Undiluted, it is the very essence of the Almighty’s creation. I will allow Merrick to tell you the remaining theology therein. Right now, all you need to know is that you were put upon this earth for a greater purpose.”
A commotion in the corner set Mikhail’s smile free. The three who had answered the summons Merrick and his men ignored, and already heard what was to come, had just made the connection. He grinned at Caradoc. “Take the men outside. The rest is for Merrick and Anne alone. Before you go”—he swept an arm toward Anne—“pledge your loyalty.”
* * *
Angels? A descendant of the Nephilim? Anne’s mind whirled with Mikhail’s ridiculous claims. Beyond the simple implausibility of them, doctrine stated the flood eradicated the Nephilim. No matter how she looked at it, what Mikhail wanted her to believe just couldn’t be true. Then again, a rational person would say her ability to read past lives was impossible. They’d tell her running into a reincarnated knight, who had never really left the Middle Ages, would be ridiculous. Yet she knew the reality firsthand from her visions. While she might doubt Mikhail’s claims about her lineage, she was absolutely convinced about Merrick’s legitimacy. Angels or no angels, she stood among Templar knights.
And these men had the answers she needed. She would give anything to deny that this was real. Even considering the possibility made her feel as foolish as an adult who still believed in Santa Claus. But in thirty-one years, her visions had never been wrong. Her ability to read energy, when it was strong enough to make its presence known, had never led her astray. Right now, the room buzzed with spiritual strength. A power so indomitable she couldn’t hope to ignore it. Every last particle swirling around her reinforced what she wanted to disbelieve. This was real.
Five men lined up in front of her and dropped to one knee, thwarting her ability to consider things further. From their waists, they pulled their swords free and set them on the ground before their flattened feet. The scrape of steel against stone hung in the air.
The man on the far left bowed his head. Shoulders easily twice the size of hers bent, and he leaned one arm on his knee, accenting the thick bulge of his bicep. His sandy-brown hair tumbled forward to cover his face. “Lord Caradoc of Asterleigh.”
Asterleigh? She knew that name. It had once been a medieval village, but now was little more than dust and dirt. Good God, he was a noble! The realization sent goose bumps coursing down her arms. She waited for him to say more, expected him to stand.
When Caradoc didn’t move, Merrick jabbed an elbow in her side. “Return his blade,” he whispered.
Rising, Anne bent to retrieve Caradoc’s broadsword. Not expecting the heavy weight, she almost dropped the thing before she managed to hold on tight enough to lift it up. Holding the flat of the blade in both hands, she presented it to Caradoc. With a crisp nod, he accepted his weapon, stood, and sheathed it.
As Caradoc walked away, the next man in line bowed his head. Built with the same incredible strength as the other two, she admired the way his ribs tapered into a trim waist. His hair was dark like Merrick’s, but it hung straight and smooth, contrary to Merrick’s untamed waves. He was not nearly as handsome as the other two, but she found something about his demeanor pleasing. Maybe he bowed with a bit more grace.
He spoke in a low, smooth voice, “Lucan of Seacourt.”
Again, Anne made the connection to a lost medieval village. Although inventoried by the Normans, the tiny town was nothing but rubble by the mid-1400s. Moved by the fact these two had lost even the history of their origin, her heart swelled. She presented him his sword with reverence and managed a hesitant smile.
The third man repeated his companions’ actions, but before he bowed his dark head, she caught a flash of deep green eyes behind
A commotion in the corner set Mikhail’s smile free. The three who had answered the summons Merrick and his men ignored, and already heard what was to come, had just made the connection. He grinned at Caradoc. “Take the men outside. The rest is for Merrick and Anne alone. Before you go”—he swept an arm toward Anne—“pledge your loyalty.”
* * *
Angels? A descendant of the Nephilim? Anne’s mind whirled with Mikhail’s ridiculous claims. Beyond the simple implausibility of them, doctrine stated the flood eradicated the Nephilim. No matter how she looked at it, what Mikhail wanted her to believe just couldn’t be true. Then again, a rational person would say her ability to read past lives was impossible. They’d tell her running into a reincarnated knight, who had never really left the Middle Ages, would be ridiculous. Yet she knew the reality firsthand from her visions. While she might doubt Mikhail’s claims about her lineage, she was absolutely convinced about Merrick’s legitimacy. Angels or no angels, she stood among Templar knights.
And these men had the answers she needed. She would give anything to deny that this was real. Even considering the possibility made her feel as foolish as an adult who still believed in Santa Claus. But in thirty-one years, her visions had never been wrong. Her ability to read energy, when it was strong enough to make its presence known, had never led her astray. Right now, the room buzzed with spiritual strength. A power so indomitable she couldn’t hope to ignore it. Every last particle swirling around her reinforced what she wanted to disbelieve. This was real.
Five men lined up in front of her and dropped to one knee, thwarting her ability to consider things further. From their waists, they pulled their swords free and set them on the ground before their flattened feet. The scrape of steel against stone hung in the air.
The man on the far left bowed his head. Shoulders easily twice the size of hers bent, and he leaned one arm on his knee, accenting the thick bulge of his bicep. His sandy-brown hair tumbled forward to cover his face. “Lord Caradoc of Asterleigh.”
Asterleigh? She knew that name. It had once been a medieval village, but now was little more than dust and dirt. Good God, he was a noble! The realization sent goose bumps coursing down her arms. She waited for him to say more, expected him to stand.
When Caradoc didn’t move, Merrick jabbed an elbow in her side. “Return his blade,” he whispered.
Rising, Anne bent to retrieve Caradoc’s broadsword. Not expecting the heavy weight, she almost dropped the thing before she managed to hold on tight enough to lift it up. Holding the flat of the blade in both hands, she presented it to Caradoc. With a crisp nod, he accepted his weapon, stood, and sheathed it.
As Caradoc walked away, the next man in line bowed his head. Built with the same incredible strength as the other two, she admired the way his ribs tapered into a trim waist. His hair was dark like Merrick’s, but it hung straight and smooth, contrary to Merrick’s untamed waves. He was not nearly as handsome as the other two, but she found something about his demeanor pleasing. Maybe he bowed with a bit more grace.
He spoke in a low, smooth voice, “Lucan of Seacourt.”
Again, Anne made the connection to a lost medieval village. Although inventoried by the Normans, the tiny town was nothing but rubble by the mid-1400s. Moved by the fact these two had lost even the history of their origin, her heart swelled. She presented him his sword with reverence and managed a hesitant smile.
The third man repeated his companions’ actions, but before he bowed his dark head, she caught a flash of deep green eyes behind
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