Of course, that entry started a flurry of postings that included Jack the Ripper theories and led to the Loch Ness Monster before taking a detour through the twilight zone.

25

Roux brought Annja a plate while she was still sorting through the entries.

Reluctantly, Annja pushed the computer off to the side and flipped out the tray built into the seat. She surveyed the plate for the first time while she was spreading a linen napkin across her lap.

A small steak shared space with a baked potato and a salad. The steak was grilled.

“No poison, I assure you.” Roux sat in the seat next to her and set up his own plate. He tucked a napkin into his shirt collar. “I trust you like steak?”

“Yes.” Annja cut the meat and found it sliced easily.

“From the last time we shared a meal, I knew you had a robust appetite. Judging from the way most young people your age eat, missing meals when you get busy and such, I thought a solid meal was called for.”

“This steak is grilled,” Annja said in amazement. She’d never had a steak actually grilled in midflight.

“Garin has always been one for whatever is new and flashy,” Roux admitted. “I found his galley is equipped with all manner of culinary accoutrements.”

“And it has a grill, too.” Annja poked fun at the old man’s verbosity.

Roux got the joke and smiled. “Although not my native language, I find that English does have its charm. So does French.”

That surprised Annja. “French isn’t your native language?”

“No. Why? Do I sound like a native when I speak it?”

“Yes.”

Knife and fork in hand, Roux attacked his steak. “What have you discovered about the charm?”

Briefly, Annja brought him up‐to‐date.

“What are you going to do?” Roux asked when she was finished.

“Find out the truth about what happened all those years ago,” Annja said. “Discover who the prisoner was in the monastery and what happened to her. Why the monastery was destroyed. Why the monastery still exists even though it’s been destroyed. Why the monks of that monastery want the charm. Why Corvin Lesauvage wants the charm.”

“Don’t forget, you want to save this young man, as well.”

“Avery Moreau. I haven’t forgotten.”

“Quite a shopping list.” Roux abandoned his plate and leaned back to digest his meal.

“It is,” Annja admitted. “But it’s what I do.”

“Look for truths in the past?”

Put that simply, Annja had to admit her job sounded too altruistic. “I love learning about the people who lived in the past. Who they were. What they did. Why they did it. Where they lived. How they saw the world and their places in it.”

“You only left out ‘when.’”

Despite her tension, Annja smiled. “‘When’ is sometimes part of the mystery, too.

Carbon dating is pretty exact, but you don’t always have it, and the results can be off enough to seriously screw with a theory.”

“You’re a classically trained archaeologist?”

“I am, but I’ve also got degrees in anthropology and ethnography.”

“Good. I know it’s hard for a traditional archaeologist to find work inside the United States and in most parts of the world these days. The focus tends to be on culture rather than things.”

“You know about archaeology?” Annja was surprised.

“I know a lot about a great many things. I was with Dr. Howard Carter while he was doing his exploration of the Valley of the Kings in Egypt.”

“That was in the early 1900s.” Annja still couldn’t believe they were talking about a period a hundred years ago, or that Roux might actually have seen it.

“Yes. Though Howard didn’t find the tomb of Tutankhamen until 1922.” Roux smiled. “I was there. It was a most gratifying moment. The man who funded the search, Lord Carnarvon, had very nearly given up on Howard. But Howard, for the most part, remained certain he was about to find the tomb. And he did. It was most impressive.

The world will very probably never see the like again.”

“I hope that’s not true,” Annja said. “Egypt grabbed everyone’s attention, especially the British after Napoleon’s army found the first pyramids there during the war. But there are other things out there we can learn.”

“You’re probably right. The world has forgotten more than anyone alive today will ever know.” Roux talked as if he were an authority on that line of thinking. He was silent for a moment.

“What about the sword?” Annja asked.

Roux looked at her. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, why me?”

“My dear girl,” Roux said, “the sword chose you.”

“FROM THE VERY FIRST TIME I met Joan,” Roux said, “I knew she was destined for greatness.” In his mind’s eye, he could see her again, proudly riding the great warhorse and carrying the banner. He had never—or, at least, very seldom—met anyone like her. “When you’ve been alive as long as I have, you tend to recognize such things.”

“You’ve never stated your age,” Annja said.

Roux grinned. He discovered he liked dueling with the young woman seated next to him. Not only was she beautiful, but she possessed mental alacrity, as well.

However, she was still naive in many ways. He hoped to be able to occasionally use that to his advantage. He had served the command he had been given. Now his life was his to do as he pleased.

“Nor will I state my age,” Roux said. “But I do forgive your impertinence in your not‐so-subtle attempt to find out.”

She smiled at him, rested her elbows on the chair’s arms and steepled her slender fingers to rest her chin.

Looking at her, Roux knew she was going to break many men’s hearts. She was too beautiful and too independent—too driven—not to.

And now she carried Joan’s sword, and everything that such a calling brought with it.

That taken into account, and the looming confrontation with Lesauvage and the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain, she might not live to see the end of the week.

“As I said,” Roux returned to his story, “I met Joan and I was very much taken with her.

I saw that she was going to be a…force. No other word can match what I saw in her.”

“You were a fan,” Annja said. Her tiger’s eyes gleamed with humor.

“I was,” Roux admitted. “I was quite taken with her. But it was the power invested in her that drew me the most. The company of others has seldom been a preoccupation for me.”

“Except for the part about hearing your own voice, I’ve noticed.”

Roux grimaced. “There used to be an appreciation for storytelling.”

“There still is,” Annja said. “But now it also includes brevity. Getting to the point. That kind of thing.”

“I believe Joan was supposed to help the balance,” Roux said.

“What balance?”

“The balance between good and evil.”

Annja paused, thinking, her brows tightly knit. “With a big G and a big E?”

“Exactly. The cosmic balance. A turning point between order and chaos.” Roux sighed and still felt hugely guilty even after more than five hundred years and the vexing job of finding all the sword pieces. “But the world was cheated of her presence far too early.”

“Because you got back to her late.”

Roux shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Across the room, Garin lounged on a full‐sized sofa and enjoyed the conversation, smirking the whole time.

“I wasn’t the one who threw her up on that bloody stake and roasted her alive,” Roux snapped. His own guilt was one thing, but he bloody well wasn’t going to have it shoved on him by someone else.

Annja was quiet for a moment. “No,” she said finally, “I suppose you weren’t.”

“That’s right.”

“So what’s supposed to happen now?” Annja asked.

Roux was quiet for a moment, knowing what he was about to say would have a lasting impact on the young woman. At least, it would as long as she lived.

“I believe that the inheritor of Joan’s sword is going to have to live up to that same potential,” Roux said. “You’re going to be asked to intercede on the behalf of good. Or not, if you so choose.”

That shocked her. He saw it in her eyes. She was silent and still for a moment.

“That’s ridiculous,” the young woman finally said.

“Is it?” Roux gazed at her. “Yet, here you are, racing to the rescue of some unknown young man who actually may have set you up to be kidnapped while we were in the mountains.”

“I’m not going because of the sword.”

“Then why are you going?”

“Because I don’t want Avery Moreau to die.”

“Why? You don’t truly know him. He may already be dead. More than likely, he betrayed you to a vicious enemy. You’d be a fool to do anything to help him.” Roux leaned back. “Furthermore, you could call and let the local police deal with the matter.”

“The sword has nothing to do with this.”

“Perhaps not. Perhaps by your very nature you’re quixotic. I submit to you, Miss Creed, that is probably the very reason the sword chose you.”

Annja was silent for a moment, blinking as if she was dazed. Then she said, “You can’t be serious.”

“Of course not,” Roux said. “I’m just leading you on a wild‐goose chase. And the sword can’t really appear and disappear just because you want it to. And it didn’t somehow reform itself from pieces when you touched it. All those things are lies.”

A troubled look flashed in her eyes. “It also drew a lightning strike from the sky.”

Roux was intrigued. “When?”

“Last night. On top of my building.”

“You left the sword lying on top of a building?”

“I was holding it at the time.”

Roux’s eyebrows lifted. “Lightning struck the sword while you were holding it?”

“Yes.”

“And you were undamaged?”

Annja nodded.

“This is fascinating. May I see the sword again?”

She held out her hand, paused a moment, then drew the sword from thin air.

Roux accepted the weapon as she handed it to him. He examined the blade. “It’s unmarked.”

“I know. Doesn’t make a lot of sense, does it?”

“Neither does the fact that it shows no sign of ever having been shattered.” Roux held on to the sword, wondering what other properties might manifest. Then it faded from his grip. He looked at her. “You did that?”

Annja nodded. “I guess I did. I was feeling…uncomfortable with the way you were holding on to the sword.”

So stealing the sword, should he ever decide to do that, was out of the question. Roux felt challenged. He couldn’t help wondering what would happen to the sword if Annja Creed were suddenly dead.

Roux happened to glance over at Garin, who smiled broadly. Roux knew he had spent too many years with his apprentice; Garin knew exactly what was crossing his mind.

The old man was just thankful the young woman didn’t have the same expertise.

ANNJA STARED at the lozenge. The heraldry beside the shadowy figure on the obverse of the coin was key to unlocking the mystery. She felt certain of that.

The diamond‐shaped image containing the leaping wolf, the stag at rest and the crescent moon with a star above and below, had to mean something.

She continued searching through the pages of heraldry. Patience was one of the first and best skills an archaeologist learned.

THE RING OF HER cell phone startled Annja out of a near doze. She fumbled to find the device and catch the call.

“Hello.”

“May I speak to Ms. Annja Creed, please?” a crisp British voice asked.

“Graham,” Annja said.

“Ah, Annja. I wasn’t sure at all if it was you. You sound as though you’re talking from the bottom of a well. Come to think of it, the last time I spoke with you, you were talking to me from the bottom of a well. Didn’t you get out?”

Annja smiled. Professor Graham Smyth‐Peabody was professor emeritus at Cambridge University. He was in his early eighties and taught only those classes he wanted to during times he wished. Tall and distinguished‐looking, he was a frequent guest on talk shows when discussions of British royalty were the subject.

“I did get out of the well,” Annja said. That had been in the Bavarian countryside pursuing the lost loot of a highwayman. She hadn’t found that, but she still occasionally sifted through the information she had about the event.

“Have you found another, then?” Smyth‐Peabody laughed at his own wit.

“Actually, I’m flying on a private plane,” Annja said.

“Jet,” Garin growled. He sat on the couch with a drink in his hand. His disposition hadn’t improved.

“Your publisher must really like you,” the professor said. He hesitated. “You’re able to afford a private plane because of the book, right? You haven’t suddenly decided to start losing your shirt like that other young woman on that dreadful program on the telly?”

“No,” Annja said. “I manage to keep my shirts on.”

“Jolly good. I understand why you do those pieces for that program, but you should keep your naughty bits to yourself.”

Despite the tension and all the trouble waiting on her in Lozère, Annja had to laugh.

The professor was in rare good form.

Papers rustled at the other end of the phone connection. “I’ve managed to identify the heraldry you e‐mailed me,” the professor said.

“You could have e‐mailed me back.”

“Of course, of course. But I shall own up to a bit of curiosity here. I’ve found something a bit incongruous.”

Annja pushed out of her seat and paced the short length of the jet’s living room. “The shield bears markings of Richard of Kirkland,” Annja said.

“Yes, yes. Quite right. So you’ve identified that.”

“It makes me feel better to hear you agree with the answer I’ve received.”

“He was knighted in 1768.”

The monastery outside Lozère was burned down in 1767. Experience had taught Annja not to overlook coincidence. “Why was he knighted?” she asked.

“According to the documentation I found, it was for special services to the crown.”

“What services?”

“I’m afraid it doesn’t say, my dear.”

“You would think the conferring of a knighthood under George III would have been important enough to record.”

“Indeed,” Smyth‐Peabody agreed. “Perhaps it even was. But you have to remember, George III wasn’t called the mad king for vacuous reasons. The man had porphyria, a most debilitating affliction that ultimately ruined his health and rendered him mad as a hatter. And there was a lot going on during his reign. He undermined the Whig Party, including Pitt the Elder, fought the French for seven years, then turned around and fought you Americans, not once but twice, staved off another attack at political control by the Whigs under Pitt the Younger, and managed to fight Napoleon’s efforts at world domination twice.”

“Those campaigns were managed by the Duke of Wellington.”

“Quite. But they were under George III’s reign. Perhaps he wasn’t aware of what was going on by that time, but his royal historians were kept busy nonetheless.”

“Point taken.” Annja sighed. History and archaeology were sometimes at odds with each other. Then when a research project brought in other branches of science, things became even more convoluted.

“You are aware he had a daughter?” Smyth‐Peabody asked.

“Carolyn,” Annja said.

“Yes. Do tell me there is something I’ve left to amaze you with?”

“I’ll let you know when we get there. Tell me about Carolyn.”

Smyth‐Peabody cleared his throat. “Sir Richard’s daughter was born to his wife while he was tending the king’s holdings in the New World.”

“Richard wasn’t in France?”

