Immortal Hope (9 page)

“Declan’s hurt. He’s in the hall.”

The frown disappeared, giving way to immediate concern. He leapt off the bed and stalked to the door.

She followed as he stormed down the hall. “Get back inside,” he instructed on a backward glance.

Ignoring his gruff order, Anne hurried past Merrick and rushed to Declan’s side. The blood wasn’t so shocking the second time, and she knelt in front of him to take his good hand in hers. “What happened?”

Declan’s expression twisted. He answered with a barely discernable shake of his head.

“Damnation!” Merrick’s oath cracked through the air as he joined Anne, towering over Declan’s injured arm. He bent down and gave the soggy crimson cloth a jerk, tightening it. “Who did this?”

“Caradoc,” Declan croaked.

Their eyes met, and something Anne couldn’t recognize passed between the two men. Confused by why one of their friends would attack Declan, and by Merrick’s impassive reaction, she furrowed her brow and rocked back on her heels.

“Anne.” Merrick turned to her, his voice low and clear. “Go down the corridor behind us. Turn left at the end. Four doors on your right, you will find Farran. Fetch him.”

Confronted with a wounded man’s needs, she ignored the shaking in her hands and jogged away. Her boots clicked against the stone, echoing through the long, dim passage. Caradoc attacked Declan. Why? She’d sensed nothing but camaraderie between the men in Mikhail’s office. When Caradoc knelt before her, she’d noticed nothing negative in his energy. Had they argued? Was this how men here solved differences?

At Farran’s heavy door, she banged until her fist throbbed. The instinct to shout gripped her tight, but something about the way Merrick and Declan exchanged looks kept her silent. She’d passed a dozen other doors, and for some reason, Merrick sent her here. An oddity that said he didn’t want others involved. Also strange.

The door swung open. Farran greeted her with a scowl. “What do you want, wench?”

Wench? She cringed inwardly. Her pride demanded she tell him just exactly what she thought of his crude slang. Reminding herself Declan’s needs were more important, she pushed aside her temper and pointed down the hall. “Merrick sent me. Declan’s hurt.”

Without a word, Farran slammed the door shut and shouldered past her. Though his strides were long and purposeful, he didn’t hurry.

Following at a distance, Anne couldn’t help but notice Farran’s impressive size. Though not as tall as Merrick, his broad shoulders had the same difficulty with the narrow doorways, and he had to turn sideways to pass through. She let her glance skim down his back, noting with appreciation how his dark jeans pulled tight across firm buttocks and thick thighs. She imagined that Webster’s definition of
foul tempered
might reference Farran’s name, but damn, the man certainly knew how to take care of himself. She had colleagues who went to the gym every day and they wouldn’t ever come close to looking like these men.

Good grief, if things were different, she’d be in heaven. This place was a made-to-order catalogue for single women. Pick hair color, eye color, and the rest of the package was waiting and ready. Assuming one could ignore their surly attitudes.

She frowned at the displaced thought. A man was hurt, and she was admiring the view. How insensitive could she be?

And how come, when Farran was put together as nicely as Merrick, she didn’t get the same flutters in her belly Merrick stirred? Farran was no more unpleasant than her current guardian.

Farran dropped to a squat near Declan and Merrick. The two men conferred in low voices, but she couldn’t make out their words. In unison, they rose and grabbed Declan beneath the arms. As they hefted him up, the Scot struggled to maintain his footing. He leaned against Merrick with a groan.

Merrick gave her a hard look. “Wait in my chambers. ’Tis not safe for you in these halls.”

Mikhail hadn’t mentioned any danger, but this was the second reference Merrick made to it. She had door after door of big strong man, all completely capable of using a sword, and probably familiar with a few other weapons too. She couldn’t think of anyplace more safe.

Then again, several hours ago she wouldn’t have believed two friends could come to blows and one would have his arm nearly cut off. Maybe the men weren’t quite as noble as their code dictated they ought to be. She’d read accounts about Templar sects that became corrupted by power and ruled in tyranny. If men like that dwelled here, she could understand Merrick’s statement. He wasn’t exactly the epitome of chivalry either.

