In Charlemagne’s footsteps, a man who would be Holy Emperor...

It was the kind of internet posting guaranteed to attract the attention of the American cable TV show Chasing History’s Monsters: “Dog-headed men sighted by tourists in Avignon.” Drawn to France to explore the myth of Saint Christopher and the cynocephalus or the dog-headed, archaeologist and television host Annja Creed finds herself repeatedly and inexplicably targeted by vicious mercenaries. Her best defense is to trace this brutal violence back to its source, which she soon discovers to be a millionaire and self-professed descendant of King Charlemagne.

Caught up in a romantic and ruthless sixth-century world, the man is convinced that if he collects mankind’s most precious and holy swords, he can fulfill his medieval ancestor’s failed goal to build the City of God. And he’s stealing the priceless relics one by one to arm his modern-day paladins. Now he has his eye on a very special sword—Annja’s.

And he’ll have to kill her to get it.

It happened fast, the two grabbed Rembert and spun him around

The taller of the two men put a knife to her cameraman’s throat, while the other produced a second knife and held it to his stomach. Rembert dropped his camera and flailed his arms up, but stopped moving when the one named Gaston jabbed the tip hard enough to draw blood.

“Stay still,” Gaston said.

Annja had been reaching for the sword in her mind, had felt the sensation of the pommel against her palm, but she left the blade hanging in the otherwhere.

“I told the kid the money is at the hotel.” Annja squinted through the driving rain, taking in Rembert’s panic. “I only have a few Euros with me. You can have them, but—”

“We don’t want your money, Annja Creed. We want your sword.”

His accent. Annja recognized Gaston. He was one of the gang she’d fought in Paris outside the old train station. He was one of the gang who’d fled before the police arrived. What was he doing here? Had he overheard her talking to Roux, telling him she was coming to this city for another episode of Chasing History’s Monsters?

“The sword! If you hand over the sword, we’ll let your friend live.”

City of Swords

Alex Archer

www.mirabooks.co.uk

The Legend

...The English commander took Joan’s sword and raised it high.

The broadsword, plain and unadorned, gleaned in the firelight. He put the tip against the ground and his foot at the center of the blade. The broadsword shattered, fragments falling into the mud. The crowd surged forward, peasant and soldier, and snatched the shards from the trampled mud. The commander tossed the hilt deep into the crowd.

Smoke almost obscured Joan, but she continued praying till the end, until finally the flames climbed her body and she sagged against the restraints.

Joan of Arc died that fateful day in France, but her legend and sword are reborn...

Special thanks and acknowledgment to

Jean Rabe for her contribution to this work.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 1

His arrow struck deep in the deer’s chest but missed the heart. The animal struggled to get up, tangling itself in the tall grass and making a painful mewling sound that caused his throat to tighten. Dragging one leg, he limped toward it. Though always a heavily built man—sturdy, he preferred to think of himself—he used to get around effortlessly. But age had taken its toll, coupled with the fevers that had plagued him these past few months.

His doctors demanded he avoid roast meat. Who were they to tell a king what to do? Boiled venison was not so tasty, and he intended to savor a properly prepared roast tonight.

Charlemagne drew his sword, the blade catching the late-afternoon sun and taking on a molten cast. He couldn’t stand to see the animal suffer. One slash across the throat finished it.

“Cette épée, ma chère amie, a déjà tué,” he said. This sword, my friend, has already killed. A great many men. He spoke French to accommodate his aide, his tongue halting around the words. He much preferred the Germanic dialect of the Ripuarian Franks, or Greek or Latin, or even the exotic-sounding Arabic that he fancied. But his aide was not well versed in languages.

The two men dragged the deer back to Charlemagne’s home.

He cleaned his blade first, then bathed and dressed for dinner, wearing a linen shirt against his skin and matching breeches. Over this he wore a dark tunic trimmed with a pale silk fringe—the one bit of finery he allowed himself. He preferred to dress like a commoner, leaving all but one jeweled ring in a chest by his bed. Lastly, he put on ivory hose and comfortable shoes. He left the room, but returned to check himself in the mirror. There were guests to consider tonight, and he wanted to appear well-groomed.

Despite his years he remained good-looking, tall but not overly so, with a thick, squat neck and a nose that belonged on a bigger man’s face. His hair was white, but there was an abundance of it. He arranged the curls with his fingers, squared his shoulders, pronounced himself acceptable and went downstairs.

Among the dinner guests he was about to greet was his son Louis, whom he had recently crowned. It would be good to see him again and to speak of politics and alliances. No doubt someone would ask to hear tales from one of his great battles. Charlemagne had been engaged in one clash after another throughout nearly all his reign, usually at the front of his scara bodyguard squadrons. But sometimes alone when there was no one to bear witness.

Always with Joyeuse in hand. Mon épée. He patted the scabbard. Three decades of fighting, more than a dozen wars, and now this sword was relegated to putting a deer out of its misery.

Perhaps he would regale those gathered with that final push he’d orchestrated to conquer Saxonia and to convert the barbarians to Christianity. It was a good story, and he didn’t mind retelling it. Then he would excuse himself and retire early, as he planned to venture out again at first light. A few more days of hunting, then he would travel to Aachen, given the onset of November. He’d come to enjoy hunting animals far more than he’d ever enjoyed hunting men.

* * *

THOUGH HE WOULD WORK at it doggedly for those few days, fate would grant him only one undersize buck. Charlemagne’s plans to return to the hunt in the spring would never materialize, as he would fall ill with pleurisy.

“Joyeuse,” he said, as he took to his bed a final time. “Mon épée.”

A servant placed the sword at his side.

Charlemagne wrapped his thick fingers around the pommel. This sword, his one constant companion, gave him some measure of peace.

“Joyeuse, ma très chère amie.” He took one more breath, and died.

Chapter 2

The sword was her one constant companion. It was a yard of double-bladed steel, honed impossibly sharp. Though a priceless relic, it was not a showpiece suited to a museum. It was a dealer of death—her servant and master, good fortune and wretched curse. Once belonging to Joan of Arc, shattered and mysteriously re-formed, it had come to her...along with a destiny to wield it wisely.

