Brendan Carroll's Blog: Working my way back - Posts Tagged "sample-sunday"

The Red Cross of Gold II:. The King of Terrors

Chapter Ten of Twenty-Five
Terrors shall make him afraid on every side, and shall drive him to his feet.


“Valentino was right!” Mark Andrew raised his head and coughed out the words before blowing his nose loudly in his handkerchief. “Merry had no interest in me, Brother. She has what she wants…. My son! I was a fool, Lucio. Again.”

“You are taking this too hard, Brother,” Lucio tried to talk to him. It was useless. It sickened him to hear Mark Andrew speak of Merry in such terms. His Brother was in the deepest despair, but he no longer seemed as angry as before. Lucio had never witnessed such depth of feelings for any woman. The Will of God was a comforting thing in deed. The blame for everything good and evil could be attributed to this one thing though he hardly thought the Creator capable of creating evil, he did feel that evil was something that God allowed one to bring upon one’s self in order to teach life’s lessons. It seemed a shame to him that Mark learned his lessons in such a harsh manner. But even the immense emotional suffering of his Brother gave him a twinge of jealousy.

“How could I have been so stupid? So arrogant?” Mark was a bit calmer now, but his voice was still hoarse from crying. “Tell me, Brother. And what did she do to poison the boy against me so that he can’t even speak to me? He was terrified of me. Tell me, Brother!”

“I can’t tell you anything,” Lucio sighed. “I would have had to hear it myself to judge. It is not the end of the world.”

“No? Oh, yes, that’s right,” Mark’s tone changed. He rolled down the window and threw the monogrammed handkerchief into the wind viciously. “What was I thinking? That’s what we’re waiting on. The end of the world so we can go into battle for God. God… who has done this to me. And to you.”

“No,” Lucio looked at him in alarm. “You must not say such things! It is dangerous.”

“Dangerous! I’ll tell you what is dangerous, Brother,” Mark Andrew slammed his fist against the dash of the car again. Certainly they would have to buy the whole car if he kept destroying it. “The company of women is dangerous. Just like the damned Rule says.”

Lucio sighed. He could not have imagined this would happen, but it was understandable. Seven years was, after all, a long time in a normal life. Perhaps not to the Council of Twelve, but to the rest of the world, it was a long time. He only wished that he could have spoken with her on his Brother’s behalf. He wondered what Mark Andrew had said to her and could imagine what it might have been. Mark Andrew was good on paper. It was Lucio Dambretti who had the silver tongue. Ramsay should have sent him as an emissary as had been the custom of old. He could have arranged everything, he felt sure. He could have had her primed and ready to say ‘I do’ even as Mark Andrew walked through her door. And he could have drawn up the marriage agreement as well, but the world had changed.

“Perhaps you need a mediator,” he suggested hopefully.

“For what?” Mark looked at him and then put his hand over his mouth. “Pull over.”

Lucio bounced the car off the highway and barely missing a large rural mailbox before he managed to stop. Mark Andrew opened the door and crawled out on the side of the road. Lucio sat under the steering wheel staring at the next mailbox, wondering who else lived out here in this godforsaken country. It was the same stretch of deserted country highway where the cows had attacked the van that he and Simon d’Ornan had been waiting in for Sir Beaujold. He looked around quickly in the moonlight, but saw no cattle in the pastures beyond the fencing. He climbed out of the car and went round to find his Brother heaving up his latest meal. An unnerving sight. The Italian tried to remember the last time he had seen his Brother sick…. A long, long time ago. Roasted rat did not agree with the Scot’s constitution any more than a broken heart it would seem.
When he was done, Lucio helped him up and offered his own monogrammed handkerchief. Mark snatched the cloth, wiped his mouth and threw it in the ditch without hesitation.

“It is the Will of God, Brother,” Lucio told him and received a punch in his ribs from Ramsay’s elbow as the man suddenly turned on him.

“Don’t tell me about the Will of God!” Mark shouted at him and shoved him back against the fender of the car. “If He were here this moment I would show Him the edge of my sword.”

