“Do you have an escape route?” Garin asked.

“I recall having escaped from your assassins on a number of occasions.”

Garin scowled. “This isn’t a good time to revisit past transgressions.”

“Then you’ll warn me before you transgress again?” Roux asked.

Garin remained silent.

“I didn’t think so,” Roux said. “Henshaw?”

“Yes, sir.” The butler stood only a short distance away, always positioned so that Garin couldn’t take him and his master out at one time with a single shotgun blast.

“You know what to do if this bastard shoots me,” Roux said.

“He won’t live to see the outcome, sir.”

“Right.” Roux smiled. He took the lead with Garin at his heels as if they’d done it for years.

At the wall beside the security monitors, the old man pushed against an inset decorative piece. A section of the wall yawned open and revealed a narrow stairwell lit by fluorescent tubes.

“Where does it go?” Garin asked.

“All the way up to the third floor. Once there, we can escape onto the hillside. I’ve got a jeep waiting there that should serve as an escape vehicle.” Roux stepped into the stairwell and started up the steps.

Garin followed immediately, having to turn slightly because he was so broad.

Two monks dashed into the study and raised their rifles.

Calmly, Henshaw pulled the heavy British assault rifle to his shoulder and fired twice, seemingly without even taking the time to aim. Each round struck a monk in the head, splattering the priceless antiques behind them with gore.

Before the dead men could fall, Henshaw had a hand in the middle of Annja’s back.

“Off you go, Miss Creed. Step lively, if you please.” He sounded as pleasant as if they were out for an evening stroll.

Annja went, stumbling over the first couple steps, then running for all she was worth.

The door closed behind them. Her breath sounded loud in her ears as she rapidly caught up with Garin. Gunshots sounded behind her, muffled by the door, and she knew the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain was tearing up Roux’s study.

All of this over a charm? Annja couldn’t believe it. The charm was hiding something, but she had no clue what.

THE TUNNEL ENDED against the sloped side of the roof. Roux sprung some catches and shoved the hatch open.

Through the opening, Annja stood on the roof and gazed around. The pistols felt heavy in her hands. Cooled by the breeze skating along the trees behind the house, she surveyed the area. Shouts echoed from inside the tunnel as their pursuers followed.

“Here.” Roux ran toward the tree line where the house butted into the hill. There, barely lit by the moon, a trail whipsawed across the granite bones of the land.

“Another two hundred yards and we’ll reach the jeep.”

At that moment, shadows separated from the trees and became black‐robed monks.

Garin swore coarsely. “These guys are everywhere!” The shotgun came to his shoulder and he started firing at once, going forward after Roux all the same.

Annja fired, as well, but she didn’t know if she hit anything or just added to the general confusion. Bullets pocked the rooftop, tearing shingles away at her feet.

Another round hit her, slamming into her high on the shoulder. The Kevlar vest did its job and didn’t allow the bullet to penetrate, but the blunt trauma knocked her down all the same.

She fought her way back to her feet, stayed low and moved forward. When her second pistol fired dry, she whirled behind a tree, shoved the first one up under her arm to free her hand and reloaded the second. She was reloading the first when a monk leaped out of the shadows in front of her.

His face was dark and impassive. “We have come only for the charm,” he said in a quiet, deadly voice. “That’s all. You may live.”

“I don’t have it,” Annja said as she brought the pistols up.

He leaped at her, his sword held high for a killing stroke.

Crossing the pistol barrels over her head, hoping she wasn’t about to lose her fingers, Annja blocked the descending blade. When she was certain the sword had stopped short of splitting her skull and lopping her hands off, she snap‐kicked the man in the groin, then again in the chest to knock him back from her.

Before Annja could get away, two more monks surrounded her. They didn’t intend to use swords, though. They held pistols.

“Move and you die,” one of them warned.

Annja froze.

“Drop the pistols.”

She did, but her mind was flying, looking for any escape route.

One of the monks spun suddenly, his face coming apart in crimson ruin. The bark of the gunshot followed almost immediately.

The surviving monks turned to face the new threat. Muzzle‐flashes ripped at the night and lit their hard‐planed faces.

Garin fired the shotgun again, aiming at the nearest target. The monk moved just ahead of the lethal hail of pellets that tore bark from the tree behind him.

While the attention was off her, Annja stooped and scooped up the pistols. Just as she lifted them, a monk rushed Garin from the rear, following his sword.

“Behind you!” Annja pointed the pistols toward the monk, but Garin swung around into her line of fire.

The sword sliced through Garin’s black leather jacket. Coins and the keys to his car glittered in the moonlight as they spilled out. Catching the man on the end of the shotgun’s barrel, Garin loosed a savage yell and fired.

Trapped against the body with nowhere for the expanding gases to go, the shotgun recoil was magnified. Caught while turning on the soft loam, Garin went down under the monk’s body. Carried by the forward momentum he’d built up, almost ripped in half by the shotgun blast, the dead man wrapped his arms around Garin’s upper body.

Shouting curses, Garin rolled out from under the corpse and pushed himself to his feet.

Gunshots slapped against his chest. Another cut the side of his face and blood wept freely. He pulled the shotgun to his shoulder and tried to fire, but it was empty.

He looked at Annja. “Run!” Then he sped up the mountainside as fast as he could go.

Annja tried to follow. Before she went more than ten feet, the arriving monks turned on her. The escape route was cut off. She didn’t know if Garin was going to make it before he was overtaken.

Metal glinted on the ground only a few feet away. Even as she recognized what the object was, she was firing both pistols, chasing the monks back into hiding. It was a brief respite at best.

When both SIG‐Sauers blasted empty, she dropped the pistol from her left hand and scooped up Garin’s keys amid the scattered change lying on the ground. Then she turned and ran back down the mountain. Garin’s car, almost as heavily armored as a tank, still sat out in front of the main house. If she could reach the car, she thought she had a chance.

18

“Stop her but do not kill her!”

As she ran, Annja knew the command gave her a slight edge over the monks pursuing her. She didn’t try running back onto the roof of the house. Monks were already taking up perimeter positions atop it.

Instead, Annja ran for the side of the house. When she was past the house’s edge, she put the car fob between her teeth, shifted the pistol to her left hand and used her right to drag against the house. Her fingers clutched and tore at ivy as she began the steep descent.

She ran faster and faster, gaining speed as gravity reached for her and she raced to keep up the pace by lengthening her stride. But in the end she didn’t have a stride long enough to remain in control.

Somewhere past the second story, Annja’s foot slipped on a rock, her hand tore through the clinging ivy and she grabbed a handful of air.

She fell.

Tumbling end over end, unable to control either her speed or her direction, Annja gathered a collection of bruises and scrapes. She landed with a force that left her breathless.

Get up! she willed herself. Somehow, her body obeyed, pushing, shoving, working even though she felt as if she’d been broken into pieces. Incredibly, her knees came up and she was driving her feet hard against the ground.

Bullets slammed into the house beside her and into the ground. A man stepped out of the darkness ahead of her. She brought her pistol up automatically and fired for the center of his body. The bullets hit him and drove him back.

She was around the house and running for all she was worth. Shadows closed in around her. She couldn’t help wondering how many members belonged to the Silent Rain monastery.

She thought of the sword in her hand. The look and feel of it, the weight, it was almost there. As if she could reach out and touch it.

Everyone around her seemed to be moving in slow motion. But she moved at full speed.

Bullets thudded into the ground where she’d been. She moved more quickly than the monks could compensate. When she saw Garin’s Mercedes, monks flanked it, standing at either end. One stood on the hood of the car and raised an assault rifle.

She didn’t hesitate; there was nowhere else to go. Pointing the pistol, never breaking stride, she found she’d fired it dry. Knowing that if she turned away she would only be an easier target, she ran straight toward the monk and leaped, sliding across the car’s hood and knocking her opponent from his feet as he fired over her head.

Landing on the other side of the car in a confusing tangle of arms and legs, she fought free and stood. The man standing at the rear of the car tried to turn but he was too slow. She swung the empty pistol at the base of his skull and knocked him out.

As the man fell, she stepped forward and delivered a roundhouse kick to the monk in front of the car. Her foot caught him in the chest and knocked him backward several feet.

Annja was too scared to be amazed. Adrenaline, she told herself. She’d never kicked anyone that hard in her life.

She slid behind the wheel, keyed the ignition and heard the powerful engine roar to life, and shoved it into gear. The rear wheels spun and caught traction, then she was hurtling forward.

The front gates were still locked. Annja mentally crossed her fingers and hoped that the armored car was sufficient for the task. As she drove into the gate, she ducked her head behind her arms and hung on to the steering wheel.

For a moment, it sounded as if the world were coming to an end. An ugly image of her trapped and burning in the car filled her head. Fire had always been one of her greatest fears.

The car shuddered and jerked. Then, miraculously, it powered through the broken, sagging tangle of gates. Sparks flared around her as the car rode roughshod over the gates. She was on the other side, fighting the sudden fishtailing as the car lunged briefly out of control.

She cut the wheels just short of the trees at the side of the road and managed to keep the Mercedes pointed in the right direction. One of the headlights was broken—she could tell that from the monocular view of the road—but she could see well enough with the other.

She hoped Garin, Roux and Henshaw had made it to safety, but she had no intention of trying to find them. She’d had enough craziness for now.

Switching on the car’s GPS program, she quickly punched in directions to Paris. She was catching the first flight to New York she could find.

ANNJA BOUGHT a change of clothes—a pink I Love Paris sweatshirt and black sweatpants—a black cap she tucked her hair into and black wraparound sunglasses at a truck stop outside Paris. They were tourist clothes, overpriced and gaudy. It wasn’t much of a disguise, but wearing her own clothes was out of the question. Somewhere along the way she’d gotten someone’s blood on them. She left them in the trash in the bathroom.

She abandoned the car and caught a ride with a driver making a delivery to the airport, wanting to conserve her cash in case she had to run again.

As Europe’s second‐busiest airport, Charles de Gaulle International was busy even at one o’clock in the morning. The driver was kind enough to drop her at Terminal 1, where most of the international flights booked.

Annja cringed a little when she paid full price for the ticket, but went ahead and splurged for a first‐class seat. After the events of the past two days, she didn’t want people piled on top of her.

Especially not when the persons around her could be black‐garbed monks in disguise.

You’re being paranoid, she chided herself. But, after a moment’s reflection, she decided she was all right with that. A temporary case of paranoia beat a permanent case of dead.

ANNJA DOZED fitfully on the plane. No matter what she did to relax, true sleep avoided her. Finally, she gave up and spent time with her journals and notebook computer. Thankfully she’d left them in Garin’s car when they got to the mansion. She didn’t know if she’d ever again see the materials she’d left at the bed‐and‐breakfast.

She opened the computer and pulled up the jpegs she’d made of the sketches she’d done of the charm. She moved the images side by side and examined them.

“Would you like something to drink, miss?”

Startled, Annja looked up at the flight attendant. The question the man had asked slowly penetrated her fatigue and concentration.

“Yes, please,” Annja replied. “Do you have any herbal tea?”

“I do. I’ll get it for you.”

The flight attendant returned a moment later with a cup filled with hot water and a single‐serving packet of mint tea.

“Are you an artist?” the flight attendant asked.

“No,” Annja answered, plopping the tea bag into the cup. “I’m an archaeologist.”

“Oh. I thought maybe you were working on a video game.”

“Why?”

The flight attendant shrugged. He was in his late thirties, calm and professional in appearance. “Because of the coin, I suppose. Seems like a lot of games kids today play have to do with coins. At least, that’s the way it is with my kids. I’ve got three of them.” He smiled. “I guess maybe I’m just used to looking for hidden clues in the coins.”

“Hidden clues?”

“Sure. You know. Maybe it’s a coin, but there are clues hidden in it. Secret messages, that sort of thing.”

Annja’s mind started working. She stared at the side of the charm that held the wolf and the mountain. Is there a clue embedded in here? Or is this just a charm? Why would that warrior wear it when he fought La Bête? Another thought suddenly struck her. Why was the warrior alone?

“I’ll leave you alone with your work,” the flight attendant said. “Have a good flight.”

“Thank you,” Annja said, but her mind was already hard at work, separating the image of the wolf and the mountain into their parts.

The obverse was the stylized sign of the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain. But she didn’t know how stylized it was. Perhaps something had been added there, as well. She peered more closely, pumping up the magnification.

A moment later, she saw it. Behind three of the straight lines in the die mark of the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain, she saw a shadowy figure she hadn’t seen before.

WHEN SHE REACHED New York City, the first thing Annja did was look to find out if she was going to be picked up by the police. Since the NYPD SWAT team wasn’t waiting to cuff her when she stepped off the plane, she hoped that was a good sign.

