Immortal Sacrifice: #4 The Curse of the Templars (22 page)

“Declan,” Leofric answered.

He turned into the building to muffle his voice. “What is the meaning of these thoughts that have begun to plague me?”

“Thoughts?
I know naught of what you speak.”

Grimacing, Declan pressed his forehead to the wet stone.
“I hear a voice. It urges me to do unspeakable things. I wasna warned of this.”

A moment of silence passed through the line before Leofric replied.
When he spoke, his words held warmth. “Ah, aye. Do not be distressed, Declan. ’Tis merely evidence that you have become committed to our purpose. I have struggled with the same, but like the rest of your duties, it too becomes manageable.”

If it became as manageable as turning his brothers in for crimes he had once indulged in, he wanted naught to do with it.
However, he had learned the futility of protest. Leofric would only offer assurances, bid him to be patient. Words he did not care to hear.

“Did you have news for me, Declan?”

“Aye.” He expelled a heavy breath, not wanting to relay what he had learned. The others had erred, yet he could find no fault with the outcome. Oaths were taken, men were healed.

“Well, what is it?” Leofric snapped.

Declan squeezed his eyes shut to drown out the protests in his head. The end did not justify the means. The only way the Order would be restored was if they all returned to the Code. “Caradoc has stumbled, as you ken he would. But Isabelle herself is also impure.”

“In what fashion?”

“She has borne a child. One she claims is Caradoc’s. Her lies place a stain on our honor.”

Another exaggerated pause drifted through the line.
A heavy thump echoed in the background.

“Brother?” Declan asked.

“Keep her in your sights. Do naught more than what you have been assigned.”

Before Declan could agree, the phone clicked, signaling Leofric had disconnected.
For several seconds, Declan held the phone to his ear whilst he swallowed down a litany of curses. He tired of Leofric’s arrogance. For eight centuries, Declan had served the Templar. He was no greenhorn, nor a boy wet behind the ears, deserving of such disrespect.

Yet he was the newest member of the Kerzu, and he supposed some degree of deference was expected.
When this assignment concluded, he would speak to Leofric. Until that time, he would do as he had been tasked—watch, report, and remain true to the noble purpose of the Knights Templar.

A distant church bell tolled the noon hour, reminding Declan that Caradoc, Gareth, and Tane would soon be leaving for Shapiro’s.
He dared not risk confronting all three. They would ask questions, demand answers he could not give. Pushing away from the wall, he jogged to the street corner to catch the bus. He would arrive before them and watch Isabelle…as he had been ordered.

Chapter
21

After three hours of attempting to speak to Isabelle and being avoided, Caradoc found her standing at the long row of cases that held the premiere jewelry, including the necklace of tears. This time she did not have people surrounding her who she could hide behind or dance around to escape him. He glanced over his shoulder to ensure Gareth and Tane remained in the auction hall for the acquisition of another of the archangels’ insignificant trinkets, a silver Templar dagger. On finding his brothers seated where he had left them, he strode across the room to stand at Isabelle’s side.

“You are avoiding me.”

As if she had been lost in thought, she startled. Her cool blue gaze met his displeased frown. “I’ve said everything I have to say.” She made to move around him. “I have things to do. Excuse me.”

Caradoc caught her by the elbow.
He took a step forward, setting his foot between hers and forbidding her departure. “We have more important unfinished business to attend to, Isa.”

She let out a light laugh.
“Like what? More beating my head against the wall with you refusing to believe the truth?”

Her sarcasm snapped him straight into anger.
He had intended to tell her that he understood he must accept her daughter, even if the idea struck terror in his veins. He had intended to apologize for his brutish behavior. Further, he had intended to offer an olive branch by telling her until they could speak to Mikhail, he would not argue her claims about September’s parentage. But standing in the shadow of the harsh smile on her face, his rehearsed speech evaporated like water poured on hot coals.