The lights from the train station were diffused by the thin fog and distorted the blade so it looked like a ribbon of darkened silver. Annja swung it above her head in a flashy move meant to rattle her less-skilled opponent.

“Eh...à armes égales!” he cried.

French was one of the several languages Annja knew. Fight on equal terms, with equal weaponry.

He wielded a switchblade, which was no match for her sword. He should have fled as his two companions had moments ago, but he stood there, puffing himself up with the bravado of youth. The night and the mist hid some of his features, but Annja could tell he was probably still in his teens, given the acne scars on his face. He stank from going too long without a bath and wearing clothes tinged with the grime of Paris. His breath smelled of vodka, which meant he’d consumed a generous amount, likely adding to his courage. His hair stuck up at all angles, held in place by something that smelled vaguely sweet.

“All right,” she said. “I’ll fight you on equal terms.” With a thought, she dismissed the sword, relegating it to the otherwhere where it hung, waiting for her to summon it again.

He glanced quickly at the ground and into the shadows. Not spotting the sword, he returned his full attention to her. “Pute!” he spat.

With a clipped laugh, Annja crouched to meet his charge. He didn’t disappoint her, darting in and slashing forward, a quick jab typical of street brawlers. The tough lacked finesse, but he was burly and mean, and those traits helped compensate for his deficiencies.

She sidestepped and brought up her foot, catching his ankle. He stumbled, but managed to keep his balance. He whirled toward her, eyes narrowed.

“Espèce de pute!”

“Quite the limited vocabulary,” she taunted, again waiting for his rush.

“De merde,” he replied. “Putain de merde!”

Annja made a tsking sound and waved her finger at him.

“Livrer aux chiens!”

“No,” she said. “I’ll throw you to the dogs. Actually, the police.”

She’d come here looking for a fight. She’d needed the exercise and a distraction, from an assignment she had no interest in—a two-part segment for Chasing History’s Monsters. Her TV show’s producers were really reaching into the bottom of the barrel for legends to sensationalize. Familiar with Paris, she knew to avoid Les Halles, Le Châtelet and Gare du Nord this late at night, when the crowds had disappeared. So that’s precisely where she’d ventured. Les Halles and Le Châtelet had yielded no opponents, but Gare du Nord and its shadowy side streets had brought out this fellow and his now-absent friends.

Tourists traveling alone around the old train station were warned to keep a low profile and to avoid wearing jewelry that might entice thieves. But Annja had done the opposite. In the sequin-trimmed cocktail dress she’d worn earlier to dinner, emerald necklace dangling in the low V of the fabric, she’d trolled back and forth like a fisherman after bass.

This fellow’s fluid, if vulgar, French was tinged with some kind of accent. Probably from one of the Roma camps, she guessed. France had declared war against the illegal encampments that had sprung up around Paris, evacuating many of the immigrants living there. But pockets still persisted. Paris news agencies had been reporting on the Romany gangs preying on travelers arriving from London on the high-speed trains. Now Annja was preying on one of those gang members.

He shuffled to his right, putting his back to an old stone wall and tossing the knife into his other hand—trying to rattle her. His breath was slow and even, and his crouch was similar to the horse stance of the swordsman. Annja waited for him to make the next move, knowing full well he was weighing her with anger in his eyes.

A moment later he came at her, this time stabbing at her side, then wheeling and darting at her again. The move was unexpected, and he managed to slice her dress. Annja cursed herself for underestimating the youth. A street brawler, yes, but somewhere along the line, he’d had training. She appraised him more carefully. The sleeves of his shirt were tight around his biceps, suggesting muscles. His calves were thick, too. Certainly not the common ruffian she’d originally considered him to be. As he came forward and jabbed at her, then shuffled back, she realized his moves were those of a boxer.

“You might make a better opponent than I thought,” she told him. By the look on his face, he didn’t understand English. She repeated the sentence in French.

“Marie-salope!”

“I’ve been called that before,” she returned.

He pointed the knife tip at her throat and made a gesture with his free hand.

“Yes, I gathered that you want my necklace.” When the corner of his lip turned up in a snarl, she added, “I’m rather fond of it. A gift from an old...friend.”

He continued to come at her, jumping in and back, swinging his knife and alternately punching with his free hand. He didn’t connect with anything, but he didn’t give up. She moved out of his way each time, but kept him close, not wanting to discourage him. She was in heels, and the spikes caught in the cracks of the brick and threatened to topple her. It would have been easier to slip out of them, but she didn’t want easy tonight.

“Tu peux crever, connasse!”

“No, I’m not going to die tonight,” she said. “But neither will you. We’re just playing, aren’t we? Like children looking to run off a little steam?” And in the process teaching you a lesson, she thought. “Ducon la joie,” she called him, half surprised at herself for stooping to his level.

The words enflamed him and he sped up his rushes, sweeping the blade in a wider and wider arc, his anger making his moves more erratic and easier to dodge.

“Du-te la dracu!” he shouted.

It was Romany now, not French. And though Annja knew only a smattering of the language, she figured out that he’d just told her to go to hell.

“Not tonight,” she repeated.

The exertion felt good, like the welcome burn from a long jog through Central Park. She kept her breathing steady and deep, drawing the smells of the place into her lungs. Oil from the trains, a trace of exhaust from cars that trundled by on the main street nearby, urine, and dampness and mold; it had rained here a few hours ago. And there was the smell from her assailant, stronger now because he’d been working up a sweat. She picked up a trace of cigarette smoke, which she hadn’t noticed before. The kid had that addiction, too.

“Maybe a stint in jail will help you with some of those bad habits. Clean you up a little, eh?”

He jockeyed for position, which allowed her to step onto the sidewalk. Easier on her heels. He cursed again, a mix of Romany and French this time. Annja surprised him and took the initiative, stepping in and thumping him on the chest with her open hand. Finally he was showing signs of fatigue, but he still wasn’t giving up, his predatory gaze lingering on the emerald necklace.