“No. He was one of the king’s primaries during engagements in King George’s War. You Americans refer to it as—”

“The French and Indian War,” Annja said. “From 1757 to 1763.”

“Yes. A rather melodramatic name, don’t you think?”

Annja’s mind flew. “Did Richard see any action in France?”

“No. According to the texts I’ve been through, Richard spent his whole military career marshaling forces in America. Until his death in 1777 at the Battle of Brandywine Creek when General Howe’s troops forced the Continental Congress from Philadelphia.”

“Richard never served in France?”

“I never found mention of it. I didn’t know that was an important detail. I suppose I can go back through the research.”

“What about Richard’s wife?”

“Victoria, yes. By all accounts, she was rather a handful. She was married at fourteen to Richard, who was twenty years her senior.”

Annja wasn’t surprised. Marriages were often arranged for officers in the British military. Poor working‐class parents wanted to get rid of a mouth to feed and hoped that a daughter, who wasn’t allowed to work, might find a good home.

“Evidently being married to Richard didn’t agree with her,” the professor continued.

“What makes you say that?”

“She did have the affair behind her husband’s back. After she lost the baby, I’m sure things weren’t any easier.”

“The baby didn’t die.”

Smyth‐Peabody was silent for a moment. “Are you quite sure?”

“Yes. I’ll forward the documentation on to you.”

“In everything that I read, the child died and was buried in a private cemetery on family land outside London.”

“Was the cause of death mentioned?”

“I inferred there were massive birth defects. There was, in one of the resources I investigated, some reason to believe there were instances of inbreeding within Victoria’s family. Perhaps even incest.”

“Where did you get that?”

“From the newspapers. They were little more than gossip sheets at the time.”

The jet hit a downdraft. For a few seconds, Annja felt weightless. Then her stomach flipped and gravity held her in place again.

“What about the lozenge?” Annja asked.

“It never existed. Or, I should say, it never existed in the form that you showed me.”

The professor paused and the computer keys clacked. “The wolf design?”

“Yes.”

“That was one that Sir Richard had ordered designed for his wife. She was going to be given her own coat‐of‐arms on the birth of their first child. The lozenge was never struck.”

“The stag was part of the design?”

“No. The stag belonged to Sir Henry of Falhout.”

“Could he have been Carolyn’s father?”

“He died in 1745 while at sea in a tragic accident. It would have been quite impossible.”

“Did he have a son? The coat‐of‐arms would have descended to him.”

“Sir Henry did have a son, but he was only eight at the time Carolyn was born.”

“What about brothers?” Annja kept trying to make sense of the puzzle. The image of the lozenge wouldn’t leave her thoughts. Someone had initially thought to put the inscription on the charm, then had decided—or been told—not to. It had to be important.

“Sir Henry did have two younger brothers. The youngest brother died while fighting the French in 1747.”

“What about the other brother?”

“I’ve not found anything out about him. He seems to have disappeared,” the professor said.

“No family fortune to care for?”

“Remember, dear girl,” the professor said, “this is Britain. We had the law of primogeniture here. Only the eldest male issue shall inherit family estates. Once Sir Henry had a son to carry on the family name, the rest of the family got nothing.”

“Then who would use his heraldry?”

“I don’t know. I shall keep looking and endeavor to find out. But as it stands at the moment, I’m at a loss to explain it.”

“Thanks, Graham,” Annja said.

“Of course, dear girl. I am yours to command. I have only one request.”

“Yes.”

“Once you decipher this puzzle, come to England and share the story with me. It’s been too long since I’ve seen you.”

“I will,” Annja said, and hoped she survived the encounter with Lesauvage to do that.

26

“Annja.”

Waking with a start, Annja lifted her hands in front of her in a defensive move. She blinked, focused and saw Roux standing in front of her.

“What?” she asked. Her throat was dry.

“We’re descending. We’ll land in a few minutes.”

Annja felt the shift in the jet then. “Thanks.” She put her seat belt on again.

Roux looked guilty. “I feel bad for waking you. You’ve hardly been asleep at all.”

“I’ll be fine.” Annja uncapped a bottle of water and drank. The truth was, she didn’t know how much longer she could keep going. It seemed as if the past few days had all turned into one exhaustive blur.

“May I?” Roux gestured to the seat next to her.

“Sure.”

Roux sat and belted himself in. “I plan on accompanying you.” He paused. “Unless you have an objection.”

Annja thought about it. She really didn’t want to be on her own facing Lesauvage and possibly the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain.

“It’s going to be dangerous,” she warned.

Roux favored her with a small smile. “Now that you have the sword, I should wonder if you will ever know peace again.”

Annja lay back in the seat. “I hope you’re wrong.”

“You could give up the sword.” He regarded her with idle speculation.

For a quiet moment, Annja thought about it. She could give up the sword, simply lay it down and walk away. But she knew she wouldn’t. That wasn’t her way, and…the sword had felt entirely too right in her hand.

“No,” she said. “I can’t.”

“I’M NOT GOING.”

Standing at the door of the jet, the noise of the airport loud in her ears, Annja looked at Garin.

Hands clasped behind his head, he lounged, barefoot, on the sofa.

“I thought you couldn’t wait to see me get killed,” Annja said.

Mirthlessly, Garin grinned at her. “If I go with you, I might be tempted to help you. If I did, I wouldn’t be helping myself, would I?” He shook his head. “No. I’ll sit on the sidelines for this one, and wait to see how it turns out.”

Without a word, Annja ducked through the door and went quickly down the steps to the tarmac. Roux followed her, carrying a slim, dark wood walking stick. He exchanged no words with Garin. After more than five hundred years of being mentor and student, then enemies, what was left to say?

A jet screamed through the air overhead. Annja looked up into the night and adjusted her backpack over her shoulder.

Eyes were watching her. She was sure of that. She wondered if she would ever see Garin again.

THREE MEN WAITED outside the gates, near the baggage‐claim area. They were better dressed than the motorcycle riders but they were the same kind of stock.

“Miss Creed,” one of them said.

Annja stopped. “Who are you?”

“Mr. Lesauvage sent a car for you.”

“I prefer my own car,” Annja said.

“Mr. Lesauvage,” the man said more harshly, “insists.”

“He can call me and arrange a meeting place.” Annja stared at him. “I insist.”

The man stepped forward and grabbed Annja’s upper arm. She reacted without thinking, opening her fist and popping him in the throat.

Buckling, gasping for breath, the man staggered away. The second man reached for her, but she shifted, grabbed his arm and bent it behind him, then lifted his arm high between his shoulders and rammed him into the nearest wall. Senseless, he collapsed.

The third man took one step, then Roux swung the walking stick up between his legs.

Mewling with pain and grabbing himself, the man dropped to the floor.

Roux adjusted his collar and tie. Frowning, he gazed at the rapid approach of the security people. “Well, so much for the quiet arrival.”

IT TOOK almost an hour to straighten out the mess with airport security. In the end, one of Lesauvage’s men claimed to have staggered drunkenly into Annja and caused the misunderstanding. Annja had supported that by saying she might have overreacted. The security chief let them go with a stern warning, and probably because he didn’t want any further paperwork than he already had.

“Have you always been this way?” Roux asked while they stood at the car‐rental desk.

Annja was quiet for a moment. Then she looked at him. “I grew up in an orphanage.

You learn not to let people push you around in there. If circumstances were different, if I didn’t already know that Lesauvage was slime, maybe I would handle this a different way.”

The agent brought a set of keys to a Nissan Terrano 4X4. The cost was extra, but Annja wanted the off‐road capability.

“But Lesauvage is a criminal,” Annja went on, “and circumstances aren’t different. I’m preparing for war.”

Roux smiled and shook his head. “You remind me so much of her at times. So focused.

So deliberate. So convinced of your own righteousness.”

“Of who?” Annja signed the agreement and left the desk. She knew whom Roux meant, but for some reason she wanted him to say it. That way maybe he’d remember that he’d been too late last time and would put forth greater effort.

Roux fell into step beside her. “Of Joan.”

For a moment, the image of the burning pyre filled Annja’s head. “Joan’s dead.”

“I know,” Roux said. “I was going to remind you of that.”

ANNJA WAS KEYING the ignition when her cell phone rang. Fumbling it from her backpack, she answered.

“Miss Creed,” Lesauvage said.

Annja paused with the Terrano in gear. All around her, people arrived and departed the busy airport even this late in the evening. All of them had places to go, were starting journeys or ending them.

And what are you doing? she wondered. Starting one or ending one? She didn’t know.

“We’ll meet outside Mende,” Annja said with cold deliberation. She tried to sound as though she weren’t about to throw up.

“I sent a car for you,” Lesauvage stated.

“I declined. Move on to your next point.” Annja couldn’t believe how forceful she was being. Maybe it was from watching all those adventure movies with Sister Mary Annabelle when the other nuns were away. Or maybe it was just that in this situation a whole lot of dialogue wasn’t needed.

“I could kill Avery Moreau,” Lesauvage threatened.

“And I could get on the next plane out of here.” Glancing back over her shoulder, Annja spotted the three men moving toward her. “Call your men off.”

“We’re going to do this my way,” Lesauvage said.

“No,” Annja said, “we’re not.” She broke the connection, tossed the phone onto the dashboard and looked at Roux. “Buckle up.”

Without a word, the old man did. But a faint grin pulled his lips.

Annja shoved the transmission into reverse and backed toward Lesauvage’s three men.

Trapped in the ruby‐and‐white glow of her taillights, they tried to run. She managed to clip one of them with her rear bumper and send him sprawling into a parked car. The alarm roared to life and lights flashed.

The other two men ran to help their companion to his feet. They tried to run to their car, but public parking was a long way from rental parking.

Annja switched on her lights and merged with the departing traffic.

The phone rang again.

Grabbing the phone, Annja said, “Be polite.”

“Where,” Lesauvage asked, “do you want to meet?”

Annja named a kilometer marker a short distance from the city. Then she hung up again.

For a short time, Roux let her drive in silence, long enough to get onto the loop around Paris so they could head south. Finally he said, “You realize, of course, that Lesauvage and his men will outnumber you when you reach that destination.”

“Yes.” Annja made herself try to believe that she wasn’t sleepy and that driving was taking all of her attention.

“What do you plan to do?”

“I don’t know,” she replied, “exactly.” She paused. “Yet. This is still a work in progress.”

“You’re trusting that Lesauvage won’t kill you.”

“He won’t.” Annja thought that through. “He can’t. He wants the charm and whatever secrets it possesses.”

“Once he has it, he may well kill you. Us.”

Annja looked at him and smiled. “Are you worried about us? Or you?”

“Both, actually.” Roux regarded her. “I’m fascinated by you. I’d like very much to see what you do with Joan’s sword.”

Me, too, Annja thought. Then she turned her attention back to her driving. The rendezvous was hours away.

“IT APPEARS we have a tail,” Roux announced when they were three kilometers north of their destination.

“We’ve had one for the past half hour,” Annja said.

“We’ll not be arriving unannounced,” Roux stated.

Annja looked at him. “I could let you out.”

Roux gave her a crooked smile. “No. I’ve seen myself through worse than Corvin Lesauvage.”

“You mean Garin?”

Roux studied his hands. “I mean much worse than Lesauvage or Garin.” He wouldn’t say any more.

Annja glanced in the rearview mirror again and watched the car holding steady at the same speed it had for the past thirty minutes. She still hadn’t been able to tell how many men were in the car.

It didn’t matter, though. There would be a lot more waiting with Lesauvage.

A roadside sign announced the rest stop she’d chosen was only two kilometers distant.

PULLING OFF the highway, Annja drove into the rest stop. The building was off to the right with a small park behind it. Security lights marked the parking area in front of the building and at the north side.

Lesauvage waited on the north side. A sleek black BMW looked like a predatory cat hunkered down between two stalwart Renault Alpines. Only a short distance behind them, a cargo van sat solid and silent. A dozen motorcycles were spread around the cars. They had the whole end of the parking area to themselves.

Annja’s cell phone rang.

“Yes,” she said.

“I see you, Miss Creed,” Lesauvage announced. “Do come in. There is no need for further game play. You will not leave this area unless I allow it. And I will kill Avery Moreau just to show you that I mean what I say.”

The tail car, flanked by two others, pulled in behind Annja. One came alongside on the left and blocked the exit lane. The other two remained behind her. Their lights shone through the Terrano’s back glass.

Annja remained where she was. As she stared at the cars and motorcycles ahead of her, Lesauvage got out of the BMW and stood in front of the vehicles. He held his cell phone to his ear and smiled broadly. His sandy hair caught gold fire in the light.

“At this point, Miss Creed,” Lesauvage said, “you truly have no choice.”

Without replying, Annja closed the cell phone and shoved the device into her backpack. She drove the SUV toward the BMW.

Roux gripped the suicide handle above his head. “You purchased the optional insurance, didn’t you?”

“I never go anywhere without it,” Annja said as she put her foot down harder on the accelerator. She drove straight for the BMW. The cell phone shrilled for her attention but she ignored it.