Still, she didn’t want to go home without knowing what to expect.

She hailed a cab in front of LaGuardia International and took it to Manhattan to an all-night cyber café. Since she lived in Brooklyn, she felt reasonably certain Manhattan would be safe.

Settled into a booth, her laptop plugged into the hard‐line connection rather than the wireless so there would be no disruption of service—or less of it at any rate—she opened her e‐mail. A brief glance showed she’d acquired a tremendous amount of spam, as usual, and had a few messages from friends and acquaintances, but nothing that couldn’t keep.

There was a note from NYPD Detective Sergeant Bart McGilley that just read, Call me about those prints.

Annja didn’t know if he was going to protest being asked to look them up or if he’d gotten a hit. Or maybe he was just the bait to bring her in. That gave her pause for a moment.

She decided to put off the call for a few minutes. At least until she had time to eat the food she’d ordered with the computer time.

She was surprised to find that once her mind started working she didn’t feel the need for sleep. She didn’t know where she was getting the extra energy from, but she was grateful.

She opened the alt.archaeology site and found a few comments expressing interest in the images she’d posted, but nothing helpful.

The alt.archaeology.esoterica board netted three replies to her question regarding the images.

The first was from kimer@thetreasuresinthepast.com.

Saw your pictures. Loved them. What you’re looking at is some kind of coin minted for the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain. Wasn’t used for money, but it’s made of silver, Right?

If it is, then it’s legitimate. There were also copper ones, and there are rumors of gold ones, too, though I’ve never talked to anyone who’s seen one.

I’ve been researching European Monastic cults for my thesis. The brotherhood was disbanded three or four hundred years ago for some kind of sacrificial practice.

Sorry. Don’t know any more than that. If you find out anything, I’d love to know more.

Always curious.

The sandwich arrived, piled high with veggies and meat, with a bag of chips and a dill pickle spear on the side. A bottle of raspberry iced tea completed the meal.

As she ate one‐handed, Annja worked through the other entries.

You’ve probably already found out that the stylized rain on the back of the coin represents the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain. They were one of the longest‐lived monasteries in the Lozère/Mende area. Back when it was more commonly called Gévaudan.

That made the tie to La Bête more accessible, Annja thought. Since she didn’t truly believe in coincidences, she looked for the connection.

Anyway, what you might not know is that it’s still around. That coin you found was only minted for a few years. Maybe a dozen or twenty. Like everything else the monks did, they smithed the coins themselves. Had a forge and everything. What you’ve got there is a real find. I’ve got one of them myself. I’ve included pics.

Why would a basically self‐supporting monastery mint its own coins? Annja asked herself.

Not only that, but the charm hadn’t been minted of silver. Whoever forged it made it from the metal of the sword.

From Joan of Arc’s sword. Annja still couldn’t get around the thought of that.

Setting her sandwich to the side for a moment, Annja opened the attachments. The poster had done a great job with the pictures. They were clear and clean.

Judging from the pictures, the coin the poster owned was very similar to the one Annja had found in the cave. But that one looked like silver, even carried a dark patina that had never touched the one that Annja had found.

However, the coin in the pictures only had the image of the mountain, not the wolf.

And there was no shadowy figure trapped behind three lines in the die mark.

She sighed and returned her attention to her sandwich. The mystery had deepened again. She loved archaeology for its challenges, stories and puzzles. But she hated the frustration that sometimes came with all of those.

The third message was from Zoodio, the original responder to her posting.

Hey. Hope you’ve had some luck with your enigma. I’ve had a bit, but it appears contradictory and confusing.

Welcome to archaeology, Annja thought wryly.

The coin you’ve got is different than the ones minted at the monastery. And minting for a monastery is weird anyway. I understand they took gold for the Vatican and all that. Had to fund the additional churches somehow. But they marked ingots with the papal seal. Most of the time, though, the church never bothered to melt down and recast anything that came through the offerings.

I noticed differences on your coin, though. I mean, the images I pulled up and got from friends are different. But I didn’t find any that looked like the one you’ve got.

Taking a moment, Annja opened the images Zoodio had embedded in the message.

Sifting through them, she found they were similar to the ones she’d gotten from the previous poster.

To start with, the coin you found doesn’t appear to be made out of silver. Some other material?

Also, yours has differences. Did you notice the shadowy figure behind the stylized rain?

I didn’t at first. Had to look at it again, but I think it’s there.

Excitement thrummed through Annja. She clicked on the embedded picture and it opened in a new window.

The image was one of those she had posted, but Zoodio had used a red marker to circle the shadowy figure, then colored it in yellow highlighter to make it stand out more.

This really caught my eye. I love stuff that doesn’t make sense. I mean, eventually it will, but not at that precise moment, you know?

So I started looking. Turns out that the original Silent Rain monastery was attacked and burned down in 1767.

Shifting in her seat, noticing that it had started to rain outside, Annja felt another thrill of excitement. Zoodio hadn’t been looking for a connection between the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain and La Bête, but she had suspected it was there because of Lesauvage’s interests.

Of course, the monks showing up hadn’t daunted that conclusion.

La Bête had claimed its final victim, at least according to most of the records, in 1767, over three hundred years ago. And the monastery burned down that same year. Annja smiled at her rain‐dappled image in the window. That can’t be a coincidence, she thought. She was feeling energized. I do love secrets that have been hidden for hundreds of years.

She pondered the sword and how it had vanished. That was a whole other kind of secret.

During the flight back to the United States, she had come to the conclusion that Garin and Roux had somehow tricked her. She didn’t know how, and she didn’t know why, but there was no other explanation for the sword’s disappearance that made any sense at all.

She shivered slightly and returned her focus to the computer.

Turns out that the monastery was self‐contained. They didn’t take just anyone who wanted in.

Not only that, these guys are supposed to be like the Jesuits. Warlike, you know?

Trained in the sword and the pistol. Supposed to be masters of the blade and crack shots and all that rot.

Well…Annja thought, maybe they weren’t as good as their reputation. Or maybe the latest generation has gotten rusty.

Then again, Roux, Garin and Henshaw weren’t your average man on the street. The monks had walked into a hornet’s nest.

The brotherhood wasn’t well liked by the rest of the church. Too independent, too self-involved. Instead of reaching out to the community, the brotherhood sort of withdrew from it.

From the accounts I read, they didn’t want to be contaminated by outsiders.

Then where did they get recruits? Annja wondered. She opened her journal and started making notes. As questions arose, she entered those, as well.

Later, she’d timeline it and start combing through the facts and suppositions she had and try to find the answers she needed. She’d learned to work through an outline, make certain the bones were there regarding an event she was researching, then flesh it out once she knew what she was looking for.

In a way they became the perfect prison.

Shortly before the monastery was destroyed, the pope or one of the high church members ordered a prisoner moved there. The Silent Rain monks were supposed to keep the prisoner until they were told to set him or her free. Rumor exists that the prisoner was a woman.

Annja found the possibility intriguing. Why would a woman be locked up in a monastery? Normally a woman would have been sent to an abbey. Or simply imprisoned.

But the story of Joan of Arc, how she’d been imprisoned and later killed at the hands of brutal men, echoed in Annja’s head. Written history had a way of being more kind and gentle than what an archaeologist actually found broken and bashed at the bottom of a sacrificial well or buried in an unmarked shallow grave.

While working on dig sites throughout Europe, and even in the American Southwest, Annja had seen several murder victims. Those people had never been important enough in history’s selective vision to rate even a footnote most of the time. People were lost throughout history. It was a sad truth, but it was a truth.

Whoever it was, the story goes that an armed force descended on the monastery to free the prisoner. During the battle, the monastery burned to the ground. The fields were sown with salt so nothing would grow there for years.

And, supposedly, everyone at the monastery was killed. No one knows what happened to the prisoner.

But there’s also a story that a few local knights, unhappy with how the church was speaking out against their hunting parties, decided they’d had enough and razed the monastery for that reason.

Don’t know.

But I found the shadowy image (if it’s there and not just a figment of my imagination!) really interesting.

I hope you’ll let me know what you find out.

Annja closed down the notebook computer and gazed out the window. There were so many unanswered questions.

A few minutes later, she flagged down a taxi and gave her address in Brooklyn. The sound of the tires splashing through the rain‐filled streets lulled her. Her eyelids dropped. She laid her head back on the seat and let her mind roam. So many images were at war for her attention. The find at the cave. La Bête. Lesauvage, so smooth and so dangerous. Avery Moreau, whose father had been killed by Inspector Richelieu. The Brotherhood of the Silent Rain. Roux. Garin.

And the sword.

In her mind’s eye, she pictured the sword as it had been, broken into fragments. She could clearly see the piece that had been stamped by the Silent Rain monastery.

In her memory, she reached for it again. Incredibly, the pieces all fit together and the sword was once more whole. She reached for the sword, felt the rough leather wrapped around the hilt and the cold metal against her flesh.

When she closed her hand around the sword, she felt as if she was connected to it, as if it was part of her, as if she could pull it out of the case again.

She played the memory slowly, feeling the solid weight of the sword. Slowly, unable to stop herself from attempting the task even though she knew it was going to disrupt the memory, she withdrew the sword from the case.

It came, perfectly balanced for her grip.

“What the hell are you doing, lady?”

Annja’s eyes snapped open. In disbelief, she saw the sword in her hand, stretched across the back of the taxi. It obstructed the driver’s view through the back window.

He looked terrified.

She was holding the sword!

19

Cursing loudly, the taxi driver cut across two lanes on Broadway. Thankfully traffic was light at the early‐morning hour, but horns still blared in protest. His tires hit the curb in front of a closed electronics store.

Still under full steam, the driver leaped out of the taxi. He reached under the seat for an L‐shaped tire tool that looked as if it could have been used on the kill floor in a slaughterhouse.

He jerked Annja’s door open. “You!” he snarled, gesturing with the tire tool. “You get outta my cab!”

He was thin and anemic looking, with wild red hair tied back in a bun, wearing an ill-fitting green bowling shirt and khaki pants. He waved the tire tool menacingly.

For the moment, though, Annja ignored him. Somewhere during the confusion, the sword had disappeared. But it was here, she thought. I saw it. I felt it. It was here.

“C’mon!” the driver yelled. “Get outta there! What the hell do you think you were doin’ waving that sword around like that? Like I wasn’t gonna notice a sword!”

Dazed, Annja got out of the taxi. “You saw the sword?”

“Sure, I did!” the driver shouted. “Six feet long if it was an inch! And it—” He stopped suddenly. In disbelief, he stared at Annja, who stood there with her backpack slung over her shoulder. Then he motioned her away from the taxi. “Back up. Get outta there already.”

Annja complied.

The driver’s antics had drawn a small crowd.

The cabbie looked all over the back seat of the taxi. Then he dropped to his hands and knees and peered under the car. He even dragged his hands through the shadows as if doubting what his eyes revealed.

He clambered back to his feet. “All right,” he demanded, “what did you do with it?”

“Nothing,” Annja replied.

“You had a sword back there, lady. Biggest pig sticker I ever seen outside of Braveheart.” The taxi driver glared at her.

“I don’t have a sword,” Annja said.

“I saw what I saw, lady.”

Realizing the futility of the argument, Annja dropped twenty dollars on the seat, then turned and left, walking out into the street and hailing another cab immediately. She rode home quietly, trying not to think of anything, but wondering about everything.

TO THE CASUAL OBSERVER, Annja’s neighborhood was rundown. She liked to think of it as lived‐in, a piece of Brooklyn history.

Sandwiched amid the tall apartment buildings, the delis, the shops, the pizza parlors and the small grocery stores, her building was one of the oldest. Only four floors high, the top two floors were divided into lofts instead of apartments. An artist, a photographer, a sculptor and a yoga instructor lived there.

The ground floor was occupied by shops, including a small gallery that showcased local artists. A violin maker, a dentist, a private investigator, a fortune‐teller and music teachers occupied offices on the second floor.

A freight elevator ran up all four stories, but Annja didn’t take it. The residents had a tacit understanding that no one used the elevator at night because of the terrible noise it made. Annja had also found that she could generally just about pace the elevator as it rose.

She took the stairs in the dimly lit stairwell. In the years that she’d lived there, she’d never had any trouble. Vagrants and thieves tended to stay away from the building because so many people lived above the shops and kept watch.

Her door was plain, scarred wood under a thick varnish coat, marked only by the designation 4A. She liked to think of it as 4‐Annja, and that was how she’d felt when she’d first seen the loft space.

She worked through the five locks securing the door, then went inside.