“The man who gave me this said it was four hundred years old, give or take a decade. Worth as much for its historic value as for the gems.” She knew he couldn’t understand her. “You’d probably fence it for a few cases of Alizé Bleu.”

The dance had managed to wash away her fatigue. The past four days had taken her under the city, to the famous Paris catacombs stretching back to Roman times, when they’d been excavated in the harvest of limestone. Annja had been there before, to tunnels that served as the meeting ground for secret societies, the birthplace of spooky legends. Even into the chambers where long-buried skeletons were stashed to make room for more bodies in the city’s overcrowded cemeteries. She’d walked through halls lined with bones and ancient graffiti, helping her cameraman figure out which angles to shoot from—no doubt beneath the spot where she and her opponent stood now. As many as six million dead were believed to crowd the labyrinthine network, some of them killed during the French Revolution.

The tunnels had been covered on television before, sometimes from a historical perspective or a military one; German soldiers had used a chamber during World War II as a bunker, she knew. Programs had aired about the reported ghosts, disembodied voices and shadows that followed tourists. Annja’s assignment had been to find something fresh, and so she’d interviewed tour guides, as well as several workers who’d hauled away rubble from some of the collapsed areas. The floating, hazy orbs they’d recently spotted seemed to be the fresh take she was looking for.

As always, she found the place fascinating. A skilled archaeologist, she had an affinity for ruins. But she also believed the tunnels had been done to death. She hadn’t wanted to come to France, anyway—it was a place of nightmares for her.

Joan of Arc had been lashed to a pillar in the Vieux-Marché in Rouen and burned at the stake in 1431. After her horrible death, her body was burned a second time and then a third, the ashes scattered into the Seine. Annja was somehow connected to the holy martyr, and her sleep on occasion was cut through with fiery images.

But while France held nightmares for her, it was also a paycheck. At least this week. She’d finished her work shortly before five today, showered, dressed in the only couture outfit she’d brought to the city and took her cameraman to Pierre Gagnaire’s in the eighth district for fish terrine. She was certain her little dance here had worked off the calories from the rich and expensive dessert. Maybe it was time to call it a night.

Her opponent took a few steps back and cocked his head, listening. She listened, too. There were the muted sounds of the city: cars trundling past on the main strip, the clacking departure of an aging train, the soft strains of a Thierry Cham zouk R & B tune that dissipated to nothingness, and a syncopated slapping that grew louder and announced the return of the hood’s companions. They’d brought help. Altogether there were seven of them.

“Chamelle vérolée!” the one she’d been fighting shouted. He grinned widely, revealing his crooked teeth and a stud through his tongue.

Annja felt for the sword in her mind, but waited. She delivered a roundhouse kick to her dancing partner, her pointed heel jabbing his stomach. His breath knocked out of him, he doubled over and dropped the switchblade. Without pause she kicked him once more, angling higher and pounding her foot against his chest. He slumped to his knees, cursing. To make sure he wouldn’t be entering the fray again, she administered a quick neck chop, which rendered him unconscious.

Then she devoted her attention to the remaining six.

“You will die for that,” the tallest said in English, his Romany accent apparent. He brandished a gun and pulled the trigger.

Chapter 3

The bullet came close, passing where Annja’s head had been a heartbeat before. There must have been a silencer on the gun; its spitting sound was barely audible. On reflex she’d ducked just as he’d reached into his jacket pocket, and she rolled forward, losing her shoes on purpose and coming up in a crouch.

Don’t bring a knife to a gunfight, they said. Or in her case, a sword. Still, in her mind she touched the blade, seeking its reassuring presence. One glance at the gang, then she slipped to where the shadows were thickest along the wall.

The patchy fog and the darkness made the men seem even more menacing. The tallest was well over six feet, thin but with broad shoulders. Like a dagger that had been jammed tip first into the street. He was in the front, two each to his right and left, back a few feet. So the guy she’d fought moments ago hadn’t been the gang leader, she decided. The others were all of similar build to the tall one with the gun, and all with the oddly cropped and spiky hair their unconscious fellow sported. A sixth held back. He also had a gun with a silencer, but she couldn’t tell its make for certain. Maybe an old French-made MAB PA-15. The guy up front had a sleek SIG Sauer. That they had guns, particularly a SIG Sauer—with silencers—marked them as a notch above a common gang. Probably stolen.

They were close enough that she could smell them; they had the pong of the streets. They talked softly in Romany as they scanned the area, taking in the guy she’d knocked out.

Well, she’d craved an adrenaline rush. Selfish.

One of the men moved his arms to his sides, showing that he had a length of chain for a weapon. The other three produced switchblades, one in each hand.

“Girl, girl, girl,” the tall one in the lead said. “Come out where we can get a better look at you.” He held his free hand high. “We won’t hurt you.”

“Much,” said the one with the chain.

Annja felt their eyes on her—they knew exactly where she was. She also sensed other eyes on her. Another gang member?

“Come out, girl.” The tall one again. “Girl, girl, girl. Come out. Come out.”

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” Annja whispered as she did just that. In a blur of taupe taffeta, chiffon and sequins, she sprinted forward, surprising both gunmen, who couldn’t draw a bead. She slammed into the lead one, striking his throat with her elbow and grabbing at his gun with her other hand. She threw the SIG Sauer behind her, listening to it clatter on the street. She pulled her second elbow jab to avoid killing him and stepped back as he dropped, crouching below the chain that cut through the air.

Five left standing.

Four after she shot toward one of the switchblade wielders, kicking him in the groin, then following through with a punch to his jaw that sent a few teeth and a spray of blood flying. Almost too easy.

“Scroafă!” the other man with the gun hollered. He was considerably older than the others, maybe thirty, with a short beard and a dead eye. He fired, missing her again as she dived, the bullet striking the pavement behind her. “Scroafă!”

Annja didn’t know the word. He fired again, and this time the bullet grazed her arm, feeling as if an open flame had been put to her skin. She slipped by the three men surrounding her and raced toward the one-eyed gunman, darting left when he brought the gun up again. The sword was in her hand; she hadn’t realized that she’d reached for it. The pommel felt good against her palm; its presence cut some of the burning sensation from the graze. She turned the blade vertical to the street and then brought it around like a batter would swing at an incoming ball. The flat of the sword connected with the man’s hand and caused the gun to fly from his grip.