Lesauvage turned abruptly and waved to the BMW’s driver. The man engaged the transmission and squealed backward, sliding out of the protective custody of the two Renaults. In his haste, the driver ran over one of the motorcycles.

Annja braked and skidded to a halt between the two Renaults.

“Well,” Roux said in a calm voice as he released his hold, “I’m sure we wouldn’t have enjoyed a more welcome response before this anyway.”

Quivering a little inside, knowing that she was laying her life—and Roux’s—on the line, Annja nodded.

One of the men wearing motorcycle leathers ran and jumped onto the Terrano’s hood.

He landed in a kneeling position with a deadly machine pistol in his hands. Annja didn’t recognize the weapon, but she knew it for what it was.

“Don’t move!” he shouted in accented English. “Keep your hands on the steering wheel!”

Annja did.

“And you, old man,” the thug went on, “you put your hands on the dash!”

“Impertinent twit,” Roux growled.

For a moment fear ran rampant in Annja’s stomach. She felt certain Roux was not going to do as he’d been ordered. Then, thankfully, he put his hands on the dash.

Lesauvage stepped to the Terrano’s side and gazed into the vehicle with a hot‐eyed glare. A tense moment passed. Annja returned the man’s gaze without batting an eye.

“Get them out of the car,” Lesauvage ordered.

MINUTES LATER, Annja sat on the floor in the back of the cargo van. Her hands were cuffed behind her. Roux sat near the double doors at the back. His hands were also cuffed. He sat impassively, watching the exchange between Annja and Lesauvage.

You have no business being here, Annja told herself again. The statement was now a litany that spawned over and over again in her head like a video‐game monster.

But every time she looked at Avery Moreau, sitting shaking and frightened across from her, she knew she couldn’t have stayed away.

“You did not bring the charm, Miss Creed.” Corvin Lesauvage paced the carpeted rear deck of the van.

Annja made no reply.

“What did you hope to accomplish?” Lesauvage demanded.

“You would have killed Avery Moreau if I hadn’t come,” she said.

“Yes.”

Avery looked up at Lesauvage. The young man held his injured hand cradled in his lap.

Red streaks along his forearm showed the onset of infection. Even though Lesauvage had wounded him, Avery still looked surprised by the man’s quick admission.

“So here I am,” Annja said.

“What good are you?”

“I memorized the charm,” Annja said. “I know what it looks like. Do you?”

Lesauvage drew back his hand to strike her. Annja didn’t flinch, fully expecting to feel the weight of the blow.

“Don’t,” Roux said. There was something in the old man’s voice that stayed Lesauvage’s hand.

The criminal stepped away, fastening his gaze onto Roux. “You should have stayed out of this, old man.”

“Perhaps,” Roux replied. “But, then, you don’t know who you’re trifling with, do you?”

Annja watched Lesauvage. This wasn’t like the final tense moments in a movie where the villain laid out his plans for conquest. In the movies, the script kept the villain from killing the captured heroes. Annja was desperately aware that there was no such script here.

Joan of Arc died at the hands of her enemies, Annja thought. For a moment she believed Lesauvage was going to kill Roux.

“What do you want?” Annja asked.

Visibly restraining himself, Lesauvage took a deep breath and turned to face her. The constant roar of the tires against the pavement filled the van. They were obviously headed for a destination, but Annja had no clue what that might be.

“How familiar are you with the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain, Miss Creed?” Lesauvage asked.

“I know they represented the church and were known for keeping to themselves,”

Annja said. “They worked on scholarly pieces for the church libraries and were self-sufficient. I know they also took a stand against the French noblemen who wanted to continue the Wild Hunt. I know their monastery was destroyed in 1767. I assume that was done by the same French noblemen they displeased.”

“It was,” Lesauvage said. “But that monastery was destroyed and the monks slain for more than mere interference.”

Annja waited. She’d baited him. She could see that. He loved knowing more than she did and he couldn’t hold that knowledge back.

“The Brotherhood of Silent Rain wasn’t just against the Wild Hunt,” Lesauvage said.

“They also protested the search for the Beast of Gévaudan, saying that the creature was imagined and the poor people were killed by the noblemen only to justify the Wild Hunt.”

“Why would they do that?” Annja asked.

“Because,” Lesauvage said, “they were providing safe harbor for La Bête. The beast was living among them.”

27

“How do you know La Bête was living at the monastery?” Annja asked.

Lesauvage showed her a grin, then lit a Gaulois cigarette and breathed out a plume of smoke. “You’re not the only one who does research, Miss Creed.”

“Not to be offensive,” Annja stated evenly, not truly caring if the man took offense,

“but you hardly seem the sort to crack a book.”

“I didn’t.” Lesauvage stared at her coldly. “All my life I’ve been told that a knight named Benoit of Mende, nicknamed ‘the Relentless’ because he never gave up on anything he set his mind to, found out that the monks of the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain were providing shelter to La Bête. He blackmailed the monks into giving him a huge ransom.”

“Instead of telling others who might help kill the beast?” Roux asked.

Lesauvage grinned. “Benoit was truly a man after my own heart. Always looking after himself.”

“How did he find out the monastery was sheltering La Bête?”

“He was a master of the Wild Hunt. No beast—no man—was safe once Benoit took up the trail.” Lesauvage’s eyes gleamed with excitement at the telling. “He followed the creature back there in 1767. The following morning, he went to Father Roger, who was master of the monastery, and told him they would have to pay for his silence.

Reluctantly, the monks agreed. And they began to gather up the gold and silver Benoit exacted for his price. But he knew they would try to betray him. After all, everyone knows you can’t trust the English.”

“The English?” Annja repeated.

“Father Roger was English. He was banished to the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain years before for some transgression against the church.”

“What transgression?”

Lesauvage shrugged. “Does it matter?”

Annja knew it did. Lesauvage was missing a large part of the story, but she thought she had it. “Go on.”

“Thank you,” the man said sarcastically. “At any rate, knowing he couldn’t trust the English, Benoit arranged to accept delivery of the ransom. He and his men fled from the monastery that day. A sudden storm rose up and chased them down the mountain.”

“What mountain?” Annja asked.

“Up in the Cévennes,” Lesauvage said. “That’s where we’re going now. We’ll see how well you remember the charm.”

Annja didn’t respond. “You’re looking for the treasure.”

“But of course. On his way down the mountainside, Benoit fully expected to be attacked by the monks. What he had not counted on was being pursued by La Bête. He thought to outmaneuver the monks, though. There are some old Roman ruins up in the Cévennes.”

“Several of them are at Nîmes,” Annja said.

“You know of them? Excellent. But there are several others. The Roman legions marched everywhere through France on their way to conquer the rest of the known world. They left garrisons, temples and buildings everywhere they went. Quite the builders, the Romans. Benoit chose to hide his treasure in those ruins.”

“And you believe it’s still there?” Annja shook her head.

“I do.”

“That was 240 years ago.”

Lesauvage glared at her. “The treasure was never found. Benoit and ten of his finest knights, accompanied by twenty peasants, raced down the mountain with La Bête on their heels. Benoit had counted on having the day to help him. Instead, the sky had turned dark and rain lashed the forest. The horses skidded and tumbled, hardly worth attempting to ride.”

“On the ground, in full armor, the knights were sitting ducks for La Bête,” Annja said.

“They had no chance,” Lesauvage said. “La Bête was among them in minutes. Benoit said that he heard the screams of his men as they were slain.”

“I guess he didn’t stay to help them,” Roux said dryly.

“Benoit was no hero,” Lesauvage said. “He was a fighter. He stayed and fought only when he knew he was going to win. Against the rain, unhorsed and on the treacherous slopes of a forested mountain, he knew he could not win. His only victory lay in survival, being able to live to reclaim his fortune. So he ran.”

As Annja listened to the man’s words, she imagined what the battle must have been like. She’d seen La Bête’s huge body in the cave. Trapped in their armor in the mud as they had been, instead of secure on horses, the knights had little chance.

“In the end, the knights were all slain,” Lesauvage said.

“What happened to the peasants?” Annja figured she already knew, but she had to ask.

Lesauvage grinned. “After they’d helped hide the treasure in the ruins, Benoit and his men killed them. Well away from the hiding area, of course.”

Roux growled a curse.

“Secrets, you see, are hard to keep when they’re shared so broadly,” Lesauvage said.

“I take it Benoit didn’t die,” Annja said.

“No,” Lesauvage agreed. “Benoit didn’t die. The storm that poured out its fury and took away his fighting terrain also offered him a means of escape. A stream runs at the foothills of the Cévennes near the ruins. With the arrival of the storm, the stream swelled and overflowed its banks, becoming a raging torrent.”

Annja had been in mountains caving when flash floods had struck. She’d always been amazed at how much water was dumped during a sudden storm.

“Benoit shed his armor as he ran, knowing his only chance was the stream.” Lesauvage flicked ash from his cigarette. “He reached a cliff overlooking the water. Before he could jump La Bête overtook him.” Lesauvage smiled. “They fought. Benoit was armed with only a knife. He didn’t fare well. But he wounded the beast enough that he was able to escape and leap into the stream. La Bête tried to follow, but couldn’t swim.”

“Why didn’t Benoit recover his ransom later?” Annja asked.

“Unfortunately, Benoit was not only injured by La Bête, but also by the plunge into the river. He was in a coma for nine days. Everyone thought he was dead. Then, on the morning of the tenth day, he woke to find that he had suffered a spinal injury that robbed him of his legs and most of the use of his arms.”

Annja waited, knowing Lesauvage was doling the story out as he wanted to.

“Condemned to his bed, Benoit still intended to have both his ransom and his vengeance against the monks,” Lesauvage said. “He rallied the other knights who shared his interest in the Wild Hunt and told them that the monastery of the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain was giving shelter to La Bête.”

“They believed him?” Annja asked.

Lesauvage shrugged. “Either way, they were going to be rid of the monks and their insistence that the Wild Hunt be stopped. They took up arms and destroyed the monastery, pulling it down stone by stone and burning what was left. For his revenge against the monster, Benoit struck a secret deal with the most renowned knight in all of Gévaudan at the time, Scarlet Didier, whose blood was made of ice water and whose thirst for action was unquenchable.”

“He agreed to hunt La Bête?”

“When it wasn’t found at the monastery, yes.”

“Why?”

“For money, of course. Benoit had claimed a coin from the monastery. A piece of metal stamped with the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain’s symbol. On the other side, Benoit crafted an image of a wolf and a mountain.”

Annja waited.

“That image,” Lesauvage said, “is a map to the treasure. Benoit gave the charm to Scarlet Didier and told him he would give him the secret of the map after he had killed La Bête and brought back the creature’s head.”

“Scarlet Didier didn’t come back from that hunt,” Annja said. She remembered the dead man holding on to the spear in the cave.

“No. After Didier went up into the mountains, he was never heard from again,”

Lesauvage said. “Three days after Didier left, Benoit had a relapse caused by an infection. He died a week later, never regaining consciousness.”

“You expect that treasure to still be there after two hundred years?” Roux asked in a manner suggesting that Lesauvage was insane or a fool.

“It was never found,” Lesauvage replied.

Roux snorted in open derision. “More than likely the monks took it back.”

“The treasure was never found at the monastery,” Lesauvage argued.

“Then it never existed.” Roux’s conviction was damning.

Lesauvage wheeled on the old man and struck him with his fist. Roux’s head turned to the side. When the old man turned to face his tormentor, he glowered at him.

“No man,” Roux said in a quiet, deadly voice that barely rose above the steady whir of the tires, “has ever laid a hand upon me without paying the price in blood. I will kill you.”

Bending down, Lesauvage shoved his face close to Roux’s. He raised his voice.

“Marcel,” he called.

One of the guards stepped forward.

“Tie that length of chain around the old man’s leg,” Lesauvage directed.

The big man knelt and carried out the order. The oily black chain left smudges on Roux’s pants.

“Now open the cargo doors.”

Marcel opened the cargo doors. The highway passed in a dizzying rush. Trees stood black and dark against the moon. One of the Renaults, flanked by motorcycles, followed closely.

“When I tell you to,” Lesauvage said, “heave the old man out the cargo doors. If he somehow is missed by the car or survives the impact, we’ll keep dragging him until there’s nothing left of him.”

The big guard nodded and seized Roux’s bound feet. He dragged and pushed the old man to hang poised over the edge. Roux never said a word.

Horrified at the prospect of what was happening, Annja tried to break free of her bonds. The metal cuffs felt loose, but she could not break them.

She pictured the sword in her mind’s eye and reached for it. But somehow she couldn’t manage to take the hilt up into her bound arm. It was as if the sword were suddenly behind a glass wall.

Frustrated, Annja said, “If you hurt him, you might as well kill me.”

Lesauvage threw up a hand, freezing his minion in place. “Are you that brave?” he asked.

“If you’re going to kill him,” Annja said, “I know you’ll kill me. If I know you’re going to kill me, why should I help you?”

“What do you propose?”