A feeling of safety like she’d never known descended upon her as soon as she closed the door. For a moment, she stood with her back to the door, as if she could hold out the rest of the world.

As far back as she could remember, she had shared her space. Though she’d been so young when her parents were killed that she couldn’t really remember living with them. In the orphanage, there had been bunk beds stacked everywhere, and nuns constantly moving among them. Privacy had been nonexistent. As she’d grown older, her roommates had dropped down to four, but there was still no privacy.

In college, she’d shared a dorm room the first year, then settled into an apartment off campus with a revolving cast of roommates until graduation because none of them could afford to live on their own. The first few years after she’d graduated had been much the same. Only she’d been on digs—sharing campsites—ten months out of the year.

But then she’d sold her first book, a personal narrative detailing her experiences excavating a battlefield north of Hadrian’s Wall in Britain. The rumor was that the legendary King Arthur had fought there. At least, the man the stories had been built on was believed to have fought there.

Professor Heinlein hadn’t found any trace of King Arthur or his Knights of the Round Table, but he had discovered the murders of a band of Roman soldiers. In the official records, the unit had been lost while on maneuvers. From the evidence Annja had helped to unearth, the commander of the Roman centurions had killed them because they’d discovered his dealings with the Picts.

It appeared that the Roman commander had managed quite a thriving business in black market goods. Most wars inevitably produced such a trade, and there were always men ready to make a profit from it.

During the dig, though, Annja and the others reconstructed what had happened. The intrigue—digging for bones, then going through fragments of old Roman documents to re‐create the circumstances—had captured her attention. Everyone on the dig team had been excited by what they were finding and by the murders.

She’d kept a journal simply to keep track of everything they were figuring out, detailing the dig with interconnected pieces on what must have happened during that action all those years ago, interspersing colorful bits of history and infusing the story with life. A British journalist had taken an interest in her writing, and read everything she’d written. He’d made a lot of suggestions and pointed out the possibility of a book.

Annja had worked on the journal, with an eye toward possible publication, at the site and when she’d returned to New York. Two years later, after the manuscript had found a publisher and come out as a book, it was enough of a success to allow Annja to make the down payment on the loft. Reviewers had said she’d made archaeology appealing for the masses and kicked in a bit of a murder mystery on the side.

After that, she’d continued getting dig site offers because the book served as a great introductory letter and résumé. She’d also made some appearances on the late‐night talk‐show circuit and had a chance to show that she was good in front of a camera.

She became a favorite of David Letterman, who worked hard to keep her off balance and flirt with her at the same time. Her minor celebrity status eventually landed her on Chasing History’s Monsters.

Annja looked around the loft. The big room had a fourteen‐foot ceiling. Shelves filled the walls and sagged under the weight of books, rocks, artifacts and other finds. Her desk sat overflowing with open books, sketchpads and faxes. File folders, although everything was in order about them, stood stacked in haphazard piles. A sea of technology washed up around the desk: scanners, digital cameras, audio equipment, GPS devices, projectors and other items that she found useful. Despite her love of history, she loved technology, too.

She’d had every intention of cracking the notebook computer open and working on what she’d found out about the coin and the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain. But it felt so good to be home. Instead, she barely made it through a shower and into an oversize T‐shirt before she collapsed into bed.

Her thoughts were of the sword. Had she really held it? Had the taxi driver really seen it? Was she losing her mind…?

THE ANNOYING SOUND of a ringing phone penetrated the haze of sleep.

“Good morning,” Annja said. Without opening her eyes, she rolled over in bed and struggled to think clearly. She felt as if she’d been on cold medicine.

“Don’t you mean ‘Good afternoon’?” the caller asked. NYPD Homicide Detective Bart McGilley always sounded way too chipper, Annja thought grumpily as the words slowly registered.

She opened her eyes and looked at the skylight. From the hard, direct shadow on the varnished floor, she knew it had to be around noon.

Glancing over at the bedside clock, she saw the time was 12:03.

“Sorry.” Annja pushed herself up from bed. She never slept this late. “You woke me.

It’s taking me a minute to catch up with myself.”

“When did you get in yesterday?”

“You mean what time did I get in this morning?”

“Ouch. That’s harsh. You must have slept hard.”

Annja sat on the edge of the bed. “Why?”

“I called three times already.”

“I didn’t hear the phone ring.”

“Lots of fun in France?” Bart sounded a little envious. He’d told her more than once he could find his way around New York City blindfolded. Seeing something new would have been welcome.

“Hardly.” Annja yawned and suddenly realized she was ravenous. “Did you find out something about those prints I sent you?”

“I did. We need to talk.”

“We are talking.” Annja heard the hesitation in his voice. It wasn’t something she usually heard in Bart McGilley.

“Face‐to‐face,” he told her.

“Is it that bad?” Annja stood and walked to the window. She moved the curtain aside and peered out. She loved the view from the building. The streets were filled with pedestrians and cars.

“Are these fingerprints new?” he asked.

“Would that make a difference?”

“It would make it weird. Bad may follow. I’ve noticed that with you. You archaeologists sometimes lead strange lives.”

You, Annja thought, remembering the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain and the disappearing sword, don’t know the half of it.

“Besides,” Bart added, “I’ve missed talking to you.”

“I need to get dressed,” she told him.

“I could come over and help.”

Annja smiled at that. The thought was a pleasant one that she’d entertained before.

Bart McGilley had great eyes and great hands.

The problem was, he was the marrying kind. He couldn’t deal with a relationship where all things were equal. Getting involved with him would mean a regular struggle choosing between relationship and career.

And Annja couldn’t leave archaeology. There were too many wonders out there just waiting to be discovered. She could share her life, but she couldn’t give it up. Finding a guy who could meet her halfway was going to be hard, and she wasn’t even sure she wanted to look.

“I appreciate the offer,” Annja said, “but I’m sure you have better things to do.”

Bart sighed. “I don’t know about better, but I know the captain’s kicking tail for me to move some files off my desk.”

“So we’ll meet for lunch,” Annja said. “I’ll buy. Where to you want to meet?”

“Tito’s?”

Tito’s was one of their favorite Cuban restaurants. It also wasn’t far from her loft.

“Tito’s sounds great. Are you in the neighborhood?”

“If you hadn’t answered the phone this time, the next thing you’d have heard was me knocking on the door.”

“See you there in twenty minutes?”

“If you show up in twenty minutes, I’ll be the guy with the surprised look.”

ANNJA ARRIVED at the restaurant in twenty‐seven minutes. She dressed in jeans, a fitted T‐shirt, a leather jacket against the cool breeze and carried a backpack containing her computer and accessories.

She also turned the head of every male in the restaurant. After everything she’d been through the past few days, she indulged a moment of self‐gratification.

Tito’s carried the flavor of Cuba in the fare and the surroundings. The smoky scent of fajitas swirled in the air. Spices stung her nose. Lime‐green seats and yellow tables filled the hardwood floor. The drinks came crowded with fruit and a little umbrella.

“Annja!” Standing behind the counter, Maria Ruiz waved excitedly. Plump and gray-haired, she was in her sixties, the mother of Tito, and the chef who made the kitchen turn on a dime. Nothing escaped Maria’s sight. She wore a short‐sleeved floral shirt under her apron.

“Maria,” Annja said warmly, and stepped into the short woman’s strong embrace.

“It has been too long since you’ve been with us,” Maria said, releasing her and stepping back.

“I’ve been out of the country,” Annja replied in Spanish.

“Then you should come and bring pictures,” Maria said. “Show me where you have been. I always enjoy your adventures so much.”

“Thank you. When I get everything ready, I’d love to.”

Maria wiped her hands on her apron. “Let me know when. I’ll make a special dessert.”

Annja smiled. “I’ll look forward to that.” And I’ll have to go to the gym for a week afterward. Still, she loved Maria’s attentions, even if she had to pay for it in extra workouts.

“Do you need a table?” Maria asked.

“Actually, I’m meeting someone.”

Maria’s eyebrows climbed.

“I’m meeting Bart,” Annja said, laughing.

“He’s a good‐looking man,” Maria observed.

“Yes,” Annja agreed, “but I think he already knows that.”

Maria waved her comment away. “You could do much worse.”

“I know.”

Shaking her finger in warning, Maria added, “You’re not getting any younger.”

Chagrined, Annja smiled and shook her head. If Maria had her way, she’d already have her married off.

“He’s here already. Come with me.” Maria led the way through the packed restaurant, calling out instructions to the busboys, urging them to greater speed. She also dressed down a couple of waitresses who were lingering with male customers.

Bart sat at a table in the back that offered a view of the street. He was six feet two inches tall, with dark hair clipped short, a square jaw that was freshly shaved and wearing a dark blue suit with a gold tie firmly knotted at his neck. He stood as Maria guided Annja to the table.

“You look like a million bucks.” Bart pulled out a chair.

“You see?” Maria pinched Bart’s cheek. She spoke English so he could understand.

“You see why I like this one? Always he knows the right thing to say.”

Annja put her backpack on the chair next to her.

Embarrassed and off balance, Bart sat across from her.

“Have you ordered?” Maria asked.

Bart shook his head. “I was waiting for Annja.”

Maria threw her hands up. “Don’t you worry. I’ll prepare your meals. I’ll make sure you get plenty.” She turned and walked away.

Bart shook his head and grinned. “This is a big city. How do you get to know these people so well?” he asked.

“I like them,” Annja said.

“Then you like a lot of people. It seems like everywhere we go, you know somebody.”

Bart didn’t sound jealous.

“I’ve met a lot of people.”

“But you’re an absentee resident. Gone as much as you’re here.”

“I grew up in an orphanage,” Annja said. “I learned to meet people quickly. You never knew how long they were going to be around.”

Bart leaned back in his chair. “I didn’t know that.”

Annja smiled. “It’s not something I talk about.”

“I mean, I figured you had a family somewhere.”

“No.”

He shook his head. “How long have I known you?”

“Two years.”

Smiling, he said, “Two years, four months.”

Annja was surprised he’d kept track. It made her feel a little uncomfortable. She didn’t timeline her life other than when she was on a dig site. In her daily life, she just…flowed. Got from point A to point B, with an eye toward a multitude of possible point Cs.

“I’ll take your word for it,” she told him.

“It’s been that long. And in all that time, I didn’t know you were adopted.”

“I was never adopted,” Annja said. For just an instant, the old pain twitched in her heart. “I grew up at the orphanage, went to college and got on with my life.”

Bart looked uncomfortable. “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get into this.”

“It’s no big deal,” Annja said. But she remembered that it used to be. She’d walled all that off a long time ago and simply got on with living. Just as the nuns had counseled her to do.

Gazing into her eyes, Bart said, “It’s just that you have this way about you. Like with that woman—”

“You mean Maria?”

“See? I didn’t even know her name.”

“That’s because she’s never been a homicide suspect,” Annja said.

Bart gave her a wry look. “No. That’s not it. You’re just…someone people are lucky to get to know.”

“Thank you.” Annja felt embarrassed and wondered if the meeting was going to suddenly get sticky and if Bart wanted to explore the possibilities of a relationship.

“I was telling my girlfriend about you. That maybe we should try to fix you up with somebody we knew.”

Annja didn’t think she’d heard right. “Girlfriend?” She suddenly felt let down in ways she hadn’t even imagined.

“Yeah. Girlfriend.”

Hesitating, Annja said, “How long have you had a girlfriend?”

“We’ve dated off and on for the last few years,” Bart said. “It’s hard to maintain a steady relationship when you’re a cop. But a week ago, we got engaged.”

“You asked her to marry you?” Annja was reeling.

He grinned and looked a little embarrassed. “Actually, she asked me. In front of the guys at the gym.”

“Gutsy.”

“Yeah. She’s some piece of work.”

“So what did you say?”

Bart shrugged. “I told her I’d think about it.”

“You did not.”

“No,” he agreed, “I didn’t. I said I would.” He shifted in his seat. “I’d like to ask you a favor if I could.”

“You can. I seem to ask you for favors from time to time.” Annja didn’t like the little ember of jealousy inside her. She knew she didn’t want commitment at this point in her life, but she’d liked the idea of having Bart kind of waiting in the wings. She didn’t like how casually that had just been taken off the table. Or how she’d made the wrong assumptions about his feelings for her. She felt foolish.

“I’d like something special for a wedding ring,” Bart said. “Something that has…a history to it. You know. Something that has—”

“Permanence,” Annja said, understanding exactly what he was looking for.

Bart nodded and smiled happily. “Yeah. Permanence. I want to give her something that didn’t just come off an assembly line.”

“I can do that. How much time do I have?”

Spreading his hands, Bart shrugged. “A few months. A year. We haven’t exactly set a date yet.”

“What does she do?”

