Pirate's Promise (Sentinels of Savannah #5) - Lisa Kessler Page 0,73

she’d envisioned. She’d left the shore of Savannah thinking she’d complete this mission and find redemption with her department.

She’d never imagined she’d fall in love with an immortal, only to doom him to death.

Agent Bale raced across the gangplank, shouting something she’d never hear. This was the moment she’d been born for. She knew that now. The realization broke the silence.

A single voice whispered past her ears and directly into her mind, “Break the curse, Chosen One.”

She raised the Tyrfing as Agent Bale’s eyes widened. Steeling her nerve, she adjusted her grip, pointing the sword down, toward herself. He shouted again as she swung her arms down. The blade ran through her like she was made of Jell-O instead of flesh and bone.

“It is done,” the sword whispered.

The sharp pain broke through the spell of destiny.

The silence dissipated like morning fog over the harbor.

She dropped to her knees, drowning in the chaos of sound as she surrendered to the anguish. Blood soaked through her shirt and down her jeans. Just like Greyson, she wasn’t healing. Maybe the curse was too strong for the Grail’s healing? She’d never know.

Her strength faded as she collapsed onto the cool wood deck. She managed to turn her head toward Greyson’s fallen form. He still hadn’t moved.

A tear squeezed out the corner of her eye as she stretched her hand toward him, her fingers twitching, aching to touch him one last time.

The Tyrfing would hunger no more. But at what cost?

“I love you,” she whispered.

She closed her eyes, no longer having the strength to keep them open. This wasn’t the ending she’d expected, but they’d done it. Together.

Chapter Twenty-Six

David couldn’t stop the image of Aura impaling herself on the Tyrfing from replaying over and over through his head as he dodged the debris to get to her.

The ship looked like a war zone. The mainmast had been cut down, smashing through the galley and the rest of the bow. He climbed over the sails, only to find gaping holes in the deck where the mythical sword had sliced through the timber.

By the time he reached Aura’s side, she was laid out in a pool of her own blood, unconscious. At least he wanted to believe that’s all it was. She’d drunk from the Grail. Why wasn’t she healing?

The Tyrfing was a cursed blade, forged with magic that even Department 13 didn’t fully understand. He started to reach for the hilt to pull it free, but hesitated. What if Aura’s hunch had been wrong? What if he took the sword and couldn’t control its hunger for blood? Damn it.

Caleb rushed past him to kneel beside Greyson.

David squinted into the setting sun. “Is he healing?”

“No.” Caleb checked for a pulse. “How is that possible?”

“I don’t know.” He took Aura’s free hand. Her skin was cool to the touch. His heart sank, and bitterness smoldered. This shouldn’t have happened. David scanned the ship. “Where’s Flynn? He was supposed to keep Aura locked up until I got here.”

Caleb met his eyes with cold disdain. “In case it passed your notice, the fucking demon came to us. There was nowhere to run or hide.” He turned his attention back onto Greyson.

David peered over at the dock. So far, they didn’t have any onlookers. He’d instructed the pilot to contact Brenda, his right hand at Department 13 headquarters, to dispatch a cleanup team to Glasgow Harbor. Since they hadn’t alerted MI13 of their operation here, this was going to be dicey.

But it was hard to muster any concern for the potential international scandal right now. Aura was his priority. He studied the blade, weighing his options.

If the Grail wasn’t healing her, maybe his charmed herbs from the Fountain of Youth would. He took his pouch from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and opened the drawstring.

He set it on the deck and reached into the pocket of his slacks, withdrawing what the untrained eye would see as a plain black leather glove.

He’d signed the Gauntlet of Tri De Dana out of the vault as a precaution, and seeing the devastation wrought by this blade, he wasn’t going to take any chances. The charmed glove had been crafted by the Celtic gods of craftsmanship from the Tuatha De Danann, and it protected its wearer from all types of magic. Curses weren’t mentioned in the gauntlet’s files, but it was better than nothing.

Drawing the blade, without understanding how it worked, could lead to the port of Glasgow being as decimated as the