The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death (26 page)

Valentino looked at him sharply. “Yes. He is.
And worse, I’m sure. But even if you are the wrong man, you still
haven’t told me what you do for a living. Perhaps you are something
just as bad.”

“I’m self-employed,” he said and another
forgotten memory suddenly occurred to him. He remembered working…
somewhere. In a laboratory though not one like Valentino’s. The one
in his memory was darker and more foreboding and there were no
stainless steel tables. Just firelight and shadows. So he did not
always just go about waging war, getting kidnapped, tortured and
killed. “I make… metal. I work with metals,” he concluded almost as
if speaking to himself. "I'm a metal worker."

“How interesting,” Valentino perked up. “What
kind of metals? What do you make?”

“Oh, whatever needs to be made,” he smiled at
her as the image of melted gold pouring from a glowing iron cup
into a series of tiny rectangular molds flashed in his mind. The
alchemist. IAAT. The Philosopher’s Stone. What was it? It was just
out of reach.

“I could recommend you for membership,” Merry
offered suddenly and looked at Valentino hopefully. “He could come
to the reception after the initiation, couldn’t he? If he wants to
join, I mean, if he’s going to stay with us awhile? We have lodges
in Europe. Germany. Switzerland. Even England. He could be
presented here before the assembly and when he goes home to
Scotland, he could be initiated into the London Chapter.” Merry’s
eyes lit up with false hope. If it could be so easily remedied, all
would be forgiven and she wouldn’t lose contact with him, but…

Valentino picked up her paper again and
glared at Merry from behind the pages causing her to fall
silent.

“We’ll see,” she said aloud. “Maybe. I’ll
speak to Mr. Petrie about it.”

Merry smiled at him and he put his index
finger against her lips and winked. It had only been a dream. He
had no intention of being presented to anyone, much less an
assembly, but the food had gone a long way to improve his outlook.
Merry would never do anything to hurt him… would she? She had cried
when they had poisoned him the first time. He distinctly remembered
hearing her cry. She had run away the second time. He remembered
hearing her say that she wouldn’t do it, whatever it was. The sword
thing must have been a dream. Another of Valentino’s botched
hypnosis sessions. Whatever drugs she had used on him had left him
unconscious for almost three days! He hoped it was not
addictive.

Maxie made a snorting noise at the end of the
table.

Mark ignored him and sat eating the rest of
Valentino's soggy fries and smiling at Merry thoughtfully. It was
going to be a long night.

And hide not thy face from thy servant; for I
am in trouble: hear me speedily.

The fidgety, middle-aged blond woman behind the white wicker desk
looked up in surprise. “The whole floor?” she asked, and then
quickly added. “There are six rooms on the third floor. That would
be…” she ran her perfectly manicured pink nails over the keys of
her adding machine. “Eight hundred and twenty-one dollars and
seventy cents per night plus tax. I could give you a ten per cent
discount if you stay for a week.”

She surveyed the faces of the three men
sitting across from her. Their presence filled her small office to
over-flowing and made her feel extremely uncomfortable. However,
the dark one with the flashing white smile was particularly
appealing with his curly black hair and big dark eyes. He had a
long scar running from the corner of his left eye down to his jaw
that only added to his rakish sort of charm when he smiled at her.
The shorter one seemed very solemn and just looking at him
depressed her. He had beautiful blond hair, like a child and
crystal blue eyes, but they exuded profound sadness mixed with
wonder. His eyes traveled constantly about the room as if he were
memorizing every thing in the small space and when they fell on
her, he seemed utterly fascinated by her every word. He reminded
her of one of the dying children at the hospital where she did
volunteer service once a month. The older of the three, which she
guessed was more nearly her own age, had thinning dishwater-blond
hair and weak hazel eyes. His expression was one of cold
calculation and he never took his eyes off of her, as if he
expected her to cheat him somehow. His only positive attribute was
his heavy French accent, but other than his voice and his smooth,
almost slurred English, he was downright scary to Miss Penelope
Martin.

She opened a drawer and took out an ornate
ledger. While she was looking down, the smaller man filched a
crystal pansy from a pink vase on her desk and slipped it in his
pocket. When she looked up again, he smiled at her and nodded. No
one had seen his little theft.