He gazed at her through suspicious, narrowed eyes. “Are you curious about the kind of woman that would go out with me? Or choose to marry me?”

“I figured I’d be checking a psych ward.”

Bart snorted.

“Actually,” Annja went on, “I was thinking it might be nice to get her something that might tie in to her profession. Give her a duality. A bonding of her life with you as well as the life she’s chosen.”

“I like that,” Bart said seriously.

“Good. So what does she do?”

“She’s a doctor. In Manhattan.”

“A doctor is good,” Annja said. “What kind of doctor?”

“She works in the ER. She patched me up three years ago when I was shot.”

“You never told me you’d been shot,” Annja said.

“I didn’t die. Nothing to tell. But I got to know Ruth.”

“Ruth. That’s a good, strong name.”

“She’s a strong lady.”

“So the offer you made earlier about coming up to my loft and helping me dress—”

“Whoa,” Bart protested, throwing his hands up. “In the first place, I knew you would never say yes.”

Feeling mischievous, Annja said, without cracking a smile, “And if I did?”

“You wouldn’t.”

She decided to let him off the hook. “You’re right.”

“So what about you?” he asked. “Do you have a special guy stashed someplace?”

“No.”

“Then you should let Ruth and me fix you up.”

“I’m not looking for a relationship,” Annja said. “I have my work.”

“And that’s why I knew you wouldn’t let me come up.” Bart smiled. “Speaking of work, yours, as I might have mentioned, has taken on a decidedly weird twist.”

“How?” Annja asked.

“Those fingerprints you asked me to run? They’re connected to a homicide that took place sixty‐three years ago.”

Surprise stopped Annja in her tracks for a moment. “A homicide?”

“Yeah. They belong to the prime suspect.”

20

“Sixty‐three years ago,” Bart McGilley went on, “a woman was found dead in a hotel room in Los Angeles. She worked for MGM studios. Bought set pieces. Stuff they used in the backgrounds to make a scene more real.”

“Anyway, from the way everything looks, this woman, Doris Cooper, age twenty‐eight and an L.A. resident, was murdered for one of the things she bought.”

“What was it?” Annja felt a sudden chill.

Bart shrugged. “Nobody knows. Nobody knew what she’d bought that day. The detectives working the case didn’t follow up all that well. During the heyday of the movies back then, the death of a set designer only got a splash of ink, not a river of it.”

“She was a nobody,” Annja said, knowing the sad truth of how things had gone.

“Right.”

Annja wondered if Roux was the type to kill a woman in cold blood. It didn’t take her long to reach the conclusion that he was—if he was properly motivated. She was doubly glad that she hadn’t followed Roux and Garin. Their talking about having lived five hundred years was already weird enough without also thinking of them as murderers.

“Those fingerprints popped up on a computer search?” Annja asked.

“At Interpol,” Bart replied. “They’re called friction ridges in cop speak, by the way. Back in the day, so the story goes, the L.A. investigators thought maybe the guy was from out of the country. On account of how Doris Cooper bought a lot of things from overseas. So they sent the friction ridges over to Interpol. After you sent them to me, I sent them on, thinking maybe you were looking for an international guy.”

“Interpol happened to have the fingerprints of a sixty‐three‐year‐old murder suspect?”

Bart blew out his breath. “Interpol has a lot of information. That’s why they’re a clearinghouse for international crimes. They’ve gone almost totally digital. Searchable databases. You get a professional out there in the world doing bad stuff, they’ve got a way to catch them. This case was one of those they’d archived.”

“There’s no doubt about the prints?”

Bart shook his head. “I had one of our forensics guys match them up for me. When I saw what I saw, that these friction ridges belonged to the suspect on a sixty‐three-year‐old murder, I knew I wanted a professional pair of eyes on that ten‐card.”

“Was there a name attached to the friction ridges?”

“No.”

Two of Maria’s cooks arrived with steaming plates of food. They placed them on the table in quick order and departed.

Annja’s curiosity didn’t get in the way of her appetite. Laying a tortilla on her plate, she quickly loaded it with meat, tomatoes, peppers, onions, lettuce and cheese.

“So this guy you printed,” Bart said, “he was what? Eighty or ninety?”

He didn’t look it, Annja thought. She would have guessed Roux was in his early sixties, but no more. During the shoot‐out with the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain, he hadn’t moved like even a sixtysomething‐year‐old man.

“I found the fingerprints on a coin,” Annja said truthfully. She didn’t want to mention that the coin was of recent vintage.

“So you thought you’d send them along to me?” Bart shook his head. “You had more reason than that.”

Annja looked at her friend, thought about him getting married and realized that she truly hoped things didn’t change between them. She knew one of the things that would change their relationship, though, was a lie.

“I was given the coin by a man in France,” she told him. “He swapped it, while I wasn’t looking, for a charm I’d found.”

“Was the charm valuable?”

“Maybe. It was made out of hammered steel, not gold or silver. Not even copper. I haven’t even found a historical significance yet.” Annja couldn’t tell him that it had been part of a sword that Roux had claimed once belonged to Joan of Arc.

Bart took a small notebook from inside his jacket. “Did you get his name?”

“Roux,” she answered. “I’m not even sure of the spelling.”

He wrote anyway. “No address?”

Annja thought of the big house butted up against the hill outside Paris. She’d never seen an address and Garin had never mentioned one.

“No,” she said. “No address.”

Bart sighed and closed the notebook. “I can ask Interpol to look up records on this guy.

Maybe we’ll get a hit on something.”

“Sure,” Annja said. Curiosity nagged at her. Roux was wanted in connection with a sixty‐three‐year‐old murder. She wondered what other information the old man was hiding. She was glad that she was out of France and far away from him.

ANNJA SPENT the afternoon putting together the video on La Bête. She used the software on her desktop computer, loading up the video footage of Lozère, the books she’d cribbed for pictures and drawings of what the Beast of Gévaudan might have looked like, and the digital pictures she’d taken of the creature in the cave.

Using the green screen setup in one corner of the loft, she filmed different intros for the segment, a couple of closings, and completed the voice‐overs. When she had it all together, it was late and she was tired.

She watched the completed video and timed it. Chasing History’s Monsters generally only allowed nine to ten minutes per segment, allowing for setup by the host and the ensuing commercials.

So far, she was three minutes over but knew with work she could cut that down.

Okay, she told herself, all work and no play makes Annja a dull woman.

After grabbing a quick shower and a change of clothes, she packed her gym bag and headed out of the loft.

EDDIE’S GYM WAS an old‐school workout place. Boxers exercised and trained there, smashing the heavy bag then each other in the ring. It had concrete floors, unfinished walls, and trendy exercise machines had never taken up residence there. Free weights clanked and thundered as lifters worked in rotation with their spotters.

It was a place where men went to sweat and burn out the anger and frustration of the day. Young fighters learned the intricacies of the fighting craft and the statesmanship necessary to sweep the ring and move up on a fight card. No one tanned there, and hot water in the showers was a random thing.

There really was an Eddie and he and another old ex‐boxer had each been Golden Gloves and fought professionally for a time. They owned the place outright and didn’t suffer poseurs or wannabes with no skill.

Training wasn’t part of what a membership bought. That was given to those deserving few who caught the eye of Eddie and his cronies.

Occasionally, young men who had seen Fight Club too many times came into the club and tried to prove they were as tough as Brad Pitt or Edward Norton. The regulars, never very tolerant, quickly sent the newbies packing with split lips and black eyes.

Eddie’s was all about survival of the fittest. Annja liked to go there because it felt real, not like one of the upscale fitness clubs that were more about the right kind of clothing and the favorite smoothie flavor of the week.

When she’d first started working out there, she’d had trouble with some of the men.

Eddie hadn’t wanted her around because he didn’t want the complication.

But she’d stood her ground and won the old man over with her knowledge of boxing.

The knowledge was a newly acquired thing because she’d liked the gym, had wanted to work out there and did her homework. She also worked out at a couple of martial-arts dojos, but she preferred the atmosphere at Eddie’s. She was a regular now and had nothing to prove.

“Girl,” Eddie said as he held the heavy bag for her, “you musta been eatin’ your Wheaties. You’re pounding the hell outta this bag more than ever before.”

Annja hit the bag one last time, snapping and turning the punch as Eddie had taught her.

“You’re just getting weak,” Annja chided playfully.

“The hell I am!” Eddie roared.

Annja grinned at him and mopped sweat from her face with a towel hung over a nearby chair. She wore black sweatpants and a sleeveless red shirt that advertised Eddie’s Gym across it in bold yellow letters. Boxing shoes and gloves completed her ensemble.

Eddie claimed he was sixty, but Annja knew he was lying away ten years. The ex‐boxer was black as coal, skinny as a rake, but still carried the broad shoulders that had framed him as a light heavyweight. Gray stubble covered his jaw and upper lip. His dark eyes were warm and liquid. Boxing had gnarled his ears and left dark scars under his eyes. When he grinned, which was often, he showed a lot of gold caps. He wore gray sweatpants, one of his red shirts and a dark navy hoodie. He kept his head shaved.

“Don’t tell me you just dissed me in my own place of business!” Eddie shouted.

“You’re the one who said he was having trouble hanging on to the bag,” Annja reminded him. He sounded mad, but she knew it was all an act. Eddie was loud and proud, but she liked him and knew that the feeling was reciprocated.

“Girl, you’re hittin’ harder than I ever seen you hit. What have you been doin’?”

“Archaeology.” Annja shrugged.

Eddie waved that away. He looked at her. “You don’t look no different.”

“I’m not.” Annja mopped her arms. “Maybe you’re just having an off day.”

“I told people I had an off day when I fought Cassius Clay. The truth of the matter was that man hit me so hard I couldn’t count to two.” Eddie picked up a towel and wiped down, as well. “But something’s different about you.”

Annja shrugged. “I just feel good, Eddie. That’s all.”

“Humph,” he said, looking at her through narrowed eyes. “Usually when you come back from one of your trips, it takes you a little while to get back to peak conditioning.”

“I do my roadwork and keep my legs strong wherever I go,” she replied. But she knew what he was talking about. Tonight’s workout had seemed almost…easy.

She’d done plenty of jump rope, the speed bag and the heavy bag, a serious weight rotation with more weight and more reps than she’d ever put up before. Something was different. Because even after all of that she felt as if she could do it all again.

EDDIE STOOD by his office with his arms folded and stared at the young black man in headgear beating on a guy who couldn’t seem to hold his own against his opponent.

Annja had noticed the guy, watching the sadistic way he’d beaten the other fighter.

“Who’s the new fighter?” she asked.

Eddie shook his head. “Trouble.”

“Does he have another name?” Annja watched as the fighter knocked his opponent down again.

Three men about the fighter’s age all clapped and cheered the fighter’s latest triumph.

“Name’s Keshawn. He says he’s a businessman.” Eddie didn’t sound ready to give the young man an endorsement.

Annja took in the tattoos marking the fighter’s arms and legs. “He looks like a banger,”

she said.

“He is,” Eddie agreed. “Knew him when he was little. Had a heart then. It all turned bad now. He keeps doin’ what he’s doin’, he’ll be dead or locked away in a couple years.”

This time the other guy in the ring couldn’t get to his feet. Keshawn’s hangers‐on cracked up, cheered and threw invective at the man.

Keshawn turned to Eddie and spit out his mouthpiece. “Hey, old man!” he yelled. “You sure you ain’t got nobody that’ll spar with me? Just a couple rounds? I promise I won’t hurt ’em much.” Arrogance and challenge radiated in him like an electric current.

The other boxers working the rotations didn’t respond.

“Anybody?” Keshawn gazed around the club. “I got a thousand dollars says nobody here can put me outta this ring.”

“It time for you to go, boy,” Eddie said. “Your ring time is up.”

Keshawn beat his chest with his gloves. “I’ll fight anybody who wants this ring.”

Eddie walked toward the ring. “That ain’t my agreement with you, boy. You paid for time, you took your time. Now you haul your ass outta my place.”

A cocky grin twisted Keshawn’s lips. “You best stop callin’ me ‘boy,’ old man. I might start takin’ it personal.”

Annja stepped behind Eddie, staying slightly to his right.

“Go on,” Eddie growled. “Get outta here.”

Releasing his hold on the ring ropes, Keshawn skipped out to the middle of the ring and took up a fighting stance. “You want this ring, old man?” He waved one of his gloves in invitation. “Come take it from me.”

Eddie cursed the younger man soundly, not holding back in any way. “You best come on down outta there.”

“You best not come up in here after me,” Keshawn warned. He was over six feet, at least two hundred pounds and cut by steroids. His hair was blocked and he wore a pencil‐thin mustache. He grinned and slammed his gloves together. “You’ll get yourself hurt, old man.”

