Chapter Ten—The Abduction
Lucas cursed as he forced himself to focus on the computer’s screen in Smith’s study. It was after ten o’clock in the morning and Sara still hadn’t surfaced. Visions of her having a lazy morning in bed with the warlock blurred the website in front of him.
He had been a fool. And, he had to admit grudgingly, his pride hurt, too.
No woman had rejected him in centuries. In any instance, he didn’t let himself get emotionally attached to one and made sure any woman he took to his bed understood that.
It was too dangerous for the woman, since the beast became unleashed when Lucas wasn’t totally in control of his emotions.
Besides which, watching a mortal woman age and die while he remained young was too painful.
Memories of Gwenhwyfar growing old in the convent still plagued him.
But the fool in him had begun to care for Sara. He wanted to protect her and, strangely enough, even the wolf had responded without aggression toward her the night Balor had sent in the other animal.
Mr. Smith interrupted his wretched thinking and, for once, Lucas was glad.
“Any headway on where to search?” he asked as he sank into an overstuffed chair.
Lucas shuffled some papers. “Not sure.” He picked one up. “There are some interesting theories out there.”
“Oh?” Mr. Smith asked and folded his hands, a sure sign he was prepared to stay.
“Well, as you know from the Grail legends, the Spear is often referred to as the one which the Roman soldier, Longinus, used to pierce the side of Jesus at the crucifixion. According to this, that Spear was sighted not that long ago.”
Mr. Smith leaned forward happily. “Go on.”
“They’re calling it the Imperial Spear in this article,” Lucas said as he scanned it. “Just before World War II, Hitler found it in the Hofburg Museum in Vienna.”
Mr. Smith’s eyes grew round. “My God. Is that what made him so powerful?”
“It’s a chilling thought, isn’t it?” Lucas replied. “The Spear’s power can be used for good or evil, depending on who wields it.” If Balor gets hold of it, he will make the Holocaust look like a fraternity prank.
“But Hitler lost the war.”
Lucas nodded. “With all the bombing going on and moving from underground bunkers, there must have come a time when he lost the Spear and the war turned.” He glanced at his notes again. “Supposedly, American soldiers unearthed it digging through rubble at Nuremberg Castle. General Patton saw it.”
“That would explain the turning point in the war,” Mr. Smith said softly. “What happened to it?”
“No one knows. That’s where the story ends.” Lucas frowned and picked up the sheet with the verse on it. “If it actually was the Hallows Spear, then searching for buildings or sites three hundred years old wouldn’t make sense. The manuscript would have to have been written much more recently.”
His host looked worried. “You’re saying the paper is a fake?”
“I don’t know. The cylinder that held the manuscript was from the sixteenth century, as were the other artifacts.
The medieval Gaelic was authentic. It’s possible, I suppose, for a present-day scholar to have written it.
” Or a general who believed in reincarnation and was well-versed in the classics.
Had Patton been a Templar in another life?
Lucas couldn’t remember meeting him, but he did remember suddenly that the trees surrounding the dig had been smaller than others nearby.
If someone had buried the manuscript there fifty years ago…
“Oh, dear.” Mr. Smith wrung his hands. “That means that none of the Hallows are probably here in the United States. I had so wanted to find the Holy Grail.”
“Not necessarily,” Lucas said. “The Spear has a way of resurfacing on its own.” He couldn’t very well tell his host that the reason was because the Spear, of all the Hallows, had been fashioned from a branch of the Tree of Life by himself when he had still been Lugh.
“I still think the Sinclairs, as Guardians, removed the relics to a safer place during the Scottish Inquisition. If the pit at Oak Island were built as a decoy, no one would think to travel on to America. My guess is that the Spear might have been found somehow and, when the right person recognized it, he or she buried it and left the note in medieval script to make it look authentic.”
His host stared at him. “But who in the last half-century would have knowledge of such a thing?”
Besides Balor and me? “The Sinclair family has heirs,” Lucas answered, “and the Templars are still around, although many of the traditions have been lost. Then there’s the Prieuré de Sion.”
Mr. Smith looked startled. “Like in The Da Vinci Code? They’re real?”
“They’re real,” Lucas answered and wondered again if Patton had been a member.
“And that inner circle would have enough esoteric knowledge to recognize a Hallow. They’d also have the expertise to produce the manuscript and leave an encrypted message.