“You are beside yourself, Brother,” Lucio lowered his head and rubbed his tender ribs. He had never heard anyone express a desire to kill God. He knew that Mark Andrew was only taking out his frustration on the nearest object… himself. It had happened many times before, just not quite this bad. He should have seen it coming.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Mark continued and pressed his hands to the sides of his head. “I would kill Him and set the world free of his tyranny.”

“I know enough to know that you are out of your mind with grief and you don’t know what you are saying,” Lucio told him and then had to duck as Mark Andrew took a swing at him.

Lucio backed around the front of the car to get away from him. There was no telling what the man would do if the Italian allowed him to knock him out here in the middle of nowhere.
“Don’t do this, Brother,” Lucio warned him.

Mark Andrew was in a fit of rage. Words were useless. The Italian was suddenly very grateful that the golden sword was carefully tucked into the trunk of the car when the Scot swung at him again.
Lucio dodged the heavy-handed shots and waited for the opportune moment to present itself. He let him swing again and then punched him once in his weakest spot, his stomach. Mark doubled over. Lucio grabbed his shoulder, pulled him up and delivered one well placed blow on his jaw. He had done it before. Too simple. All you had to know was where the weak spots. He caught his Brother up under the arms and deposited him back in the car before slamming the door.

“It is the Will of God, whether you agree or not,” he said with finality as he dusted off his hands.

(In this scene from the Red Cross of Gold X:. Genesis 6:5, things are not going well for Brother Dambretti, Knight of the Golden Eagle and his bride, Jasmine de Bleu. It's time for the Chevalier du Morte to return from exile and the Italian Knight surely needs Brother Ramsay's help.)


