Immortal Hope (17 page)

She fingered the cross on the top of one serpent’s head and chuckled. Anne was probably having a heyday trying to trace this to her silly Templar theory.

“Sophie, darling, are you staying in there all night?”

Chandler’s soft voice disrupted her thoughts. “Be right out.” She hastily dragged a brush through her hair and gave the gown one last tug. Three weeks of working together and pretending they didn’t want to rip each other’s clothes off was about to pay off. Big time. Hence the reason for her new negligee.

She opened the bathroom door to find Chandler lounging on her bed. Bare-chested, he leaned on one elbow and patted the mattress. She took a moment to appreciate him, assessing fantasy against reality. Her gaze skimmed over broad shoulders, a smooth hard chest, and came to rest on his already-tented cotton boxers.

She moved toward him, flipping off the light as she passed the table. Moonlight illuminated the room. “Hey, handsome,” she purred as she set a knee on the mattress.

Trailing manicured nails along his thigh, she watched his eyes shift from appreciative to hungry. Teasingly, she traced the length of his erection, listened to him suck in a sharp breath. As she tucked her fingers inside his waistband, the light glinted off her armband.

“What’s that, beautiful?” Chandler murmured as she tugged the fabric down.

Flashing him a sultry smile, she twisted to present him with a side view. She batted her eyes. “Don’t I look like Cleopatra?”

The light in his heated stare intensified. He sprung upright and caught her arm, his fingers digging in cruelly. “Where did you get this?”

Sophie tried to twist free, but Chandler tightened his grip. He yanked her closer. “Where did you find the serpents?”

Sophie froze, her blood cold. The difference in his voice, a guttural sound so unlike his usual smooth bass, set her senses on red alert. She swallowed and dragged her gaze from his fingers to his face.

His usually warm and inviting brown eyes glittered like pieces of amber. But something wasn’t right. It was dark, his pupils should be wide and round. Not tiny slits that opened vertically. She’d seen a ghost like that once. It had terrorized her first apartment in Kansas City. When her butcher’s knife had vaulted through the room and lodged in the cabinet above her head, she’d fled to California.

Fighting back a shudder, she tugged on her arm. “You’re hurting me, Chandler.”

He let out a snarl and flung her onto the bed. He pounced on top of her, pinning her hands above her head as he pried at the armband. When it didn’t budge, he lifted his arm and backhanded her. “Who gave you the serpents, bitch?”

Holy shit.

A thousand tiny needles stabbed into her face where his knuckles met her cheekbone, followed by a wash of heat. She struggled against his hold. Kicked her feet. Thrashed. “Get off me!”

Chandler sat on her legs. His fingers attacked the band of brass around her bicep with a vengeance. Nails dug into her skin as he tried to pry the serpents’ heads apart. The trinket filled with warmth and tightened like a clamp.

She lunged forward, breaking his hold on her wrists. Her arms free, she flailed and pushed, using surprise to her advantage. God, she’d never realized how strong Chandler was. That so much strength could come from what was otherwise a rather average build.

“You will surrender the serpents one way or another,” he growled as he hit her again. Her head snapped sideways, and her other cheek broke out in throbbing pain.

“Get the hell off me!”

With strength she didn’t know she possessed, she used the mattress for leverage and bucked him loose. It took less than a second to scramble off the bed and race for the door. She slammed it shut as he bolted after her. To buy a few minutes of time, she propped a chair beneath the knob.

Sophie snatched at the phone and punched in 911.

From behind the bedroom door, an unearthly growl shook the walls.

The phone clattered to the floor as her bedroom door splintered apart. Chandler emerged, her heavy bedside lamp in his hands. He tossed it aside and stalked toward her, the malicious gleam in his eyes unmistakable.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!
She had to get out of here.

Her eyes darted around the room as she backed up, searching for something she could use to defend herself.

Chandler moved faster. He caught her unadorned arm and jerked her around to face him. His fingers dug into her shoulders as he stared down at her. “Seraphs die.”

Seraphs? What the hell? Didn’t matter—
die
was more important. She had no intention of complying. “Get the hell away from me.”

