Immortal Sacrifice: #4 The Curse of the Templars (33 page)

“Have faith, brother,” Caradoc murmured.

Faith. He asked for faith when he himself could not exercise his own. ’Twas faith that bound them to this calling. Faith that united them in duty. With his unwillingness to hold true to his convictions—
and his oaths—
Caradoc requested too much.

“Twenty-eight and a half.
I have twenty-eight to the lady in front.” The auctioneer gestured at the man in the back of the room. “Do you care to give twenty-eight and a half?”

Tane ground his teeth together.
Counted heartbeats until he could remain silent no more. Angry beyond all measure, he jerked on his arm, desperate to override Isabelle’s bid.

But the pressure on his arm intensified, arcing pain all the way to Tane’s shoulder.
He bit back the oath that threatened to explode from the depths of his soul. “Bid!” he urged through clenched teeth.

“Nay.”

God’s blood! He would condemn them both.

“Twenty-eight.
Going twice. Do I hear twenty-eight and two?”

Tane squeezed his eyes shut tight.
They would both be expelled from the Order. Whilst Caradoc might have the comfort of spending an eternity in condemnation with a soft and willing woman, Tane would not know such peace. Nor would he experience the relief of death when he killed the creature that claimed the last of his soul and Mikhail—or the knight who happened to stand at Tane’s side—would end his suffering at last. Nay, banished from the Temple meant eternal damnation. Iain evidenced the struggle, and he did not suffer alone, as Tane would.

“Twenty-eight.
Item 1277, sold to number 4351.” The auctioneer gestured at Isabelle with his gavel, then struck it against the podium, concluding the bidding.

The sound was like a death knell to Tane’s ears.
He surged to his feet, intending to drag Caradoc from the great hall and pummel him into senselessness.

Instead, Caradoc bolted from his chair and shoved his way through the crowd.

Falling into pursuit, Tane gave little regard to the men and women who stood in his way. He shouldered through the bidders who had conceded much earlier on Caradoc’s heels. Beyond the doors, the crowded room gave way to an expansive hall. Only a few observers lingered, figures Tane gave no consideration. He grabbed Caradoc by the shoulder and dragged him to a halt. “By all that is sacred, what are you doing?” His voice bounced off the tall ceiling and echoed down the corridor.

Caradoc twisted out of his grasp.
He pointed at a man lounging against a marble column who was hastily punching something into his phone. A man with long, red hair who Tane recognized long before the figure’s head snapped up and he looked directly at them. Declan.

“Discovering who our brother spies for.”

The words had hardly left Caradoc’s lips before Declan darted for the patio doors. Caradoc charged past Tane.

Slowly, sense filtered past Tane’s outrage.
’Twas no concession wrought from weakness—the sacrifice of the tears had been deliberate. Somehow, someway, Caradoc discovered an important factor in Declan’s nefarious behavior. A factor that could only mean Declan’s presence here was to thwart the acquisition of the tears. Tane should not be surprised, should have assumed such when he first spied Declan in the
Villa Igiea’s
lobby. Declan’s recent behavior and the way he had delved into suspicious solitude marked him as a traitor in the making. Yet Tane could not bring himself to swallow the idea that one he had been so close to could be capable of turning against the Templar. Against the Almighty.

Swallowing down a bellow of fury, Tane raced after Caradoc.
He burst onto the patio in time to see Caradoc’s blond head bob down the stairs leading to the ornate gardens. Tane took a quick survey of the landscape, made a hard right turn, and sprinted down a side path.

Chapter
32

C
aradoc’s lungs burned. Declan had always been fast. But Caradoc had never needed to combat the Scot’s speed. In years past, the same speed had been a gift to the men who fought at Declan’s side. Swift movement meant even swifter kills, and Declan’s sharp sense of strategy brought them victory when ’twas most needed.

Now, Caradoc despised the very physical gift he had once praised.
Declan ran like the wind, and though Caradoc was no meager runner himself, the chase took its toll. His breath labored. His chest constricted to painful limits.

Worse, the gates loomed ahead.
Once Declan made it through those iron barriers, ’twould require an act of divine intervention to detain him. The village waited beyond, a maze of alleys, streets, and shops Declan could find refuge in.

Caradoc swore beneath his breath and willed more energy into his legs.
Movement beyond a tall cluster of lime trees drew his attention, slowing his already hindered pace. He glanced between the trees and the approaching gate. A visitor to the villa? Or an unknown ally of Declan’s?