Lucio Dambretti had been expecting this call, though he had prayed fervently that it would not come. He had been to see Simon and his family only a few days earlier and the Healer had confided the news to him they were going in to have Rachel checked out by real doctors at the Salvator Mundi International Hospital in Rome. Simon had also told him that he expected bad news. Simon’s medical knowledge was extensive, though not infallible. He always said that he was a Healer, not a physician. Of course, his specialty or mystery was in the Healing Arts especially for members of the Council of Twelve, but he had gleaned a great deal of knowledge about human anatomy and general medicine for mortals over the centuries. Lucio would have trusted him with anything up to and including heart surgery. If Simon was taking his beloved Rachel to see a bunch of strangers, then something was terribly wrong.
He had been drunk ever since his return from Rome where he had met up with Simon at the Healer’s request. Simon had taken his gregarious family on a holiday to see the sights, visit the Vatican and generally show his children a bit of their country’s heritage. Rachel and her mother were raising the boys as Italians and though they all strongly favored their blonde, French father, they spoke perfect Italian to Lucio’s delight and like their ‘Uncle Lucio’, they spoke all other languages as secondary. Now he sat on the edge of his bed, dressed only in his socks, staring at the floor in front of him forlornly. He did not know if he could bear this. His head hurt terribly, his eyelids were puffy and swollen and he had no idea when he had gone to bed or how long he had slept. The Grand Master was already angry with him from their last unpleasant encounter. He had actually agreed to meet with Simon in Rome to confess his sins and had come away completely wrecked and without confession. Simon could not be bothered with such mundane details now.
And Jasmine! How much longer could he put up with her?
She came into the room as if on cue, picked up his trousers from the dresser and flung them at his head. He caught them from the air and threw them on the floor in front of her feet. A good pair they were. Expensive. Expensive and in need of laundering. He couldn’t possibly wear them… again.
“Where are you going now, sugar?” she asked him, her tone incongruent with the words. She sounded as if she was actually concerned with his activities, but she acted as if she couldn’t wait for him to leave.
“I have to go see Simon. Rachel is dying,” he told her bluntly and got up to find something more suitable to wear to a death. His mood was as black as the occasion and he was in no mood for an argument. His closet was a bit spare. Most of his clothes were lying in dirty heaps in the floor on top of his boots. He found a white wool suit in wrappers, a dark blue blazer that still smelled fresh and one of his priestly black outfits cut of the latest design. Black. Black. He reached for the hanger.
“Are you sure it's Simon you are going to see or is it Ruth?” she sked as she stepped in front of him. “And since when have you been concerned for Rachel’s well-being? That idiot little man is killing her with all those babies.”
“Stand aside,” he told her in a low voice. Ruth, again! He should have married Ruth. At least Ruth treated him with respect and... Ruth adored him. Ruth would have cleaned his clothes for him. Ruth would have cooked his supper and Ruth would have supported him in his time of grief. In fact, most of his good clothes and boots were at Ruth’s apartment. He would have to go by there to pack a bag worth taking along on a trip. Jasmine could talk all she wanted about Ruth. It was her right, but she had no right to say anything about Simon d’Ornan or his family.
“Or what?” she raised her chin slightly. “Will you yell at me and tell me again what a terrible wife I am and complain about my cooking?”
“What cooking?” he asked and made a move to go around her on his way to the shower, but she caught him by a particularly sensitive handful of flesh, stopping him short in his tracks. “Perhaps I should cook this? Eh? You never use it any more around here. Or perhaps I should take it as a memento and return to America where I am appreciated,” she told him. “Perhaps I could get something for it in an antique auction.”
Lucio took hold of her wrist gingerly and then crushed the bones together slowly until she relented.
“Don’ta toucha me,” he told her with as much contempt as he could muster in his present condition. “Go to America! Go on! I don’ta care. Just senda me your address and I willa senda you some money. That’sa all you want ina the firsta place.”
Jasmine followed him into the bathroom, laughing and making fun of his accented English as he made ready to take a shower. The very same accent that she had told him was so very charming only a short few years earlier. She grabbed his arm, spun him around in the doorway and kissed him. His anger with her melted immediately as was always the case and again, he suspected her of practicing witchcraft on him. How could she hurt his heart so badly one moment and mess with his mind the next, and then, in the blink of an eye, become the most desirable woman in the whole world the next moment? It wasn’t normal and he knew he wasn’t that hard up. He could have other women. In fact, he had another woman… In fact, he’d had several women before settling on Ruth as a replacement for Jasmine.