She brought her knee up, ramming it into his groin. The unnatural howl he let out sent a fresh new burst of fear surging through her. She struggled to believe it came from the man she’d invited home for what was supposed to be a night of exceptional sex. It held an animalistic quality, a hollowness that mirrored the spiritual voices she’d become accustomed to. But this was no simple ghost.

He dropped to his knees, and the thought briefly occurred that he was at least somewhat vulnerable. Whatever he was, he wasn’t all-powerful.

She sidestepped him, reaching for the lamp he’d discarded.

His hand shot out and latched around her ankle. A firm tug snatched her feet out from under her, and she fell. Her elbow smacked against a glass-topped end table, knocking it sideways. Glass shattered.

She ignored the warm wetness that flowed down her arm and scrambled to her knees. Using her free leg, she kicked with all her might, driving several blows of her heel into his head. His fingers loosened, and she lunged for the lamp.

Chandler swayed to his feet, his mutterings now unintelligible.

Panting, she rolled onto her back and clutched the lamp in both hands.

As he reached for her, Sophie swung the heavy brass like a baseball bat. It smashed into his face. Blood poured from where his nose had been, and he covered his face with his hands. She swung again before he could right himself. The lamp hit him in the temple, and Chandler toppled backward.

He swayed on unsteady legs.

Sophie jumped to her feet and threw the lamp away. As she raced for the front door, a heavy thump sounded behind her. She glanced over her shoulder to find Chandler in an unmoving heap. Not willing to see if he would rise again, she jerked her coat off the peg and dashed outside.

She didn’t stop running until she rounded the corner two blocks away. There, she sagged against the side of a brick building and sucked in deep lungfuls of air. Hugging herself, her hand grazed the metal beneath her coat, and she closed her fingers around the hidden armband. Good God, what had Gabe sent her?

This couldn’t be real. She should go to the police. From the sound of distant sirens, they were already en route anyway. Turning herself in would be the smartest thing.

But as surely as her arm throbbed and her face stung, she knew the police couldn’t help her.

Someone, or more correctly
something,
wanted this armband. Until she found a way to get rid of it, this wasn’t going to stop.

She lifted her gaze and studied the street. Shadows hugged the walls, footsteps echoed in the darkness.

She couldn’t stay here.

She turned toward the streetlamp and hurried down the sidewalk. Her pace quickened and she broke into a jog. Four blocks down, Sophie stopped in front of the welcoming glow of St. Michael’s Cathedral and stared up at the white double doors.

It had been a good fifteen years since she’d been inside a church. She wasn’t Catholic—they might turn her away.

Screw it.

Determined, she marched up the stairs and pushed the doors open.

Inside, a man in a long black robe attended to a large arrangement of fresh flowers in front of a massive wooden cross. “I’ll be right with you,” he called out warmly.

Shoot, how did she address him? Sir? Mister? Reverend …
Father.
That’s right. Mary Sue had always talked about Father Leopold when they were growing up.

“Father…” She began in a shaky voice. “I think…” Oh dear God, she couldn’t begin to say this, could she? Turning toward an elaborate mosaic on the wall, she pretended interest while her mind worked at the words.

“Yes?” he prompted.

Sophie gulped. If anyone was likely to believe her, it would be the Catholics. They still believed in possessions and exorcisms. She expelled a deep breath and whispered, “I think a demon just attacked me.” She winced at the ridiculousness and waited for the priest’s certain laughter.

“Sophie MacPherson, I’ve been waiting on you.”

Wide-eyed, she turned around. Her gaze settled on a head of thick, cropped gray hair. Arms outstretched, he beckoned her into his embrace. Familiar blue eyes smiled in warm welcome, and the comforting scent of vanilla spice assuaged her fears.

No freakin’ way.
Despite his chopped hair, he looked exactly like Anne’s boss.

“Gabe?”

“Father Gabriel, for now. Come. We have much to discuss.”

CHAPTER
12

Bright sunlight brought Anne out of an erotic dream. As she opened her eyes, she half expected to find Merrick looming over her, his mouth at her breast once more. Her body throbbed, her heart banged hard. Beneath her thong underwear, she was shamefully moist.