They were a very mismatched trio of
conflicting personality types and Miss Martin was a very good and
quick judge of character. She felt as if they might actually be
dangerous in some way. Her lovely Victorian bed and breakfast had
never seen the likes of such men. Her first impulse had been to
tell them she was booked up and turn them away, but then the man
with the baleful eyes had told her that whatever the cost, he would
pay double if there was some problem. Business had not been that
good, but of all weeks, why now? She had hoped to have a full house
due to the initiation out at Cecile Valentino’s club that was
scheduled for Wednesday. But what the heck? Cecile's people should
have made reservations and stopped taking Penelope Martin for
granted. The man who called himself Boo-Joe or some such, pulled
sevenfteen one-hundred dollar bills from his exceedingly fat wallet
and laid them on the desk. They were not new bills, but old and
crumpled. He smoothed them out very carefully and then looked at
her expectantly.

“That should cover any inconvenience for the
short notice, Madame,” he said. “We do not know how long we may
require your services. If more is needed, we will pay tomorrow.”
The voice did not match the face.

“Why yes, of course, Mr. Boo-Joe,” she sucked
in a sharp breath, smiled and picked up the money, tucking it into
her pocket. She turned the faux-antique leather registry book
around and shoved it toward him. He looked down at it disdainfully,
before shoving it on, with one finger, toward the dark-eyed man. He
flashed one of his heart-melting smiles at her before picking up
the antique fountain pen, examining it with some amusement. She
smiled at him in return and felt herself actually blush. He seemed
so much older than his apparent age, which was considerably younger
than her own years. While he was signing the ledger, she went into
the little alcove off the office and plucked the six keys from the
hooks on the wall. When she returned, he was laying down the pen
with a slight flourish as if he had accomplished some great deed.
He looked up at her and his eyes danced with the same expectant
amusement as if flirting openly with her. She felt her heart
flutter and wondered that such a thing could be possible. She had
not had that happen to her in at least fifteen or maybe even twenty
years.

“Whose name on the receipt?” She kept her
eyes on the dark one.

“Mine,” he continued to smile at her as if he
knew full well the effect he was having on her.

She turned the book around to get the
spelling of the name. “I see and you are Looseeo Dambretti? That’s
Eye-talian?” she asked as she copied the name on the receipt.

“Loo-chee-o. Si`, signorina,” he nodded to
her. “How did you know?” His accent matched his looks and confirmed
her assessment of his nationality.

“You look Eye-talian. That’s an Eye-talian
name, isn’t it?” She shrugged slightly, obviously pleased at her
correct assumption. “So you speak Eye-talian?” she pronounced the
word with the long I as her own Texas drawl demanded.

He rolled off a line in Italian telling her
that he spoke the word of God in many languages, ending by calling
her a lovely dove. He could have said anything.

Beaujold remonstrated him sternly in French
not to encourage her.

He asked in Italian what was wrong with being
friendly and reminding him that he was being rude.

Beaujold told him that the woman was
obviously quite taken with him and that it was embarrassing, not to
mention disgusting, reminding him that Simon was present as if the
presence of the Healer changed anything significant. Dambretti
looked at the embarrassed healer and laughed shortly before asking
Beaujold if he had forgotten how old d’Ornan might be on his next
birthday. Beaujold retorted hotly that Simon was the Master’s
favorite and that if they did not set a good example for him, they
would be held responsible. Dambretti laughed at the absurd
assumption. Had it not been he, himself, that had taken the Healer
on a tour of Rome’s red-light district, though it had ultimately
been a waste of time as far as Simon was concerned, it had been
fun.

Miss Martin’s eyes widened as she perceived
that they were arguing. One in French, the other in Eye-talian. It
was very disturbing and exciting and she could have listened all
day.

Simon spoke up at the mention of his name a
third time. He interrupted their exchange with his softer voice,
also speaking in French, admonishing both of them and reminding
them that they were upsetting their hostess. He turned his sad eyes
on her and smiled apologetically before speaking to her in English.
“Excuse my friends, Madame, they are… tired.” He reminded her of a
priest somehow.