Time moved in slow motion as Caradoc descended another set of pavestone stairs, his attention torn between the approaching intruder and Declan’s hasty departure.
Less than twenty feet away, the Scot barreled around a fountain, nearly knocked over a woman and child, and sped down the widening path. Fifteen feet to the gate. Ten.

Tane burst from behind the grove of trees in a dead-on sprint.
He hurdled over a low growing bush and landed on the path, less than five feet from Declan.

Fueled by the sudden change of fate, Caradoc ran with renewed vigor.
He pounded past the fountain and made a wide berth around the startled mother and toddler. As he hit the path that led to the ornate gateway out, Tane lunged for their traitorous brother. Catching him around the midsection, momentum propelled them forward, and Declan’s back collided with a thick iron post. His pained cry blended with Tane’s winded grunt.

“Och, get off me!
I have done naught wrong,” Declan protested. He shoved at Tane’s thick shoulders.

Caradoc jogged up to the pair as Declan managed to free an arm.
In a highland fury, Declan swung at Tane’s dark head. Tane ducked, giving Caradoc opportunity to grab Declan by the wrist and twist his arm behind him. Before Declan could calculate the change in assailants, Caradoc snatched his second arm and jerked it too to the small of the Scot’s strong back. With a fierce upward crank, Caradoc assumed advantage. Declan stilled.

“Who do you spy for?”
Caradoc demanded.

“I donna ken your meaning.”

“Aye, you do,” Tane insisted, stepping forward into Declan’s space. He cocked a fist at his shoulder. “’Tis the reason you have been skulking around in shadows, ignoring Mikhail, abandoning the brotherhood you were sworn to. Who is it who controls you?”

A low, menacing growl came from Declan, haunting enough to make both Caradoc and Tane hesitate.
They exchanged glances, and uneasiness filtered into Caradoc’s blood. ’Twas no mortal sound. Had Azazel invaded Declan, as he had done to Julian?

Caradoc gave Declan a none-too-gentle shake, wrenching his arms at such an angle ’twould have dropped a lesser man to his knees.
Declan stumbled, let out another agonized groan, but the rage in his profile evaporated. The hard line of his mouth gave way to submission, and he stopped straining for freedom.

“Check his pocket, Tane.
Recover his phone. If he will not tell us, we will discover the answers ourselves.”

Tane stuffed a hand into Declan’s jacket and pulled a slim black phone from the inside pocket.
He flashed it at Caradoc. “What shall I do with it?”

“Keep it on you.
We will take it to Raphael when we deliver the relic.”

Nodding, Tane tucked the phone into his jeans pocket.
“Aye.”

“Och, Caradoc, you ken not what you do.
Are we not brothers? Do you believe, in your heart, I would betray the Order—betray you?” Declan turned his head, looking over his shoulder at Caradoc. Bright and earnest, his blue eyes reflected genuine disbelief that they had restrained him.

Caradoc resisted the silent plea for compassion and averted his gaze.
The words might sound convincing, his look equally honest, and yet, Azazel was capable of great trickeries. He dared not loosen his hold even a fraction, for if ’twas an act, he did not wish to lose the traitor now that they had finally caught him.

“’Tis not for me to judge, brother,” he answered quietly as he shoved Declan through the gate.
“’Tis for Mikhail to decide.”

A whole new bout of energy hit Declan, and he lurched against Caradoc’s restraining hold.
“You canna take me to Mikhail. I have greater work to do.”

“If ’tis so important, Mikhail will allow you to continue it.”

“Nay!”

He twisted violently, using strength Caradoc could not define.
In all their years together, this sort of power had never been part of the Scot’s composition. Whilst true, he was a formidable warrior, he could not have overpowered Caradoc even a few short months ago. Now, ’twas all Caradoc could do to maintain his hold on Declan’s wrists, even with his seraph’s oath said. He tightened his grip, twisted Declan’s arms once more, demanding surrender.

“Let me go!
You donna ken the truth. You are one more tainted knight who has disgraced the Order. ’Tis you who have wronged, not me.”

Beyond the gardens, Caradoc escorted Declan into a narrow ally, untouched by the afternoon sun.
He shoved his brother against a stone building and pinned him in place by the shoulders. “What nonsense do you speak? ’Tis you who have abandoned the ties of brotherhood. You who have disgraced us by interfering with the business of seraphs. You go too far this time, Declan. You will cause Isabelle no further pain.” He raised a fist, ready to strike him and silence his unrestrained tongue.