Eddie started to climb up into the ring.

Annja caught the old man’s arm. “Call the police. You don’t need to go in there.”

“This is my place, Annja,” he told her fiercely. “I don’t stand up for what’s mine, I might as well pack up and go sit in an old folks’ home.” He shrugged out of her grip and slid between the ropes.

Keshawn smiled more broadly and started skipping, showing off his footwork. “You think you got somethin’ for me, old man?”

Annja caught hold of the ropes and stood at the ring’s edge. The confrontation had drawn the attention of the rest of the club’s regulars. No one appeared ready to intercede, though. Annja hoped someone had called the police, but she didn’t want to leave long enough to go to her locker for her cell phone.

Slowly, hands at his sides, Eddie walked toward the younger man. “I told you to get outta here, boy. I meant what I said.”

Keshawn danced away from Eddie. “They say you used to be somethin’ to see, old man. Were you really? Were you a good boxer?”

Eddie moved so fast that even Annja, who had been expecting it, almost didn’t see it.

He fired a jab straight into Keshawn’s face, slipping past the headgear and popping the younger man in the nose.

Surprised, Keshawn staggered back. He cursed virulently. Holding a glove to his nose, he snorted bloody mucus onto the canvas. Crimson ran down his face. “You’re gonna pay for that, old man.”

“I told you to get out,” Eddie said. Although his opponent was taller and bigger and at least forty years younger, there was no fear in the old boxer. “You best listen to your elders. Somethin’ you shoulda learned at your granny’s knee.”

Without a word, Keshawn attacked. For a minute, no more, Eddie withstood the flurry of blows, tucking his elbows in and keeping his curled fists up beside his head to protect his face. He even managed a few punches of his own, but Keshawn blocked them or shook them off, in the full grip of rage.

In seconds, Keshawn had the old boxer penned in the corner and was beating and kicking him.

Annja used her teeth to unlace her gloves, then shook them off. Other gym members started to move in, but Keshawn’s hangers‐on held them back.

Annja rolled under the ropes and onto the canvas before anyone could stop her.

Coming up behind Keshawn, she kicked the gangbanger’s legs out from under him and pulled him away from Eddie.

“You shouldn’t a done that,” Eddie whispered, barely able to hang on to the ropes.

“Should’ve stayed outta this, Annja.”

Annja didn’t say anything. There had been no choice. She turned as she sensed Keshawn moving behind her.

“Don’t know who you are, white girl,” the big man said, “but this sure ain’t any business of yours.”

“Somebody’s called the cops by now,” Annja said, lifting her hands to defend herself.

“If you stay here, you’re just going to get arrested.”

Fear wriggled inside her. She felt it. She breathed in and out, concentrating on that, keeping herself ready. Reading his body language, she knew exactly when he was going to throw the first punch.

21

Keshawn threw a jab with his left hand.

Twisting, Annja dodged the blow, letting it fly past her head to the left. At the same time, she brought her right hand up and slammed the Y between her thumb and her forefinger into the base of her attacker’s throat.

As he stumbled back. Annja rolled her hips, drew her right hand back and swiveled.

She drove her left foot into Keshawn’s face so hard that she forced him back several feet.

Stunned, he landed hard, off balance, and rolled over to his knees. He looked at her in shock and rage, blood dripping down his chin. Leaping to his feet, he launched himself at her.

Annja dodged away, planting both hands in the middle of his back and shoving him into the ropes. He was tangled for a moment, cursing loudly and promising her that she was going to die.

Annja believed he meant it. She saw that Keshawn’s friends were still struggling with other gym members.

He stood again, then came at her more slowly, trying to keep his hands up and use his size and reach, getting more canny now that his confidence was eroding. He threw punch after punch. Annja easily dodged them or blocked them, giving ground and drawing him to the middle of the ring. He breathed like a bellows.

Incredibly, even after her workout, Annja still felt fast and strong. Her breathing was regular, her mind calm. Eddie had been right. She had changed. She didn’t know where the extra energy was coming from. She guessed anger and adrenaline had kicked in powerfully.

Annja stopped giving ground. Keshawn came at her with another flurry of blows. She stood still, moving her arms just enough to block everything he threw at her. Then—

when he was tiring, gasping for breath—she struck back.

The right fist swept forward. Her first two knuckles slid through his defense and between the slits of his headgear. More blood gushed from his nose.

She lifted a knee into his crotch hard enough to raise him from the mat. Before he could fall, she swept her leg out and knocked the unsteady man’s feet out from under him. He hit the mat hard.

Sirens wailed just outside the gym.

“You’re done,” Annja said in a slow, controlled voice. She felt much cooler than she would ever have imagined.

ANNJA WATCHED as EMTs worked on Eddie Watts. Most of his injuries were superficial. He bled from his nose, split lips and a cut over his right eye. His left eye was swollen shut.

Uniformed police officers had taken Keshawn and his friends into custody. Detectives stood questioning witnesses.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Annja asked as she held Eddie’s callused hand.

“I’ll be fine, girl. When I came outta that fight with Cassius Clay, I looked worse than this.” Eddie gave her a lopsided grin. “Don’t know what you been doin’, Annja, but what you just did?” He shook his head gingerly. “That was something special. Ain’t ever seen nobody do that before.”

Annja didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t believe everything that had happened.

Over the years, she’d had to fight on occasion. Even in the past few days, she’d had to fight against the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain.

But this time was different. She had changed.

HOURS LATER, after the police had finally released her and she’d checked on Eddie in the hospital, finding that the old boxer’s daughter was with him, Annja returned home.

She took a shower so hot that it steamed up the bathroom, leaving fog on the glass walls and the mirror. Scrubbed and feeling clean again, she sat on the floor in the center of the loft with the lights out. She pulled herself into a lotus position, back straight, and breathed deeply.

Working slowly, knowing it would take time, Annja gradually relaxed her body. She breathed in and out, slowing her heartbeat, centering herself the way she had been taught.

She stared at the dark wall, then imagined a single dot on it. She focused on the dot until the city ceased to exist around her.

Something had changed about her, and she sought it out. In Eddie’s Gym, she’d moved with greater speed and more strength than she’d ever possessed. Where had that come from?

Something had unlocked the speed and strength inside her. It wasn’t just adrenaline.

She’d been afraid before. She’d felt pumped from fear. But she’d never been that strong or that fast. The source was something else.

The image of the sword appeared in her mind.

Earlier that day, after she’d returned from lunch with Bart McGilley, she’d sat in her loft and tried to reach the sword the way she had in the back of the taxi. Nothing had happened.

Now she saw the sword perfectly. It was whole, resting once more in the case.

Slowly, Annja reached in for the sword, closed her hand around the hilt and drew it out. When she opened her eyes, the sword was in her hand.

It was real.

She stood slowly, afraid that it would disappear at any moment as it had in the taxi the night before.

Taking a two‐handed grip, Annja started moving through one of the forms she’d been taught in martial arts. Her interest in swords had started early, before she was even a teenager. She’d learned forms for the blade in several disciplines.

In the quiet of the loft, in the darkness of the night with the moon angled in through the window, Annja danced with the blade. In no time at all, it felt as if she’d always known it, and that it was a part of her.

THE RINGING PHONE WOKE Annja. She blinked her eyes open and glanced at the clock beside the bed. It was 9:17 a.m. Caller ID showed it was Bart, calling from his personal cell phone.

“Hello?” she said, her voice thick.

“Sorry,” Bart said. “I guess I woke you.”

“Yeah, again.” Annja sat up and reached for the sword. It was gone. She’d laid it beside the bed before succumbing to fatigue in the wee hours.

“I heard you had a late night and a little excitement,” the policeman said. “I told you before that Eddie’s Gym is a rough place.”

“I like Eddie. He’s a good guy,” Annja replied.

“He is a good guy,” Bart agreed. “But his place is in a bad neighborhood.”

Annja pushed up out of bed and walked over to the window. She raised the blinds and peered out. The city was alive and moving. “I live in a bad neighborhood.”

“I know. Anyway, I wasn’t calling to gripe at you. I just wanted to know if you were okay.”

“I am,” she said. “Thanks for caring.” Where does the sword go? she wondered, distracted.

“I heard Eddie’s going to be okay.”

“He will be.”

“Good. Do you need anything?”

“No.”

“So what are your plans?”

“I’m going to stay in all day and work on my segment for the show.”

“Fantastic,” Bart said. “The way your luck has been running lately, maybe it’s in your better interests to keep a low profile for a while.”

Annja smiled a little. “I resent that.”

“Yeah, well, sue me. Right now, you seem to be quite accident prone.”

“No more than normal,” she said, laughing.

“Stay in, Annja,” Bart said. “Stay safe. If you need anything, call me.”

“I will. You, too.” Annja broke the connection.

She put the phone away and looked for the sword again. It made no sense. She wondered again if she was losing her mind.

Had the sword really belonged to Joan of Arc? She had no way of knowing. But she wanted to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating. She didn’t believe in magic. But every culture she’d studied had very deep and abiding beliefs in the supernatural and incredible powers.

Taking a deep breath, she visualized the sword hanging in the air before her. She reached for it. When she closed her hand around the hilt, she felt it. It was real.

Walking over to the bed, she put the sword down and drew her hand back. The sword remained where it was. She sat down in the floor and watched it. Twenty minutes later, it was still there.

Deciding to experiment, she closed her eyes and wished the sword was not there, that it would return to where it came from.

When she opened her eyes, the sword was gone. Panic swelled within her. She couldn’t help wondering if she’d wished it away and broken whatever mysterious force bound them.

Stay calm, she advised herself. Breathing easily, shaping the sword in her mind, she reached for it.

She held it in her hand once again.

It was the most frightening yet wonderful thing she had ever seen.

FRUSTRATED, her back aching, Annja straightened up from her desk. Judging from the darkness outside her windows, it was evening—or night.

She’d worked without stopping since that morning, except for phone calls to different museums and libraries to gain access to information that wasn’t open to the general public. Instead of working on the La Bête piece, she’d researched Joan of Arc.

Surprisingly, she didn’t really find much more than what she’d remembered from childhood. There was little mention of the sword other than it was commonly believed at the time that it held magical powers. And there were stories that it had been shattered. But as far as she could tell, no fragments from the warrior maid’s weapon had ever been authenticated.

Giving up for the time being, totally stumped as to what to do next, she went to the bed and picked up the sword. She was ready to experiment some more.

Annja dropped the sword back onto the bed.

Leaving the loft, she made her way up to the rooftop. Lightning ran thick veins across the sky, heated yellow blazing against the indigo of swirling clouds. The wind rushed through her hair and cooled her. She breathed in, wondering if what she proposed would work.

Closing her eyes, she imagined the sword and reached for it. She felt the cool of the metal and the roughness of the leather in her hand. When she opened her eyes again, she held the sword.

Thunder rolled, pealing all around her and echoing between the buildings. A light rain started, cooling the city and washing the air free of dust and pollution for the moment.

Filled with childish glee, still not quite believing what she had proved over and over again, Annja whirled the sword. The blade glinted and caught lightning flashes. In seconds, her clothing was sodden and stuck to her, but she didn’t even think of going inside.

The bizarre reality of her situation struck her hard. She was holding Joan of Arc’s sword! And somehow it was bound to her!

On top of the building, with the sounds of modern life echoing through the concrete caverns of the city, Annja went through the sword forms again. This time she elaborated, bringing in different styles. Her feet moved mechanically, bringing her body in line with the sword.

No matter how she moved, the sword felt as if it were part of her. When she was finished with the forms, breathing hard and drenched by the rain, she closed her eyes and placed the sword away from her.

She felt the weight of the sword evaporate from her hand. When she opened her eyes, the weapon was gone. Another breath, eyes still open, and she reached out for the sword. In a flash, the sword was in her hand.

Despite her familiarity with the process now, she still felt amazed. If it’s not magic, she asked herself, what is it? She had no answer.

Giving in to impulse, Annja held the sword in both hands high over her head. Almost immediately, lightning reached down and touched the tip in a pyrotechnic blaze of sparks. For a moment, the blade glowed cobalt‐blue.

Annja dropped the sword, grateful she hadn’t been electrocuted.

When she inspected the sword, it was unmarked. If anything, the blade seemed cleaner, stronger. Energy clung to the weapon. She felt it thrumming inside her.

Soaked and awed, Annja stood for a moment in the center of the city and knew that no one saw her. She was invisible in the night. No one knew what she held. She didn’t even know herself. She breathed deeply, smelling the salt from the Atlantic, and knew she’d somehow stumbled upon one of the greatest mysteries in history.