Unwilling to test Merrick’s warning, she closed herself inside his room and slumped in the chair. The silence settled on her shoulders, thick and imposing. She glanced around, hoping she’d missed a book, a television, or a radio hiding in some corner. But all she found were bare shelves, a tall wardrobe that surely held his clothes, and the sparse furniture—the simple chair she sat in, his large bed, a well-worn trunk, and a small table beneath his window. A closed door on the opposite wall disguised what she assumed was the bathroom.

A sigh tumbled free. No noise, no distraction, nothing to occupy her mind. No wonder he was such a grump. He was missing all the pleasures in life.

The utter lack of modern conveniences only reminded her again that this would never work. She couldn’t spend more than a few hours in this … prison. Too much silence would make her crazy. For that matter … She glanced down at her clothes. She didn’t have a thing to wear.

Which didn’t really matter, given she’d be gone by the end of the night. Maybe tomorrow evening she’d drive down from Atchison and do whatever it was Merrick expected of her. As far as this intended stuff went—she absolutely didn’t buy into that. Besides, even on the off chance it wasn’t some fabrication, she couldn’t see herself getting attached to one of these antiquated men. It might be fun for a while, but soon enough, all the chauvinism would get stale.

Her stomach growled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since yesterday’s lunch. Another reason she had to get home—Dr. Knowles was coming to dinner tomorrow night with his wife.

Thoughtfully, she slid the armband off and examined it. Nehushtan. Ancient Hebrew texts referred to the snake on a pole that could heal. Jesus had compared Moses’s raising of the serpent to the raising up of the Holy Son. Eternal life, salvation—this trinket caused all this. One stupid piece of jewelry couldn’t be that important.

With a shake of her head, she squeezed her eyes shut. This was so not happening. She couldn’t be descended from angels. She
had not
worked for an archangel.

She set the armband on the chair and stood up. Crossing the room, she watched it warily. When she reached the bed, the damn thing disappeared. A weight in her hand told her where it had gone. She glanced down and rolled her eyes.

So if this wasn’t happening, just what explained that?

Groaning, she flopped onto the bed. Immortal knights, archangels … What did Gabe expect her to do—jump for joy, sing, and dance while she threw away her career? Clearly, he’d picked the wrong woman. This kind of fly-by-the-seat-of-one’s-pants stuff was something up Sophie’s alley, not hers.

Anne’s eyes widened, and she sucked in a sharp breath. Sophie. Unease filtered down her spine as she dropped her gaze to the brass serpents. Good God, he hadn’t picked the wrong woman—he’d picked them both.

CHAPTER
6

Declan’s wound gaped wide, exposing white bone beneath. He groaned as Merrick and Farran eased him onto the fresh linens of a newly made bed within the infirmary. Merrick squeezed the Scot’s good shoulder. Though the tear in Declan’s flesh was bad, Merrick had seen worse. Declan had survived worse before the fateful day they had stumbled upon the scrolls beneath the Temple Mount. Aye, Declan would recover.

Uriel, with his cart of modern medical supplies and time-honored herbal treatments, quickly assumed command. Muttering a stream of unintelligible words beneath his breath, the angel of healing pulled Declan’s arm into the light, ran his thumb up his vein, and gave him an injection of some clear fluid.

In moments, Declan’s eyelids lowered, his head lolled sideways, and his breathing leveled.

Merrick turned to Farran, indicating the door with a jerk of his head. Farran pushed through the heavy wooden barrier with Merrick on his heels. In the corridor beyond, the younger man leaned against the wall and flattened one foot on the stone behind him. His piercing gaze was cold, filled with centuries of anger. “’Twas no accident, Merrick.”

Merrick kept his voice low so it would not carry down the corridor. “Nay. ’Twas Caradoc.”

“Caradoc? But why would—” His furrowed brow smoothed as understanding slowly registered. He looked beyond Merrick, quiet for several drawn-out heartbeats. Then his shoulders slumped with a heavy exhale. “Declan informed me not.”

“He said naught to me as well.”

Merrick did not want to put the necessary question to Farran, but his vows to the Order, his loyalty—no matter how hopeless their purpose—demanded he inquire after the nature of their souls. “How do you fare, Farran? Are you close enough to Azazel that I must cut off a limb to keep you from fighting?”

Farran’s eyes flashed dark. He pushed off the wall and scowled. “I would inform you, as you informed us. You challenge my honor, brother.”

