Immortal Surrender (17 page)

“It’s like that. Wispy. Only full of colors. Like a river of the energies of life.” She waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Never mind. What’s important—you’re a new soul. Completely untainted and utterly innocent.” Her eyes locked with Noelle’s and intensified with meaning. “You were created for this purpose, Noelle. And you better accept it in a hurry.”

“Uh-huh. I suppose lightning will strike me down if I don’t?” So much for believing Anne might be sane. She’d just shot that theory all to hell. She was as crazy as the rest of them and perfectly suited for their little game of charades.

All traces of humor and sympathy vanished from Anne’s expression. She hurried to rise, and opened her mouth as if she intended to say more. Evidently thinking better of it, she snapped her mouth shut just as quickly. Three purposeful strides took her back to the door. There, she hesitated again. Her head bowed, her shoulders bent forward. Her heavy exhale was audible in the silence that spanned between them.

With the gravity a surgeon would give to a patient’s waiting family, she twisted to meet Noelle’s gaze. “No. But you
will
die.”

As the door quietly closed, Noelle flopped back against the sofa’s arm. This was too much. Where these people came up with these ridiculous things, she couldn’t explain. Still, she had to admit their game was tight. They took their role seriously, played the part to a T, and came up with things more fantastic than what she’d heard before. Anne’s little drama had even succeeded in sending another shiver down her spine.

Priceless.

A chuckle worked its way free from her tightened throat. She gave in to the lunacy and began to laugh. Big, unchained bursts of amusement that stirred tears behind her eyes. She tossed her right arm over her eyes to swipe away the straying drops. Beneath her sweatshirt sleeve, something hard rubbed against the bridge of her nose. Something snugged securely around her bicep.

Her amusement strangled in the back of her throat. In slow motion, she sat up and looked to the place near the door where the torc had bounced to a stop.

Empty floor met her gaze.

*   *   *

Farran’s body strained against two days of little sleep. Arm raised, he blocked the demon’s baseball bat and shuddered against the heavy blow. His shoulders ached with the weight of his sword. His thighs burned from the effort of holding himself upright against the heavy blows. Yet he pushed the agony from his mind and eyed Azazel’s foul minion, anticipating the next attack.

Behind him, Caradoc grunted against an onslaught of nytym claws. His back brushed Farran’s, their close quarters a defensive tactic to improve their outnumbered strength. Farran used the momentum of Caradoc’s stumble and lunged forward. In a powerful strike, he arced his sword across his body, aiming for the demon’s unprotected arm. The blade sliced through flesh like a knife put to butter. A bone-chilling howl cut through the air, blending with another to Farran’s left, and the demon stumbled off the road’s shoulder into the tree line.

Farran pursued, unwilling to give the creature a moment’s respite. One more blow, a well-timed drive, and the beast would return to the hellish pit it spawned from.

The demon surged forward, its once-human features now twisted with the evil of its spirit. Yellow fangs gleamed in the moonlight. Darkness shrouded its face, illuminating goatlike, yellow-green eyes. Baseball bat still clenched in bony fingers, it rushed headlong with a ghastly bellow.

Exactly what Farran awaited. He had played the demon, using his fatigue to his advantage. Now the illusion of being the weaker would give him the final upper hand. He bided his time, kept his pace deliberately slow. All part of his planned deception.

With a scream that could chill the very fires of Azazel’s realm, the demon swung wildly. Farran sidestepped to avoid the blow. Gathering the last of his faltering strength, he thrust across his waist and sank his blade into the demon’s exposed side. He jerked his broadsword up, deepening the wound. Shadows poured forth, ran in rivulets down the demon’s leg.

Shock washed across the creature’s widened eyes. As Farran sucked in a heavy breath, he gave his sword one last twist and wrenched it free. With a haunting moan, his opponent folded in on itself and vanished.

Farran braced himself for the darkness that would come next. Nine hundred years of combat, and he had yet to become accustomed to the invasion on his soul. He closed his eyes, dropped his elbows to his knees. In his mind’s eye, he saw the shadows roll down his blade, soak into his hand. Darkness flooded into his veins, raced to his heart where it burst through his body. He gasped against the searing heat. ’Twould seem as if the pain intensified the closer he came to joining Azazel’s ranks. Mayhap it did. Mayhap ’twas an effect of anticipating the agony. He could not know for certain.