“I don’t suppose you could find it in your heart to bring me something for my headache?” he asked her hopefully. She was still as beautiful as ever. If she would just stop nagging him, there might be some way to reconcile their differences and make the marriage work.
“Of course, sugar,” she smiled and used her best southern magnolia on him before sauntering from the room. He watched her go, shaking his head in confusion.
He was in the shower when she returned. She slipped off her robe and joined him there with a bottle of clear liquid.
“Here you go, sweetie,” she said and turned him around.
She took a swallow of the stuff in her mouth before kissing him. This was how she always gave him his ‘medicine’ as she called it. It burned all the way down. That was just what he needed, something else to drink. But whatever it was, it was good for his more and more frequent headaches. Furthermore, it cured all the symptoms of his hangovers and left him ready to start drinking again. On the open market, it would have made some pharmaceutical company a mint, but Jasmine said it was an old family recipe. A secret. If he were mortal, he would be dead by now.
Ruth would have brought him an aspirin and a glass of tomato juice. His life was becoming one long string of drunken stupors and the Grand Master was onto him about his wife’s treatment of him, accusing him of all sorts of things.
“I’m sorry, baby,” his wife told him as she began to wash him with a sponge full of fragrant soap bubbles. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” She had taken on the tone she always used when she wanted something.
“You always say that, Jasmine,” he told her and winced when she applied the sponge to the area in question. “But it's always the same with you. Can’t we just forget about this Ruth thing?”
“I will if you will forget about her,” she told him and wrapped her long, slender arms about his neck. He let her kiss him once or twice and then took the sponge from her. He didn’t have time for this.
“Jasmine. I have to go,” he said. “I’m sorry.” If he allowed her to do this, he would never make it to Simon’s and that would be unforgivable. And he could not… would not forget about Ruth. Every time Jasmine hurt him, she made him think of Ruth. Beautiful, gentle Ruth.
“You always have to go,” she sniffed and pushed him away, almost sending him down on the slippery tiles.
“And I will always have to go,” he told her and turned his back to her. “I told you that before we were married. You know what I do for a living. Duty calls.”
“Doo-ty callsa!” she mimicked his accent. “And if I am not here when you come back, what will you do?”
“Nothing,” he told her honestly. It would be a relief.
He heard her get out of the shower and then he heard the bathroom door slam.
When he came out of the bathroom a while later, she was gone. Her stuff was still there, of course, strewn everywhere. She would be back.
He put on the black suit and perused the rest of his ruined wardrobe sadly. What had he done to himself? This was not what he was about. He splashed some of the cologne that Merry had made for him in her lab and breathed in the fragrance.
Thinking of Meredith was almost as painful as thinking of Simon’s plight. When he came home from Simon’s house, things were going to change. He would go back to what he had been for the last six or seven hundred years and Jasmine could stay or go, but she would not be welcome in his room again. His mind raced as he stuffed his dirty clothes in a trash bag. He would drop them off to be cleaned, himself. He would start doing a lot of things, himself. He would install a lock on his door, if necessary and he would hire a cook and maybe have a maid come in two or three times a week. He kicked some of his dirty underwear out of his way viciously and put on his tie. He looked at himself in the mirror and smiled. At least he had not ruined his looks, but that was hardly in his capacity to do, was it? Vanity! Another sin. But not a great sin. And de Bleu had said everyone would be there. Everyone except Jasmine and he would have to plead lies and excuses for her absence. He would be very happy to see his Brothers even under these black circumstances.
And perhaps, Sister Meredith as well. His mood lightened immediately. Merry would be glad to see him and he would let her fuss over him all she liked this time. She was always glad to see him. Always trying to make amends for breaking his heart. He brushed his curly hair and smiled at himself again. Si`, things would be different now. He would make it so. And Merry would listen to his troubles. She always listened to his troubles. Perhaps he could convince her to listen to his confession as well. If not Merry, then Louis Champlain would be glad to oblige him. Then he would feel better and he could confess Jasmine away… again.
