Immortal Hope (8 page)

He caught her hand and brought it gently to her side. “Fine,” he grumbled. “Will you show me this mark?”

“No.”

God’s teeth she was more stubborn than a mule. Conversing with her was like trying to scale a rampart wall—deceptively easy until one encountered the bowmen within. He turned from her and dropped into the only chair in the small room. “You try my patience, woman.”

“At least we agree on something then.” She flounced back onto the bed. “How do you even know what you’re looking for?”

“’Twould be obvious. We all bear marks of meaning. Those we chose, or those that were put upon us. Mayhap we take pride in them, mayhap we wish they did not exist. But we all bear them. Is there naught upon your body that stands out in your mind?”

Understanding flickered behind her frown. She knew what he referenced, despite the objecting shake of her head.

“What guarantee do I have that if I show you, you won’t create something that matches?”

At once offended that she would think him capable of such trickery, he asked through gritted teeth, “You doubt my honor?”

She lifted an eyebrow and let out a soft chuckle. “Is it really necessary to answer that?”

Merrick clenched his fingers around the chair’s smooth arm. His word had never been questioned. Even those who despised him for conquering them had never challenged his honor. Not even his uncle, who refused to acknowledge Merrick’s birthright, dared such. “I assure you, I speak naught that is false, nor do I tolerate those who do.”

“Not going to work, Merrick. You want me to believe this stuff, then you show me my matching mark first.”

Clearly, they were at an impasse. He lacked the energy to pursue the battle, however. Raking a hand through his hair, he dropped his head to the back of the chair. “I am weary, Anne.” Weak as well, but he would not tell her such. The explanation would only lead to more questions, and he simply lacked the strength to carry on a conversation. “Can we not resolve this so I may rest?”

“I’m not stopping you from sleeping.”

“Nay?” He lifted his head to look at her, surprised by the effort it required. “What guarantee do
I
have that you shall not vanish once I shut my eyes?”

“I guess you’ll just have to chance it.”

The bed creaked as she stood up. Moving to stand in front of him, she gestured at the mattress. “Go sleep.”

He did not trust this more agreeable side of her nature. Yet he could no longer hold his eyes open. Exhaustion weighed him down, making the simple effort of sitting upright near impossible. Against his better judgment, he went to the bed, took off his sword, and collapsed into the mattress’ welcome softness. Rolling onto his back, he tossed an arm over his forehead and let out a deep sigh. “If you are missing when I wake…”

“Oh hell, Merrick. I’m not going anywhere. I’m too damn curious to run.”

A smile tugged at his mouth. He peeked out from beneath his elbow to look at her and spied her in his chair. “You speak like a man.”

“Get used to it.”

He supposed he had little choice.

CHAPTER
5

Declan’s gaze strayed down the corridor that led to Merrick’s room. For a modern woman, Anne held a simple beauty and charm. She did not accent her eyes with kohl, nor did she paint her cheeks with rouge. And her manner of dress strangely did not hold the tastelessness of so many women of her era, despite her trendy fashion. She resonated with unspoken class.

Yet ’twas not her wholesome good looks that drew his restless stare. The gift she carried inside, the light of angels in her soul, made him want to chase her down and demand she pledge herself to him.

“Abigail is gone then? Azazel has taken the nail?” Farran asked of Caradoc.

Declan forced his attention back to his companions.

Caradoc answered with a nod. He moved across the large prayer chamber, pacing in front of the gathered five. “Aye, ‘tis what Mikhail told us last month. We are to anticipate a second attack. Mikhail has reinforced the other two adytum’s crucifixion nails. He intends to send the six of us when Azazel’s knights draw near.”

Declan swallowed down a lump of dread. Another confrontation with one of Azazel’s knights, and his time would come to an end. Already he felt the darkness stir each time he confronted one of Azazel’s lesser pawns. In the last fight with Merrick, it had become painful to strike the creatures, so close was he to transformation.

“These next few months shall not be easy for us. I fear we will lose those we are closest to.” Although he addressed the other men, Caradoc’s knowing gaze settled on him, and Declan shifted under the penetrating weight.