Agitated, she kicked the covers aside and sat up. This had to stop. She refused to confront another night of restless sleep because the man she wanted—who seemingly wanted her as well—was too damn hot and cold. But until she could speak to Sophie, she needed to keep her mind on something else.

She slid out of the bed and headed for her bathroom. Beyond the wide arch that separated the sink and wall-length mirror from the bedroom, she surveyed her surroundings, seeing the luxury for the first time. Marble countertops. Brass fixtures. Double sinks. Her eyes fell to the bathtub, and her cheeks heated. It was large enough to make a man Merrick’s size comfortable; someone clearly chose the tub with something other than bathing in mind.

Damn Gabe. She didn’t need images of Merrick in that tub when she was trying to keep her mind
off
her reluctant knight.

She went to the glass-enclosed shower behind her and turned the faucets on. As the water ran, she stripped out of her clothes and left them in a heap on the floor. When she stepped inside, she let out a blissful sigh and turned her face into the warm droplets.

Clean at last.

Her mind wandered to her conversation with Merrick while she lathered. She now realized the house Gabe helped her find hadn’t been a coincidence. Abigail Montfort wasn’t killed by thieves, and the house hadn’t been sacked for her spell book. It was all Azazel’s doing.

How could crucifixion nails give a demon the power to overtake God? What other relics did he have his eye on? Merrick hadn’t elaborated on that. Probably because the relics had something to do with the things in the inner sanctum since he’d shut down with the convenient excuse her intended had to reveal that secret place.

She dismissed the frown that pulled at her brow and focused on the pieces of history that fit into Merrick’s puzzling tale.

She already knew the Templar’s rise in status came from hush money. Saint Bernard and Pope Innocent II wanted something kept silent, and they’d sacrificed a great deal to see it done. Merrick proved legend true by admitting they had found relics beneath the Temple Mount. Important relics. What held the kind of threat that could bend the only true power to its knees?

Damn it all, she had to get into the inner sanctum. There she suspected she’d find written histories on the Order. Which would serve her needs better than anything—she’d have actual fact to cite.

If not for her death vision, she’d tell Merrick who she was and be done with the whole thing. Yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that the oath he wanted her to swear would lead directly to that death. Until she knew exactly what caused that chilling scene, she had to keep her mouth shut. Never mind all the other complications that oath presented, namely her promotion, or lack thereof if she pledged herself to Merrick.

God, she hoped seducing Merrick would do the trick. She needed to figure out that plan fast.

She pressed a hand to her growling stomach. And she really needed to talk to Mikhail about the food. A week here, and she’d lose ten pounds. Not to mention the fact that these men really weren’t eating well at all. Who subsisted off of greasy slop and hard-as-nails bread?

Anne turned off the faucets and stepped out of the shower. Wrinkling her nose, she stared at her clothes. Right about now, she’d give anything for her comfortable sweats. With a heavy sigh, she bent over and picked up her jeans. She could live with another day in them. She’d borrow another of Merrick’s shirts. The socks were a necessity she could stomach, but she absolutely refused to spend another day in dirty underclothes.

She toed her thong panties aside and shrugged into the rest of the garments. When the denim brushed against her bare bottom, a slightly wicked feeling made her giggle. Surrounded by a hundred knights or so, and she was going commando.

Humming to herself, she stuffed her feet into her ankle boots and pulled open the hallway door. Time for a chat with Mikhail before her stomach turned inside out. Assuming she could find his office in that maze of tunnels below. She hadn’t exactly had the best view when Merrick brought her there the first time.

It felt good to be working toward something useful, and in better spirits, she descended into the underground barracks. There she searched her memory for which way Merrick had gone. Left. He’d gone left, then right, and then stopped at the end of the hall.

Oddly, the halls filled with silence as she made her way down their darkened lengths. Identical doors faced the corridor, dark and imposing. Behind a few, snores drifted to her ears. Beyond others, she caught the rustle of movement, a shuffle of feet, the scrape of a chair. It was as if the entire Order obeyed some code for early morning silence.

Then again, Merrick had defended the gate at night. Last night, the halls had been full, filled with laughter and the camaraderie of men.