“Bisturiu!” one of the men behind her shouted. “Spada!”

“Yes, it’s a sword,” Annja said. It had taken the wound to her arm to make her realize how stupid she’d been, looking for a fight just to get in some physical activity. Annja had been thrust into more than enough fights through the past few years. She didn’t need to go trolling for them.

“Idiot!” She cursed herself as she spun on the ball of her bare foot, a painful sensation on the rough pavement, and brought the flat of the blade around again, striking him in the arm. At the same time she kicked at his knee, hearing a discomfiting pop.

“Scroafă!” The one-eyed man repeated it like a chant before Annja cuffed him on the neck and rendered him unconscious. She turned to face the remaining three just as the one with the chain lashed her chest.

The air rushed from her lungs and she doubled over, still managing to point the sword at him. Determined, he whipped the chain at her again, as if it was a weightless thing in his hands. It caught the blade, but only for a moment.

“Infern!” the chain wielder gasped.

Annja took advantage of his momentary surprise to slice down with the sword. She pulled her punch, using just enough force to wound him, but not cut off his arm. The pain made him drop the chain. Some of it landed on her bare feet, adding to her aches.

“Ceda,” he said, grasping his bleeding arm and holding it close. Behind him, the others took off running. Annja realized they’d been the same two who had run away at the beginning...and come back with reinforcements. Would they return with still more? “Ceda.” He bent over, his back rounding and making him look like a turtle. “Ceda.”

“I suspect that means you surrender.” Annja willed the sword away and, despite her pain, shoved the man toward the wall.

In the shadows there, Annja found her purse, which she had dropped when she’d picked the fight with the first youth. She grabbed it, took her cell phone out and called the police, quickly explaining in French that she’d been accosted by a Roma gang and that some vigilantes came to her aid. The tale was half-true. Prodding the man to stay ahead of her, she nudged him toward her shoes, which she gingerly put on. Then she directed him to sit near one of his fallen fellows.

“Wait,” she told him. “Do you understand English? French?”

He nodded.

“Wait for the police.”

When she could hear sirens, she returned to the shadows, following the wall back to the old train station. And toward where she had earlier sensed someone else watching her.

“Roux.”

“You’re hurt.”

“I’ll heal.”

“Rather quickly no doubt.”

The wail of the sirens grew louder. Annja glanced toward the men, making sure none of them had bolted.

“And what was all of that for, Annja Creed?”

She touched her arm, feeling the sting from the bullet and the warmth of her blood. There was a first-aid kit in her suitcase at the hotel; she always traveled with one.

They kept close to the front of the massive Gare du Nord. The original train station had been demolished a century and a half ago, deemed too small. This huge affair, built in its place, had been recently added to. Designed by French architect Jacques Ignace Hittorff, it was one of Annja’s favorite places in Paris, the facade created around a triumphal arch, the main cast-iron support beams supplied by an ironworks in Glasgow. In daylight, you could see eight statues along the building’s cornice, each representing international destinations—London, Brussels, Vienna, Warsaw, Frankfurt, Amsterdam, Berlin, Cologne. Annja and Roux passed beneath the one representing Vienna.

The station served all of northern Europe, so was a beehive of activity around the clock...though not so much outside the building this time of night. Well past midnight now, there were a few souls about, some gaping down the street in the direction of the downed gang.

From the cover of their vantage point, she and Roux watched as a police car arrived, its flashing ice-blue lights cutting through the thinning fog. A van pulled in behind it and policemen spilled out. Like swarming ants, they took control of the Romanies, lifting the unconscious forms and handcuffing the older one. Annja couldn’t hear what they were saying, but the older man pointed with his head toward the shadows and the train station.

Annja started to move again, as fast as she dared without drawing attention. She pulled Roux along with her.

They reached the far end of the station and turned the corner.

“Didn’t want to stick around and explain yourself to the police?”

“I’ll be in France for the better part of another week,” Annja said, changing the subject.

“Certainly enough time for you to pick another fight with the Romany gangs.”

She didn’t bother to answer that.

“More of the underground? For your television program?”

How did Roux know—? Stupid. Somehow he always knew where she was. Part of his shtick. One of Joan of Arc’s knights, he had been unable to save the crusader when she was burned at the stake. And, it seemed, he’d been cursed to live until her sword—shattered by the English—was reassembled. He’d spent more than five centuries searching for the pieces of Joan’s sword. But the sword was whole now, resting in the otherwhere until Annja needed it, and Roux was still around. Just how old he’d live to, nobody could predict. She looked upon him as a mentor of sorts. A mentor with an agenda. What had brought him out here in the early-morning hours?

“I’m done in the catacombs,” she said. “I leave tomorrow—later today, actually—for Avignon.”

“A vacation? Certainly long overdue.”

She shook her head and let a silence fall between them. She heard a bus chug by on the main street and a few cars motor past. From somewhere came faint music. She focused on it, trying to place it, finally coming up with Ange’s “Le Cimetière des Arlequins,” a progressive rock song from the 1970s.

“Working on another episode of Chasing Historical Monsters?”

“Chasing History’s Monsters,” Annja corrected. “And, yes, that’s why I’m going to Avignon. My producer is being cost conscious. He figures if he’s sending a crew to France, he might as well get several segments out of it. So we did the tunnels under Paris....”

“And what lies under Avignon?”

She wondered why Roux was curious. If he could somehow always tell where she was, why would he bother to pry?

“Just making conversation, Annja.”

Was he privy to her thoughts? No, she knew that was beyond him. She smiled wistfully. “The cynocephalus and Saint Christopher.”

In the haze from a streetlight, Annja saw Roux’s eyebrows arch. In the light he appeared old, as if in his seventies, though he was considerably older than that. His white hair caught the light and he’d trimmed his beard since she’d seen him last. His skin was like worn leather, but he didn’t look older than when she’d met him.