As his heart faltered against the evil, struggling to maintain the rhythm of life, Farran dropped to his knees. Hard, wet earth jarred his bones and soaked through his jeans. Gradually the feeling of clawed hands turning him inside out faded, leaving pinpoints of light to flicker behind his eyelids. He breathed long and deep and lifted his chin to open his eyes.

Through blurry vision, he made out a figure as dark as the sky above. Ebony armor clad a powerful frame. Scratches on a heavy shield cut through the onyx color to glint silver in the moonlight. Eyes he had no doubt known once before peered down at him with hate. A dark knight, a fallen Templar. A transformed brother Farran had no hope of overcoming alone, given his exhaustion.

“Petty fool,” the knight hissed. “The forest is mine. Your life belongs to me.”

Farran clenched his hand around his sword. He would not surrender his life without a fight. If he must die, he would inflict what damage he could so his brothers could send the spirit home to the Almighty. He straightened his shoulders and flattened a foot to rise.

The gust of air caught him first. It rustled his hair, stirred the stench of death. He drew back in reflex. From the corner of his eye, he saw the shield. Before he could do so much as clench his teeth, it slammed into the side of his head.

A ringing erupted in Farran’s ears. His vision failed him completely, turning shadows into pitch black. The sword in his hand tumbled free.

CHAPTER 15

“Farran!”

Merrick’s bellow lured Farran from the swimming of his thoughts. He fought for consciousness, struggled to silence the buzzing in his head. He squeezed his eyes shut and groped on the ground in front of him for his fallen weapon.

“Get back!” Closer now, Merrick’s order came from his right. On trembling arms, Farran crawled backward what he hoped was four or five feet. Merrick could handle the knight. With his oath in place, his sword would emerge the victor. Whatever blows Merrick might take, immortality would heal.

He opened his eyes to find three of Merrick and the knight. His sword forgotten, Farran scrubbed at his face and bit back a stream of curses. Damnation! There had been no warning of a dark knight, just nytyms and demons, beasts easily overtaken by their small band. Had any of them anticipated that Azazel would send a knight to the very fringes of the temple, they would have roused the entire Order and combed the sparse woods.

Nay though, they had not, and the oversight nearly cost far more than Farran’s life. Noelle’s purpose would be for naught with his death—a blow the Order could not withstand. He was proof enough of their weakened state.

The three images of Merrick merged into one, and Farran watched as his commander parried off the fiend’s attack. Steel clanged against steel, ringing a death knell. The healing Anne’s light brought to Merrick could not be more evident. His sword arm moved with lightning quickness. His body arced with the practiced grace of one born unto battle. A frisson of envy sliced through Farran. If Noelle had but uttered the oath, he too would know the might he had once possessed. He too could step beside Merrick and fight off the glancing blows.

He would not be a useless heap upon the sodden ground.

Merrick lunged forward, entering the dark knight’s open stance. With the deft thrust, his blade pierced through links of ebony mail and slid deep into the knight’s gut. Though embedded in flesh, the broadsword gave off an odd, bluish-white glow that seeped through the rent skin. In the faint light, blood poured forth, thick and dark.

The knight doubled over on a vile hiss, and Merrick pulled his broadsword free. Taking it in both hands, he arced it over his head. In the moonlight, the ornate hilt that marked Merrick’s sword as equal to Mikhail’s glinted bright gold. He brought it down in a furious slice that sent the knight’s head toppling from his shoulders. It tumbled to the ground, rolled chin over brow, and came to a stop before Farran’s knee. Ghostly eyes stared up, unblinking.

Farran nudged it aside, unable to look upon the face of the brother he had once known. Too many he had lost. Brave men who sacrificed everything to uphold the Almighty’s name, only to die for evil’s purpose. A shudder rolled down his spine, and he grimaced. Dimly, he heard the plaintive sigh of expiration, the last sound an avenged spirit would make before it ascended to the heavens.

Merrick’s boot entered his field of vision. Farran looked up to meet his commander’s grim expression.

“’Tis done.” Merrick nodded at the men behind Farran. “There is naught left of Azazel here. Those we could not slay fled. How do you fare?”

“I live.”