Tane’s hand clamped around Caradoc’s wrist, restraining his fist.
“’Tis not the place, Caradoc. Nor the time.” Inserting a shoulder between Caradoc and Declan, he forced Caradoc to take a step back. “He has wronged many, but as you said, ’tis Mikhail’s place to punish him, not ours.”

Biting back the rage that blistered through his limbs, Caradoc yielded to Tane’s command of the situation.
He jerked his head toward Declan’s hands. “Restrain him.”

“Aye.”
Tane pulled off his belt and quickly looped it around Declan’s wrists in a figure eight pattern. With a sharp yank, he pulled the leather tight enough it bit into the Scot’s skin.

Declan grimaced, but he did not make a sound.
Like the rest of the surviving Templar knights, his body was too familiar with torture to be weakened by the simple restraints Tane had fashioned. And yet, he was smart enough to recognize when he had been bested and when to yield the fight.

“I will ask you once more, Declan,” Caradoc said.
“Who is it you spy for? Who has coerced you into disclosing Isabelle’s actions? Who sent you here?”

Bright blue eyes met Caradoc’s narrowed gaze, full of defiant anger.
His mouth, however, mocked. Pulled up at one corner, it twisted into a sneer. “You may look, but you willna find the answers. You are not worthy of the secrets.”

Disgusted, Caradoc turned away before he cast all sensibility aside and wiped that self-satisfied smirk off with his fists.
“Take him to Raphael, Tane, and the phone.” With slow, even steps to temper his simmering rage, he started down the ally toward the wide, main street and the colorful merchant’s that lined the walks.

Tane pulled Declan off the wall with surprising ease, given Declan’s taller, stockier build.
“What of you? Of the relic?”

Caradoc slowed to a stop.
He gazed at Shapiro’s villa, the remaining duty he had yet to fulfill landing square between his shoulder blades. Whilst he had stopped Declan, the inevitable fight that lay ahead would prove twice as difficult. Especially since he had just ordered his only ally away. He took a deep breath. Expelled it forcibly. “I must save a seraph’s daughter.”

“And of the tears?”
Tane pressed.

“Aye,” Caradoc murmured.
“Tell Raphael I shall bring them on the morrow.” Lifting his shoulders, he willed confidence into his spine. “We shall all return to the Temple tomorrow.”

Laughter, more chilling than any foul cry from the pits of Azazel’s realm, erupted from Declan’s throat.
Coarse, hollow, and haunting, it lifted the hairs on the back of Caradoc’s neck and lodged ice in his veins. He remained still as stone, frozen in place by the frightening noise that possessed his brother.

“You will fail,” Declan proclaimed, before he barked another spine-tingling laugh.

Pushed to the ends of his limits, Caradoc spun around to face Declan. Four long strides brought him even with Tane. Close enough that when he loosed his fist, it slammed into Declan’s temple.

Solid bone ground against Caradoc’s knuckles.
But at last, the Scot fell silent.

* * *

Isabelle clenched her fingers around the rental car’s steering wheel as her cell phone rang again. Grinding her teeth, she eased onto the brake and slowed to a stop before a red light. Her gaze pulled to the passenger’s seat and her purse, which held the phone.

We hold the advantage.
Though he might threaten, ’tis the tears he wants.

Caradoc’s encouraging words echoed in her mind.
He’d predicted Paul would call. Urged her not to answer the phone. She clung to the reminder that Paul couldn’t threaten her with September if she didn’t answer, and forbade her hand to leave the wheel and reach for the noise-making gadget.

Paul wouldn’t hurt September until one of two things happened—either Isabelle failed to arrive at the
Villa Valguarnera
or someone told him she’d left Sicily with the necklace.

At least, she tried to convince herself of that.
In reality, she couldn’t help but wonder if Paul wasn’t crazy enough to do the opposite just because she’d pissed him off.

The light changed to green, and she moved forward at a steady pace.
With the tears locked in her trunk, and her daughter’s fate swaying tediously in the balance, the idea of doing anything but driving straight to the
Villa Valguarnera
and exchanging one priceless object for another felt wrong. Completely and utterly wrong. What kind of mother took chances and deliberately defied a kidnapper’s orders? What would September say if she suffered a permanent injury, when she discovered her mother had
bartered
with her safety?

As Isabelle’s stomach heaved, she steered to the side of the road.
She couldn’t do this. If Caradoc was wrong, and Declan wasn’t the man spying on her, someone was watching. Someone would know she’d gone back to the hotel as opposed to following Paul’s instructions. That someone would tell Paul, and September would pay the price.