“Nay, Farran, I do not,” Merrick said. “’Tis my duty to inquire. Declan kept his secret, and I must be certain where the rest of you stand.”

His small apology tempered Farran’s initial fury, but the anger that brimmed behind his light brown stare dimmed little. “I have a few good battles left in me. Do not worry, Merrick, I shall inform you, should you need to watch me.”

Merrick took no offense at the roughness of Farran’s voice, for he could well understand the humility of knowing one would soon become useless. He dipped his head in a respectful nod. “Then I shall speak with Caradoc and learn the status of Tane and Lucan. From this point forward, Farran, we stay as one. All five of us—six should Declan heal soon enough—will fight together. No more of this separation.”

“That will not be necessary, Merrick. Nor will it be possible.”

At the sound of Mikhail’s voice, Merrick instantly straightened his back.

“You will continue to advise Caradoc. As second in command, he shall report to you, and you will learn of the status of the rest of your men. However, those three shall soon depart.”

“Depart?” Farran asked.

“I received word from Gabriel just now. Maggie has met the same fate as Abigail.”

“And that is?” Merrick asked. He had assumed Gabriel relocated Abigail Montfort. Gradually he was beginning to realize his refusal to answer Mikhail’s summons left him grossly uninformed. First the return of the seraphs, now Abigail—he was not sure he wished to discover more surprises.

Mikhail’s expression tightened. “Azazel has taken her life, along with the relic she guarded. Azazel now possesses two crucifixion nails. Caradoc, Tane, and Lucan will soon leave for Georgia, to assist with rebuilding the adytum. I am removing them from battle for a time.”

’Twas both punishment and reward. Caradoc would resent Mikhail’s order to set aside his sword. Yet the reprieve from combat would spare their souls a little longer, a gift to all three men. None would admit gratefulness, but in the secret corners of their minds, and when they believed no one would overhear their prayers, they would give thanks.

Merrick refused to acknowledge the stab of jealousy that tightened his chest. “Very well. I shall inform them.”

Mikhail turned to Farran with a warm smile. “Stay with Declan. I must speak to Merrick alone.”

Farran gave no indication his dismissal bothered him. In fact, as Merrick watched him stride through the healing chamber’s door, he detected a degree of relief in Farran’s hurried step. He could not blame him—even after spending nearly a thousand years in his company, Merrick found that Mikhail still had a way of making a man uncomfortable.

As the door swung shut, Mikhail’s smile disappeared. “Have you made progress with Anne?”

If arguing could be considered progress, mayhap Merrick had made headway. He doubted Mikhail would appreciate the sarcasm, however, and shook his head. “She refuses to show me.”

Under the power of Mikhail’s stare, even Merrick, who feared little, shrunk back. “You
must
find her intended. Look around you, du Loire. Observe the way the knights shrivel each time they confront Azazel’s fiends. If we are to overcome his darkness and stop this attack upon the sacred relics, we need Anne. We need the other seraphs. We
will
fail without them. Is this clear?”

“Aye,” Merrick gritted out.

“Then I suggest you use that sharp mind for the greater purpose you serve, instead of this oath to Fulk. Fulk will see his salvation when he is meant to.”

Giving in to frustration, Merrick tossed his hands in the air. “You know so much, why do you not simply tell us who she belongs with?”

A smile tugged at the corner of Mikhail’s mouth, and to Merrick’s complete frustration, the archangel began to laugh.

“I find naught to laugh at in your games, Mikhail.”

Mikhail ceased his laughter, but mirth glinted in his eyes. “Take your frustration up with Gabriel, Merrick. He alone knows, and quite refuses to speak a word of it.”

Merrick bit back an oath. The herald of mysteries was the last archangel he wanted to confront. On more than one occasion, Gabriel’s cryptic words and riddles had caused Merrick grief. ’Twas not surprising that the archangel left the Templar knights to decode his cipher.

Having twice now been taken to task by his commander, Merrick left without further word. He stalked toward his chambers and the source of his current problems.

The door gave easily beneath his firm shove. It thumped into the stone and shuddered on thick iron hinges. Striding into his chambers, he stopped short as he caught sight of Anne lying on his bed. His breath lodged in his lungs. Something deep inside his gut wound down like a vise. His blood warmed, and he felt his cock stir against his thigh.