The Templar's Code

CHAPTER 89

Conniving bitch!

She’d carefully planned every detail. The yellow flags leading the way through the forest. The rope ladder extending from the stone slab to the cave entrance. The strategically placed lanterns to illuminate the subterranean cavern. Such a cunning spider.

Saviour would take great joy in plunging a stiletto in the black widow’s belly. And he would make the Englishman watch as he did it.

Focusing on that calming image, he tried not to think about the fact that he was standing at the entrance to a most forbidding place.

“You might find this interesting; caves are symbolic of birth and burial,” Aisquith conversationally mentioned. “No doubt, that’s why so many of mythology’s sacrificial saviors are born in caves. Only the good die young, eh?”

Saviour glared at the battered Brit. “As to thialo!”

“Fila mou to kolo,” his captive calmly replied.

The piss-ant spoke Greek!

“Kiss your own ass,” he muttered under his breath. “And don’t forget who has the gun.” To make sure he remembered, Saviour waved the revolver in front of the other man’s face. Although not so close that Aisquith might foolishly make a grab for it. Because of the rope ladder, he’d had no choice but to cuff the Englishman’s hands in front of him rather than behind.

They’d gone no more than twenty feet when Saviour pulled up short. His heart was slamming against his chest.

“Christos!” he exclaimed, recoiling.

It was a daimon come to life!

Aisquith chortled. “Steady, old boy. You might inadvertently fire your weapon. With all this stone and rock, the discharged bullet could easily ricochet and hit the wrong target.”

“Do not mock me!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Sneering, the Brit gestured to the stone grotesque. “Allow me to introduce you to Asmodeus. The demon of lust and king of the Nine Hells.”

Saviour tightened his grip on the gun handle. “Take your pick, Englishman.”

“How amusing. Come. We mustn’t tarry. I believe the lady said three o’clock. A most portentous hour of the day.”

Uncertain what that meant, Saviour jutted his chin at the dimly lit passageway.

As they made their way through the narrow chasm, he silently conceded that “the lady” wasn’t like any other woman he’d ever met. She intended to launch an attack. Why else would she have gone to so much trouble? Dictating the time and place for the exchange. Choosing a dark place of “birth and burial.”

And soon he would be reborn. He’d lived twenty-five years with nothing to show for it. No accomplishments. Not one single thing that he could point to and say “I did this” or “I made that.” Fucking. That’s all he’d ever done — until he met his beloved mentor.

Mercurius had assured him that everything would be all right. That he had nothing to fear. That he had a plan to create the world anew. A better world. No, a perfect world. A world in which there was no disease to steal our cherished friends. And where a mother loves her only son.

Birth and burial.

Her funeral, not his.