“Leave him alone,” Annja suggested. “Once we get up into the mountains, I’ll help you find the ransom Benoit hid.”

“You’ll help me anyway.” Lesauvage leered. “I’ve got a taste for torture. Breaking you could be a delight.”

Swallowing the fear that threatened to engulf her, Annja made herself stare back at Lesauvage. Don’t let him see that you’re afraid. He’s like any other predator. Keep him off balance, she thought.

“Breaking me will take time,” she promised. “And what do you do if you go too far? Do you want to lose time and take the chance on losing the information I have?”

Lesauvage stood. “Pull the old man back inside and close the door.”

The guard did that. Immediately the road noise inside the van diminished.

“Now,” Lesauvage said to Annja, “here’s the deal you reaped. The first time I get the impression that you’re lying to me, I’m going to kill all of you. And I’ll take my time while I’m doing it.” He paused. “Is that understood?”

Annja nodded, not trusting her voice.

“Good,” Lesauvage said.

LITTLE MORE than an hour later, they were up in the Cévennes mountains. They left the BMW, Renaults and van at the base of the mountains.

Lesauvage checked the GPS locater he carried, then gave directions to his team. All of them were heavily armed. From his conversation over the cell phone, Annja knew that he had a helicopter standing by. Evidently Lesauvage planned to use the helicopter to transport the treasure and for a quick exit.

“Are you going to continue to be his captive?” Roux whispered. He stood beside her against the van.

“I don’t have much choice,” Annja said.

“You have the sword,” Roux hissed.

“The sword isn’t exactly available at the moment.”

Roux glanced at her in consternation. “What do you mean?”

“I can’t get to it.” Annja flexed her hands behind her back. The cuffs held her arms in place. “I reach for it, the way I always have, only it won’t come.”

“But it’s there?” Roux asked.

“It feels like it is.”

Lesauvage returned, closing and pocketing his cell phone. At his command, one of the men placed Roux on the back of his motorcycle.

Annja was seated on another. Avery Moreau, looking feverish and exhausted, was placed on the back of a third.

Only a moment later, they were tearing across the night‐darkened terrain, heading steadily up into the Cévennes Mountains.

THE MOTORCYCLE CARAVAN reached the ruins over an hour later. The long ride left Annja’s legs in agony. She hadn’t been on a motorcycle in a while and being handcuffed while riding kept her in an uncomfortable position.

Near the top of the mountain, they found the remains of an old Roman garrison.

Judging from its position, the stronghold had once existed as a checkpoint along a trail that led over the mountain.

In its time, the garrison had probably looked formidable. Now it looked like the scattered blocks of a giant child. Forest growth had shot roots into the mortar, gained hold and was inexorably pulling the structure into its destructive grip. One day, if no move was made to preserve the garrison, it would crumble, devoured by vegetation.

Lesauvage and his men carried powerful flashlights. The driver in front of Annja helped her off the motorcycle but wasn’t gentle about it. She stood on wobbly legs, but her strength quickly returned.

Roux and Avery appeared to have the same problem for a while longer.

“There is a cave inside the mountain,” Lesauvage said.

Annja had already known there would be. The Romans had used every advantage the land they built upon would give them, then manufactured others. Having a cave meant having a place to store provisions, as well as retreat to.

“Hasn’t the cave been explored?” Roux asked.

“Hundreds of times,” Lesauvage answered, gazing at Annja in open speculation.

“Then you’re on a fool’s errand,” Roux snapped.

“For your sake,” Lesauvage said, “I hope not.”

Like you’re going to set us free, Annja thought derisively. But the idea of the cave captivated her thoughts. Even places that had been investigated for hundreds of years sometimes turned up surprises. Often secrets weren’t revealed until the searcher knew what to look for.

She pictured the charm in her mind again. The hanged wolf stood out against the background of the mountain.

Why a wolf? she wondered. Why was it hanged?

“Miss Creed?” Lesauvage prompted.

“I’ll need my hands,” she said.

Lesauvage hesitated, then nodded at one of his men. Two others kept their weapons leveled at her. The cuff around one wrist was removed only long enough to bring her arms in front of her, then was once more secured.

But during that moment, Annja had reached out and touched the sword. It was there.

She just couldn’t take it from that otherwhere with her hands bound.

“I need a flashlight,” Annja said.

Lesauvage handed her a flashlight. Lightning stabbed across the sky. The wind changed directions and rose in intensity. The temperature seemed to be dropping a few degrees.

Good thing you don’t believe in omens, Annja told herself. She switched on the light and walked through the remnants of the checkpoint and into the cave beyond.

BROTHER GASPAR WOKE in the stone niche that served as his bed. He heard his name repeated, then looked over at the doorway where one of the young monks stood holding a single candle.

“What is it?” Gaspar asked, pushing himself into a sitting position.

“Lesauvage and the American woman have returned to the mountains.” The yellow glow of the candle flame played over the young monk’s tense features. “They’re at the Roman checkpoint where Benoit was believed to have hidden the ransom he extorted from our order.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

For a moment, Gaspar sat wreathed in his blankets. The caves were always damp and chill. He had never questioned where God had chosen to assign him, but he sometimes longed for the day when he would know a warm bed at night.

“Get everyone ready,” Gaspar said. “Let’s go see what they found.”

After the young monk left to wake the others, Gaspar wondered if all the secrets they had protected were on the verge of finally coming out. Over the years of its existence, the church had covered up many things. Men served God, and men were always made of flesh and blood. And flesh and blood were doomed to be forever weaker than faith.

28

Annja followed the narrow passage, having to duck twice. Not wide enough for two men to walk abreast, the passageway formed a bottleneck that would have been suicidal for an opposing force to attempt to breach.

Almost twenty feet in, the passageway opened into the first cave chamber.

Playing her flashlight beam around, Annja discovered the cave was a near rectangle thirty feet wide and about fifty feet long. The ceiling averaged about fifteen feet up, but dipped as low as five feet.

Her foot slipped over the edge of a hole and she barely caught herself.

“Careful, Miss Creed,” Lesauvage admonished.

Pointing the flashlight down, Annja discovered she’d almost stepped into a hole nearly five feet in diameter and at least six feet deep.

“It’s a trap,” Lesauvage explained.

“I know.” Annja shone her beam around and discovered that the pits made a checkerboard mosaic across the front of the cave entrance. Some of them were filled in with dirt, debris and rocks.

“Back in the days of the Roman soldiers,” Lesauvage said, “I’m told stakes were placed in the traps to impale the unsuspecting. The stakes are long gone now, of course.”

Annja stepped around the pits; stakes or not, they’d make a nasty fall.

At the back of the cave, she found three passageways. All of them led to smaller caves.

She guessed they’d been used as storage areas and barracks.

Puzzled, she played the flashlight beam over the cave walls and ceiling again. Bats clung to stalactites that had been chipped and broken off at uniform height.

“What are you looking for?” Lesauvage asked.

“A way out,” Annja answered. “It doesn’t make sense that Roman soldiers would plan on falling back into a cave they couldn’t escape from. There has to be a way out.” She started testing the walls.

“People have looked for that treasure in the caves for years,” Lesauvage said angrily.

“If there had been a secret door in one of the walls or the ceiling, it would have been found.”

Annja ignored the comment. Discoveries had been made in what were believed to be

“explored” areas before. She just had to put her mind into finding the solution.

“Perhaps,” Roux suggested, “the monks already reclaimed the treasure all those years ago. It could be they didn’t tell anyone so the search would continue as an exercise in frustration. And to remind everyone that no one could steal from the church. The Vatican liked the idea of divine justice and curses overtaking thieves who robbed them.” He stepped into the last cave with a flashlight and helped her look.

Annja wondered why Roux was helping, then decided maybe his own curiosity had prompted him to action.

“They could have,” Annja agreed. “This wasn’t the best hiding place for Benoit to attempt to stash the ransom.”

“There was no other place for him to hide it in the time that he had,” Lesauvage said.

“It was this place—or no place.”

“Perhaps he never got a treasure at all,” Roux suggested. “The tale about the treasure could have been merely a way for him to get his vengeance.”

“The knights all resented the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain,” Lesauvage said. “They needed only the smallest excuse to tear down that monastery.”

Annja went back to the second cave, ignoring the fact that Lesauvage’s men held guns on her. Her mind worked to solve the problem she’d been presented. She was drawn more into that effort than in being afraid. Something chewed at the back of her mind and restlessly called attention to itself.

“Benoit swore that the charm held the answer to the hiding place,” Lesauvage said.

Annja stumbled over a depression in the ground. Aiming the flashlight down, she saw a round hollow.

“Perhaps we should look outside,” Roux said.

Lightning flashed, invading the caves for a moment. Almost immediately, thunder shook the earth. Loose rock tumbled from the ceiling and skidded down the walls.

“This isn’t gonna cave in, is it?” Avery asked nervously.

Lesauvage sneered at the young man. “You wanted revenge for your father. Don’t you realize you need a spine for that?” He cursed. “Instead, you came to me, imploring me to unleash my Wild Huntsmen on Inspector Richelieu.”

Annja looked at the young man.

Tears ran down Avery’s face and dripped from his scruffy chin. He spoke in French. “He killed my father! I saw him do it! It’s not fair that everyone thinks he’s a hero! My father wasn’t even armed. He was just a thief, not a murderer.” He wiped at his face with his bandaged hand. The handcuffs gleamed in the flashlight’s beam.

Annja felt a surge of compassion for the young man. She’d never known her parents.

She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to watch a parent’s murder.

“Stop your damned sniveling, child,” Lesauvage commanded. “Otherwise I’ll have you taken out and shot.”

“No,” Annja said.

Lesauvage turned on her. “I’m getting tired of your continued insistence on giving the orders around here, Miss Creed. You’ve not done as I’ve asked and brought the charm, and now you’re wasting my time.”

“I don’t have the charm,” Annja said. “I told you that. You choose not to believe me. I can’t help that. I’ve offered you the best help that I can.”

Smiling, Lesauvage pointed his pistol directly between Annja’s eyes. “I won’t kill you, Miss Creed. Not yet. But I am going to kill one of these two men if you don’t have some degree of success.” He paused. “Soon.”

Unflinching, Annja stared across the barrel of the pistol. Lesauvage’s men shifted uneasily behind him.

“Choose one of them,” Lesauvage ordered. “Save one. I will kill the other.”

“I need a shovel,” Annja said.

Lesauvage blinked at her. “What?”

“I think I know what the charm referred to,” she said.

“Tell me.”

Annja pointed to the depressions in front of the smaller caves. “These were traps at one time.”

Surveying the ground, Lesauvage nodded. “So?”

“I think at least one of them is more than that.” Excitement filled Annja as she thought about the clue her subconscious mind had given her. “You and I have been speaking English. Avery spoke in French.”

“How has that any bearing?”

“Because it made me think of what these traps were originally called. Have you heard of the word loophole?”

“As in a legal maneuver?” Lesauvage sounded impatient.

“As in the origin of the word,” Annja said.

Lesauvage glared at her. “I don’t care for a lesson in wordplay.”

“You should. Two hundred and forty years ago, wordplay was everything in entertainment. Puzzles, limericks, jokes and brainteasers took the place of television and video games. When I work a dig site, I have to keep that in mind. Words can have several meanings, not just the superficial ones. The hanged wolf on the charm was a clue, and it was an icon. A picture of the word Benoit perhaps didn’t know how to write.”

“A loophole was an opening in a defensive wall on a structure or a cave in the forest,”

Roux said, smiling as if he knew where Annja was going. “A way a traveler might check for wolves lying in wait outside the wall. Or, as they were known in French, loupes.”

“That’s right,” Annja said. She gestured toward the trap. “Pits like these were used back in the days of Julius Caesar. He wrote about them in his Commentaries on the Gallic Wars. But do you know what they’re called in French?”

Lesauvage shook his head.

“Trou de loup.”

“Wolf trap,” Lesauvage said.

“Yes. The charm had a picture of a hanged wolf on it,” Annja said. “But maybe it wasn’t a hanged wolf. I think it was a trapped wolf.”

Lesauvage looked down at the trou de loup beneath Annja’s feet. “Get her a shovel,”

he ordered. “Get them all shovels.”

ANNJA DUG. The effort brought a warm burn to her arm, shoulder and back muscles.

The chill of the cave left her.

The work went easily. Someone had filled in the wolf traps a long time ago, but the earth wasn’t solidly packed. The shovel blade bit down deeply each time. Roux and Avery dug out the other two pits.

Annja reached the bottom of her pit first. Stakes had impaled a victim hundreds of years ago. Bones and a few scraps of fabric testified to that. She knew the time frame from the few Roman coins and a copper bracelet she dug up on the way to the bottom.

The coins, bracelet and the bones were all that were left. The stakes had splintered long ago. When they had been placed all those centuries ago, the Romans had hammered the stakes into bedrock.

Lifting the shovel in both hands, Annja drove the blade down against the bedrock.

Satisfied it was solid, she tossed the shovel out and climbed from the pit.

Lesauvage looked at her.

“It’s solid,” she replied.