These thoughts helped him take his mind off the terrible ordeal in front of him. He was Simon’s Brother and his friend. Death always brought people together. The death of John Paul’s wife had been on his mind lately and it seemed as if that had happened only yesterday. At least, he would not suffer this same thing on account of Jasmine. He chastised himself at the thought that he would have been affected very little if Jasmine jumped off the roof. But thinking of John Paul, made him think of Mark Andrew and a different kind of pain filled his head. Wasn’t it about time for him to come back? He glanced at his watch as if to confirm this thought. Meredith had called him three times only the week before asking if he thought Mark would come home to Scotland or Italy first. The three calls that he had loved and hated at the same time had set Jasmine off. Why was Meredith Sinclair calling him all the time? Three times in six months could hardly be classified as all the time. And he was glad that Jasmine thought he might still have something going on with Meredith. It did his heart good to think of it and wished that it could be so. If only… if only… if only…
He was about to leave the apartment when his wife burst back through the front door and began to rummage around in the pile of junk on their dining room table. The gold inlayed, hand lacquered replica of an ancient Egyptian chest covered with hieroglyphs and a scene depicting the Pharaoh Akhenaten and his family worshipping the Aten on the front was barely visible under the fluff of nylon and lace on top of it. He’d brought it out three weeks ago to clean it and clear out the contents, but it had become part of the clutter and he’d forgotten it was there.
The apartment was a wreck, but she would not allow him to bring anyone in to clean it, even though she would not clean it herself. And he did not have time to clean it. He was too busy drinking, staying drunk and figuring out ways to get away to see Ruth. He was sick of it. His beautiful apartment and all his Egyptian artifacts were buried under layers of discarded clothing, newspapers, shopping bags and what she loosely called accessories. A girl has to accessorize, she told him. He picked up a wine-soaked magazine and held it up, looking at the mess it had made on the surface of the mahogany dining table. He dropped the zine on the floor and kicked it against the wall viciously. She paid him no attention.
How she had learned about Ruth was beyond him. He must have talked in his sleep, but then Jasmine didn’t sleep with him, did she? She had his other bedroom… all in perfect order. A virtual princess’s chamber while the rest of his house went to hell in a hand basket. Never had he met a more self-centered person. She even put Cecile Valentino to shame.
“What are you looking for?” he asked her as he snatched his car keys from the pile that was about to topple on the floor.
“This!” She turned and held up a plastic card with flickering red lights on it. American Express, fully charged and ready to go. Ha!
“Ahhh. Money. Of course, and I thought you missed me,” he nodded. She could spend a lot of money in a short time. Had spent a lot of money. His money! Money he had saved and held onto for years upon years. It had once seemed to him that he would have never run out of money, but now he was not so sure. She had been steadily changing his money into objects, bringing it in the front door and throwing it out the back door for going on five years.
“When will you be home?” she asked him.
“Does it matter?” he answered with his own question and raised both eyebrows as she walked past him with her car keys jingling in her hand.
“I would cook supper for you if I knew.”
“Isn’t it past supper already?” he asked in surprise and glanced at the clock on the mantel.
“So?” She shrugged. “Breakfast then.”
“I may be gone for quite some time,” he told her. He didn’t want supper. Not with her. He would probably go back to Ruth’s after he left Simon unless Sister Meredith was there and then he would be going wherever she was going. Even if it was the depths of hell. And if it was the Villa, that would be good as well. Jasmine couldn’t come there and he still had his rooms there with everything he needed to last another century or two. He would not be back tonight.
“Well, then, arriva derki, baby. Call me when you get back. I’ll have my phone on,” she told him and was gone out the door.
He crossed himself and looked about the ruins once more. It had been so nice here once. Jasmine had not been listening to his answers. She had no idea where he was going or why or how long he would be gone and didn’t really care.
“Santa Maria!” he muttered and then sighed.
He stuffed his keys in his pocket and left the place to rot.
Mark Andrew would get a kick out of this when he returned. The man had warned him a hundred times to stay away from women as tall as Jasmine! Nevar, evar take a wooman ’oo can look ye in th’ eye. Tis dangerous, mon! He remembered his Brother’s words from a distant place and a distant time. What did Mark Andrew know of tall women? But Mark Andrew was always full of surprises. The man was probably in Rome now with another trio of hairdressers. It was surprising that the Grand Master had not already sent him to retrieve the lost Knight of Death. Surely it was past time for Ramsay to come home. He missed him… terribly.