The Templar Code dictated Declan inform his brothers that his time neared. Merrick had done so a handful of weeks ago, and yet Merrick’s light surpassed Declan’s tenfold. But Declan could not bring himself to admit the painful truth. Frankly, he was too weary to care.

Now, with the revelation of the seraphs, he could not tamp down the hope Anne would bring his salvation.

Uncomfortable with the discussion, he rose to his feet. “Excuse me, Caradoc. I canna keep me eyes open.”

Farran gave him a curt nod as Declan bid good-bye with a smile. He retreated down the hall, rounded the corner, and let himself inside his small, Spartan chambers. With a heavy sigh, he let down his guise of merriment and pushed the door shut tight.

He took off his sword and tossed it onto his bed. The ache in his chest was a tangible thing, and he rubbed a fist against his sternum. Nine hundred years ago, when he rode south to aid the Christians on the road to Jerusalem, he would have never envisioned his life would come to this. That he would live out centuries having never known a child’s love, nor called a piece of land his own. He served the Templar with his heart, and yet what good had it accomplished? He would die at Mikhail’s hands, if he were lucky. If he were not, he could only hope they would cut him down when once he wore Azazel’s cloth.

A knock at the door startled him. Grumbling, he jerked the door open to find Caradoc standing in the hall. Though the harsh gleam in Caradoc’s light eyes and the rigid set of his shoulders warned Declan the visit was not social in nature, he pulled another smile forth and welcomed his brother inside.

Caradoc kicked the door shut with his heel. “Why have you said naught? Does Merrick know?”

Declan sighed from the depths of his soul and shook his head. “Nay.”

A long moment of tense silence spanned between them, so oppressive Declan could feel the weight of the stones overhead pushing down on his shoulders. Caradoc moved to the window, looking out at the distant trees. His fingers drummed a steady cadence on the rough-hewn sill, a telltale restlessness that heralded his intense disapproval.

Declan waited for the inevitable explosion, sudden shame bowing his head. “I donna want the pity, brother.”

“No one wants the pity,” Caradoc murmured. He spared Declan a brief glance, then fixed his attention out the window once more.

“How did you ken?”

Caradoc ran a hand through his sandy hair and the tightness in his spine gave way to slumped shoulders. His voice carried the same echo of weariness that haunted Declan’s soul. “The maid. The way your eyes looked to Merrick’s room once I explained what she is.”

Seeking to divert his friend from the truth, Declan said, “She is an entertaining lass.” A genuine smile touched his face as he recalled the way Anne had kicked Merrick in the shin. “Her intended will have a handful to tame.”

“And if she is not meant for you, Declan? What shall you do then? What if this night we are called to fight and we do not know her mate?”

Declan folded his arms over his chest and scowled. Presented with the selfish nature of his actions was shame enough. He did not need his lapse in judgment berated further.

“Think you not I feel it too, Declan? The pain is unbearable at times, and we all suffer in different ways. Farran is so angry I fear naught shall ever make him laugh again. You grow weary, Merrick has lost hope. Lucan trusts so few he will not fight beside the other men. And Tane…” Caradoc dropped his head against the window frame, lowering his voice to a woeful murmur. “Tane has become so covetous that if Anne is not his, I worry for her mate.”

Pulling in a deep breath, Caradoc turned to face Declan. Deep lines of worry knotted his forehead. Accusation gleamed in his eyes. “Still we depend on each other to speak the truth. Yet you break the vow and jeopardize those who would give their very lives for you.”

Declan closed his eyes against the bitter truth. He stayed silent, for naught he could say would excuse his selfishness. At the scrape of steel, he snapped them open. Sunlight glinted off the tip of Caradoc’s blade. Held at the ready, his brother regarded him with such regret, Declan shuddered. So it would come to this. Caradoc would take his life here. Declan ought to praise the Almighty ’twould be swift—for Caradoc would ensure no less. Yet he could not shake off the chill that settled in his veins.

“I will not risk everything for your pride, Declan,” Caradoc murmured. “’Tis too much at stake.”

Before Declan could take a step backward and assume a defensive stance, Caradoc swept the mighty broadsword across his body. Cold steel dug in deep, searing heat through Declan’s arm. He grasped at his bicep in a vain effort to hold the flesh together. Blood trickled through his fingers, ran down the length of his hand. His eyes widened, and he stared, unable to believe he still breathed.