“If you’re wrong about all three,” Lesauvage taunted, “at least you’ll have your graves dug.”

Annja ignored the comment. They had freed her from the handcuffs. In her mind she had reached out and touched the sword. It was there, waiting.

“How are you doing?” she asked Roux.

“Almost there.” Grime stained Roux’s face as he worked by lantern light. He turned another shovelful of dirt from the wolf trap. “You do realize that simply losing the treasure wasn’t enough to keep the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain in hiding. They were, and still are, one supposes, being punished.”

“I know. I have a theory about that, as well. They weren’t ostracized by the church for their failure to protect the gold and silver they lost,” Annja said.

“It was because of La Bête.” Roux took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face.

“Yes.”

“Then they did give the beast shelter.”

Annja nodded. “They did.”

“But whatever on earth for?” Roux asked.

“The clue to that is in the lozenge,” Annja said. “In the heraldry that was almost marked for the shadowy figure on the charm.”

“Do you know who that figure was?”

“I think I do.”

Lesauvage stepped forward and cursed. “Enough talk. More digging.”

Annja tapped on Avery’s shoulder. The young man’s wounded hand had bled through the bandages and formed a crust of dirt.

“What?” Avery asked.

“Let me do it,” Annja said.

He scowled at her. “I can do it.” Stubbornly, he pushed the shovel back into the dirt.

“You’ll be lucky if you don’t bleed to death at the rate you’re going,” she pointed out.

“Go away.”

Stepping forward, Lesauvage said, “Get out of there. You’re digging too slowly.”

Eyes tearing with emotion, looking scared and confused, Avery climbed from the hole.

He threw the shovel back into the half‐dug pit and started cursing.

Quick as a snake, Lesauvage slammed his pistol into the side of Avery’s head. Dazed and hurting, the young man dropped to the ground. He rocked and mewled in pain, holding his head, bleeding down the side of his face. Crimson drops fell from his jawline to the stone floor of the cave.

Anger surged through Annja, but she knew she had to contain it for the moment. At the bottom of the wolf trap, she paused a moment and reached for the sword. The leather‐bound hilt felt rough beneath her fingers.

Then she drew back her hand and started to dig. Now wasn’t the time. But soon.

For a time only the sounds of the storm and the two shovels cleaving the earth existed.

Thudding impacts competed with the rumbling that sounded as if it were on top of the mountain.

A moment later, Roux’s shovel struck something hollow.

“Here,” he called.

Annja vaulted out of the pit where she worked and crossed the cave. Roux tapped the shovel several times, causing the hollow thump each time.

Looking at Roux’s pit, Annja immediately noticed the difference between it and the two she’d worked in. The ones she’d dug tapered like inverted cones. As she’d neared the bottom, the excavation had been harder because the earth had been previously unworked.

Roux’s pit had obviously been completely dug out. He kept shoveling, working around a stone oval that fitted onto mortared stoneworks below.

“Is that a tunnel?” Lesauvage asked.

“Maybe,” Annja answered. “It could also be a well. The Roman soldiers would have wanted a water source if they were besieged.”

More of Lesauvage’s men shone their beams into the hole Roux had made.

Within minutes, the old man had completely dug out around the oval. He leaned back against the wall. Perspiration soaked his clothing.

Fear swarmed inside Annja. They were nearing the point of no return. Soon, Lesauvage would no longer need them. If the treasure was revealed beneath, she was certain they’d be shot immediately.

“Get that cover off,” Lesauvage ordered.

“I can’t,” Roux replied. “It’s too heavy.” He levered the shovel under the stone oval and demonstrated the difficulty he had in raising it only a couple inches.

“We need ropes,” Annja said. She directed the flashlight up at the ceiling. There, almost hidden in the shadows, an iron ring was pounded into the ceiling. If it had been found in the past, it might have been mistaken for use with heavy supply loads.

“Get the ropes,” Lesauvage ordered. He grinned at Annja. “Very good, Miss Creed.”

MINUTES LATER, Annja had tied a harness around the stone oval, then connected that to a double‐strand line running through the iron hook mounted in the ceiling.

Lesauvage put a team of men on the rope. Together, they pulled and the stone lid slowly lifted from the hole. The sound of running water echoed inside the cave.

Anticipation fired every nerve of Annja’s body.

When the lid was clear, Lesauvage walked to the edge of the wolf trap and aimed his flashlight beam. The yellow cone of illumination melted the darkness away.

“What’s that sound?” Lesauvage asked.

“Running water,” Annja said. “There’s probably a stream or groundwater running down there. Like I said, the soldiers would have wanted a steady supply of freshwater.”

“How far down?”

Holding her flashlight, Annja climbed down into the wolf pit. She shone the light around and spotted rusty iron handles covered with fungus set into the wall.

“Do you need a rope?” Lesauvage asked.

“No.” Annja threw a leg over the edge of the pit and started down. Her boots rang against the iron handles. Three rungs down, one of them snapped off beneath her weight, nearly rusted through.

She almost fell, only hanging on with her hands.

The tunnel walls showed tool marks. Someone had cut through the solid rock into the shallow stream below. Cold air rushed up around Annja, chilling her.

She thought about the tunnel. The Romans, or whoever had constructed it, had known the stream was there. They hadn’t drilled blindly through the rock in the hopes of hitting water.

They found it sometime before they decided to dig down to it, Annja realized. And if they found it before they dug down to it, there had to be another entrance.

That gave her hope. She finished the climb and dropped into the stream. The water came up to her calves, but her boots were tall enough to keep her feet dry.

She aimed the flashlight up the stream and down. The tunnel was almost eight feet across and barely five feet in height.

Upstream? Or downstream? She wasn’t sure. Her flashlight didn’t penetrate far enough to show her much.

A gleam of white suddenly caught her attention. Mired in the dirt and clay that coated the rock, scattered bones lay in disarray.

Enemies? Annja wondered. Or soldiers no one else cared enough to bury?

Amid the death, though, the dull gleam of metal reflected the flashlight beam. She knelt and dragged a hand through the running water, closing her hand on some of the smaller objects she touched.

When she lifted her hand, she held three gold coins and two silver ones. One of the gold ones bore the insignia of the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain.

“Miss Creed?” Lesauvage called.

“I’m here.” Annja pocketed the coins and returned to the tunnel. When she looked up, Lesauvage was shining his light into her eyes.

“Well?” he asked.

“I’m coming up. Douse the light.”

For a moment Lesauvage hesitated, obviously struggling with whether he wanted to obey.

“Please,” Annja called up. “I can’t see the rungs.”

That near admission of helplessness salved Lesauvage’s pride somewhat. “Of course.”

He moved the light away.

Annja glanced down, trying to will the spots from her vision. Then she noticed a single green leaf riding the stream.

Upstream, she thought, smiling. There’s nowhere else that leaf could have come from.

She felt certain another opening existed upstream. The storm’s fury had probably torn leaves from the trees, and at least one of them had found its way into the cave.

She took hold of the rungs and climbed. At the top, she clambered out of the wolf trap.

“Well?” Lesauvage asked.

Roux and Avery stood near the wolf trap. The young man looked anxious. Roux wore an irritated look, like someone who’d been asked to stay on long after a party had lost its charm.

Annja looked at Roux and spoke in Latin, trusting that for all his hauteur, Lesauvage hadn’t learned the spoken language. He might have learned to read bits and pieces, but surely not enough to speak it.

“We can escape down there,” she told Roux. “Upstream. Take the boy.”

Roux nodded, looking slightly less irritated.

Lesauvage pointed his pistol at Annja’s head. “What the hell did you say?”

Without a word, Annja took the coins from her pocket and tossed them to the middle of the stone floor. Enough light existed to catch their golden gleam.

“The treasure’s down there.” Annja pictured the sword in her mind as she switched off her light and shoved it into her pants pocket. “It’s in the stream. You’re rich.”

Drawn by greed, Lesauvage and his men looked at the coins, swiveling their flashlight beams.

“Now,” Annja said in Latin.

Roux grabbed Avery and shoved him toward the hole. The boy yelped in fear and tried to get away, but the old man’s strength proved too much for him. Avery disappeared, falling through the wolf trap with Roux on top of him.

Cursing, Lesauvage raised his pistol again. “Kill them!” he shouted.

Annja closed her hand around the sword and pulled.

29

As soon as the sword was in the cave with her, Annja’s senses went into overdrive. It was like time slowed down and everyone was moving in slow motion.

She swung the sword, cutting through Lesauvage’s pistol before he could fire, hitting the barrel and knocking the weapon off target. When he fired, the yellow‐white muzzle‐flash flamed in a spherical shape and the bullet ricocheted from the ceiling.

The other men had trouble aiming at her for fear of hitting Lesauvage. She stepped toward him as he tried to point his pistol at her again.

Planting her right foot, Annja pivoted and slammed her left foot into the center of Lesauvage’s chest, knocking him back into his men. Machine pistol‐chatter filled the cave with a deafening rattle that defied the sonorous cracks of thunder. Ricochets struck sparks from the wall, and two of Lesauvage’s men went down with screams of pain.

Annja ran for the wolf trap and dropped to the bottom of the pit. Bullets cut the air over her head and slammed against the stone oval hanging from the ropes.

Reacting instinctively, as if the sword had been part of her for her whole life, Annja swept the blade from her hip and launched it at the double‐stranded line.

The sword sailed straight and true through the rope. Stepping over the tunnel’s edge, she dropped and landed in the stream below, bending her knees to take the shock.

Lying in the rush of water, Avery and Roux stared at her in surprise.

In the next instant, the ropes parted and the heavy stone oval slammed down onto the tunnel. The fit wasn’t exact. Flashlight illumination leaked through the cracks. It was enough to show that Lesauvage’s men were wasting no time about pursuit.

“The sword.” Roux pushed himself to his feet.

Annja reached into the otherwhere for the weapon and was relieved to find it there.

“I’ve got it,” she said.

“Did you get any of their weapons?” Roux asked.

“No.”

The old man cursed and shook his head. “At the very least you could have slain one of them and taken his weapons.”

“Next time,” Annja said. “If you want, you can wait for them down here. They’ll probably get that tunnel opened again in a minute. You can get all the weapons you want.”

Roux glared at her. “She was never a wiseass.”

“I’m not Joan,” Annja said. She turned her attention to Avery.

The young man looked as though he was in shock and about to pass out. He cradled his wounded hand in his good one.

“Can you run?” Annja asked.

“I…I think so.”

“Upstream,” Annja said. “There should be another way out.” She took the lead, splashing through the water. She set the flashlight to wide angle.

Behind them they could hear Lesauvage’s men wrestling to remove the heavy stone oval.

“What makes you think there’s another way out?” Roux asked. “I trust you haven’t been here before?”

“I saw a leaf float past me. It came from outside.”

“It could have passed through an underwater opening. For all you know, this stream could run for miles underground.”

“I hope not.” Annja followed the slope up into the heart of the mountain.

The way got tricky and footing was treacherous. There were sinkholes along the way that plunged them up to their chests in near freezing water. They scrambled out and kept going. The rock ran smooth as time and fungus had made it slippery. Again and again, they fell with bruising impacts that left them shaken. They kept moving, certain that Lesauvage and his men would follow.

Annja tried to make sense of the direction they were heading, but she had to give up and acknowledge that they were lost. She listened, but she couldn’t tell if they were being pursued.

Maybe not, she thought hopefully. With the treasure right there, Lesauvage wouldn’t let anything else stand in his way.

She kept running.

CORVIN LESAUVAGE WAS in heaven. Hanging from the rungs set into the wall, he played his flashlight beam over the treasure that Benoit the Relentless had dumped into the Roman garrison’s hiding place all those years ago.

It didn’t matter to Lesauvage how Benoit had managed to find the place. Maybe he’d learned of it while searching for La Bête. Or perhaps one of his men had known about it.

The fact was that everyone who knew about it now was dead.

Except for Annja Creed, Avery Moreau and the hard‐eyed old man who had accompanied her.

Lesauvage reconciled himself with the knowledge that they wouldn’t get down off the mountain in the storm. He wouldn’t allow that to happen. If they told the authorities about his ill‐gotten gain, it could cause him no end of problems.

He stared at the gleaming precious metals in the glare of his flashlight a moment longer, then he climbed the rungs back up to the cave. His men awaited him.

“We hunt,” he declared.

They all grinned and howled in eager anticipation. Quickly, they took up the old Celtic chant he’d taught them in the cave beneath his house. Then they took the special concoction of drugs he’d created, which he told them contained ancient magic. It was mostly speed with a mild hallucinogenic, enough to make them physically able to push themselves past the level of normal human endurance and never know any fear.

Within minutes, they were all high, edgy and ready to explode. Eager to kill.

“They’re down there,” Lesauvage said, feeling the drug’s effects himself. He felt impossibly strong and invincible. Almost godlike. “I want them dead.”

Dropping back through the wolf trap, Lesauvage lowered himself into the stream. He didn’t know which way to go. Closing his eyes, he tried to sense his prey, but there were no signs of them.

