Immortal Hope (42 page)

The weight of his sword settled deep into Merrick’s shoulder. His muscles burned in protest. He assumed a defensive stance, aware the same weariness would hinder Fulk in time. Fending off the deadly onyx blade, he waited for the moment when he could counterstrike.

From the corner of his eye, he caught Gareth’s presence at his side and sucked in another lungful of air. But before the younger Templar could engage Fulk, a second dark knight descended upon him, leaving Merrick to finish his battle alone.

Distracted by the momentary clang of swords, Fulk glanced over his shoulder at Gareth.

Merrick sensed opportunity. Summoning his strength, he advanced. Strike after strike, he pushed Fulk backward, deeper into the fray of shades and nytyms. Claws raked across Merrick’s face, but he did not feel their sting. Determined to satisfy their oath, Merrick pressed in hard. Taking his broadsword in both hands, he arced it across his body with such power it scored past Fulk’s mail and cut deep into his side.

Yet victory would not so easily be had.

As Fulk twisted away from Merrick’s blade, he lunged in a sideways manner, entering the unprotected area beneath Merrick’s left arm. His sword sank into Merrick’s thigh, so deep it scraped against the bone.

Stunned, Merrick’s eyes widened in horror. Nay. Fulk could not win. He had sworn to release his cousin from Azazel’s hell. Heat seared through his leg, spread up into his abdomen. Merrick glanced down, took in the blood that poured onto his boot.

A wash of dizziness engulfed him. He forced it down and shook his head. Shifting his grip on his hilt, he set his weight on his good leg and trained his thoughts on survival. One blow. ’Twas all he needed. Deep in the chest where his sword would still that foul heart. His oath would be fulfilled, he would not fail the only family left to him.

But Merrick’s body could not match the strength of his will. His leg gave out, and Merrick sank to his knees. He fought back the stars that lit behind his eyes … he fought to drag in a normal breath. The warm sticky wetness of his blood seeped down his leg to pool in the grass beneath his knee.

The wicked smile that twisted Fulk’s features turned Merrick’s stomach. His cousin’s eyes gleamed with the thirst for blood, and the unearthly cry of victory that spilled from his throat turned Merrick’s heart to stone. His shoulders sagged, and he let his chin drop to his chest. As unconsciousness pulled at his mind, a low hum broke out inside his head.

“Du Loire!”

Dimly he recognized the distant call of his name. The voice grew closer, the bellow louder, and Merrick clung to the sound. Each syllable pulled him back from unconsciousness, slowly restored his vision. He sucked in a deep breath, and lifted his chin, setting his jaw against the pain and willing his body to cooperate.

He would not die this way. ’Twas not the death he desired.

Staring into the face of his attacker, Merrick eyed the way Fulk lifted his sword above his head. The strike was predictable—a quick cut meant to sever heads. ’Twas a favored move of his cousin’s and Merrick waited. He had one chance to emerge victorious, and he would not waste his energy.

Time moved in slow motion as the blade descended toward his neck.

At the last moment, Merrick threw his weight into his good leg and propelled himself to his feet. Fulk’s sword connected harmlessly with Merrick’s left shoulder. But Merrick’s blade sank deep into his cousin’s gut.

Agony ripped down Merrick’s spine. He used the last of his strength to jerk his broadsword up, elongating the wound. Fulk’s eyes rounded in disbelief, and the angry beast inside let loose a deafening bellow. As the horrendous noise tapered into a whine, recognition flashed within Fulk’s features. His expression softened. His dark eyes returned to the familiar shade of olive.

His whisper washed across Merrick’s face. “Cousin.”

Merrick did not have time to consider the oddity of what had just happened. In the next moment, a wispy film of white spiraled heavenward. On its heels, however, the darkness spilled forth.

It flooded into Merrick, consuming him with insatiable rage. As if some beast clawed at his insides in a desperate attempt to escape, his body lit with fire. The need to wretch bore down on him with a hammer’s fury, and he instinctively reached for his sword.

Through the bleary haze, he saw only shadows, the ability to decipher between friend and foe an impossible task.

“Merrick.” A hand clamped down on his shoulder.

He knew the voice, and yet he could not place the face. Confused, disoriented, Merrick whirled with a ferocious sweep of his blade.