“You will not fight,” Caradoc grit out as he wiped his sword on Declan’s bed. More quietly, he added, “Not for a while.” He snatched a shirt off the floor and tossed it at Declan. “Tie off your wound.”

As Declan wound the cloth around his arm and tugged it with his teeth, Caradoc jerked open the door. “Best you pray the girl is yours,” he muttered before he slammed the portal shut.

Declan sank to his knees. His brother had spared him in the only way he could. Struck by a Templar blade, Declan would not enjoy immortality’s prompt healing. Nay, ’twould take weeks, mayhap longer, before the bone-deep gash would mend enough so he could wield his sword.

He sniffed back his gratitude and struggled to his feet. A wave of light-headedness bowled into him, making him stumble as he reached for the door. He caught himself on the iron handle and sank once again to the floor. Bloody hell, Caradoc meant to see him suffer.

*   *   *

Seated beside the window, Anne watched Merrick sleep. With not even a book present, it was either watch him sleep, take a nap herself, or stare out the window at an empty, sand-filled courtyard and hope someone would come out and work with weapons or something to entertain her. She was bored and restless, and her mind worked overtime. Nothing, absolutely nothing, she could think of could describe what had happened in Mikhail’s office. There was only one answer, and Anne’s affinity for the spiritual realm embraced the impossible without hesitation. It was the logical side of her nature that kept interfering, arguing that if she accepted what she’d experienced as fact, someone would think she’d lost all her sense.

But did that really matter? No one, except these men here, would ever really know if she’d decided to believe. When she got out of here, she didn’t have to tell anyone. She’d be the only one able to snicker behind her hand or ridicule her actions.

In either case, angels or no angels, nothing would convince her that Merrick—and probably the other men—were not Templar. Though she hadn’t touched the others, what she learned from Merrick told so many truths it was almost frightening.

Almost.

She found it fascinating, and the part of her desperate for knowledge did a jig so merry inside her head, a strange giddiness swept over her. Somewhere in these halls, she’d likely find everything she needed to finish her thesis. The trick would be discovering it before classes began Monday morning. No one in the school would believe Mikhail’s story about her running off with someone, and as long as she showed up for her 9
A.M.
lecture on medieval social structure, no harm would come from spending a day researching in some weird temple underneath the old Liberty Odd Fellows Home. When she went back, she’d be more than happy to help Merrick after hours, from within her house.

She just had to figure out how to get Merrick and his friends to go along with her plans before she ran out of time.

A heavy thump in the hall brought Anne to the edge of her chair. At the sound of a hoarse voice calling something that resembled Merrick’s name, she rose cautiously to her feet. Did those disgusting things come down here? Surely not. And if they did, they wouldn’t last long in a cavern full of men who knew how to kill them.

Again, the voice called out. This time there was no mistaking the distinct sound of Merrick’s name.

She glanced at his sleeping form, debating whether to wake him first or investigate herself. Recalling how grumpy he’d been without sleep, she went to the door and poked her head outside. Her gaze swept down the dim corridor. It stopped on a dark form halfway inside a doorway, three doors down. As she squinted at the form, trying to identify it, fingers moved against the stone floor.

Anne rushed to the crumpled body. She skidded to a halt, no more than two feet away as she recognized the man. “Declan?”

“Fetch … Merrick…” A groan erupted from his throat, and he curled forward, clutching at his arm.

Anne’s stare fixed on the scarlet stained rag tied around Declan’s arm. When he pulled his hand away, his fingers were drenched with blood.
Oh God above.

A wave of nausea churned her stomach. Her knees turned to jelly. She clutched at the jagged stone to steady herself against a rush of dizziness and swallowed back the bitter taste of bile. Cuts she could handle, but this … She’d never seen so much blood.

With a shake of her head, she cleared away her shock and reclaimed her senses. Running back to Merrick’s room, she thrust open the door. “Merrick, get up!” She darted to the bed and gave his shoulder a hard shake. “Merrick!”

Jerking awake with a grunt, he looked at her in confusion. Groggily, he lifted to one elbow, his frown firmly intact.