Today's sample is taken from Book 15: The Red Cross of Gold XV:. My Hope is in God. The Mighty Djinni is paying a visit to St. Simon's Island and introducing himself to Merry Sinclair. Be warned: This is the 15th book of the Assassin Chronicles and if you are unfamiliar with the mannerisms of Djinn creatures, Lemarik's discourse might seem rather strange as he tries to relate some rather startling family secrets to Merry. :^) Happy Reading!!


“Ho, Brother of Adar!” A man’s voice caused her to open her eyes. She was surprised to see the purple wizard walking up out of the foamy surf.
Luke stopped and shaded his eyes against the lowering sun.
“Ho, Lemarik!” Luke returned the greeting and walked out to meet the wizard.
Merry did not understand this creature at all. He was not quite a man and yet he was a man, though his movements were strange and his voice hypnotic. The first time she had met him in the inner bailey, he had scared her to death. She had been looking over the flowerbeds next to the walls in idle curiosity when he had climbed up out of the well, greeted her as if he had known her all his life and then hurried into the keep looking for Luke Matthew, his long, purple robe flapping out behind him.
She watched with one hand shading her eyes as Luke and Lemarik hugged each other briefly and then the wizard came directly to where she sat.
“Ohhhhhh,” he smiled down at her and swayed back and forth. “You are very great now. It will not be long and the babe will be here with us. Such a strange and wonderful thing. But much too painful. You should allow me to help you with that. I could make a bubble for the child and you would be free to do as you please.”
“No, thank you,” Merry declined politely, remembering that Luke had told her time and again that politeness was extremely important when dealing with Adalune Kadif. She could never tell if he was serious or just kidding with her. A bubble? “I’ll be fine.”
“Of course you will. It will be as it was before,” Lemarik made another of his endless cryptic remarks and turned to look at Luke. “Will Simon of Grenoble be attending? Will Adar come to see the birth of his son?”
“I dunna know aboot me brother, but Simon ’as promised t’ be ’ere,” Luke told him.
“Surely Adar would not miss such a momentous occasion. He missed it the first time. He should be here this time.”
“Me brother will nae be th’ father o’ th’ babe, Lemarik,” Luke told him. “Merry is me woife now. I will be th’ boy’s father.”
“Ohhhh. Ahhh.” Lemarik's eyes grew wide as he swayed back to look closely at Merry's face with first one eye and then the other. “So this is what Adar has been keeping from me. You do not love him. I see. That makes things a bit different. That makes things much more complicated. But it is just a matter of some small adjustment. The boy will have his uncle as father and the nephew will be the uncle’s son. And what will the boy call his father? Uncle? Father? Hmmm. This will have to be decided. I will call him brother.”
Merry frowned. Brother?
Luke caught Lemarik’s arm and drew him away from her.
She could hear the wizard oohhing and aahhing as Luke spoke to him in a low voice. She wondered how the wizard had managed to come out of the water completely dry. His long beard fluttered in the breeze and his dark hair blew about his head as they talked. Presently, the wizard came back to her. He bent low over her hand and kissed the back of it.
“Welcome to the family of Adar, Meredith Nichole. I am your humble nephew, Adalune Kadif, but you may call me Lemarik and I will call you Merry. Your brother-in-law is my father. Your husband, my uncle, tells me that you are not well and that my presence here may be disturbing to you or distressing to you. I would not wish to be rude.”
“You are anything but rude, Lemarik.” Merry raised up slightly to look over his shoulder at Luke. “You are quite... charming. Won’t you stay for dinner?”

