Immortal Hope
Authors: Claire Ashgrove
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Literary, #Romance, #Fantasy, #Paranormal
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For my father, whose memory beats within my heart.
Love you.
Acknowledgements
To my mother who has stayed beside me during this journey. Thank you, Mom, for everything. You gave me the wings to soar, and I love you very much.
To my wonderful agent, Jewelann Cone, a constant source of sanity in my insane little world. You have the patience of a saint, and your tolerance for my hop-scotching is a blessing. Even if it does make you a tiny bit crazy at times!
To my editor, Whitney Ross. Thank you for believing in me, for your ever-helpful editorial remarks, and your dedication in making this the best it can be.
To Dr. Jeff Gall and Professor David Miller, were it not for your passion for history, I would have never discovered mine, and this series would have never made it to paper. You are divine educators who know not only how to make lessons entertaining, but also push students to meet expectations in a way that leaves them grateful for the hours spent in the classroom. Every collegiate should have the opportunity to learn from professors like yourselves.
Linda Kage and Jackie Bannon—you were with me when head-hopping was awesome character insight, when commas were like crushed peppers in Thai food, and when heroines could have tantrums because that’s what conflict is, right? Thank you for learning with me and teaching me. I’m proud to know you, to work beside you, and will never forget the early days in the trenches. Thank you, Jackie, for standing beside me through everything and being able to say, “Shut up and listen.”
Dyann Love Barr, what can I say? You’re family, friend, mentor, teacher, and colleague. Your wisdom is invaluable, and it has been such a delight working with you on projects. Together with Dennis, the both of you have given me strength, encouragement, and support. Thank you so very much for the years we’ve worked together, the late-night plotting sessions, hours-long phone calls, and in general, just being there.
To the other authors who have mentored me, my beta readers, and my critique partners: Melissa Lattin, Goldie Edwards, Alfie Thompson, Marianne Stephens, Carla Cassidy, Elisabeth Burke, Heather Snow, Shannon K. Butcher, Katy Madison, Kiss Carson, Alta Durrant, Diana Coyle, Judy Ridgely, Janet Nuckolls, Nancy O’Berry, Arianna Giorgi, Alicia Dean, Candise Cole, Julie Garwood, and Cathy Morrison—each of you has offered insight and wisdom that helped me achieve a dream, and I will never forget the time you willingly spared or your generosity.
Members of Heartland Romance Authors, Midwest Romance Writers, and Mid-America Romance Authors, the support you’ve given, the lessons you’ve taught, and the community you’ve provided is something I’m sincerely lucky to have.
My friends and family—thanks for dragging me out of the cave when I’ve been there too long and for simply understanding. Without you, I’d have given up long ago. Matt, you gave me the time and constant encouragement, and I appreciate that a lot. Garrett and Pierce, thank you for being the best little boys in this world. I love you very much!
And to Jason, your patience has been unfaltering and your faith unfailing. The time you’ve taken to read, to listen to me ramble on, to celebrate and encourage, for simply being a part of my life … thank from the bottom of my heart. You are a gift I cherish.
Contents
The Curse
In 1119, nine knights rode with Hughes de Payens to the Holy Land, becoming the Knights Templar. All were bound by marriage or by blood. Eight were recorded over time. The ninth vanished into history.
Beneath the legendary Temple Mount, the knights uncovered holy relics, including the Copper Scroll—a document written by Azazel’s unholy hand. For their forbidden digging, the archangels exacted a sacrifice. The knights would spend eternity battling the demons of Azazel’s creation, but with each vile death they claimed, a portion of darkness would enter their soul. In time, they would transform into knights of Azazel, warriors veined with evil, destined to fight against the Almighty.
Yet an ancient prophecy remained to give them hope. When darkness raped the land, the seraphs would return. Female descendants of the Nephilim would carry the light to heal their dying souls.
Centuries have passed. Azazel’s might grows to intolerable limits. With the acquisition of eight holy relics, he will gain the power to overthrow the Almighty.
Six Templars stand above the rest in duty, honor, and loyalty. But each is haunted by a tragic past, and their darkened souls rapidly near the end. As they battle both the overwhelming power of evil and the nightmares of lives they left behind, the seraphs are more than tools to victory.
They are salvation.
Prologue
When darkness rapes the land, the seraphs shall purify the Templars and lead the sacred swords to victory.
—ANCIENT PROPHECY OF THE
K
NIGHTS
T
EMPLAR
Atchison, Kansas,
October
Abigail Montfort blew out the solitary candle in her windowsill and closed her eyes, inhaling the smoke-laced vanilla. Another Allhallows Eve had passed. Exactly 318 had come and gone since she’d given any real concern to the night the spirits roamed in droves. As a girl, she’d hidden in the woods, not knowing which threat posed the greatest danger—the Salem mob or the real ghouls who waited in the craggy trees.