“Old man, you don’t know about Saint Christopher and the legend of the cynocephalus?”

His grin revealed white, even teeth. “Sorry, no.”

“Cynocephali are said to be dog-headed men who serve like the Benedictine monks. Centuries back they supposedly sent a delegation to the pope in Avignon. Some of the medieval legends paint Saint Christopher as one of the cynocephali.”

“Fascinating.”

She doubted Roux was fascinated by the trivia. “In any event, my producer found a posting on the internet that some dog-headed men were spotted by tourists in Avignon a few weeks ago.”

Roux tipped his head back. “Probably some costumed youths.”

“Or real dogs transformed by Photoshop.”

“Beautiful place, Avignon. The City of the Popes in the thirteen and fourteen hundreds.”

“During the Catholic schism,” Annja added. “I’ve been there before. And I don’t get tired of it. One of the few cities in France to have maintained its ramparts and Rocher des Doms.”

“And the bridge of Avignon.” Roux’s face took on a vacant look, as if he was lost in some long-ago memory. “On the left bank of the Rhône.” He paused. “And the place where Annja Creed will chase her next historical monster.”

He pivoted to stand in front of her, his pale blue eyes peering into her green ones.

“Be careful, Annja, that a historical monster does not come chasing you.”

Chapter 4

She drove a 2005 Peugeot 607, four-door, gunmetal-gray. It didn’t look like anything special. Because it was a manual, she was at the wheel rather than her passenger—who was in charge of this foray. The Peugeot handled a little stiffly. She preferred smaller, splashier sports cars, but they’d needed something as nearly invisible as possible. Her window was down, and she had the vent going full blast to cut the reek of smoke left from previous drivers. Her passenger didn’t seem bothered by the smell.

“Do you smoke?” she asked.

“Slower,” he warned. “Wouldn’t want to get in an accident.” He paused. “Or get a speeding ticket.”

“Of course, Archard.” She edged her foot off the gas. “But next time, we rent an automatic and you drive. I am tired of your constant directions.” He had been at her since they’d left Paris, suggesting when she should change lanes and which turnoffs to take. He’d picked the route. He was more familiar with this part of France, but that didn’t mean his constant corrections were any less annoying. Bad enough that she sometimes heard voices in her head. Voices that had told her to take this trip with Archard. She didn’t need him talking, too.

It was nearing noon when they reached Rocamadour. She’d wanted to stop well outside of the town and come in after dark, but Archard had insisted they arrive early. “Being ahead of schedule is always best,” he’d said. She enjoyed his accent, rich and typically French, but he rarely said anything she cared to listen to. “It allows for the unexpected and it lets us look around.”

She knew better than to argue. He was one of Lawton’s senior knights, and at the moment she was just a lackey. With luck, though, and a good performance today, that would change.

“Park in the lower city,” he instructed. “You—”

“I’ve been here before,” she interrupted. A lie, but what did a little one matter? Besides, the place had a population of well less than a thousand, so how hard could it be to find her way around? “Give me a minute and I’ll find a good spot.”

“When were you here?”

She ducked the question by pulling into a small lot and getting out. “Quaint.” Or worse than quaint, she thought. She loved Paris—so busy, lively, colorful, loud. This was anything but. Perched on a rocky plateau that overlooked the Alzou valley, the town was known for its incredible views and historical religious sites.

“So why way down here?” she asked. “We have to—”

“For a handful of hours, we are sightseers, Sarah. Enjoying the weather, taking a tour, stopping for lunch.”

She let him steer her to the second floor of the Envies de Terroir, where she was happy to discover a handsome waiter who spoke English. They took a table by the window, one a little large for just the two of them, but it was away from the other diners and they could talk without being overheard. Archard ordered the lunch special for them: ventrèche and tomato tartine, and glasses of wine.

“I’m surprised you’re drinking,” she said. “More, that you’re letting me drink.”

“We’ll walk it off long before tonight.” Later, he ordered a second glass, and she was quick to ask for a raspberry-and-almond tart from the cart the waiter was pushing.

“Since you’re buying,” she said, as she took a bite and savored the rich dessert. “Good food. Place is a little quiet, but it’ll do.” Everything was a little quiet here.

He finished his wine, paid the bill and led her out onto the street.

“More than a million tourists come here every year, Sarah. Some for the wine, most for the buildings. Pilgrims, too.”

“Were you one of them? A pilgrim?”

He nodded. “That was many years ago.”

“How many?” Archard wasn’t that old. In his late thirties, maybe forty tops, Sarah guessed, which put him at about twice her age.

“I was young,” he answered. “Let’s ride the elevator from the lower town, Basse Ville. We’ll take the stairs tonight.”

The architecture was amazing, and Sarah wished she really had been here before, so she could have taken time to properly explore. She had been enrolled as a European history major when she’d dropped out of the University of Provence Aix-Marseille a month ago, in her second semester. Her current career path was more interesting.

Archard remained silent while a few more tourists boarded the elevator and it started its ascent. A young woman in a low-cut shirt was pressed against him, but he showed no reaction. “When you were here before, Sarah, did you come for the Black Madonna? The centerpiece of Chapelle Notre-Dame?”

“Sure. A casual tourist, you know.” She had to stop lying in an effort to impress this man.

Sarah watched as the cluster of churches and chapels came into view, and then quickly stepped out of the elevator when it reached the top. She and Archard pretended to browse the souvenir shops before taking a walking tour of the Basilique St-Sauveur.

The hours ticked by and she found herself actually enjoying the day. Until the sun started to set and they took the last elevator ride back down to the lower town, and anxiety set in. Archard noticed.

“Are you certain you’re up for this, Sarah?”

“It’s what we came here for, right? And you can’t do it without me.” She thrust out her chin and exhaled, fluttering her curls against her forehead. “Yes, I’m up for this. I’ve been looking forward to this since Dr. Lawton lectured about it.”

“Dinner first.”

“But—”

“We need the night, and a good meal will help pass the time. Aren’t you hungry?”