He reached into the water and came up with a gold coin. He laughed a little, feeling the heavy weight of it in his hand. The coin had two sides. One was blank. The other held the symbol of the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain. He designated the insignia

“heads” and flipped the coin.

The gold disc whirled in the air. Lesauvage slid a hand under it and looked down at the symbol lying in his palm.

It was heads.

“This way,” he told his men. They headed upstream.

Baying and laughing, the Wild Hunt took up the chase.

BROTHER GASPAR STOOD back for a moment while two of the young monks entered the Roman garrison. Cold rain pelted him, a barrage of hostility fueled by nature. He fully expected an exchange of gunfire within the cave at any moment.

Instead, the two monks returned. They were armed with pistols, rifles and swords.

“There is something you should see,” one of them said.

Brother Gaspar followed the monks into the cave. He saw the stone oval suspended over the wolf trap at once. Peering down into the hole while another monk pointed his flashlight, Brother Gaspar saw the water and the gold and silver below.

“Benoit’s ransom,” Brother Gaspar said. “I’d thought it lost forever.” He looked up at the young monk. Then he noticed a dead man sprawled on the floor. “Who is that?”

“One of Lesauvage’s men.”

Brother Gaspar knew that Lesauvage and his men had not left. Their motorcycles were still parked outside. “What happened to him?”

“He was shot,” the young monk said. He touched a spot between his own eyes. “He was dead when we got here.”

“They’re in the tunnel below.” Brother Gaspar looked down at the water. “Where does it lead?”

The young monk shook his head. “We’ve tapped into an underground stream as a well.

Perhaps it’s another one.”

“And perhaps this one leads to the one we use.” Brother Gaspar realized that the monastery had been left virtually undefended. He turned from the wolf trap. “Take half of your men into the tunnel. Follow them. The others will return to the monastery with me.” He hurried out into the storm, once again hating the secrets that bound him to his life in this horrible place.

The treasure had been found. Did that mean that Father Roger of Falhout’s dreadful secret had been discovered, too?

Brother Gaspar lifted his robes and ran as fast as he was able. Nearly 240 years ago, some of the terrible secrets the Vatican had chosen to hide had spilled out. Over a hundred deaths had resulted because of that choice.

How many more lives would be sacrificed to keep the secret?

LIGHTNING FLARED overhead, exploding inside the cave like a light bulb shorting out.

Glancing up, shielding her eyes against the spots that danced in her vision, Annja saw a hole nearly a foot across at the roof of the cave they were in. The hole was almost twenty feet above them.

“There,” Roux said, pointing.

“I see it,” Annja replied.

Lightning strobed the sky again, igniting another flare that danced across the water swirling at their knees. The water level was rising, and that concerned her. A flash flood would drown them.

“We can’t get up there,” Roux said, slapping the slab of rock that framed the cave.

Judging from the walls, the cave had been carved by constantly flowing water thousands of years ago. The result was a smooth surface that couldn’t be climbed.

“Then we keep going,” Annja said. Heading upstream once again, she ran, knowing that Avery Moreau was growing steadily weaker and the flashlight beam was growing more dim.

LESS THAN FIFTEEN minutes later, Annja found the source of the water. A cistern had formed within the mountain. The hollow half bowl collected water in a natural reservoir, but with the current storm, it had exceeded capacity.

However, the thing that drew Annja’s attention most was the light that bled through the cracks where the cistern had separated from the cave roof. A waterfall of glistening water poured into the lower cave.

“Light,” Roux said.

“I see it.” Warily, Annja drew her sword and moved closer.

The light source was stationary, not the flickering randomness of the lightning. And it was pale yellow, not flaring white.

Cautiously, she made her way up the pile of broken rock that had spilled over the cistern’s side. Holding the sword in one hand, trying to avoid as much of the water as she could, Annja peered through the crack.

A room lay beyond. It was another cavern actually, but someone had built a low stone dam to help trap the water in the cistern. Plastic five‐gallon water containers sat in neat rows beside the dam. Candles burned in sconces on the walls.

“What is it?” Roux asked.

“A room,” Annja answered.

“Someone is living there?”

“Several someones from the look of things,” Annja answered. The cold was eating into her now. She was beginning to feel as if warmth had never existed.

“Is there a way in?” Roux asked.

Annja tossed him the flashlight. He caught it before it hit the water.

Avery Moreau leaned against the wall nearby. He held his arms wrapped around himself. His teeth chattered and his breath blew out in gray fogs. “He’s going to kill us, you know. Lesauvage. He won’t let us escape because we know too much.”

“Hang in there, Avery,” Annja said.

Reluctantly, the young man nodded. He heard her, but he didn’t share her hope.

Hefting a large stone block, Annja took a firm hold and swung it at the cistern’s edge.

The impact sounded like a cannon shot inside the cave.

The third time she slammed the stone into the cistern, the side cracked. Then sections of the cistern tumbled to the cave floor and the stream below. Water deluged Annja, knocking her from her feet.

Roux tramped through the sudden increase in the water level and pinned her with the flashlight beam. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” Annja pushed herself to her feet. She was soaked and the cold ate into her like acid.

The broken section of the cistern wall drained most of the water. Annja knew whoever had purposefully created the larger reservoir from the natural one wouldn’t be happy with the damage she’d done.

Catching hold of the cistern’s edge, she heaved herself up and in. Kneeling, she offered her hand to Avery and pulled him along, then did the same for Roux. She took a candle‐powered lantern from a hook on the wall.

Stone steps, shaped from the bones of the mountain, led out of the cistern room.

Annja was certain they followed the meanderings of a cave shaft—with occasional sculpting, as testified to by the tool marks on the walls—but there was function and design.

When she waved the lantern close to the steps, she found impressions worn deeply into them.

“Whoever lives here has been here for a long time,” she observed.

“It’s a monastery,” Roux said. His voice echoed in the stairwell.

“What makes you so sure?”

“Can you imagine anyone else living like this? Cloistered. Underground. With only the rudimentary amenities. And you said you didn’t know where the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain came from.” Roux looked around. “I think you can safely say that you do now.”

THREE TURNS LATER, Annja came upon a door to the right. She tried it and found it unlocked.

I guess there’s no need to lock doors on a subterranean fortress no one knows about, Annja thought. She followed the door inside.

The cavern was long and quiet. Spiderwebs filled the open spaces of the roof.

Rectangular openings in the walls occurred at regular intervals.

Annja held the lantern up high. Another doorway stood at the opposite end of the cave.

“What is this place?” Avery asked. His voice sounded brittle.

“A cemetery,” Annja said.

The young man stopped in his tracks. “We shouldn’t be in here, should we?”

“No,” Annja agreed. “But we are. This could be the shortest route to an exit.” She didn’t really think so, but there were questions she needed answered. She walked to the closest wall and began examining the coffins.

All of them were crafted of flat stones mortared together in rectangular shapes left hollow for the bodies. Once the dead were interred, the lids were mortared on, as well.

Annja brushed at the thick dust that covered them, searching for identification marks.

Near one end of the coffin she was examining, she found a name carved into one of the rocks:

Brother Gustave

1843‐1912

“What are you looking for?” Roux joined her in the search, working on the other side.

“Father Roger.” Annja moved on to the coffin above the first one she’d inspected.

Rats, no doubt drawn into the caves by the ready supply of food kept on hand by the monks, scattered across the top of the coffin. She didn’t want to think about what the rodents would have done to the bodies if they’d gotten inside.

“Who was he?” Roux asked.

“He was head of the monastery in 1767 when it was destroyed.” Annja read the next inscription, but it wasn’t the one she was looking for, either.

Reluctantly, Avery joined in the search. He approached another wall of coffins tentatively.

“‘Roger’ isn’t exactly a French name,” Roux said.

“It’s English.” Annja went to the next stack and swept dust from it, as well. “He was once Roger of Falhout.”

Roux looked at her then. “Wasn’t he the man whose heraldry is represented on the lozenge?”

“No. That heraldry belonged to his brother, Sir Henry. And to Sir Henry’s father before him. Roger was Sir Henry’s younger brother. One of them, anyway.”

“But he wasn’t entitled to the heraldry because of the law of primogeniture,” Roux said, understanding.

Avery turned to them. “I don’t know what that law is.”

“Basically,” Annja said, moving to the next coffin, “it’s a law that keeps the family farm from being split up. Say a man has three sons. Like Sir Henry’s father. The eldest son, Sir Henry, inherits all the family lands and titles. At the time, it took a lot of land to field a knight, and knights were the lifeblood of a king’s army.”

“That’s not true anymore,” Avery said.

“No, but it was when Father Roger was around.” Annja frightened away another rat and read the next inscription. “Fathers had to have a system to keep brothers from fighting over the lands. So a simple method was devised. The first son inherited the land. The second son was given to the military. The third son was given to the church.”

“And if there were more?”

“They were apprenticed to master craftsmen as best as could be done,” Annja said.

“Roger was a third‐born son,” Roux said.

“Right,” Annja agreed. “He was given to the church.”

“Which wasn’t without its own problems,” Roux said. “England had fought the Roman influence for six hundred years before the Anglican Church was declared.”

“Henry VIII closed the Roman Catholic abbeys and monasteries during his reign,” Annja added, “and supported the Anglican Church. Father Roger, as evidenced by his presence here, was Roman Catholic.”

“Why did they send him here?” Roux asked.

“As punishment.”

“For what?”

“I think he fathered Carolyn. The girl who was born while Sir Richard of Kirkland was over in the New World fighting the French and the Indians.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Why else would the Falhout family heraldry be on the lozenge?”

Roux had no answer.

30

“I think the Roman Catholic Church found out about Father Roger’s indiscretion with Sir Richard of Kirkland’s wife,” Annja went on. “And once they did, I think the Vatican shipped Father Roger here before the affair caused any further problems in London.”

“Such as Sir Richard coming home and killing him?” Roux suggested.

“Yes. King George III would have backed one of his knights in such a matter, and the Roman Catholic Church could have lost even more ground in England. They’d already lost a lot by that time.”

“So it was better to hide the problem than to deal with it,” Roux said.

“Hiding the problem was dealing with it. But I think they had more to hide than they’d originally believed.” Annja moved to the next stone coffin. “They also had Carolyn to hide.”

“The child?”

Annja nodded. “The daughter of Father Roger and Sir Richard’s wife. Some of the reports I read suggest that she showed signs of inbreeding, but I believe that was a cover‐up, an attempt to point the blame elsewhere. I think Carolyn’s condition was caused by something worse than inbreeding.”

“What?” Roux dusted off another coffin.

“Have you heard of Proteus Syndrome?”

“The disfigurement that created the Elephant Man?”

“Yes. Joseph Merrick’s X‐rays and CT scans were examined by a radiologist who determined that the disease was Proteus Syndrome.”

Roux turned and faced her. “You think Carolyn had Proteus Syndrome?”

“Yes. More than that, I think she was La Bête.” All the pieces came together in Annja’s mind. She was certain she had most of it now. “I saw that creature in the cave where I found the charm. It looked almost human. At least, aspects of it did.”

“But Proteus Syndrome is debilitating and life‐threatening,” Roux argued. “It creates massive tissue growth. Merrick’s head was too misshapen and too heavy for his body.

He died at twenty‐seven, strangled by the weight of his own head.”

“Does Proteus Syndrome always have to present negatively?” Annja asked. “Couldn’t it sometimes be an unexpected change and growth that makes a person stronger?” She looked at Roux. “I saw all those pieces of this sword become one again. I think that’s harder to believe than my suggestion about Proteus Syndrome.”

“You believe the disease turned her into an animal?”

Annja took a deep breath. “We’ll never know if it was her condition or the treatment she received as a result of it. That’s an argument for the nature‐versus‐nurture people.

Sir Richard disowned Carolyn and cast her from his house. Her mother never visited her in the abbey. And the nuns—” She shook her head, thinking about the afflicted child. Sometimes things hadn’t been easy in the orphanage where she’d grown up, but the conditions had to have been a lot better than in the eighteenth century. “The nuns couldn’t have known how to treat her or what to do.”

“They would have believed she was demon spawn,” Roux said quietly. He shrugged.

“In those days, the church believed everything, and everyone, who was different was demon spawn.”

Annja silently agreed.

“Carolyn killed the sisters in the abbey where she was first kept,” Roux said. “You have to wonder what triggered that, but I’m afraid I could hazard a guess. The human mind has its breaking points.”

Annja was surprised. She hadn’t known the old man had been truly listening to her while she’d pursued the truth. “Yes. Then they faked her death and shipped her here.”

“To be with her father.”

“Yes.”

“As further punishment?”

Shaking her head, Annja said, “I think Father Roger wouldn’t allow any harm to come to his daughter. He forced the church to send her here.”

“How did he do that?”

“I don’t know. I only know that he must have. Otherwise she wouldn’t have been here.” Annja moved on to the next coffin. “Once here, Carolyn must have grown bigger, stronger and more intelligent. Or possibly she was always intelligent. Either way, she learned to escape from the monastery.”