He did not know whether his attack struck true. Whilst he struggled to make sense of his surroundings, something heavy slammed into his temple.

Darkness blanketed his mind.

CHAPTER
34

Anne turned off the water faucets and stepped out of the shower. She bathed to wash away her shame. As she bent over and took a towel to her hair, the lavender light of dawn spilled through the bathroom’s entryway. Morning. Somehow, she’d made it through the entire night without crumbling into pieces.

A door slammed outside her window, and the towel tumbled from her hands. She stared at the sheers, unmoving, caught between the terrifying fear Merrick had met a terrible fate and the joyous realization the men were home.

The sound of a second closing door pulled her out of her stupor. She bolted to the window. Outside, an entire line of parked vehicles framed the house’s porch, telling her she’d spent far longer in the shower than she’d imagined.

She grabbed yesterday’s clothes off the floor, dressing as she ran for the door. She dashed into the hall and darted down the stairs, her singular thought to find Merrick. Dead or alive, she had to see him. Had to apologize. Oblivious to the cold stone beneath her bare feet, she jogged through the common room, following a pair of men she didn’t know. “Wait,” she called as they stepped into the stairwell.

The pair looked back at her, their somber expressions making her heart skip a beat.

“Where’s Merrick?”

The two knights exchanged wary glances, then wordlessly continued down the stairs.

Sirens screamed in Anne’s head, angry peals that warned her something terrible had happened. Fighting back a wail of despair, she pushed past the two knights and sped down the steps. At the bottom, she took a sharp turn to her right and hurried toward Merrick’s room. Why he would have gone there, instead of to her, she didn’t know. Unless Tane had told him, and he was so angry he didn’t want to see her.

The alternative was too terrible to consider, and she blindly made her way down the hall until she reached his open door. There, Lucan and another man she didn’t recognize stripped Merrick’s bed.

Her world tilted dangerously on its axis. Digging her fingers into the wooden door frame, she hung on tight.
No. No!
She swallowed hard, willed her voice to cooperate. “Where’s Merrick?”

Lucan turned slowly, the sheet slipping from his hands. “Milady,” he murmured. “I did not expect to see you here.”

Anne ground her teeth together to quell a rush of panic. Her stomach flipped wildly at the way Lucan’s eyes didn’t quite meet hers. He turned away, sidetracked by the shirt Merrick had left on the ground when he’d lost his self-control to jealousy. Picking it up, Lucan continued in a low voice, “We lost the nail. Nikolas perished. Gareth is with Uriel. So many others…” Straightening suddenly, Lucan looked at her as if he hadn’t seen her there before. “You should not be here, Lady Anne.”

A wave of sorrow washed through her as she pictured Nikolas’ face. Dead. And Gareth injured—just as her second sight had portrayed. Oh God, did that mean …

“Lucan, where’s Merrick?”

He stared at her, his eyes vacant and unseeing. Then he shook his head. “Merrick injured Caradoc.”

Oh for God’s sake, this was going nowhere. While his strange behavior could be attributed to shock, it did nothing to soothe Anne’s rapidly rising panic. He was evading her question. Through a closing throat she choked out, “Damn it, Lucan, where’s Merrick?”

His brows furrowed faintly, and he looked beyond her into the hall. In a voice so low she had to strain to hear him, he answered, “He is with Farran. But milady—”

Anne didn’t wait for him to finish. Following the directions Merrick had given her the first day she’d arrived, she raced to Farran’s door. For fear he’d refuse to answer if she knocked, she barged inside.

The room was empty. Only the duffel bag on Farran’s bed hinted to the fact he’d been here.

Where the hell were they?

Hurrying through the long corridors, Anne made her way to the infirmary and pushed open the wide double doors. Where the room had been empty, save for Declan, the last time she’d entered, occupied beds lined both walls. Uriel bustled between them, checking IVs, carting bandages, all the while muttering to himself. But Farran was nowhere in sight, and no one matched Merrick’s size.

Distraught, she closed the doors and leaned against them. Tears welled in her eyes, her frustration at impossible limits. The vision that had haunted her plagued her memory, filling her head with all kinds of nightmares. She covered her eyes with her hands, not only to stop the flow of tears but to ground her thoughts.