Merrick extended his hand to aid Farran to his feet. As he struggled to rise, he observed the way his commander kept his weight off his left leg. A glance down revealed Merrick did not escape the attack unscathed. His injured thigh bled through Merrick’s white surcoat, staining it with crimson. Farran lifted a brow. “You tore open your wound.”

Merrick glanced down as if he had not realized the injury. He gave a curt nod before releasing Farran. “Anne will mend it.”

“If she does not injure you more.” The hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of Farran’s mouth.

A smile played on Merrick’s mouth before quickly disappearing behind serious black eyes. “Come. We must report to Mikhail. I am certain he did not anticipate the presence of a fallen knight.” He shouldered past Farran, heading for the road once more.

As Farran fell into step behind him, the severed head disintegrated into ash, marking it as one of the eldest fallen knights. Only those who had turned long ago disintegrated when death took their bodies. Giving his former brother the respect his death deserved, Farran stepped over the small gray mound and offered a silent prayer that the spirit’s journey would be swift.

Lucan and Caradoc joined him in the march to the temple’s front porch, both equally as silent. He knew the question that lurked in their minds, for it drummed inside his as well.
Why was no seraph sent to save their brother’s life?

One other haunted Farran—why had he been spared, when he would have willingly exchanged places?

Beyond the wide front doors, the temple lay in silence, as it had since Anne’s coming. For a short time after her pairing, life returned to normal and men gathered in the communal room until the wee hours of morn. Yet now, with Noelle’s arrival, they retreated to their chambers early to tend the wounds of despair alone.

At the top of the stairwell leading to the barracks below, Caradoc clamped a heavy hand on Farran’s shoulder and brought him to a halt. “Your seraph rests upstairs, and yet your sword remains unchanged.”

The reminder of Noelle’s behavior brought Farran’s teeth together so hard he grimaced. His body tensed. Warily, he lifted his gaze to Caradoc’s.

Apology shone behind Caradoc’s hazel eyes. “Nay, brother, I meant no insult. Was I not the one who journeyed with you from Clare so long ago?”

Farran blew out a heavy breath and let his shoulders slump. Of all the people who would understand, ’twas Caradoc. “Aye,” he answered quietly.

“Your place is with her, Farran, not in the barracks amongst the men.”

Involuntarily, Farran’s gaze tracked up the ascending stairs. He chewed on his tongue, debating whether to tell Caradoc the difficulty his suggestion posed. Yet before he could find the words to explain Noelle’s reluctance, Caradoc forged ahead.

“Do you think that Azazel’s knight did not report to him the moment you drove down the lane? The fallen are the strongest of Azazel’s creatures. In a whisper he can relay what we could over the phone.” The grip on his shoulder intensified, urging Farran to turn around. “Mark my words, Farran. Azazel knows of Merrick’s transformation—his sword announces it as clear as a trumpet. The dark lord knows he cannot harm Anne.” Caradoc paused, his words taking on greater weight. “And he knows the woman you brought home is unclaimed.”

A heavy ball of lead rolled inside Farran’s gut. He swallowed against the truth—as long as Noelle refused the oath, her life was in jeopardy. She might detest him, he might find her unacceptable. But their personal concerns made no difference. The Order needed her. They needed the strength she would bring to his sword.

“You must convince her. You are a pair.”

“’Tis not as easy as you suggest. She is—”

Caradoc lifted a hand, cutting off Farran’s protest. “Whatever divides you, you must overcome. Do not retreat to your chambers, old friend. Go to her. Allow her to tend your wounds. There is no better time for you to learn to work together.”

The memory of Noelle’s gentle kiss as she set her mouth to his scar rose in Farran’s mind. Tend him. Would she? A traitorous flicker of hope stirred deep inside his soul. Her fingers would be soft. Her touch tender. He had been but a boy the last time a woman showed him such care.

He squelched the stirring feeling before it could take life. ’Twas not emotion he desired from Noelle. Whether she tended him, mattered not. ’Twas too likely that, like Brighid, the sight of blood would make her ill. “I shall go to her after I see Uriel. I am in no frame of mind to deal with a woman’s weak stomach.”

Caradoc’s fingers refused to release him. He bore down harder, biting into Farran’s sore shoulder muscles. “If she faints ’tis better she do so here than when she may be needed on the field. Make her accustomed to it now.” The warning ran clear in his firm tone—he would issue an order as second in command, if Farran refused.