Dinner was at the Beau Site Jehan de Valon, and she ordered for herself this time: an omelet with truffles, one of the most expensive items on the menu, and a salad. Archard opted for the duck-steak carpaccio with sliced cantaloupe. They both had a liberal amount of coffee.

“So you were a pilgrim....” She didn’t know much about Archard other than that he was divorced.

“I studied with the Benedictine monks here, and I had the good fortune to scrub the floor of the Chapelle Miraculeuse, where the tomb of Saint Amadour is located.”

“And he is—?” Sarah sucked in her bottom lip, angry with herself for letting slip her ignorance.

“No one to concern us tonight.”

She shrugged and looked out the window, watching four women carrying lit candles.

“So the Chapelle Mirac—”

“Is not where we are going.”

“I know. I took courses from Dr. Lawton first semester and—”

“That makes you an expert, eh?” Archard’s eyes twinkled in amusement.

“Dark enough yet?”

“Yes, but not late enough. Patience, Sarah. Patience is—”

“A virtue.”

They got candles out of the trunk of the rental car and joined a small procession climbing up the Grand Escalier, a weathered stone stairway to the chapels they’d toured earlier in the day. Sarah counted the steps: two hundred sixteen. No wonder they’d taken the elevator the first time, she thought. The climb wasn’t taxing to her, though. In fact she wished the people in front of them would walk faster. They paused at each of the fourteen stations of the cross until they reached the Cross of Jerusalem, at the top.

She thought Archard would be winded, given the years he had on her. But he surprised her, showing no sign of fatigue. The same could not be said for some of the tourists who’d ascended with them.

“When you came here on a pilgrimage—” she started to ask.

“I took the stairs on my knees, as is customary when seeking penance.”

“Tough on your pants, I’ll bet.” And penance for what?

His eyes narrowed. “This is a holy place. Your footsteps will fall on stones touched by Zacchaeus of Jericho, Saint Dominic, Saint Bernard—perhaps even Charlemagne, when he prepared to fight the Spanish Moors. Miracles happen here, healings, conversions. Do not mock this place.”

“Sorry.”

The buildings looked different in the dark, the Romanesque-Gothic style made eerie in the flickering light from the candles and the pale glow that spilled from a few windows.

Sarah and Archard mingled with the tourists, many of them praying softly, their voices lost in the strains of a chant coming from the nearest chapel. Archard prayed, too, though she couldn’t hear him. She just noticed his lips move and his thumbs rub against the base of his candle. She hadn’t been to church since she’d lived with her parents in Delaware, but she wasn’t irreligious. Deciding that it would be appropriate to copy the others—and that God might actually pay attention here—Sarah bowed her head and prayed that she wouldn’t screw up.

An hour later, she and Archard tossed their candles and hid in an alcove of the Basilique St-Sauveur, where they waited until the last tourist left. Sarah guessed that it was early morning, maybe two or three, judging by how tired she was. The buzz from the coffee had worn off a while ago, and now she had an urgent need to find a bush to squat behind.

“I’ll see to security,” Archard whispered. She had to strain to hear him. “In a few minutes I’ll meet you inside the Chapelle.”

She watched him leave, and then slipped outside to pay the rent on the coffee. There was no one milling around—a good thing. But she knew the place would be bustling in a handful of hours...especially if she and Archard succeeded.

Sarah returned to the alcove, counted to one hundred, then glided next door to the Chapelle Notre-Dame. Archard said there was security, and she had no doubt it was high-tech, though decidedly out of place in the old buildings. The Black Madonna, which she’d read about in a tourist pamphlet in one of the souvenir shops, was the focal point of this building. Hopefully, the bulk of the security efforts were tied to the Madonna. Sarah waited a second count of one hundred. Still no Archard.

“Great,” she breathed. So far she’d done nothing illegal; she could hightail it out of here and go back to her studio apartment on Avenue Georges V. Instead, she sucked in a deep breath and went through the arch. When she didn’t hear any alarms go off, she let her breath out. She pulled a tiny flashlight out of her pocket, cupped her hand over the top and aimed it around until she found what she was looking for. Then she switched if off, tiptoed to the wall and took off her shoes. She didn’t want the hard rubber soles marring the wall or squeaking. She tugged a pair of tight-fitting gloves out of her pocket and wiggled into them, though she wasn’t especially worried about leaving fingerprints. She’d never been in trouble before. Still, it was a precaution.

Where was Archard?

She felt along the wall and found the natural cracks in the stonework. Wedging her fingers in, she slowly and quietly pulled herself up. The muscles in her arms bunched and her chest tightened. Nerves. Sarah thought of the chant she’d listened to earlier. The sound had been soothing. Relax. She pulled herself higher, relying only on her handholds, her feet spread in a ballet dancer’s second position against the stone.

Relax.

Sarah felt a ledge and gripped it. The pain in her fingers helped her focus. A little higher and there was a second ledge, which she pulled herself onto, resting her knees. Finding a good handhold, she leaned backward, one arm outstretched, fingers searching...searching...finding a beam. She wrapped her arms and legs around it and inched out upside down. If she fell, she might break a leg or something. It probably wouldn’t kill her but would get her in a world of trouble, and Dr. Lawton would be furious.

Where in the hell was Archard?

Farther. A little farther. It was so dark in here. She was on the underside of an overhang, and the shadows were making this more than a little difficult. The flashlight wasn’t an option. It had been risky using it the first time. A dozen or so more inches and...there! Her eyes managed to distinguish the blackness just enough. She clamped her legs tight on the beam, stretched out and wrapped her fingers around the pommel. The sword was suspended from the ceiling just beyond the archway. Sarah cursed herself for not looking closer when they’d taken the tour this afternoon. Maybe she could have asked one of the monks what was holding it. She tugged without success.

“Dammit!” The whispered word bounced off the stone and came back at her.

She inched out farther, pulled harder, ground her teeth together and gave it one more yank.

She heard a loud snap.