Instinct took command.
Grabbing her other elbow to still her attempts to squirm free, he moved closer, invading her personal space. His actions forced her to lean backward against the case to avoid contact. Caradoc would have none of it. A harsh jerk brought her forward, her breasts crushing into his chest. She gasped at the same time his mouth settled over hers.

For one heartbeat, Isabelle’s body turned as stiff as stone.
In the next, as his tongue slid over hers, the fight left her. She slid her palms up the lapels of his suit coat and curled her fingers into the starched shirt beneath.

He closed his eyes to her sweet surrender, released his tight hold on her arms.

His kiss was slow and gentle. Thorough. Oblivious to all but her honeyed flavor and light scent of honeysuckle that clung to her hair, his annoyance ebbed. By the sacred blood of the archangels, he would die for this woman, whatever it took to prove his love was unyielding. No matter whose child she had borne, no matter when she had conceived it, no matter how threatening the idea of fulfilling a father’s role might be—he would do whatever she requested, so long as another day did not pass where she doubted him.

The chirrup of her cell phone jerked the heady kiss to an abrupt close.
She lingered in his arms, her cheeks flushed with color, her breath coming in short quick bursts that matched his own. On the second high-pitched electronic chime, she shook her head as if to clear her thoughts and jammed one hand into her purse. Caradoc took a reluctant step back, giving her room to rummage for the singing gadget.

When she glanced at the brightly lit face, the pretty pink in her face drained to pasty white.
“I have to take this.”

Before he could do so much as nod in understanding, she darted around him and headed for the wide marble pillar at the farthest end of the hall.
He watched her go with a frown.

“That was certainly entertaining.”

Caradoc jumped at the sound of Gareth’s amusement. He turned to find his brother standing at his side, one hip resting on the glass case, a smirk dancing on his youthful face. “I do believe you are to be bidding, are you not?”

“Tane wished for the responsibility.”
Gareth leaned over the case, resting his elbows on the thick glass. “I thought it a reasonable enough request. He wishes to prove himself. Let him begin with an object that is not detrimental, like the dagger.”

More concerned with what had transformed Isabelle’s expression to ash, Caradoc did not bother to reply.
He turned his attention back to her. Beside him, Gareth shuffled through a small stack of papers. “These are hers?”

“Aye,” Caradoc answered absently.

“You have greater concerns than who she might be on the phone with, brother.”

The comment rang so full of his earlier conflict with Isabelle, Caradoc blinked.
He had not taken anyone but Declan into confidence. Even then, he had not intended to disclose Isabelle’s claims. They had merely slipped out whilst he struggled to put them into sense. Disbelieving he had heard correctly, he gave Gareth a perplexed look.

“This.”

Gareth tapped the case, drawing Caradoc’s attention to the item beneath. For the first time since he had spied Isabelle standing here, he realized which case sat before them. Inside, the necklace of tears twinkled with the fierce power it held.

Great horns of warning blared in his head.
“What do you mean?”

Gareth pushed the stack of papers beneath his nose.
“How does your Isabelle take losing?”

As Caradoc looked at the pre-printed brochure, his stomach bottomed out.
She had circled the necklace’s listing so many times her pen had worn the paper-thin. Christ’s blood, this could not be happening! They needed no more obstacles between them. He could bend and give to any other demand she made of him. But he could not forsake the tears.

Not even for Isabelle.

* * *

“I want to talk to her, Paul.
Now. It’s been three days. Let me talk to her.” Isabelle willed the hysterics out of her voice as she made the demand again, but her voice rose anyway. She moved closer to the garden doors so no one could overhear.

“Isabelle, calm yourself.
I told you, she’s taking a nap.”

September hadn’t taken a nap since she’d turned two.
That alone amped up Isabelle’s anxiety. She lowered her voice to a harsh whisper to keep from yelling. “My daughter doesn’t take naps. Have you made her sick?”

A low chuckle resonated in her ear.
“She’s quite well. Full of energy. You didn’t tell me she was so smart.”