“Ohhh. No. I do not think that would be wise. Your Corrigan and your Simon do not like me. They are most rude to me and I would not wish to destroy them. A mighty Djinni such as myself can only allow so much rudeness in a man and they far exceed my limits in very short order. They are friends of Adar and he would be most unhappy with me if I were to feed them to the vultures.”
Merry’s eyes widened and then she smiled. He was teasing her.
“Ahh. Such a beautiful smile. Just like Adar’s wife. Her smile was like sunshine and she smelled of violets and roses, though she bathed in vanilla. Ahhh. Vanilla. Second only to frankincense and myrrh. And her baths were such wonderful things to see.”
“Ah, Lemarik.” Luke clamped one hand on the Djinni’s shoulder. “Air ye sure ye wudna want t’ come up t’ th’ keep? I can assure ye thot me Brothers will keep a civil tongue withee or they’ll answer t’ me.”
“I would not want to be a bother, Uncle,” Lemarik shook his head.
“No. Please.” Merry began to push herself out of the chair to which she seemed to be grown. Luke came to help her.
Lemarik frowned slightly and stepped back. Merry shuddered in the cooler air that had sprung up with the evening.
“Allow me,” he said, bowed low and whipped off the purple robe, wrapping her in it. “Come, come, come.” He waved one hand to Luke. Luke frowned and stepped a bit closer, taking Merry’s arm and then they were in the castle in the library.
Christopher looked up from his computer and shrieked involuntarily at the sight of the three people suddenly standing in front of the fireplace.
“Now then, that’s much better.” Lemarik took his robe from her shoulders and tossed it across one of the overstuffed armchairs in front of the fire. Luke and Merry stood looking at each other in shock. “What a wonderful fire. I do love to watch the flames. I see all sorts of things there.” The Djinni turned about and rubbed his slender hands together in front of the fire.
“Christopher?” Luke addressed the frightened apprentice. “Fetch some woine. And some tea fur th’ lassie.”
Merry found her way to the armchair and picked up the purple robe. It was heavy and smooth in her hands. A grand piece of work with deep pockets on the inside. Soft and yet strong. Warm and yet, cool to the touch. She ran her hand along the black embroidery on the hem and wondered who had sewn the work for the wizard. She sat down, holding the cloak in her lap.
“Won’t you sit down?” She asked him and waved one hand at the other chair.
“Ohhh. No. I like to stand. It is more conducive to moving about and less disturbing to watch,” Lemarik told her and then began to travel about the room, peeking into every nook and cranny. He picked up the objects on the tables and smelled of them one by one as he talked. Some of them, he tasted and made faces of delight or distaste at the results. “I came to remind my Uncle to practice his work diligently for the time of your labor draws nigh and great things will be accomplished on that day. Some of it will be very sad for me and yet, some of it will bring great joy. But he will need to be ready for that day just as you are.”
“Whattar ye talkin’ aboot?” Luke asked and backed up to the fire and put his hands behind him to keep from waving them about in agitation. His brother had taught him to be very careful when talking to his nephew. Luke had quickly learned that a little patience always stood him in good stead and usually brought the best results.
“Omar has raised a great army. And he has taken up with the Dogs of Shaitan against my protests. I am most ashamed of him. He has allowed his mind to become polluted and he believes that he has... transcended. He no longer needs his father’s wisdom and he shuns the wisdom of his grandfather. His mind has been unduly affected by his wife just as I expected would happen. She has made him turn from his truer purposes and she has ruined my beautiful son. The sadness breaks my heart.”
“Your son?” Merry turned about in the chair to watch him as he pulled random books from the shelves, opened them and then put them back.
“Ohhh. Yes. Yes. Yes. He was such a beautiful child. Wonderful. Glorious and most wise. Most kind and most polite. And then the daughter of Adar came and beguiled him with her charms and... poof.” He snapped his fingers. “He was lost to me.”
“Wait. Wait. Wait.” Merry shook her head. “Adar’s daughter? I thought you said that Adar is your father?”
“Oh, yes. Adar is my father.” Lemarik glanced at her and then continued his perusal of the books. “My son’s wife is his daughter.”
“Luke?” Merry turned to look at her husband. “Is there something here that does not make sense?”
“Mark Andrew is or was, at one toime, Adar, th’ moighty Hunter,” Luke shrugged. “Or so I’m told. Adar was or is Lemarik’s father. Nicole was and is Omar’s woife. Omar is Lemarik’s son. Nicole is Mark Ramsay and Sister Meredith’s daughter. Damn me, if I understand it, lassie.”
“There is nothing to understand.” Lemarik swayed across the room to stand next to Luke. “It is very simple.” The wizard was a bit taller than Luke and thinner. He wore a white shirt and black pants. His tall boots reached above his knees and he wore a wide belt about his waist. The hilt of a jeweled dagger sparkled on his left side. He looked very much like a pirate to Merry, except for the long beard which she did not like. “Mark Ramsay was Adar before he came to this world. His brother, not Luke, but another brother, chased him from the heavens because he was jealous of my mother’s attentions to him. His brother wanted my mother for his own, but she did not return his affections. As soon as I was old enough, he chased me away as well and I followed Adar here. This is a wonderful world if you do not pay too much attention to the workings of men. Adar had himself born as a man and was a great wizard, a mighty sorcerer, very powerful and then he was enchanted by a sorceress. Alas. She was one of his own students. She imprisoned him for many years until his brother found him and released him with the intent to destroy him, but Adar had a surprise for him. A wonderfully powerful work of magick. And he sent his brother to the halls of dust and ashes. But his brother was also very powerful and very tricky, indeed and he soon escaped the land of Kurnugi and came to search again for Adar, but Adar had found his way into the womb with Luke and there he remained hidden for nine moons with him while his elder brother cast about in darkness for him.”
Merry sat with her mouth hanging open as Lemarik told this story. Luke stood by the fire, also staring at him in disbelief. Mark Andrew had never told him any of this. It sounded like some great faery tale to him and he would never have believed it, except that Mark Andrew had warned him to always be polite to the Djinni at all costs. The Djinni was most dangerous, Mark Andrew had told him. Extremely powerful and very unpredictable. Mark had told him to merely listen to him and agree with him for the most part and then report to him everything that the Djinni might say. So far, this was the third visit that the wizard had paid to them since Merry had come here. The first visit had been in the company of Mark Andrew and he had departed with him again without speaking to Luke personally. The second visit had been very brief. The wizard had stayed only a few minutes, inquired after Merry’s health and then gone about his business as mysteriously as he had appeared. This was the first time that the Djinni had come inside the keep and actually talked with them. Luke was fascinated and Merry was beside herself.
Christopher reappeared with the hot tea and wine Luke had requested. He set the tray on the desk and poured drinks for them. Lemarik took tea.
“And then what happened?” Merry asked him when he had his cup of tea in his hands and Christopher had left them.
“Ahh. Then a terrible thing happened. Luke, here, was born. And Adar was not ready. He did not want to come out of hiding. He was afraid that his brother would find him in his helpless state of infancy. Luke’s mother tried to make him be born, but he refused and she died.”