A little too loud. Sarah wished she hadn’t drunk so much coffee. The voices in her head encouraged her. You can do this. You can do this now. The sword still wasn’t free, just loose from one of the cords. How many were holding it? Didn’t matter. She’d come too far to stop. She pulled again, as hard as she could, and was rewarded with a second snap and the sensation of falling. She managed to catch herself with her legs, but was dangling, her free arm flailing, the sword grasped in the other. Made of iron, the weapon was heavy. She squeezed the pommel tight so she wouldn’t drop it.

“C’mon. C’mon.” Sarah drew herself up, wrapping her free arm around the beam and wedging the sword against her chest. Getting back to the wall took what felt like an eternity, and then another long stretch of time passed before she reached the floor. She laid the sword down very slowly so it wouldn’t make a sound against the stone, then put her shoes back on and picked the blade up again.

She plastered herself against the wall, taking even, shallow breaths and listening. No footfalls. Nothing except her heart pounding thunderously. Her back against the blocks, she crept along the alcove, stopping every few steps to listen again.

Now to get out of here.

The sky was lighter outside than when she’d gone in the Chapelle. No, she decided, the inside of the building had just been dark in contrast. Only minutes had passed, not the hours it had felt like. Light from the scattering of streetlamps in the Basse Ville, the part of the town below the cliff, seeped up like the glow from a halo.

Sarah pulled in a sharp breath when she heard a footfall against gravel. A monk! No, not one of the monks. It was Archard. He came around the side of the Chapelle and headed toward her.

“Where the hell were—”

He set his finger to his lips and took the heavy sword from her. Then he nodded toward the stairs. “Hurry,” he whispered in her ear.

“Where were you?” she persisted in a murmur.

“A little more security than I expected.” He pulled her into a niche between the buildings and then grabbed her hand, tugging off her glove and touching her fingers to the tip of the stolen sword. It was broken, jagged. “So it is real. See? The genuine one. You did great. Now get the rest of it. I’ll meet you at the car.” He reached into a pocket and handed her a small GPS device. It blinked softly with her coordinates. From another pocket he produced a chisel. “And, Sarah, speed would be good.”

Getting “the rest of it” proved much easier said than done.

They motored out of the village at dawn, her bleeding fingers gripping the steering wheel of the Peugeot, her clothes torn, her knees badly scraped and every inch of her throbbing.

Chapter 5

Annja couldn’t sleep.

She sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed to pull on a pair of sweatpants. Her stomach churned and a bitter taste settled in her mouth. She’d had another nightmare—images of fire swirling all around, bright red and orange, hurtful in their intensity. Like before, there was a face in the flames. Sometimes the face was her own, and she woke up from those nightmares sweating.

She was drenched in sweat now.

Slipping on the athletic shoes that had set her back half a paycheck, she stood and stretched, stuck her hotel key card in her pocket and reached for a fresh T-shirt.

She wanted to be home, curled up on her bed, shutting out the god-awful blare of the Brooklyn traffic. She could sleep through that ruckus, somehow even found it comforting. But in France she often had nightmares. Not always, but enough that she wondered why she bothered to come back. Why hadn’t she told Doug to get someone else for these segments?

She looked at the clock on the nightstand. One forty-five.

A quick run. That ought to get her through this. Certainly safer than picking a fight with a gang of punks outside one of the city’s old train stations.

She made sure the door clicked shut behind her, and then padded past the bank of elevators to the security door at the end of the hall.

She eased that shut behind her, too, wincing at the grating sound it made, and jogged down from the eighth- to the seventh-floor landing, turned and headed toward the sixth. The air was fusty and stale.

The stairwell, dimly lit with energy-saving spiral fluorescent lights, probably wasn’t intended to be used by hotel guests. Emergencies and power outages, Annja figured, and for guests like herself who couldn’t sleep. The walls were painted a hospital-green, reminding her of avocado dip. They and the security doors were thick enough that she shouldn’t disturb anyone’s beauty sleep.

She laughed as her feet hit the fourth-floor landing and she picked up speed. She loved to run.

Annja felt the beginning of an exercise burn in her chest as she reached the first floor and wheeled around to start the jog back up. The smell of cleanser lingered like a thick fog. She thumbed the button on her iPod and then inserted the earbuds, not once missing a step or losing her cadence.

Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries played just loudly enough to muffle her breathing and her slapping shoes.

Kill da wabbit, kill da wabbit. As much as Annja loved Elmer Fudd, she flipped the button to bring up another piece. Balakirev’s Islamey. She set her feet in time to the beat and felt the piano riffs travel up and down her spine. The music swelled as she again neared the eighth-floor landing.

Up twelve more floors, to the top of the hotel, before returning to her room for a welcome shower and a few hours of good sleep. That was the plan. She felt wired, as if she’d just thrown back six cups of coffee. Maybe she’d do two circuits instead. That’d be enough. Yeah. Better than a sleeping pill.

As she hit the tenth floor, Balakirev reached a mancando section. Over the whisper of the piano, Annja heard the scrape of a door opening somewhere above her. A snippet of conversation drifted down, and then she heard the pounding of feet. Two more insomniacs.

Annja pressed herself against the wall of the eleventh-floor landing as they thundered toward her—two young women she’d seen in the restaurant during dinner. They sported hot-pink Wales Wrunners T-shirts. They smiled as they bounced by. She recalled reading about a marathon in town in another day or two. These were no doubt entrants.

At the sixteenth-floor landing, Annja nudged the button on the iPod again, wanting something a little livelier. Mikhail Glinka’s Kamarinskaya blared, and she ran faster.

The burn in her chest had spread to her neck. Her face was flushed from the mild exertion and her heart rate was up. The stale air reached deeper into her lungs, and she felt a sensation in her legs that wasn’t quite an ache, but was telling Annja that her muscles were stretching from the climb. It was a good feeling.

She turned her head and blew a hank of hair out of her eyes. She set her feet to the beat as she neared the uppermost landing. Annja brushed the door to the roof with her fingers, leaving four thin streaks of sweat, then spun on her heel and started back down.

She passed the Wales Wrunners again on the sixth-floor landing. They were coming up this time and pressed themselves against the wall to let her continue. Common runner courtesy. One of the girls said something, but Annja couldn’t hear her over the Glinka.