“Smart?” she asked apprehensively.
Kidnappers didn’t generally make those kinds of observations.

Paul laughed again, the hearty warmth of his voice a stark contrast to the atrocities he’d committed.
“I think she told me off in Latin this morning.”

Latin?
September watched Dora and knew how to count in Spanish, but to Isabelle’s knowledge, she hadn’t been exposed to a single word of Latin. Did people even speak it anymore? “Latin,” Isabelle repeated.

“Yes.
I’m pretty sure that’s what it was.”

Odd.
But after the last twenty-four hours, very little could surprise Isabelle. Frankly, she didn’t care if September had spoken Latin, Latvian, or Loa, so long as she said something to her. Immediately. “I want to talk to her, Paul. What did you do to her?”

“Why would you think I’ve done anything to her?”

“Because September wouldn’t just tell someone off in any language.” Her voice rose by several decibels, approaching a hushed screech. “What have you done to my daughter?”

Though he didn’t lapse into his previously threatening demeanor, the friendliness in Paul’s voice assumed a hard edge.
“I haven’t
done
anything to her. I merely moved my insurance policy closer to the item it’s securing.”

Moved her?
Panic kicked Isabelle’s pulse into triple time. “Where?”

“That’s none of your business.
Tomorrow you’ll secure my necklace as we’ve agreed. Bring it to the
Villa Valguarnera
tomorrow night at precisely eight, and I shall return your daughter.”

Valguarnera
. Isabelle’s heart skidded to a stop. The lettering on the mausoleum in her dream leapt to bold color in her mind. Cut into the whitened stone, a dark shadow around the chisel marks made the same name stand out.

Her knees buckled.

“And, Isabelle?”

“Yes?” she whispered through a closing throat.

“Your gentleman friend isn’t welcome.”

Oh, God.
The phone tumbled from her hands and clattered against the marble tiles. She bent over to collect it, her weak legs nearly pitching her face-first onto thefloor. Stumbling, she half-tripped, half-ran to the ornately carved bathroom door on the opposite side of the entry hall.

The brass handle slipped beneath her perspiring hands.
Isabelle let out a muffled cry of frustration and tried again. This time, the door swung inward, propelled with force she hadn’t realized she possessed. It thumped into the wall, then sprang forward, giving her just enough time to bolt inside before it slammed back into place.

Silence loomed around her.
Grateful she could collapse unobserved, she flipped the lock and sagged down the length of the door to sit on the cold hard floor. Her stomach churned. Her hands shook. In her mind, a series of still images replayed the horrifying nightmare. The stone path. A great, hulking skeleton tree. The faint light of a silver moon.

One by one, she saw each piece, fast-forwarding until the final, horrific scene of September’s bloody body at the faceless angel’s feet.
That image sent her over the edge. Her empty stomach upturned. She shot to her knees, managing to catch the small wastebasket under the sink and drag it beneath her nose, but nothing happened. Nothing but an overwhelming nausea that made her head spin. One hand on the trashcan, she sank back to her butt and pushed the flyaway hairs off her damp forehead with the other.

Valguarnera
.

Where, oh, where, had Paul taken September?
Why had he taken her at all? She was just an innocent little girl.
She doesn’t deserve to die.

There had to be a way to stop him.
To stop the nightmare. Wherever Paul had taken her, he’d put her right in the path of that hideous monster. His greed had led September to imminent danger.

Damn him.
If she’d only had the courage to tell someone before he left the country, she might have been able to stop this. But even as the thought flitted across her brain, she knew reporting September’s kidnapping would have only made things worse, faster. Paul would’ve killed her instantly. At least now, September would be close enough they could possibly save her before that creature ever showed up. Get her to safety before Isabelle’s nightmare had a chance of coming true.

Maybe Paul would even help.
He’d laugh his head off if Isabelle tried to tell him some hell-creation was going to appear out of the shadows, but when he saw it, he’d believe well enough.