This sample is from Tempo Rubato, my tribute to Wolfgang Mozart and one of my first attempts at writing a full-length novel. Tempo Rubato is a musical term meaning "stolen time". The novel is essentially a paranormal romance with adventure, a little sci-fi and humor thrown in for good measure (pardon the pun). Currently, it is available at Amazon for $.99.

“Aha.” He said. “Here we go. This will make you feel better.”
He brought her shoes and her underwear from the drawer along with his own shoes and vest. He stood holding her bra and panties delicately between two fingers.
“I know they aren’t much,” He frowned at her. “But...”
She snatched her things from him and hurried to the small bathroom to put them on. He was right, her tears dried up and she did feel better. When she came out, he was fully dressed again with everything but the missing sword.
He raised his eyebrows at her playfully. “Do you still love me?” She nodded, close to tears again. How could he be so calm?
“At least we will be ready for whatever comes.” He said taking her hands. “There is no use worrying. Smile for me, Lisserl. I’ve seen worse days.”
She smiled in spite of herself and he danced her around the room to music she could not hear. He hummed softly as he held her close and she felt like a child he was attempting to console.
He kissed her again and laughed. “I am living Tempo Rubato. Stolen time.” He told her. “If I die today, I will have lived three years longer than my enemies wished so long ago. And if I die holding you, then I will die happy. What more could I ask?”
She believed he truly meant what he said and was about to comment on it when they heard two small pops from the other room. He froze and frowned slightly at her.
They turned slowly together in unison to face the door. He put one arm around her shoulders and she clutched the front of his coat. The doorknob turned and the door opened quietly on its hinges.
Tempo Rubato

I have a couple of reviews noting that The Knight of Death is not truly representative of the fantasy genre. I'm thinking the notion may stem from one or two things. The first being that the book starts off an epic series and it deliberately starts the action off rather slowing, dealing with mysteries, lies, deceit and a number of modern trials and tribulations that might happen to almost anyone. As the book progresses, the truth of the situation unfolds and the reader is slowly drawn into the realization that not everything is as it seems. There is something truly mysterious and other-worldly about the protagonist, Sir Mark Andrew Ramsay. Nor is everything quite right about his so-called "Brothers" of the Order of the Red Cross of Gold. Although, they have apparently been around for a long time, the fact of their humanity or their humanity-affected existences have given them all the right and privilege to make all the mistakes that mortals make. Any reader with insight into mythology will remember that the gods and the supernatural beings of old had numerous nasty habits and made profound mistakes. Being immortal does not make a man smarter, nor does it make him greater than the heart that beats in his chest.
Here's a small excerpt with a hint of the supernatural, or if you prefer, fantastical element exposed.

"The black stallion wandered aimlessly into view. The subdued light under the trees slanted through millions of translucent green leaves and the trunks of the trees cast deep shadows across the stream. Their gnarled roots formed fantastic shapes along the banks, piling up against one another in a slow, but inexorable struggle for space. A few yards upstream from where she waited, a graceful weeping willow of considerable age added mystery to the beauty of the backdrop against which the velvet animal assumed the proportions of a mythical creature. She half-expected to see wings on his back. The trailing tendrils of the willow partially obscured the dark rider atop the black horse like a living beaded curtain of light green.
He did not appear to be seated in the saddle, but rather perched precariously on top of the stallion. The horse moved out of the willow’s covering branches and she drew a sharp breath. She had followed the right man. He sat with his knees up, his head leaning into the horse’s neck. One pale hand was visible, entangled in the long mane while the reins dragged in the water. Was he dead in the saddle? Was that possible? The horse slowly made its way toward her until a break in the trees allowed the slanting rays of the morning sun to illuminate the area like a stage provided by nature and just for a moment, she thought she saw dozens of tiny green, yellow and blue orbs floating around him. Then the illusion was gone as the lights seemed to flee in every direction at the very instant she drew the breath. The horse took a step or two and then stopped.
The rider jerked slightly and the horse took another step or two and stopped again. Not dead. She watched in silent fascination as this process was repeated again and again. He wasn’t dead, nor was he quite asleep. It was unbelievable. He was close enough now that she could see narrow stripes of darkly glistening liquid running down the saddle and under the horse’s belly. This was the source of the spots that she had been following along the trail.
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B001J6ORUI