Hey.”

Anne’s voice pulled him back from the edge of a damning abyss. He could not allow her to see him this way. Though she might not be the demon he once thought her, she had power. Until he knew what it was, he could not risk her escape. He clung to the sound of her voice, its melodic cadence his only foothold on awareness. Trickles of sticky wetness seeped around his ribs, telling him he bled.

“Hey.” Closer now, her voice took on strength. The hum in his head faded. His vision slowly returned. Yet he could not find the strength to move. “Are you okay?”

The touch of gentle fingertips upon his shoulder was his undoing. They explored the claw marks he knew shredded his shirt and filleted his flesh. He sank into the carpet with a silent sigh and lay absolutely still, the tenderness of her touch a luxury he had not experienced in hundreds of years. He caught the scent of her perfume, a subtle blend of lavender and warm sugar that stirred some forgotten feeling deep inside his heart.

“Oh God, you’re bleeding,” she whispered. “Let me get something to clean you up with.” Her hand disappeared, taking with it his brief surrender.

As it occurred to him she would leave, he mustered his energy and brought himself to his knees. “Nay. Stay where you are.”

Her delicate features pulled with confusion. “I’m just going to the bathroom.”

And mayhap out the back door. He pushed himself to his feet with a fierce shake of his head. “Sit down.” He pointed at the couch.

The woman let out what could only be a grumble of extreme annoyance and made her way to the couch. As she passed, he took in low-slung jeans that flared over her stylish brown boots. He would never understand why the modern woman felt the need to dress like a man. Yet the loose hem of her blue top gave him a tempting glimpse of a flat abdomen as she tossed aside a throw pillow. His gaze shifted upward to admire the gentle slope of full breasts.

She fastened a glare on him as she flounced into the cushions. Arms crossed beneath her breasts, the soft flesh there pushed against the flimsy material of her short-sleeved blouse. Merrick swallowed. He knew he stared, but he cared not. It had been far too long since a woman had aroused his baser instincts. And this one disturbed them tenfold.

“I appreciate all the macho-guy sword fighting and all. But you’re bleeding all over my carpet.”

Merrick frowned. Would that her demeanor was as sweet as her body. “’Twill cease.” Already he could feel the bleeding lessen. The wounds would scab over, and by the time Declan and Farran arrived, be little more than faint scars. Immortality kept him from bleeding to death. ’Twas the darkness that slayed. Evil, or the power of a Templar sword.

Anne’s glower darkened. “Who the hell are you, and what are you doing here? And what, in the name of
God,
was that thing?”

“’Twas not a demon as you thought, but a nytym. A lesser tool of Azazel’s. They possess the intelligence of a five- or six-year-old child.”

She eyed him warily. The fact she was not screaming and in a full panic as other humans who chanced upon Azazel’s minions oft did, impressed him. Nay, not a trace of worry clung to her features. Annoyance set her lush lips into a hard line. Anger turned her eyes to shards of sapphire, but she showed no fear. In fact, if his eyes did not deceive him, behind her glare, her blue eyes held curiosity.

At that moment, the front door burst open. It thumped into the wall, rattling the windows and shaking the lamp on the nearby table. Declan and Farran barged inside, their hands on the swords that hung at their waists.

“Great,” Anne muttered.

Merrick shot her a scowl before acknowledging his brothers with a nod.

Farran’s gaze fastened on Anne, interest lighting his usually empty eyes. Something about the way he quickly appraised her struck a disharmonious chord in Merrick’s soul. He took a defensive step toward Anne, inserting himself between his friends and the unusual woman.

“Och, Merrick, did her beauty blind you? ’Tis no demon here.” The concern left Declan’s expression as he let out a short laugh.

Merrick clenched his teeth, strangling a string of curses. “She has the serpents,” he answered simply. Tossing a sideways glance over his shoulder, he motioned to Anne. “Show them.”

Her gaze narrowed, her displeasure evident. But to her credit, she spared him the barrage of her tongue and rose from the couch to approach his companions. She slid the armband off and set it in Declan’s hand. “There. Take it. I don’t want the thing.”

Turning crisply, she started for the hall. Then stopped and stared down at her palm as the armband reappeared in it. “Oh, damn,” she muttered.

Farran looked to Merrick. “Mikhail’s message mentioned the serpents.”

Merrick needed to hear no more. Whatever she was, he would find out before he slept. The serpents had not been seen since the great flood. However she came by this one, it was clearly not something a mortal should possess. Mikhail could explain, and Uriel, master healer of the archangels, could undo whatever charm bound it to her.

He caught Anne around the waist and swung her over his shoulder. The act required little effort as she weighed next to naught. Her softness molded against him in such an intimate manner, he sucked in a sharp breath. Saints’ blood, with the way she made heat surge to his loins, she ought to be a demon.

She struggled against him. “What are you doing? Put me down, jerk!”

“Nay. You will come with us.”

Her scream of outrage deafened him. She pummeled fists into his back, her concern for his injuries now a thing of the past. A knee connected with his stomach, and he let out a harassed hiss. Securing her in place, he set one hand at the back of her knees, the other he fastened over her thighs. Tempting as they were, he ignored the feel of firm muscles and sloping curves beneath his palm. “Farran, retrieve my bag. I have reconsidered returning to the temple.”