“Why me?” she shouted into the storm.

There was no answer, only the rolling thunder and lightning.

OF COURSE THE IDEA CAME to her in the middle of the night. That was when her subconscious mind posed a potential answer to one of the riddles that faced her.

She sat up in bed and found the sword lying on the floor. I’ve got to protect this sword, she told herself.

Though after the blade had been hit by lightning and hadn’t been harmed or allowed her to come to harm, she didn’t think much could destroy it.

The sword was destroyed once, she reminded herself. Roux had told her that. She had seen the pieces. But why was it back now?

Slowly, she visualized the pieces in the case at Roux’s house. She drew her fingers along the sword’s spine, trying to link to whatever force tied her to the weapon.

Part of the sword had been the charm she’d found on the warrior who died bringing down La Bête. Somewhere inside that sword, the mark that had been struck on both sides of that piece of fractured metal still existed.

In her mind’s eye, she lifted the image of the wolf and the mountain to the surface of the blade. On the other side of the weapon, she brought up the die mark of the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain.

Thunder cannonaded outside, close enough to make the windows rattle.

Annja focused on the sword. She traced her fingers along the blade. This time she felt the impressions of the images.

Opening her eyes, she looked down. In the darkness she couldn’t see the images she felt. Then lightning blazed and lit up her loft for a moment.

There, revealed in the blue‐white light, the image of the wolf and the mountain stood out in the smooth grain of the steel. When she turned the blade over, the die mark of the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain was there.

She grabbed one of the digital cameras she used for close‐up work. She took several shots of the images.

When she was satisfied that she had all that she needed, she stared at the imperfections on the blade. She ran her fingers over them again, feeling how deeply they bit into the metal.

The sight of them, the feel of them, was almost unbearable.

She willed the sword away, back into wherever it went when it was not with her. It faded from her hands like early‐morning fog cut by direct sunlight.

Taking a deep breath, she reached into that otherwhere and drew the sword back.

Light gleamed along the blade. The marks had disappeared.

A quick check of the images on the digital camera revealed that the shots she’d taken still existed. She put the sword on the bed and turned her full attention to the camera images.

Was the sword weak while it was shattered? Annja wondered. Or had it allowed itself to be marked? And if it had allowed itself to be marked, why?

She set to work.

22

Using the software on her computer, Annja blew up the images of the wolf and the mountain. After they were magnified, she saw there were other images, as well. The detail of the work was amazing.

The shadowy figure behind the bars was better revealed. Although manlike in appearance, the figure was a grotesquerie, ill shaped and huge, judging from the figure of the man standing behind him.

With her naked eye, Annja had barely been able to make out the second figure. Once the image was blown up, she couldn’t miss him. He wore the armor of a French knight.

A shield bearing his heraldry stood next to him.

Annja blew up the image more, concentrating on the shield.

The shield was divided in the English tradition rather than the French. That surprised Annja. The common armchair historian assumed that all heraldry was the same, based on the divisions of the shield that English heraldry was noted for. But the French, Italians, Swedish and Spanish—as well as a few others—marked their heraldry differently.

This one was marked party per bend sinister—diagonally from upper right to lower left. The upper half showed the image of a wolf with its tongue sticking out. The animal didn’t have much detail, but Annja got a definite sense of malevolence from the creature. The lower half of the shield was done in ermines, a variation of the field that represented fur. Ermines were traditionally black on white.

The design was unique. If it hadn’t disappeared in history, there would likely be some documentation on it.

Annja cut the shield out of the image with the software, cleaned up the lines as much as she could and saved it.

Logging onto alt.archaeology, she sent a brief request for identification to the members. She also sent an e‐mail to a professor she knew at Cambridge who specialized in British heraldry. She also followed up with a posting to alt.archaeology.esoterica.

What was a British knight doing at a French monastery of an order of monks that had been destroyed?

Annja returned to the image.

The shadowy, misshapen figure had another drawing under it. Annja almost missed the discovery. The image had been cut into the metal but it was almost as if it had been scored there only to have the craftsman change his mind later.

Or maybe he was told not to include it, Annja thought.

She magnified the image and worked on it, bringing it into sharper relief with a drawing tool. In seconds, she knew what she was looking at. A lozenge.

Annja sat back in her chair and stared at the image, blown away by the possibilities facing her. The shadowy figure wasn’t a man. It was a woman.

The lozenge was heraldry to represent female members of a noble family. Designed in an offset diamond shape that was taller than it was wide, a lozenge identified the woman by the family, as well as personal achievements.

This particular lozenge only had two images on it. A wolf salient, in midleap, occupied the top of the diamond shape. At the bottom was a stag dexter, shown simply standing. A crescent moon hung in the background with a star above and a star below.

Annja repeated her efforts with the postings, sending off the new image, as well.

Back aching from the constant effort, Annja decided to take a break. She quickly dressed and went out into the rainy night, surprised to find that dawn was already apparent the eastern sky.

ANNJA HEADED for the small Italian grocery store several blocks from her loft. The Puerto Rican bodega she favored was closer, but it wasn’t open at such an early hour.

She didn’t mind as she wanted to stretch her legs.

She loved being in the middle of the city as it woke around her. Voices cracked sharply.

Cars passed by in the street, horns already honking impatiently.

Stopping by the newsstand, she picked up a handful of magazines—Time, Newsweek, Scientific American, People, Entertainment, Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, and Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction.

She liked to keep up with current events. The entertainment and fiction magazines were guilty pleasures. If she hadn’t been able to occasionally borrow from fictional lives in the orphanage, she sometimes wondered if she’d have made it out with the curiosity about the world and the past that she now had.

At the grocery store, she passed a pleasant few minutes with the owner, who loved to talk about her children, and bought a small melon, eggs, fresh basil, a small block of Parmesan cheese and garlic bread. She also picked up a gallon of orange juice.

Back at the loft, Annja let herself in through all five locks. She was startled but not entirely surprised to find Garin seated at her desk. Her eyes immediately strayed to the bed, but the sword was nowhere to be seen.

“You’re looking for the sword?” Garin seemed amused. He wore a black turtleneck, jeans and heavy black boots. A leather jacket hung on the back of the chair.

“How did you get in?” Annja demanded. She stood in the open door, ready to flee immediately.

“I let myself in,” he said. “I did knock first.”

Suspicion formed in Annja’s mind. She had the definite sense that he’d waited for her to leave, then broke in.

“You weren’t here,” Garin said.

“Odd that I happened to miss you,” Annja said.

Garin smiled. “Serendipity. You can never properly factor that into anything.”

“You could have waited for me to get back,” Annja pointed out.

“And stood out in the hallway so that your neighbors would gossip about you?” Garin shook his head. “I couldn’t do that.”

Deciding that she didn’t have anything to fear from the man—at least for the moment—Annja walked into the kitchen area and placed the groceries on the counter.

“Breakfast?” Garin asked.

“Yes.” Annja took a big skillet from the wall.

“We could order in. I noticed there are some places nearby that deliver,” Garin said.

“I’ve eaten restaurant food for days,” Annja replied. “Here and in France. I want to cook.” She put the skillet on the burner to warm, then cracked eggs into a bowl.

Glancing over her shoulder, Annja saw that he looked amused. She resented his presence in her home, the fact that he had broken in, and she was distrustful of him.

Still, she couldn’t just pretend he wasn’t there when she was about to eat.

“Have you eaten?” she asked.

“No. I just got in from LaGuardia.” Garin sat at the desk. “But that’s all right. You go ahead.”

“Nonsense. There’s enough for both of us. More than enough.”

“That’s very kind of you. Can I help?”

Annja chopped the basil and Garin grated the Parmesan. She mixed both with the eggs, then poured olive oil into the skillet. “Have you really lived over five hundred years?” she asked, suddenly aware of feeling comfortably domestic with this mysterious stranger.

Garin smiled. “You find that hard to believe?”

Annja didn’t answer. She sliced the garlic bread and the melon.

“You know what happened to the sword, don’t you?” Garin asked. “You’ve got it.”

Annja poured the eggs into the skillet, then popped the bread into the toaster.

“Where is the sword?” Garin asked.

“It disappeared,” Annja replied. “Somewhere outside Paris.”

Grinning, he said, “I don’t believe you.”

“We share a trait for skepticism.” Annja scrambled the eggs. “Would you care for some orange juice?”

Garin walked around the loft, gazing at all the things Annja had collected during her years as an archaeologist. “You have a nice home,” he said softly.

Annja had deliberately left the bread knife close at hand. So far, Garin didn’t appear to be armed. “Thank you,” she said, watching him closely.

“I know you’re lying about the sword,” Garin said, looking at her.

The bread slices popped out of the toaster. She laid them on plates, buttered them.

“That’s not a polite thing to say to someone about to serve you breakfast.”

“The sword was on the bed when I arrived,” Garin told her.

For a moment, Annja felt panic race through her. She concentrated on the eggs, removing the skillet from the heat. If he’d taken the sword, he wouldn’t be here now.

“It disappeared when I tried to touch it,” Garin said.

“Maybe it was just a figment of your imagination,” Annja said, flooded with relief.

Garin shook his head. “No. I’ve seen that sword before. And I’ve lived with its curse.”

“What curse?” Annja asked.

Approaching her but staying out of arm’s reach, Garin leaned a hip against the kitchen counter. “A story for a story,” he told her. “It’s the only fair way to do this.”

Annja dished the scrambled eggs onto the garlic toast. She added slices of melon.

“Very pretty,” Garin said.

“I prefer to think of it as nourishing.” Annja handed him his plate.

Garin looked around. “I don’t see a dining table.”

“That’s because I don’t have one.” Scooping up her own plate and orange juice, Annja walked to the window seat. She thought about the Mercedes Garin had driven in Lozère. “Probably isn’t exactly the lifestyle you’re used to,” she said, feeling a little self-conscious.

“Not the lifestyle I now have,” he agreed. “But this is a lot better than I started out with.”

Annja folded herself onto one end of the window seat. “Where did you grow up?”

“One of the city‐states in Germany. A backwoods place. Its name is long forgotten now.” Garin sat and ate his food. “I was the illegitimate son of a famous knight.”

“How famous?”

Garin shook his head. “He’s been forgotten now. But back then, he was a name.

Famous in battle and in tournaments. I was the only mistake he’d ever made.”

For a moment, Annja felt sorry for Garin. Parents and relatives who simply hadn’t wanted to deal with kids had dumped them at the orphanage. It was an old story.

Evidently it hadn’t changed in hundreds of years.

If Garin could be believed.

“I like to think that my father cared for me in some way,” Garin went on. “After all, he didn’t give me to a peasant family as he could have. Or let my mother kill me, as she’d tried on a couple of occasions.”

Annja kept eating. There were horrible stories throughout all histories. She wasn’t inured to them, but she had learned to accept that there were some things she couldn’t do anything about.

“Instead,” Garin went on, “my father gave me to a wizard.”

“Roux?” That news startled Annja.

“Yes. At least that’s what men like him were called in the old days. Once upon a time, Roux’s name was enough to strike terror in the hearts of men. When he cursed someone, that person’s life was never the same again.”

“But that could simply be the perception of the person cursed,” Annja said. “Zombies created by voodoo have been found to be living beings who are so steeped in their belief that their conscious minds can’t accept that after their burial and ‘resurrection’

they are not zombies. They truly believe they are.”

“What makes the sword disappear?” Garin asked, smiling.

“We weren’t finished talking about you.” Annja took another bite of toast, then the melon, which was sweet and crisp.

“I was nine years old when I was given to Roux,” Garin went on. “I was twenty‐one when he allied himself with the Maid.”

“He allied himself with Joan of Arc?”

Garin nodded. “He felt he had to. So we traveled with her and were part of her retinue.”

“Fancy word,” Annja teased, surprising herself.

“My vocabulary is vast. I also speak several languages.”

“Joan of Arc,” Annja reminded.

“Roux and I served with her. He was one of her counsels. When she was captured by the English, Roux stayed nearby.”

“Why didn’t he rescue her?”

“Because he believed God would.”

“But that didn’t happen?”

Garin shook his head. “We were…gone when the English decided to burn her at the stake. We arrived too late. Roux tried to stop them, but there were too many English.

She died.”

Annja turned pale. It was all too fantastic to be believed, yet she didn’t feel any sense of danger—just curiosity. Who is this man? she wondered. What is going on?

“Are you all right?” Concern showed on Garin’s handsome face.

“I am. Just tired.”

He didn’t appear convinced.

“What about the sword?” Annja asked.

Garin balanced his empty plate on his knee. “It was shattered. I watched them do it.”

“The English?”

He nodded. “Afterward, Roux and I realized we were cursed.”