The same vengeful spirits who would challenge her—as they did each Halloween—before she could sleep tonight.
Straightening, she pushed open the window to air out the musty old Victorian. The breeze rushed in. She rubbed her arms, shivering. Yet she was not cold.
Danger lingered in the atmosphere. A presence watched and waited. One far different from the malicious shades or shape-shifting demons she understood. Something stronger. Deadlier.
Tonight, Azazel’s dark knights roamed.
They searched for what they were not meant to find, as they had for centuries. For what she and two others were destined to protect—the relics that would give Azazel the power to overthrow the Almighty. She guarded the crucifixion nail, and the dark lord would stop at nothing to secure this one bit of iron stained with Christ’s blood. For with it, the unholy ascension began.
She turned from the window and crossed to the front stairs. One hand on the railing, she paused, remembering the cellar door. She dare not bar the Templars’ way. Under these old rafters, the holy knights could rest and heal from the evil they combated. She never knew when they might arrive, but no doubt, tonight they’d seek the adytum’s refuge. Gabriel’s orders demanded she be prepared.
She hurried down the basement stairs and across the stone floor to a recessed iron door. Producing a set of keys from her jeans, she quickly unfastened the padlock and threw open the hasp, propping the door open. She traced her fingers over the bottom half of a wine-colored cross embedded in the wood. Darkness tainted its once pristine brilliance, as it tainted the Templars. They were threatened, but still protected. As she looked after the adytum and the relic, Gabriel looked after God’s warriors. They would persevere. If Azazel turned the tide, the archangels would unveil a vessel far more powerful than even the ruler of darkness could imagine.
“Godspeed, noble ones,” she whispered as she turned away.
Front door locked. Holy crucifixion nail safe in its reliquary in the wall. House open to the Templars. All was as it should be. At last, she could rest before the demons came.
She climbed the stairs to her private quarters. In her sitting room, she turned on a lamp and went to the window, opening it to peer at the dormant trees. A shudder rolled down her spine. It was too still, too quiet, even for the midnight hour.
As she crossed to her chair, the hoot of an owl froze her in place. The hair lifted on the back of her neck, stood upright on her arms. Demons she could fight. But
that
was no demon, no simple shade or nytym with a child’s wisdom. He who cried an owl’s song was a thing of nightmares.
And if he was here, there could only be one reason—the sacred nail Christ bore upon his feet. Two thousand years, and he had finally discovered it. God in heaven, it was happening.
Silence hung thick, the thump of her heart a trumpet to her fear.
She dove for the window and slammed it shut. The urge to run bore down hard. Sweat peppered her brow. She still had time to get away. She could run out the front and be gone from here.
Yet fleeing wasn’t an option. Her duty was to protect the relic. It was why Gabriel saved her from Salem’s mob, why God gave her longevity.
She hurried to the bookcase to retrieve her book of psalms, prayer already tumbling off her lips. The energy around her altered, became more dense as holy might flooded into the room. Her fingers grazed the ancient tome’s scarred surface, and a sense of calm flooded her.
It didn’t last long.
Darkness and hatred pressed down on her like a mighty hand, suffocating the candles. For one heartbeat, nothing happened. In the next, the window exploded in a deafening shower of glass that blanketed the wood floor. Abigail cried out as fragments pierced the back of her neck and stung the crown of her head.
Noxious fumes assaulted her nose, heavy with the odor of death. She swallowed down the bitter taste of bile and clutched the book in shaking hands. “Begone. You cannot hurt me.” She longed to believe the words, yearned for the confidence that came with each recitation. Yet she didn’t need to turn around and face the creature to know the futility.
A wash of hot, fetid air engulfed her. She closed her eyes and trembled, a slave to the fear that emanated off the beast. She felt him push at her mind, great jabs that made her head ache from the effort of keeping him out of her thoughts. She could not reveal the hiding place. He knew the nail was here, but he would not learn where. Not as long as she breathed.
Steeling herself against the certain horror, she turned around to confront Azazel’s knight.
But it wasn’t the horrendous laughter that drained the color from her face and froze her heart. It was the creature himself. The way his dark form held a touch of beauty. His long limbs bore grace; his face carried the glory of God’s creation despite his wicked sneer. Ethereal wings, the fathomless shade of endless night, extended from his back to brush against the tall ceiling.
“Azazel,” she breathed.
His laughter echoed hollowly. “And so the witch recognizes her master.”
A clawed hand snatched at her. Nails raked across her face, shredded the fabric on her arm. The sharp sting jolted Abigail out of her stupor, and she backed up a step, holding the tome in front of her to ward him away.
He laughed harder, his angelic features twisting viciously. “That will not help you now. Where is the nail, witch?”
Seductively, he reached into her thoughts. His quiet murmur lulled her to confide the holy secrets she possessed. Blocking her mind to the invasion, she raised her voice and recited the words she’d used a thousand times. “By all that is sacred, I command you to leave my presence.”