“She was La Bête,” Roux said, understanding.

“I believe so. If you look at those pictures I took of the corpse in the cave where I found the charm, you can see the misshapen limbs and body. Proteus Syndrome didn’t occur to me then, but it did later.”

They kept searching.

“Here it is, then.” Avery brushed layers of dust from a stone coffin.

Joining him, Annja held her candle lantern closer to the inscription.

Father Roger

1713‐1767

Cursed by God

Condemned by Believers

Below the inscription was a carving of the standing stag that matched the one on the charm. Annja placed the candle lantern on the coffin and brushed at the dust, exposing the top to see if there were any more inscriptions.

Emotions swirled within her. There was excitement, of course. There always was when she made a discovery. But it was bittersweet this time. She couldn’t help thinking about the innocent child afflicted with a disease no one had understood or even known existed at the time.

“The grave diggers always get the last word,” Roux said. “Not very generous, were they?”

“Or very forgiving,” Annja agreed quietly.

“He was a sinner,” a strong voice filled with accusation announced.

Annja spun, summoning the sword as she turned. Light splintered along the sharp blade.

A man in his sixties stood in the doorway. He was wearing monk’s robes. A dozen more flanked him.

“I suppose,” Roux whispered, “in retrospect we truly should have posted a lookout to keep watch.”

“Next time,” Annja promised.

“More than merely being a sinner, though,” the old monk said, “Father Roger was an embarrassment to the Vatican. They had empowered him to act on their behalf in London. England had already stepped away from much of the Roman Catholic Church’s auspices. News of Father Roger’s perfidies would have made things even worse. You were wondering how he got his bestial child transferred here when by all rights she should have been taken out and euthanized.”

“I was,” Annja admitted.

The monk stepped into the mausoleum. The other monks followed. Light from their lanterns and flashlights filled the arched cavern.

“Father Roger wrote out a document detailing his transgressions,” the monk stated.

“He admitted to carrying on with a married woman and fathering a child by her.” He shook his head. “It was more than the Vatican wished to deal with. Sir Richard of Kirkland, the cuckolded husband, and Sir Henry, Father Roger’s brother, were landed gentry. Men who were important to the king.”

“The Vatican didn’t want to run the risk of the king’s wrath,” Annja said.

“That’s correct. Neither of the knights knew the truth of the child’s heritage. Sir Henry would not have accepted his brother’s expulsion from the church. So the decision was made to bring Father Roger to the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain. He could have lived out the rest of his days making books. Instead, he saw to sowing the seeds of his own doom by blackmailing the church into bringing that dreadful creature here.”

“Who are you?” Annja asked.

“I am Brother Gaspar,” the old monk said. “One of the last of those who safeguard the secrets that nearly escaped our monastery all those years ago.”

“Looking back on things,” Annja said, “with over a hundred people dead, I’d say your

‘secret’ got out on a regular basis.”

“Regrettable, but true,” Brother Gaspar said. “If I had been leader of the order at that time, Father Roger’s child would not have escaped.”

“Would you have killed Carolyn?” Annja demanded.

The old monk’s answer came without hesitation. “Yes.”

“She was a child,” Annja protested. “Children aren’t born evil.”

“By all accounts, she was a child of the devil allowed entrance into this world by the sin committed by her mother and father. She was a murderess and a monster.” Fire glinted in the old monk’s eyes. “Don’t you dare try to tell me what she was. All of my order since that time have lived our lives in darkness here within this mountain because of her and her blasphemous father.”

“Why did you stay here after the monastery was torn down?” That was the only part Annja hadn’t been able to resolve.

“That’s none of your business,” Brother Gaspar snapped.

“Father Roger left his record,” Roux announced. He looked at Annja. “That has to be the answer, of course. No one at the monastery would hear his confession. Or if they would, perhaps he thought it wouldn’t matter. No one here worried about Father Roger’s eternal soul. In their eyes he was already damned to hell.”

“Is that it?” Annja asked. “Is that why you people have been stuck here?”

For a moment, she didn’t think Brother Gaspar was going to answer.

“Unfortunately, that’s true. One of the documents, his confession, was found at the time of his death. He died during the destruction of the monastery. It wasn’t until later that the document was found among his papers.”

“I don’t see the problem,” Annja said.

Brother Gaspar shook his head. “It was clearly marked as the second copy.” He shrugged. “I think it was habit for Father Roger to number his copies. The monastery worked on books here. Handwritten and illuminated. We still do. It’s a habit to number all versions.”

“For all these years that the monastery has gone underground, you’ve been searching for the original copy?” Annja asked.

“Yes. We won’t be permitted to leave this place until we have secured that copy. Or confirmed its destruction.” Looking at her, Brother Gaspar lifted an eyebrow. “You have been so clever so far, Miss Creed. Finding the lost treasure. Finding this place when it has been secret for all these years. Figuring out the truth of La Bête. Locating the charm that Father Roger wore. I would have hoped you could divine where Father Roger’s missing documents were.”

“Father Roger wore the charm?”

“Before Benoit took it, yes.” Brother Gaspar paused. “I’d heard Benoit took Father Roger’s charm and fashioned it into a map of sorts.”

“He did.”

“No one at the monastery ever saw it. We thought it lost forever.”

“It was around the neck of the man who killed La Bête. Carolyn.”

“Was it?” That appeared to surprise the old monk. “You have been quite resourceful.”

“I’m good at what I do,” Annja said.

“On any other subject,” Brother Gaspar said, “I would probably offer you accolades on your diligence and devotion to your craft. I would warn you about putting other pursuits ahead of God, but I would congratulate you.” He paused. “Unfortunately, all I can show you for your endeavor is imprisonment.”

“What?” Avery exploded. “We’ve done nothing wrong! The treasure is still where we found it! We only came here because we were trying to escape Lesauvage!”

“But you know too much,” Brother Gaspar explained patiently. “I can’t afford to let you leave.”

At his signal, the monks lifted their weapons and took deliberate aim.

Annja looked over her shoulder at the other door. Three monks stood there with pistols and swords. Cowls shadowed their faces.

“Now,” Brother Gaspar said, “your choice is to come willingly…or be shot and interred in this mausoleum. Which will it be?”

Avery looked at Annja. Fear widened his eyes.

“Easy,” she said. “Roux?”

“I have him,” Roux stated quietly.

“The sword, Miss Creed,” Brother Gaspar commanded. “Throw it down, and any other weapons you might have, or we’ll take them from your lifeless bodies.”

After a momentary hesitation, Annja lowered the sword to the mausoleum floor and slid it across. The weapon stopped in the center of the room.

“Very good,” Brother Gaspar said. “Now—”

Hoarse shouts cut off the old monk. Sharp bursts of gunfire followed. One of the monks standing out in the hallway twisted and went down, his face ripped to bloody shreds.

“Kill them!” Corvin Lesauvage shouted out in the hallway. “Kill them all!”

“Roux!” Annja yelled as she turned toward the other door. She reached for the sword and suddenly the intervening twenty feet were no longer there; the sword was in her hand.

Launching herself forward, Annja slashed the sword across two of the assault rifles.

The impacts knocked the weapons from the hands of the men.

The third man aimed his weapon and pulled the trigger.

Annja went low, just under the stream of bullets that hammered the stone floor and threw splinters and fragments in all directions. She swept the man’s feet out from under him in a baseball slide that tangled them both up for a moment. Before the man could recover, Annja slammed the sword hilt into the side of his head. His eyes turned glassy and he sagged into unconsciousness.

Rolling to her feet, Annja avoided one man’s outstretched arms, then popped up with a forearm that caught him under the jawline. He flew back against the stone wall and collapsed.

The third man drew a long knife and sprang at her. Annja fisted his robe and fell backward, planting a foot into his stomach and tossing him back into the center of the mausoleum.

Rolling to her feet again, Annja saw Roux shove Avery Moreau out into the hallway, then bend down to slide a pistol from one of the monk’s robes. After he tossed the weapon to Annja, he took another pistol and an assault rifle for himself. He palmed as many magazines as he could find for the weapons and shoved them into his pockets.

Annja headed into the hallway as Brother Gaspar and the monks fled their positions and flooded toward them. Bullets slapped the cave walls and ricocheted overhead, filling the air like an angry swarm of bees.

Roux knelt like a seasoned infantryman and aimed his assault rifle low. He fired mercilessly. Bullets chopped into the wave of fleeing monks, turning the middle of the mausoleum into a deadly no‐man’s‐land. As flashlights and lanterns hit the ground, the illumination was extinguished and the room turned dark.

Peering around the corner of the doorway, Annja spotted Lesauvage and his men racing into the mausoleum. Most of the monks were down. Brother Gaspar lay draped over one of the stone coffins, dead or dying.

Lesauvage laughed like a madman and strode through the large room as if he were invincible. Bullets had smashed two of the coffins open and the withered bodies inside had spilled onto the bloodstained floor.

Roux withdrew. He released the magazine from the assault rifle and shoved another one into place.

“Go,” he told Annja. “We can’t stay here.”

Annja turned. She realized then that she’d left her candle lantern on one of the coffins.

Thankfully the hallway was lit. She held the pistol in her left hand and the sword in her right. She pushed her left hand against the small of Avery Moreau’s back, urging him into motion.

“Run,” she said. “As fast as you can.”

The young man ran and Annja passed him, taking the lead. The hallway twisted and turned. She tried to keep a mental map going in her mind but quickly grew uncertain.

The footfalls of Lesauvage and his men thundered through the cave tunnels in pursuit.

THE DRUG COCKTAIL BLAZED hotly within Corvin Lesauvage. He strode through the mausoleum and looked at the dead monks lying around the cave.

A few of his men were down, as well. Two of them were dead. Another sat holding an arm across his midsection trying to keep his intestines from spilling out.

“Damn!” the young man said. “Look at this!” He gazed at his bloody guts shifting inside his embrace. “This can’t be all me!” He threw his head back and howled with laughter, as if it were the funniest thing he’d ever seen. “Somebody help me!”

Lesauvage walked over to the man and gazed down at him coldly. “You’re dying,” he said.

“I know!” The man laughed again, but tears skidded down his face.

Taking deliberate aim, Lesauvage squeezed the trigger and put a round into the man’s mouth. It took him nearly a minute to wheeze and choke to death on his blood. The death wasn’t as merciful as Lesauvage had intended.

Still, it was finished.

“What did you do?” another man asked.

“He was dying,” Lesauvage explained.

Several of the men were in the process of tearing open the stone coffins. Corpses littered the mausoleum.

Lesauvage fired a round into the ceiling. The detonation drew everyone’s attention.

“They were monks!” Lesauvage roared. “They won’t be buried with anything worth the time it takes to bust open those coffins!” He waved his pistol. “Find the woman! We don’t need a witness to talk about what we’ve done here!”

Howling with gleeful anticipation, the Wild Hunt once more took up the chase, pounding through the doorway where Annja Creed had fled.

31

Annja’s breath tore hotly through her lungs as she ran up the next flight of stairs.

Halting at the top of the stairs, she took up a position by the opening, listened intently for a moment, then realized she couldn’t hear anything over the sounds of the Wild Hunt closing in on them.

She whirled around the opening and dropped the pistol out before her. She held her sword arm braced under her gun wrist.

The next cave was a library. Books lined handmade shelves mixed with plastic modular shelves. Furniture consisted of large pillows and tent chairs. Candelabras heavy with partially burned candles and bowls of wax occupied tables in the cave.

Life as a monk of the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain hadn’t been easy.

Curiosity pulled at Annja’s attention. She couldn’t help wondering what kind of books were on those shelves. Copies of books from around the world wouldn’t have interested her as much as personal journals and collections of observations during the past few hundred years.

“Annja.”

Roux’s voice drew her from her reverie. She glanced behind her and found that Avery and Roux hadn’t joined her. Turning back to the stairway carved in the sloping tunnel floor, she looked down and saw them huddled on the last landing. Men’s laughter and threats cascaded around them like breakers from an approaching storm front.

“I can’t…do it,” Avery wheezed, shaking his head. He doubled over and retched. “I can’t…breathe…can’t run…no more.”

Roux didn’t look very good, either, but he was still moving.

“If you stay here, boy,” the old man said. “They’ll kill you.”

“I…can’t!” Avery doubled over and retched again.

The voices grew louder.

Running down the steps, Annja shoved the pistol into her waistband at her back, then grabbed Avery and threw him across her shoulders in a fireman’s carry. She’d thought she’d barely be able to move with the extra weight. Instead, Avery felt light as a child.

“You can’t carry him,” Roux objected.

“I can’t leave him,” Annja responded. Holding her free arm over his arm and leg, she started up the steps. She expected her body to protest. Instead, it seemed to welcome the challenge.

She turned the corner at the library, then rushed through the doorway on the other side. Another flight of steps awaited her. She went up, hoping that the entrance to the monastery was in that direction.

She was just starting to breathe harder. She was surprised by the strength, stamina and speed that she had—even while carrying Avery Moreau. Where had it come from?

The sword?