Annja couldn’t help herself. She smiled. Anyone could have read about the legendary sword. The details were open to interpretation or exaggeration, as all historical accounts were. Where will this elaborate hoax lead? she wondered.

Then she remembered how Bart McGilley had told her that the fingerprints—friction ridges—she’d pulled from the euro Roux had given her belonged to a suspect in a sixty-three‐year‐old homicide. She thought about the sword.

“Who cursed you?” she asked.

Garin hesitated, as if he were about to tell her an impossible thing. “I don’t know what Roux thinks, but I believe we were cursed by God.”

23

After Garin finished his story, Annja sat quietly and looked at him. The fear that he had felt all those years ago—and, in spite of herself, she did believe him about the five hundred years—still showed in his dark features.

“You helped Roux look for the sword?” Annja asked.

Garin shook his head. “No.”

“Why?”

“I was angry after Joan’s death and I had no idea there would be consequences if the pieces of the sword weren’t found.”

Annja had to admit the man had a point. “So when did you start to believe?”

“About twenty years later.”

“When you didn’t age?”

“No,” Garin answered. “I aged. A little. It was when I saw Roux again and saw that he hadn’t aged. I began to believe then. I’d thought he would be dead.”

“So he has looked for pieces of the sword for over five hundred years?”

Garin nodded. “He has.”

“And you didn’t help?”

“No. I tried to stop him. I tried to tell him that as it stood, we could live forever. I was becoming wealthy beyond my grandest dreams.”

“That was when you started trying to kill him.”

Grinning, Garin asked, “Wouldn’t you? If you were promised immortality by simply not doing a thing, wouldn’t you take steps to make sure that thing didn’t happen?”

Annja didn’t know. She regarded Garin with renewed suspicion. “Why are you here now?”

“I’m still interested in what happens to the sword.” Garin shrugged. “Now that it is whole again, does that mean I no longer have untold years ahead of me?”

“Noticed any gray hairs?” Annja asked.

He smiled at her. “Your humor is an acquired taste. When you were in Roux’s face, I found you delightful. Now I feel that you have no tact.”

“Good. But keep in mind that I fed breakfast to a man who broke into my home.”

Trying not to show her anxiety, Annja took her plate and Garin’s to the sink.

“Tell me about the sword,” Garin said.

Turning, Annja leaned a hip against the counter and crossed her arms over her breasts.

“What do you want to know?”

“Mostly whether it can be broken again.”

Annja shook her head. “Honesty’s not always the best policy.”

“I’ve never thought it was.”

She grinned at that.

“If I had lied,” he asked, “would you have known?”

“About this? Yes.”

“I already know about the sword,” Garin pointed out. “I could have left before you returned.”

“After you happened to arrive while I was out.”

“Of course.”

Annja respected that. He could have done that. She reached out her right hand, reached out into that otherwhere and summoned the sword. She held it in her hand.

Garin’s eyes widened as he got to his feet and came toward her. “Let me see it.”

“No.” Annja leveled the sword, aiming the point at his Adam’s apple, intending to halt him in his tracks.

In a move that caught her totally by surprise, Garin tried to grab the blade in his left hand and slam his right forearm down to break it. Instead, his hand and arm swept through the sword as if it weren’t there.

Annja reacted at once, throwing out a foot that caught Garin in the side and knocked him away. He scrambled to his feet and fisted the bread knife on the counter.

As Garin brought the bread knife around, Annja took a two‐handed grip on the sword and slashed at the smaller blade wondering if it would pass harmlessly through. The bread knife snapped in two, leaving Garin with the hilt in his hand.

Annja planted the sword tip against his chest right over his heart. The material and flesh indented. Maybe Garin couldn’t touch the sword, they both realized, but the sword could touch him.

“Are we done here?” Annja asked.

Garin swept his left arm against the blade to knock it away, but again his arm passed through. His effort left him facing Annja, his chest totally exposed to her retaliation.

Annja pressed the sword against his chest. “I’ve fed you breakfast,” she said evenly.

“I’ve overlooked the fact that you broke into my house. I’m even willing to forgive you for trying to break my sword.”

“Your sword?”

“Mine,” Annja responded without pause or doubt. The sword was hers. It had chosen her. That much was clear. “But if you ever make an enemy of me, if you ever try to kill me like you did Roux, I’ll hunt you down and kill you.”

“If I try,” Garin promised, unwilling to back up another inch, “you’ll never see me coming.”

“Then it would be in my best interests to kill you now, wouldn’t it?”

Garin stood stubbornly against the sword.

Annja pressed harder, watching the pain flicker through his features and hate darken his eyes. He stumbled back, then turned and walked away. She let him retreat without pursuit.

Garin wiped at the blood seeping through his shirt. “How much?” he demanded.

“For what?” Almost casually, as if she’d been doing it forever, Annja balanced the sword over her right shoulder.

“To break the sword.”

Annja shook her head. “I’m not going to break this sword.”

In truth, she didn’t know what would happen if she tried. An image of the lightning bolt passing through it filled her mind.

She had a definite feeling that whatever happened if she tried to destroy the sword wouldn’t be good. Also, she felt that she would be betraying the spirit of the sword.

Joan of Arc had led people in a war against oppression with it.

“I could give you millions,” Garin said. He waved to encompass the loft. “You wouldn’t have to live like this.”

“I happen to like the way I live.” Annja watched the dark calculations take place in his eyes.

“You love knowledge,” he said finally. “With the money I could give you, would give you, you could go anywhere in the world. Study anything you like. With the best experts money can buy. You could open up any door to the past you wanted to.”

The idea was tempting. She believed Garin could provide that kind of money. She even believed he would.

“No,” she said. As if to take the temptation out of his hands, she willed the sword away.

He came at her without warning, rushing at her low and grabbing her hips as he shoved her back against the stove. He fumbled for one of the knives in the wooden block by the sink. Grabbing a thick‐bladed butcher’s knife, he raised it to strike.

Freeing her right arm from Garin’s grasp, Annja drove the heel of her palm into his nose. Blood spurted as the cartilage collapsed.

He yowled in pain and tried to hang on to her. His knife hand came down.

Annja twisted and avoided the knife. The blade thudded deep into the countertop. She reared up against him, forcing him back.

Shifting, she butted him aside with her hip, heel stamped his foot, head butted him under the chin, and brought an elbow strike into line with his jaw.

Garin stepped back, his black eyes glassy. He punched at her but she slapped his arm aside. Then he caught her with an incredibly fast left hand.

Annja dropped as if she’d been hit with a bag of wet cement. Her senses spun and for a moment she thought she was going to pass out.

Garin came after her immediately. On the ground, she knew from experience, his greater size and weight would take away every advantage her speed and strength gave her.

She rolled backward and flipped to her feet in the center of the loft. Annja only had to think of the sword for a split second and it was in her hand. Stepping back, right leg behind her left, hilt gripped firmly in both hands, she readied the sword.

Garin halted, completely out of running room.

All Annja had to do was swing. But he’d stopped his aggressions. Will it be murder? she wondered.

“Are you going to kill him, then?” a raspy voice suddenly asked.

Circling slowly, Annja maintained her grip on the sword. She turned just enough to see Roux standing in the doorway.

“Don’t either of you respect a person’s privacy?” Annja asked.

“I knocked. No one answered. Then I heard the sounds of a scuffle.” Roux entered unbidden. “I thought it best if I investigated.” He closed the door behind him.

Okay, Annja thought, at least I know he’s not a vampire.

Roux took off his long jacket. He wore a casual tan suit. “Are you going to kill him?” he asked again as if the question was a typical greeting.

Garin watched her carefully. He kept his hands spread to the side, ready to move.

Annja continued to slowly circle, never crossing her feet, so she wouldn’t trip. She stopped when Roux was behind Garin.

“I don’t know yet,” Annja admitted.

“My vote is no,” Garin said.

“You tried to kill me,” Annja said, “right after I told you that I would kill you if you tried.”

“I really didn’t think you meant it,” he said.

“You would have killed me.”

Garin was silent for a moment, then nodded. “Probably.”

“Miss Creed,” Roux said.

“Do you want to kill him?” Annja asked. Maybe that would be better. Although it would still be in her loft. She wondered if she could talk the old man into killing Garin somewhere else.

“No,” Roux answered.

“Why not? He’s tried to kill you, too.”

“I’ve been like a father to him. It doesn’t seem fitting.”

“He’s tried to kill you,” Annja said in exasperation.

“Ours has been a…difficult relationship at best,” Roux said. “That’s the way it is between fathers and sons.”

“I’m not your son,” Garin snarled.

“You were as close as I ever had,” Roux said. He looked around. “May I sit, Miss Creed?”

“Could I stop you?”

“Not if you intend to continue menacing Garin with the sword.” Roux sat in the window seat. “Is that melon?”

“Yes.”

“May I help myself?”

“Sure,” Annja replied, not believing he’d actually asked. “I’m trying to keep the homicidal maniac from killing us.”

“I’m not a homicidal maniac,” Garin objected. “If you’d just let me destroy that sword—”

“Apparently you can’t,” Annja taunted. At the moment, after he’d tried to kill her twice, she didn’t mind acting a little superior.

“—we could all walk out of here happier,” Garin finished.

“I wouldn’t be happier,” Roux said. He looked for a plate, found one in the cabinet and put melon pieces on it. He returned to the window seat. “I spent five hundred years and more looking for the pieces of that sword. I don’t care to repeat that experience any time soon.”

“We’re immortal, Roux,” Garin growled.

“Not immortal,” Roux replied. “If she’d cut your head off the day she met you, you’d have died.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do.” Roux ate the melon with obvious gusto. “This is quite good.”

“Why are you here?” Annja asked.

“I thought maybe you might have come looking for me before now,” Roux said. “I thought surely you would be curious about the sword. Since you didn’t, I thought perhaps it was best if I came looking for you.”

“Why?”

“Because of the sword, of course. I knew it couldn’t have just disappeared. After you got away and the sword never showed up again, I knew it had gone with you.”

“How?”

“As I said, it didn’t turn up again at my house.” Roux frowned. “Which, I might add, may never be the same again. Why did the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain attack my house?”

“They were after the charm I found in La Bête’s lair,” Annja said. “How did the sword come with me?”

“Magic. Arcane forces. Some psychic ability on a higher plane,” Roux said. “Take your pick.”

“Which do you choose?”

“I know why the sword came with you,” the old man said.

“Why?” Annja asked.

“Destiny.”

Annja was speechless.

“You were destined to hold that sword, Annja Creed,” Roux said. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have found the last missing piece or me. And, judging from the years I’ve spent searching for that final piece, no one else could have found it. If you’d found the piece but not me, you wouldn’t have found the rest of the sword. Therefore it’s destiny.”

It was a lot to take in at one time. Annja had trouble dealing with the whole concept.

But here she stood, with the sword pressed to the throat of the one man who wanted desperately to destroy it.

She tried to remember when she’d last felt that anything made sense.

She looked at Garin. “Sit over there by the desk.”

“Sure.” As though he’d just been invited to tea, Garin walked over to the desk and sat.

“We’re all three bound by Joan’s sword,” Roux said. He held up a hand. “May I?”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Annja said.

“From what I gather, Garin can’t touch the sword.”

“No.”

“It would be interesting to find out if I can.”

Annja hesitated.

Roux waved his hand impatiently. “If I didn’t want to ask you, I’d simply shoot you and take it off your body.”

“You don’t have a pistol,” Annja said.

Lifting his jacket, Roux revealed the small semiautomatic leathered beneath his left arm. He dropped the jacket to hide the pistol again. “Please.”

Reversing the sword with a flourish, Annja laid the blade over her arm and extended the hilt to him.

Roux took the sword easily. He examined it carefully. “This is truly exquisite. You can’t see where any of the breaks were.”

Tense, Annja waited. She didn’t like the idea of anyone else holding the sword.

“Here you go, Miss Creed.” Roux passed the sword back. “Do you want to tell me how you did that vanishing trick back at my house?”

Gripping the sword, Annja willed it away. The weapon faded from sight.

Roux grinned in wonder. “Splendid!”

Garin cursed. “You’re a fool, old man. Now that the sword is whole again, we’re no longer cursed to walk the earth after it. We’re no longer immortal.”

“Long‐lived,” Roux argued. “Not immortal. Long‐lived. And that remains to be seen, doesn’t it?” He looked at the kitchen area. “Do you have anything to drink?”

“Orange juice,” Annja said. “Or tea.”

“Juice, if you please.”

Annja got a glass and filled it with orange juice. She took it to Roux. “What’s your interest in this?”

“In the sword?”

She nodded.