Downstairs. There were too many vehicles outside to account for the few men she’d encountered so far. They had to be downstairs doing something important. Something she’d probably get in trouble for interrupting. Anne no longer cared. If she didn’t find Merrick, she’d break down in the hall right here.

Striking off at a purposeful pace, she marched to the stairwell that led to the inner sanctum. At the top, she peered down into the dim depths below and watched as several men in black Templar robes hurried back and forth. They were down there all right. And she’d be damned if they stopped her from entering.

She started down the stairs slowly, half expecting someone would yell at her to stop. Footsteps followed behind her, slow, steady beats that matched her own. After about ten steps, she realized the man could have stopped her at any time. Instead, he waited for her. As if she had every right to be in their sacred place.

Encouraged, Anne picked up her pace and took the narrow steps two at a time. When she reached the bottom, she scanned a group of men gathered near the altar and muttered a curse. The only way she’d find out if Merrick or Farran was with them would involve interrupting their prayers. Damn. She pulled in a deep breath, resolved to the only option she could find. If Merrick prayed with them, she’d suffer through a thousand years of his temper. As long as he was okay. Nothing else mattered.

Mikhail nodded at her as he hurried past, sword in hand. At the sight of blood drops on the stone behind him, Anne’s eyes widened. She turned her head, following the direction he took, and gasped as he entered the same off-shooting hall Gabe had dragged her down.

Her gaze settled on an imposing figure standing before a closed door. Arms crossed over his chest, feet spread wide, Farran stood at rigid attention, his stare glued straight ahead. The grimace on his face was unmistakable, and her heart tap-danced as she recognized his features. She’d never been gladder to see the surly knight. He might be unpleasant, but she’d come to realize he was honest. If anyone would tell her about Merrick, Farran would—and he wouldn’t mince words.

Her skirt tangled around her legs as she ran down the corridor. He looked up as she entered the hall, and Anne didn’t need anyone to tell her he wasn’t happy to see her. His jaw tightened even more, and his brows drew together so severely they threatened to become one. Refusing to be intimidated by his unfriendly demeanor, Anne slowed her pace and walked up to him. “Where is he?”

“He does not wish to see you.”

Anne blinked. Did Merrick know? Was he that angry with her? As the questions pummeled her mind, she gradually heard a deeper meaning to Farran’s response. If Merrick didn’t want to see her, he was still alive. Her pulse jumped, a wave of fierce emotion surging through her.

“Is he in there?”

“Aye.”

Anne reached for the door handle, but Farran moved to block her. Positioning himself firmly in front of the opening, he barred her from entry.

“Let me in, Farran,” she demanded evenly.

Farran set his hands on her shoulders and bent down to bring his gaze level with hers. “Anne, he is not himself. He waits for Mikhail to bless his soul and send him from this earth. He told me very precisely he did not wish you to see him like this.”

Like hell. If Merrick was alive, she had an oath to swear. Farran could talk until he was blue in the face, and it wouldn’t matter. She was going inside. No matter what it took. “I don’t give a damn about what he said. Let me in.”

He shook his head. “I cannot. I gave my word.” His fingers tightened on her shoulders, and he turned her away from the door.

Frustration welled. The man she loved was injured. Quite possibly dying. Oaths, vows, honor … She’d had enough. More than enough.

In a moment of sheer insanity, Anne did the only thing she could think of. She spun on her toes and decked Farran in the jaw.

While she doubted her punch had done any real damage, he was so shocked by it, he let her go. Which freed her to do the only other thing her self-defense classes taught her—drive her knee into his groin. A low blow, yes. But desperate times called for desperate measures.

When Farran doubled over, Anne bolted through the doors. The sight that lay before her eyes, however, stilled the frantic beat of her heart. Atop a long table, Merrick still wore his surcoat and mail. His helm sat on the floor, his sword rested on his body. Just as in her vision. But her second sight had never shown her the large crimson stain around his thigh.

She closed her eyes, unable to tolerate the sight of his blood. Her stomach protested with a violent lurch, and for a moment she thought she might faint. But the low, anguished moan that drifted from his makeshift bed jerked her from the dizzying sensations.

She steeled herself with a deep breath. This was Merrick. She had the power to heal his wounds. Save his life.