Or had the sword only awakened something within her?

Annja put the questions out of her mind and concentrated on escape. If she survived, maybe she could figure out what it all meant.

Like the Roman garrison cave, the entrance to the main chamber used by the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain was narrow. Once they reached it, she had to put Avery on his feet and shove him ahead of her.

A faux wall covered the opening. Latches held it in place.

Annja opened the door.

Beyond, the storm continued with renewed fury. Gray rain ghosted across the mountain in sheets as neatly as marching soldiers. Annja felt the chill of the rain even before she stepped out into it.

“Which way?” Avery asked, holding his arms across his body.

Roux played the flashlight around. The ground was stone. No path existed.

Of course there’s no path, Annja thought. They’d have to be careful about their comings and goings. They couldn’t afford to be seen.

“Down,” Annja said.

Roux took the lead, making his way as fast as he dared. The yellow beam of the flashlight revealed the weakening batteries.

Avery followed, hunched over and moving more slowly.

We’re not going to make it, Annja thought grimly. The certainty almost made her sick.

She’d come all this way, solved most of the puzzles that were presented, and she was going to die inches short of the finish line.

Lightning flared, filling the sky with white‐hot incandescence.

Below, not more than a hundred yards away, a road ran down the mountain. Even as Annja recognized it, she spotted five motorcycles speeding into view. Another blaze lit the night. Annja knew the men were after them.

At that moment, they saw Roux and Avery.

The motorcyclists pulled up short and unlimbered assault rifles, pulling them quickly to their shoulders.

“Roux!” Annja yelled.

The old man looked up and saw her standing on the mountainside. Then he saw the motorcycles. He reacted instantly, grabbing Avery and pulling him to ground behind a copse of trees and boulders.

The motorcycle riders howled like beasts. Rain and shadows turned their faces into those of snarling animals. They brought the rifles around in her direction.

Annja ran, hoping she could keep her footing, and plunged toward the brush to her right. Bullets ripped after her, tearing through the leaves and branches.

Knowing if she stopped she was only going to be pinned down, then attacked from above and below as Lesauvage and the rest of his men emerged from the monastery, Annja kept moving. She threw herself through the brush, heart hammering inside her chest. She knew she was moving fast; everything was in slow motion around her again.

She tripped over a loose rock and fell, sliding through the brush at least ten yards on the wet surface before she could roll to her feet. She steadied, whipping through branches and plants, skidding across loose rock.

One of the motorcycle riders pitched sideways, knocked down by rounds from Roux’s rifle.

Ten yards out, almost running into a hail of gunfire from the other riders, Annja ran up onto a boulder, took two steps across it and launched herself into the air, hoping that the dark night and the rain would help hide her. She flipped, drawing the sword, then spreading her arms out to her sides to help maintain her balance while keeping her feet together.

Lightning blazed overhead and tore away the darkness.

Annja knew the men saw her as she fell toward them. Their faces filled with awe and fear.

“An angel!” one of them cried. “An angel with a sword!”

It was the drugs, Annja knew. They’d caused the man’s hallucination and preyed on his fear.

She landed among them. She swept the sword out, cutting a diagonal slash through one man’s weapon as he fired. The rifle blew up in his face and threw him backward.

Moving forward, Annja kicked the next motorcycle’s handlebars, sending it crashing into the one beside it, taking down both riders.

The fourth man fired, missing Annja by inches as she whirled. She lashed out with the sword again, turning it so the flat of the blade caught the man along the temple and knocked him out.

I won’t kill them, she told herself. Not unless I have to. Somehow that thought made a difference.

The fifth man dodged back, then dropped like a puppet with its strings cut. He hit the ground and rolled onto his back. A bullet from Roux’s stolen rifle had torn out his throat. His chest jerked spasmodically twice, then he went slack.

Move, Annja told herself. Don’t think about him. Deal with it later. Get everybody out safe now.

Annja grabbed the nearest motorcycle and pushed it upright. When she pulled in the clutch and touched the electronic ignition, the engine grumbled to life.

Roux ran toward her, dragging Avery after him.

“You could have gotten yourself killed with a damned fool stunt like that,” the old man shouted.

“It worked,” Annja replied. “There wasn’t a lot of time. There still isn’t.” She pushed the motorcycle toward him. “Can you ride?”

“Yes. You live five hundred years, you learn a few things.” Roux reloaded the assault rifle and slung it over his shoulder. Then he threw a leg over the motorcycle and climbed aboard. He glanced at Avery. “Can you ride, boy?”

“No.” Avery looked like a drowned rat.

Roux sighed. “This mountain is going to be difficult at best. Carrying double is foolish.”

Then he shook his head. “I’m getting foolish in my dotage. Climb on, boy.”

“Thank you.” Avery climbed on back of the motorcycle.

“Get a good grip,” Roux told him.

For just a moment, Annja couldn’t help but think about Garin’s story, about how his father had sent him off on horseback with Roux all those years ago. There was something paternal about Roux that she hadn’t seen before.

“Here.” Annja clapped a helmet on Avery’s head that she’d taken from one of Lesauvage’s riders.

Roux looked at her. “Can you ride one of these mechanical nightmares?”

Annja smiled at him, seeing the concern in those electric‐blue eyes. “Yeah,” she said. “I can. Probably better than you can.”

Roux harrumphed his displeasure. “Well don’t get overconfident and get yourself killed. There are still things we should talk about.”

Lightning threw crooked white veins across the troubled sky. Movement along the ridge higher up caught Annja’s attention.

Lesauvage and the survivors of his group fanned out along the mountainside.

“Go,” Annja said.

Roux revved the motorcycle’s engine and took off. Clutching him tightly, Avery hung on. Bullets raked the stones and the muddy earth where the motorcycle had been.

Taking advantage of the distraction Roux’s escape afforded her, Annja retreated to another of the motorcycles. She righted it, started the engine and threw a leg over while it started forward. She stood on the pegs, cushioning the rough terrain and muscling the motorcycle to keep it upright in the mud and on the slick stone surfaces exposed between the earth and vegetation. She focused on Roux, spotting his headlight and following it along the trail.

Because he was riding double, Roux struggled with the motorcycle. Avery had no aptitude for riding. He swayed wrong or stayed straight up as Roux handled the motorcycle, creating even more difficulty.

Glancing over her shoulder, Annja saw that Lesauvage and two other men had recovered the three remaining motorcycles. They sped along in pursuit, closing the distance quickly.

We’re not going to make it, Annja realized. Between the storm and Avery, we can’t escape. She cursed herself for not disabling the other motorcycles, then realized that she’d only been thinking forward, not backward.

When Roux disappeared in front of her for just a moment, a desperate plan formed.

Annja crested the hill Roux had just passed over, then switched off her motorcycle and ran it into the brush off the trail into the shadows. The droning engines of the pursuit motorcycles filled her ears.

She waited nervously. She breathed deep, blinking the rain from her eyes, concentrating on what she had to do. Reaching behind her, she removed the pistol from her waistband and waited.

The three motorcycles whipped by, never spotting her in the darkness.

Coolly, Annja lifted the pistol and fired at the last motorcycle’s back tire, placing her shots just below the flaring ruby taillight. On the fifth or sixth shot, the rear tire blew.

Slewing out of control, the motorcycle went down in a skidding heap, shedding the rider and pieces of the fenders and body.

The pistol blew back empty. Out of ammunition, Annja tossed the weapon away. Then she pressed the electronic ignition and the engine roared to life as her headlight came on. She twisted the accelerator and let out the clutch so fast she almost lost the motorcycle.

She was speeding along the trail, standing on the pegs again as she slitted her eyes against the rain. Her face stung and her vision occasionally blurred, but she held the motorcycle to the course. She gained ground quickly, but knew she was going to arrive too late when she saw Roux lose the motorcycle. Roux and Avery tumbled across the ground, trying to get up even as Lesauvage and the remaining rider bore down on them.

Roux stood but appeared dazed. Avery didn’t get up.

Lesauvage and the other rider roared past them and came around in tight turns, putting their motorcycles between Roux and the one he’d lost.

Roux fumbled for the assault rifle draped over his shoulder. Somehow he’d managed to hang on to it.

Lesauvage pulled his pistol from his shoulder holster and took aim. At that distance, there was no way he could miss.

“Lesauvage!” Annja screamed.

The other rider raised his assault rifle, bringing it up on a sling.

Annja hit the same rise that had dumped Roux and Avery. But she twisted the accelerator, gaining speed, then yanked back on the handlebars.

The motorcycle went airborne. Throwing her body sideways, Annja turned it with her, performing a tabletop aerial maneuver she’d seen on X Games.

Not wanting to be trapped under the weight of the motorcycle, Annja released it and kicked free of the pegs. The motorcycle rider dodged to one side as her bike crashed into his and they bounced away in a rolling mass that exploded into flames.

Annja landed hard on the ground. Out of breath, her lungs feeling paralyzed by the impact, she managed to push herself to her feet.

The motorcycle rider rose up on his knees, cursing foully. He pulled the assault rifle to his shoulder.

Without thinking, Annja summoned the sword and threw it.

Glittering in the sudden flare of lightning, the sword seemed to catch fire as it looped end over end. It struck the gunman full in the chest, driving him backward, his heart pierced by the blade.

For a moment, everything was frozen.

Lesauvage stared at the dead man in disbelief. Then he started laughing. “That was stupid!” he roared. “You threw away your weapon!”

From more than thirty feet away, Annja reached for the sword. It faded from sight where it still quivered in the dead man’s chest.

The sword was in her hand.

The confidence drained from Lesauvage’s features. He lifted his pistol and took a two-handed grip on it.

Annja rose, knowing it would do no good to run. He would only shoot her in the back.

She held the sword in front of her, the blade bisecting her vision, her left foot in front of her right.

She thought about Joan of Arc dying on the pyre. Annja didn’t want to die, but if she were going to and she couldn’t die old and famous and in her bed with a man she loved, this was how she wanted it to happen, looking death in the eye.

“You brought a sword to a gun fight,” Lesauvage sneered. He fired.

Annja saw the muzzle‐flash rush from the pistol barrel. She even believed she saw the bullet streaking toward her, knowing there was no way it was going to miss her. She waited to feel it bite into her flesh.

But her hands moved instinctively, tracking the projectile. Incredibly, she saw sparks as the bullet hit the sword, felt the vibration race through her hands, then heard the bullet whiz within inches of her ear.

Annja was already moving toward Lesauvage instead of away from him. She threw herself into a flying kick, sailing above Lesauvage’s next round, then lashing out with her left foot when she came within range.

The kick drove Lesauvage from his feet, knocking him backward. He lost the pistol before he slammed against the boulder behind him.

When Annja stood, she held the sword to Lesauvage’s throat.

He stared at her over the blade as lightning blazed and burnished the steel. The sound of the rain drowned out everything but the hoarse rasp of their breathing.

“Kill him,” Roux directed, limping up. Blood threaded down the side of his face, diluted by the rain.

“I can’t,” Annja said. She couldn’t even imagine taking a man’s life in cold blood.

“He would have killed you.”

“He didn’t.”

“He tried to kill you.”

Annja trembled slightly. “That wouldn’t make killing him right.”

Roux grinned and shook his head. “I hate moral complications. Wars and battle should be so much simpler.” He bent down and picked up Lesauvage’s pistol, taking time to wipe the mud from it. “You have to realize that you’ve made an enemy here.”

“Like you did with Garin?”

“No, that’s different,” Roux said. “Garin made an enemy of me. If he had the chance to kill me, I truly think he would.” He nodded toward Lesauvage. “This one, if he gets the chance, will kill you someday.”

Annja lowered her sword and stepped back. She glared at Roux. “I’m not a murderer.”

“There are,” Roux said, “worse things to be.” He shot Lesauvage between the eyes.

Lesauvage pitched forward onto his face. The back of his head was blown off.

“Thankfully,” Roux continued as if he hadn’t a care in the world, “I’m none of those things.”

Annja wheeled on him, looking at him and realizing that she didn’t know him, and certainly didn’t know what he was capable of. She held her sword ready.

Roux tossed the pistol away and spread his arms, leaving his chest open to her attack.

He smiled benignly. “Lesauvage still has other drug‐crazed fools in the mountains tonight. Do you want to argue about this right now?”

Annja knew he was right. They still had to escape. “No,” she said in a hard voice. “But we will talk about this at a later date.”

“I look forward to it,” Roux said. “There’s a lot you’re going to have to learn. If you want to survive your destiny.”

Ignoring him, Annja turned back to the two surviving motorcycles.

Avery Moreau sat huddled in a ball and looked consumed with fear.

She righted one of the motorcycles, threw a leg over, started it and looked back at the young man. “Come on. Let’s get you safe.”

Slowly, Avery climbed onto the motorcycle with her. He wrapped his mud‐covered arms around her, shaking with terror as he held on.

Annja didn’t wait to see if Roux could manage. Even though he was limping and banged up, she felt certain the old man could fend for himself. She accelerated and raced down the mountain, hoping to get out of the cold and the wet soon.