” He remembered now that the anonymous message left at the museum in Glasgow, alerting them to the location of the dig, had been written in very formal English reminiscent of the late Renaissance period. It should have been a clue.
Benton knocked on the open door and both men looked up.
“Excuse me, sir,” the butler said, “but there’s a young man on the phone inquiring about Miss Kincaid. When I told him she was not here, he asked to speak to Mr. Ramsey.”
Lucas picked up the phone on the desk. “Hello?”
“Michael here,” the warlock said without preamble. “Where’s Sara?”
The back of Lucas’ neck began to bristle. “I thought she was with you.”
There was a short silence. “I talked to her yesterday afternoon. I was running late and told her to ask you to take her home.”
The guy was cocky, Lucas thought. So sure of himself that Sara might not be tempted?
What was I supposed to do? Wait until he got there and then leave?
Still, Sara didn’t say anything. Then he remembered he hadn’t exactly been civil yesterday.
A pang of guilt shot through him. He hadn’t even given her the Shield he’d brought back.
“She didn’t say anything,” he said and endured another pause on the other end.
“So you two had an argument?” Michael asked.
“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” Lucas answered.
“Right. But I guess she didn’t tell you, then.”
“Tell me what?” His wolf was beginning to pace restlessly.
“Nothing happened, man. Not that I would have minded, but I slept on the sofa.”
The guilt twisted in Lucas’s gut like a sharp knife. She had tried to tell him, but his wounded ego hadn’t let him listen. Now she appeared to be missing. He could already feel the wolf trying to break out.
“Did you go over there?” he asked and willed the wolf back down.
“Yeah. I drove by last night, but the place was dark and her car was there, so I figured you had taken her somewhere, maybe to eat. Then this morning, I called and there was no answer, so I drove over. The place was locked up. I just got back.”
Every nerve ending was screaming for the beast to be released.
Lucas sensed danger and its name was Balor.
There had been no forced entry the other night, either.
How could he have been so stupid, letting damn male pride get in the way of protecting her?
Centuries of Templar discipline and he’d let jealousy overcome him.
No more. He and the warlock would have to work together if they were to find Sara.
“We have a problem,” he all but growled. “Get over here.” He could have sworn the rumble that preceded Michael’s voice sounded like a panther.
“On my way,” he said.
****
Sara sat huddled on the floor of her own cabin on the La Ranchita in Palo Pinto County.
Somehow the thugs who had kidnapped her knew of this place.
She tugged at the ropes binding her wrists and then winced as the bonds bit deeper.
Her ankles weren’t in much better shape, and she wiggled her toes to keep her feet from getting numb.
At least they’d taken the gag out of her mouth.
She studied her captors as she leaned against the wall near the sofa.
They were sitting at the table, throwing dice that one of them had brought.
They looked like brothers, one in his early twenties, the other about her age.
They both wore jeans and T-shirts. A white slash on the lower arm of the older one carved through an intricately scrolled tattoo.
Probably an old stabbing wound. The younger man’s nose was crooked and flattened on one side.
Both of them wore backward baseball caps over somewhat stringy brown hair. Street fighters.
“She looks like a good screw,” the younger one said as he glanced over to her. “We could each have a turn before anyone shows up.”
“Shut up,” the older one said and threw the dice. “We ain’t bein’ paid to bang her. The guy wants her fresh.”
Reluctantly, the younger one turned his attention back to the game and Sara breathed a small sigh of relief.
A reprieve, at least for a little while.
Hopefully by now, Michael would have called, but then she remembered that he thought she was with Lucas.
And Lucas thought she was with Michael. How long would it be before anyone thought to actually look for her?
And what about poor Nim? Had that last pitiful attempt to help her actually killed the faerie? She squeezed her eyes shut to keep back the tears.
Nim had come to her on her fifth birthday.
She had just begun to notice the bright little movements of sylphs twinkling in shafts of sunlight and had actually seen a tiny green manikin riding a blade of grass.
Her mother had been excited when she told her and said something about having a “gift”—and that night Nim had come to her.
“I will be your protector from the Darkness,” the faerie had said, and Sara’s five-year-old mind had asked why she couldn’t just turn on a light. The faerie had smiled and said it was a different kind of Darkness she referred to.