C. Palov - Templar's Quest

‘I thought this stuff was outlawed for, you know, making people go insane.’

‘I don’t think you need to worry about that happening.’ Not bothering to ask if he wished to imbibe, she poured the absinthe into two hand-blown glasses. She then placed a slotted silver spoon over one of the glasses and, reaching into a sugar bowl, removed a cube.

‘Are you going to set it on fire? I once saw Susan Sarandon do that in a movie.’

Although Angelika had not seen the movie in question, she knew that he referred to the modern ritual of setting the sugar cube aflame. While dramatic, she preferred the Zen-like simplicity of the old ways.

‘The fire will come later,’ she promised.

‘I bet. I mean, man alive, you’re one hot babe. Usually my clients are, you know, older women who schedule me between morning shopping sprees on the Champs-Élysées and afternoon tea at the Ladurée Salon.’

‘Poor bébé . Such a difficult life,’ she said with a taunting sneer.

Reaching for a decanter, she slowly drizzled cold water over the sugar cube, the green liquid replaced with an opalescent cloud. Within moments, a strong liquorice aroma wafted from the glass.

‘Way cool!’ her companion enthused, his earlier hesitancy about drinking absinthe having vanished.

Angelika repeated the ritual with the second glass.

‘ A votre santé ,’ she said, handing him the milky green beverage.

Doing a fair imitation of a thirsty man in the desert, he quaffed half the contents of the glass in one swallow. Like most Americans, he drank to get intoxicated, the subtlety of the honeyed herbs and floral bouquet beyond his appreciation.

Wearing an asinine expression, he giggled. ‘I can’t feel my tongue. Jeez, no wonder Van Gogh cut off his ear. Talk about a buzz.’ Two gulps later, he’d finished his drink.

Ah, ‘The ceremony of innocence is drowned’.

Wordlessly, Angelika turned away from the bar and walked down the hall to her bed chamber.

‘Nice digs,’ her companion remarked as he stepped into the bedroom, the stark space a study in white fabric and ebonized furniture. ‘It’s like, what, contemporary Asian?’

Not in the mood for chit-chat, she impatiently waved a hand in his direction. ‘Remove your clothes. I wish to see what I paid for.’ She sat down on the white leather chaise adjacent to the bed, her kimono fanning out from her bare legs like a giant blood stain.

‘Whatever the pretty lady wants. I’m not one to brag, but I think you’ll be pleased,’ the young man said with a brash smirk as he unzipped his Levi jeans. ‘I work out five times a week.’

‘Very nice,’ she complimented once he’d removed all of his clothing. Not nearly as impressive as Finnegan McGuire, but more than satisfactory. She jutted her head towards the king-size platform bed. ‘On the bed. Spread-eagle.’

‘A lady who knows her mind. I like that. Most of my clients aren’t nearly so assertive.’

Because I’m not like any of your other clients , she silently mused as she got up from the chaise. Taking a last sip of her absinthe, she placed the glass on the Tansu cabinet before walking over to the bed. Pleased to see that he was fully aroused, she let the red kimono slide off her shoulders and drop on to the white carpet.

The young man’s eyes opened wide. ‘What’s that tattooed on your left tit?’

She glanced at the circular tattoo with the Black Sun symbol. ‘ That is my talisman,’ she said as she straddled his hips. Grasping his erection in her right hand, she pulled it towards her, impaling herself with one quick plunge.

‘Oh, babe, that’s good!’ her paramour crooned, moving his hands towards her waist.

She slapped at his groping hands. ‘I want you spread-eagled.’

‘Just like Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man , huh?’

Annoyed with his non-stop banter, she quickened the pace.

‘You need to slow down,’ he moaned. ‘I’m about to come.’

‘I sincerely hope so,’ she quietly remarked. Reaching behind her head, she removed the ornately incised stiletto from her rolled chignon, damp locks tumbling past her shoulders.

She spared a quick glance at the silver emblem of the sacred Irminsul , the ancient Saxon tree of life that adorned the slender hilt. Her lips curved into a smile.

Closing her eyes, Angelika conjured Finnegan McGuire’s image in her mind’s eye, able to see his brown eyes roll to the back of his head as he writhed beneath her. Able to feel his strong, muscular hips buck to and fro. Pleased with the image, she grasped the stiletto in her fist and, just at the moment of mutual orgasm –

– plunged it into the young man’s heart. Then across his throat. His face. His chest.

Warm blood splattered her bare breasts, Angelika gasping with pleasure.

Die, Finnegan McGuire, die. A thousand deaths. Each more painful than the one before.

30

‘How the hell did I get roped into coming to an art museum?’ Finn grumbled. ‘If you ask me, this is just a waste of time.’

‘I didn’t ask,’ Kate promptly retorted.

Ten minutes ago they’d arrived at the Musée du Louvre, Cædmon silent as to the reason for the visit. In that short time span, they’d climbed two flights of marble steps, waded through throngs of yammering tourists and seen centuries of art and antiquities pass in a surreal blur. Like billboards on the interstate.

A general leading his war-weary troops into battle, Cædmon strode into the high-ceilinged Salle des Bronzes. A cavernous gallery, it benefitted from the abundant natural light streaming through a bank of tall windows. Glass display cases affixed to the walls and lining the centre of the salon contained exquisite pieces of metalwork from the Classical period.

Originally a sturdy but simple medieval fortress, over the centuries the Louvre had undergone numerous renovations and expansions, evolving into the palatial residence of the kings of France. Through conquest and outright theft, those same kings amassed one of the most impressive art collections in all of Europe. Confiscated during the Revolution, the royal palace officially opened its doors as a public museum on 10 August 1793. Ironically, the event coincided with the one-year anniversary of the monarchy’s downfall.

‘Jesus, this place is at least twenty times bigger than anything Saddam built.’

Exasperated, Kate shook her head. Always trust Finn to be utterly irreverent.

But also trust him to be incredibly valiant. During the standoff with the Dark Angel, he’d actually shielded her with his own body, fully prepared to take a bullet for her. Kate was still awestruck at his incredible bravery. Even at the beginning of her disastrous marriage, during the ‘happy years’, she somehow doubted that her ex-husband would have gone to such extraordinary lengths to protect her. And while Finn liked to play the foul-mouthed commando, she knew that he had true courage and conviction. In a word, he was an unsung hero.

But she wasn’t about to sing his praises or reveal her feelings. Finn was on a mission to avenge his slain comrades and did not need or want any distractions. Earlier today, he intimated that she was just that, an unwanted distraction that he was obliged to protect.

Because she so greatly admired Finn’s loyalty to his two friends, she wanted to help, not hinder him.

Having yet to explain the purpose of the excursion, Cædmon headed for the last window in the salon. ‘From this vantage point, we can see the spectacular Axe Historique de Paris,’ he said over his shoulder, motioning them to join him.

Sandwiched between her two taller companions, Kate peered through the window; directly below them was the crowded Cour Napoléon and I. M. Pei’s famous glass pyramid.