“Of course.” She nodded and almost called him
‘father’ from long habit. “Mr… ah, Dee Ornan,” she added hastily
after glancing at the third name written so elegantly in bold dark
lines in the registry. Dambretti’s script was as pretty as he was.
Her curiosity was definitely piqued.

She handed the keys over to the sullen one
when he reached for them and they stood up together.

Dambretti reached across the desk and took
her hand, kissing the back of it in spite of Beaujold’s distemper.
“Thank you, signorina,” he said gravely. “It has been a pleasure to
work with you.” He might as well have been whispering love poems in
her ears. The simple gesture left her speechless.

The two Frenchmen nodded curtly to her and
filed out of the room with Dambretti trailing behind. He turned at
the door and looked back long enough to wink at her.

Miss Martin sat in her wicker peacock chair
without moving for several moments before letting out the breath
she was holding. One more smile and another wink and she would
follow him anywhere. She jumped physically when he suddenly stuck
his head back in the office.

“We may have others joining us,” he told her
and then he was thankfully gone.

Miss Martin fanned her face absently with one
hand until she had recovered somewhat. She went to the window
overlooking the parking lot and watched them unload their van. They
seemed to be arguing again. Each one carried a garment bag over his
shoulder while the short one and the Italian hefted a large wooden
chest between them and started inside with it. They reminded her of
spies from one of the novels she kept in her bedside table. She
loved spy novels. Especially the ones set in exotic places like
France and Italy. Perhaps the chest was filled with electronic spy
equipment, but it didn’t look modern. It was old and bound with
black bands like a pirate’s chest. Perhaps they were treasure
hunters. Perhaps they were like Indiana Jones or something. She
couldn’t wait to get on the phone with her friends!

((((((((((((()))))))))))))

Konrad von Hetz, venerable Knight of the
Apocalypse who Sees, stood on a limestone outcropping overlooking
the shallow valley where the red brick mansion lay partially
obscured by the thick foliage of the oaks and cedars. He watched
the lights in the windows, clenching and unclenching his jaw
subconsciously. If anyone had seen him there, silhouetted against
the deep purple backdrop of the sunset, they would have thought him
some ancient sorcerer or perhaps a demon from remote legend. He was
dressed completely in black. His long, dark hair flapped behind him
in ragged strands as the breeze caught it up and the last rays of
the sun glinted off the silver and black hilt of the long,
broadsword at his hip. His trousers were tucked into his tall boots
and he clasped his arms around himself as the rapidly cooling wind
of evening plucked at his knee-length cloak.

He could feel the presence of the Scot in the
house below him. Something dreadful had happened to the Knight of
Death. The images he had received from his Brother’s mind had been
clouded and dim, but shocking. He had been unable to distinguish
between his waking thoughts and his dreams. The idea that such a
thing could have happened to the Chevalier du Morte was incredible.
If it had been anyone else… but not Ramsay. Von Hetz knew Ramsay’s
past too well to believe that he would fall easily. The images were
jumbled, out of order and almost incoherent at times like a man
with a high fever, but Ramsay could not have a fever. There had
been a fight, a fierce, but brief struggle, nothing that the Knight
of Death should not have been able to handle easily, but then had
come excruciating pain and great confusion. The physical pain had
faded, but the mental confusion had remained. The pain itself had
centered in Ramsay’s eyes at first and the Knight of the Apocalypse
who Sees, could not see.

It had surprised him and filled him with
terrible fear the first time he had checked in on the mission's
progress at the Grand Master's request. Such requests were not made
lightly. He had been stricken blind as he suffered the same
distress as Ramsay. Pain in his back and his arms had come next and
then numbness in his feet and hands, but then everything had
changed dramatically and the Knight of the Apocalypse had been
taken aback by feelings of intense pleasure mixed with pain. When
he realized what had happened, he had withdrawn his thoughts in
horror at having shared a particularly intimate moment with his
Brother. At least no one would ever know and he would never be
required to disclose what no one else knew he owned. The effect had
been temporary, but profound and even now he felt outraged and, at
the same time, shamed and embarrassed not only for himself but for
his Brother.