“I don’t know that I have one,” Roux replied. “The sword is complete. I’m not sure what happens now. “

“I know about the curse.”

“I suppose you do.” Roux sipped his drink. “At any rate, it may well be that my part in this whole affair is over. I truly hope that it is. I have other pursuits I’d like to follow.

I’m going to be playing in a Texas Hold ’em Tournament soon and I’ve qualified for a senior’s tour in golf.”

“Did you know you’re listed as a suspect in Doris Cooper’s murder?” Annja asked.

“No. Though it doesn’t surprise me.”

“Did you do it?”

“No.”

“Did Garin?”

“I don’t even know anyone named Doris Cooper,” Garin protested.

“I don’t know,” Roux said. “Doris was a good person. Too trusting, perhaps, but a good person.”

“Why didn’t you try to clear your name?” Annja asked.

“Hollywood was a rat’s nest in those days,” Roux said. “If the Los Angeles Police Department was determined to pin the woman’s murder on me—and I tell you right now that they were—they would have done it. I left the country as soon as I knew they were looking for me.” He paused. “Do you want to talk about things that have no bearing on where you’re going or what you’re going to do? Or do you want to discuss the sword?”

Before Annja could answer, the phone rang. She considered letting the answering service pick up, but she decided she wanted a few minutes of diversion. Things were coming at her too quickly.

“Hello?”

“Miss Creed?” The voice was urbane, accented, and almost familiar.

“Yes,” Annja said. “Who is this?”

“Corvin Lesauvage. We met briefly in Lozère.”

“I remember you, Mr. Lesauvage,” Annja replied. Her thoughts spun. Glancing at Roux and Garin, she saw that both of the men were listening with interest. “You were trying to have me abducted, as I recall.”

“Yes, well, I’ve had to reconsider that. I still want that charm you found and I’ve had to find new leverage to achieve that goal.”

“I don’t have the charm,” Annja said. “I told you that.”

“Then you’ll have to get it, Miss Creed,” Lesauvage said. “Because if you don’t, Avery Moreau will die and his death will be on your head.”

24

For just a moment, the loft seemed to spin around Annja. She stood with effort, remembering the young man who had been her guide in Lozère.

“What are you talking about?” she asked.

“If I don’t get that charm, Miss Creed,” Corvin Lesauvage said, “I’m going to kill Avery Moreau. Do you have Internet access?” His voice oozed self‐satisfaction.

“Yes.”

“Log on, please, and go to this Internet address—LesauvageAntiquities.com.”

Waving Garin away from the desk, Annja opened the Web page. It was attractive, neat and precise, with everything in place. The casual peruser knew immediately that Lesauvage Antiquities did business in appraisal and research, as well as purchases and sales of antiques. It was a nice cover for a man who was a drug runner, thief and murderer.

“The Web link I’m about to give you is masked,” Lesauvage said. “You’ll have to be quick.”

Annja didn’t say anything. Roux had gotten up and stood behind her, whether out of interest or to help protect her from any attempt Garin made, Annja didn’t know.

“Click on appraisals, then hit the F12 key immediately,” Lesauvage ordered.

Annja did.

The Web page cycled, then stopped. A window popped up and asked for an ID and password.

“Okay,” Annja said.

“Good. The ID is ‘Avery.’ The password is ‘Mort,’” Lesauvage said.

Mort was French for “death.” Reluctantly, Annja entered the keystrokes.

Another window opened. This one filled with a video download that took forty‐three seconds. When it finished, it opened and played.

There was no audio, but the video feed was clear enough. Avery Moreau, tied up and dressed in some garish costume, lay on a flat rock in a cave. Blood covered his face.

There was too much blood for it to be his without some obvious sign of injury.

Wearing a similar costume but with a mounted‐deer‐head helmet, Lesauvage entered the camera’s view. He raised a knife, then drove the blade down into Avery’s left hand, all the way through to the rock beneath.

Avery jerked in pain and screamed. Even without the audio, Annja could hear his agony and fear.

Garin swore.

Thankfully, the video ended.

Annja was breathing deeply. “What do you want, Lesauvage?”

“As I told you, I only want the charm. Bring it to me and I will let Avery Moreau live. If you do not, I will kill him. Make your travel arrangements. Once you know when you will return to Lozère, let me know. I can be reached at this number at any time.” He gave her the number and the phone clicked dead.

Annja cradled the handset.

“A threat?” Roux asked.

“Lesauvage is going to kill Avery Moreau if I don’t bring the charm back.”

“Well, that’s a shame,” the old man said, “but you can’t be expected to save everyone.”

“I’m not going to let him die,” Annja said and immediately started looking on the computer for flight possibilities.

Roux stared at her. “You can’t be serious. That man is a villain of the basest sort.”

“I know the type,” Annja said.

Garin grinned at her. “So you’re going to rush off and play the savior.”

“I’m not going to let Avery Moreau die.” Annja backed up all her files on the charm, the heraldry and the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain onto an external hard drive.

“Lesauvage will kill you,” Roux protested. “The sword will be lost again.”

“One can only hope,” Garin said.

“I’m not planning on dying,” Annja said. She looked for her suitcase, then realized it was still at the Lamberts’ bed‐and‐breakfast outside Lozère.

All right, then, I’m already packed. All I have to do is live long enough to collect my luggage.

“Don’t be foolish,” Roux said. “You don’t even have the charm.”

“I took pictures of it,” Annja said. She brought them up on the computer.

“How did you do that? You didn’t have time to photograph it like this in Lozère.”

“I summoned it up on the sword,” Annja explained as she stuffed gear into her backpack.

“It’s still part of the sword?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” Annja lifted the phone.

“Call the police in Lozère,” Roux urged. “Let them know what is going on.”

“Do you remember Police Inspector Richelieu?” Annja asked.

“Yes.”

“He shot Avery Moreau’s father.”

“Whatever for?”

“Gerard Moreau was a thief. He broke into the house where Richelieu happened to be entertaining the wife.”

“It wasn’t the inspector’s wife, was it?” Roux said.

“No.” Annja dialed information and asked for the number to Air France.

“Excuse me,” Garin said.

Annja looked at him.

“I’ve got a private plane. Actually, a Learjet, at LaGuardia.”

“You’d let me use your jet?” Annja asked, surprised.

“If it’s going to allow Lesauvage to kill you more quickly, certainly.” Garin appeared quite earnest.

“You’re going with us.” Annja hung up the phone.

“Us?” Roux repeated.

“We’re not finished talking about the sword, are we?” Annja asked the old man.

“Perhaps,” Roux said.

“Fine,” she told him. “Then you can stay here. If Garin and his pilot jump out of the plane somewhere over the Atlantic and I go down, you can hope you don’t have to wait another five hundred years for the sword to wash up on some beach.”

Roux grimaced. “If I was certain my part in all of this was finished, I wouldn’t entertain this at all.”

“Why am I going?” Garin asked.

“Because I don’t trust you not to have someone fire a heat‐seeking missile at us while we’re en route. If you’re along for the trip, I figure that’s less likely to happen.” Annja didn’t know if Garin could actually get his hands on something like that, but she wouldn’t put it past him.

“That’s your reason to get me to go,” Garin said. “I don’t have a reason.”

“If you go,” Annja said, “maybe you’ll get to see Lesauvage kill me.”

Garin thought about that briefly. “Good point.”

GARIN’S PRIVATE JET WAS outfitted like a bachelor pad with wings. It was divided into three sections. The cockpit was the most mundane thing about the aircraft. The living quarters and the bedroom shared equal space and came with a personal flight attendant.

Annja sat in one of the plush seats. Equipped with a wet bar and the latest in technological marvels, including a sixty‐inch plasma television and a Bose surround sound system, in‐flight entertainment was no problem. There was also a satellite link for phones and computers.

The bedroom, which Annja had not seen and had no intention of seeing, contained a king‐size bed.

Garin and Roux had settled into their seats and started watching a televised poker championship.

Hooked up to the Internet, Annja continued her research into the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain and the charm. Those were at the heart of the mystery before her.

There were new postings at alt.archaeology and alt.archaeology.esoterica.

Two were from Zoodio.

Hey! I traced that shield heraldry you posted. Interesting stuff.

From what I found out, the shield belonged to a British knight named Richard of Kirkland. He was thought to be a great‐grandson of one of the English soldiers that burned Joan of Arc at the stake in France.

A chill passed through Annja. She hadn’t expected the hit to be tied so closely to Joan.

Supposedly, the great‐grandfather’s luck turned sour after he got back from France.

Devotees of Joan swear he was cursed.

Anyway, that curse seems to have passed down to his great‐grandson, who somehow got himself titled along the way. He had a daughter in 1749 who was supposed to have horrible birth defects.

If you’re not careful when you do your research, you’ll find entries that list her as dead.

She even has a gravesite in a private cemetery outside London. Her name was Carolyn.

In 1764, Sir Richard of Kirkland took his daughter to the Brotherhood of The Silent Rain.

Why not an abbey? Annja wondered again.

Some reports say Carolyn died in 1767 when the monastery was destroyed. Hope this helps.

It did and it didn’t, Annja ultimately decided. She skimmed through the list of sources he’d included. Many of them were on personal Web sites so she was able to check them out.

She saved the Web links to Favorites, then read the next posting by researchferret@secondlook.org.

Zoodio has it wrong. Sir Richard’s daughter wasn’t his daughter after all. She was his wife’s illegitimate child. While Sir Richard was off fighting in one of the wars, his wife was having an affair with one of the inbred members of the royal family. Which was why there were so many birth defects in the child.

The wife also tried to abort the child, and even the church got involved because of all the political unrest the baby would cause.

Despite everything everyone did, the baby went to term. When Sir Richard got home, knowing that he wasn’t the father—can you imagine how pissed this guy was, out risking his life, and his wife’s shacking up?—he probably had to be restrained from killing the baby and his wife.

The church, trying to cover its own ass, told Richard that a demon had fathered the child. They arranged for the baby girl, when she got to be fourteen, to go to the Silent Rain monastery. Can you say cop‐out?

“Annja?”

Startled, she looked up and saw Roux standing there. “What?”

“Would you like something to eat?”

“Whatever you want to nuke in the microwave will be fine.”

“No nuking,” Roux responded. “There’s a full galley.”

“Do you think it’s safe?” she asked. “I mean, he could poison the food.”

Roux smiled gently at her. “I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“All right.”

“What would you like?”

“Surprise me.”

Roux nodded. He started to turn away.

“Hey,” Annja said.

The old man turned back around to her. “What?”

“You’ve really lived over five hundred years?”

He smiled and shook his head. “My dear girl, I’ve lived far longer than you can even imagine.”

Whatever, Annja thought, thinking the comment was sheer braggadocio. “Did you know a knight named Sir Richard of Kirkland?”

“An English knight?”

Annja nodded.

“I knew of such a man, but I never knew him personally. He was—”

“English. I know. I got it. English was bad back then.”

“Yes.” Roux’s blue eyes twinkled. “He was a tournament champion all over Europe.

And he fought in a few skirmishes. There was something about a child that besmirched his reputation. A child born out of wedlock, I believe.”

“A child the church contended was spawn of the devil,” Annja said. “And she was locked up in the Silent Rain monastery.”

“Truly?” Roux seemed amazed.

“Yes.”

“Why wasn’t she taken to an abbey? Several of the female children born in brothels were taken there.”

“I don’t know.”

“If you find out—”

Annja nodded. She returned to her reading.

“I’ll go and attend to our lunch,” Roux said. “Then, at some point, you and I need to discuss what’s going to happen with the sword.”

Three spam entries followed the one by Researchferret. Then Zoodio had posted again.

I missed that one. Good catch.

Interesting. I looked at the data you sent to support what you posted, Researchferret.

And I found something you missed.

According to the journals of Sister Mary Elizabeth of a local London abbey, the sisters took in a fourteen‐year‐old girl early in 1764.

Sir Richard’s name isn’t mentioned. Neither is the girl’s. But it does say she’s the illegitimate child of a tournament hero and thought to be the daughter of the devil.

Sounds familiar, huh?

Annja silently agreed.

Also truly weird are the murders that occurred in the abbey in 1764.

That instantly caught Annja’s attention.

Early in 1764, January and February, two nuns, then a third, were beaten to death in the basement of the main building. The rumor was that an insane man had broken into the building and killed the nuns while looking for church silver or donations to pilfer.

However, Sister Mary Elizabeth notes that the strange girl the abbey had taken in murdered the nuns. According to her entries during those days and the days that followed, the girl had been restrained in the basement, had gotten loose, and had beaten the nuns to death with her bare hands.

Yikes!

This story gets creepier and stranger the more I look into it. More later.