At the bottom the cleanser scent again assailed Annja—bleach or floor polish or both. She touched down on the landing, brushed her fingers against the first-floor door and then started up. She took fuller, even breaths now.

She spotted two more insomniacs when she turned on the seventh floor and started up the next flight. They stood shoulder to shoulder on the eighth-floor landing, blocking her path. Dressed in dark pants and jackets, they reminded her of the Blues Brothers. One was tall, the other shorter and stocky with a pockmarked face. The stocky one wore sunglasses, despite the stairwell’s dim lighting; that fact set her nerves tingling. Annja jogged in place on the stairs, halfway between landings, and plucked out her earbuds.

She waited for the men to move or to say something. Neither did.

“Excuse me,” she said as she reached the step just below them. They backed up, but not enough for her to reach the landing door. She didn’t like the looks of them, and hackles rose on her neck. “This is my floor,” she said, a little louder. She thought about reaching for the sword, but they hadn’t threatened her. Maybe they were with the Wales Wrunners.

The stocky one tilted his head to the side, as though he didn’t understand what Annja was saying, and so she repeated it in French. He nodded in comprehension and smiled, took a step back to accommodate her. Without warning, the tall one’s fist shot out like a piston, striking her on the shoulder. There was considerable force in the blow, and it caught her off guard.

Annja fell, arms flailing. Her legs struck the stairs and her back slammed down as she bumped and slid to the lower landing. Her head bounced hard against the tile and her vision swam. Her right ankle hurt like hell—definitely sprained, maybe broken—and she felt as if a truck had fallen on her.

She tried to get up, but her head was spinning, making the stairwell’s hospital-green paint a sickening swirl of color. As Annja retched, the tall man clomped down the steps and grabbed her by the waistband.

The sword! She felt for it with her mind, but everything was out of sync and she raced toward merciful unconsciousness.

“Where is it? In your room?” the stocky one asked in perfect English. He had the gravelly voice of a smoker. He’d taken off his sunglasses, revealing little black pig eyes. He heaved Annja around the corner to the next set of stairs and shoved. She was pitched down another flight and then another.

The tall one continued talking, but Annja was beyond making out the words. The sounds mingled with the crashing in her ears and the shock as her body hit each step. Blood filled her mouth. The sword hung beyond her reach in an otherworldly space her mind was too muddled to access.

Bending over her on the fifth-floor landing, the stocky one took Annja’s iPod and stuck it into his pocket, pausing only long enough to turn the device off. He found the hotel key card in her pants. “Let’s check her room.”

The tall man grunted in agreement as the blackness reached up to claim Annja.

Chapter 6

Archard placed the sword on the altar, first the large section and then the smaller one that Sarah had prized out of the cliff. In the gap between the two pieces, the black velvet looked like oil in the dim overhead light. A yard long, the section near the haft was jagged and reminded him of a bolt of lightning.

He bent over the blade, seeing his gray eyes reflected back at him, with faint lines visible at the corners. The years were starting to show.

“Durendal,” he said.

“Durendal,” one of two men behind him repeated in awe. “Durlindana. Durandarte. God-touched. Dr. Lawton will be pleased.”

“Indeed.” Archard pressed his fingertips to the pommel. “Most pleased.” But he couldn’t imagine that his employer’s pleasure would exceed his own. “The sword of Charlemagne’s paladin Roland.”

“Destined to be yours now,” the other man added. “You are the doctor’s lead knight.”

“I read about Roland,” Sarah said slowly. “In Dr. Lawton’s textbook. Some called him Orlando, and the sword—”

Annoyed glances from all three men made her stop.

Archard closed his eyes and prayed over the weapon. He heard the soft hiss of his own breath, faster than normal because of his excitement. The walls of this building were thick, but still the wail of a siren managed to find its way in, crescendoed. Another joined it, and then both faded to nothing. He continued to pray.

The other two tugged Sarah back to give him time alone with the sword.

“You endure,” Archard whispered, when he had finished his prayer. The name Durendal was believed to have come from the French word durer, meaning “to endure.” Despite Roland’s attempt to destroy it to keep it out of enemy hands, the blade had survived. Damaged, but it still endured....

In Italy it was called Durlindana, and in Spain, Durandarte. Just as Charlemagne had presented it to Roland, Dr. Lawton said it was to be Archard’s now. Once said to belong to the fabled Hector of Troy, it was supposed to have been forged by a mysterious Berkshire master blacksmith named Wayland. Its origin was murky, but according to the Song of Roland, somehow an angel had got hold of it and given it to Charlemagne. Did it truly have a tooth of Saint Peter inside its golden hilt? Roland touched the hilt again, holding his fingers against the warmth of the metal. A hair from Saint Denis, a piece of cloth from the Virgin Mary’s cloak and a drop of blood from Saint Basil—all those things were said to have gone into its making.

“God-touched,” Archard whispered.

And now it was his.

But was he worthy of it? And of being Dr. Lawton’s “Roland”?

Archard had memorized the Song of Roland, perhaps the oldest surviving French manuscript of any consequence. He’d been with Dr. Lawton for the past five years, coming to the scholar in much the same way Sarah had, through the university. He hadn’t been a student at first, but rather a teacher, one relatively fresh from his doctoral degree and entrenched in the religious studies department. Archard’s wife, in the history department, had suggested they attend one of Dr. Lawton’s lectures after dinner one night. He’d agreed to go because it would gain him “wife points,” which usually translated into out-of-the-ordinary sex.

The topic—religion’s influence on medieval European conflicts—held enough of an interest that Archard had stayed awake through the entire presentation. He was more fascinated by religion in its permutations in present-day society, but was nonetheless captivated by Lawton’s intensity and the way the man could hold a crowd on such an otherwise dry topic. Archard had recognized the charisma and power in Dr. Lawton, and had started attending more lectures, some with his wife, most without. Drawn like a moth.

Had he traded one addiction for another?

Archard smiled at that thought. If so, it had been a more than fair trade. A far better addiction, this.

His interest in religion had begun in high school, when his parents sent him to Avignon to seek penance for his obsession with girls. He’d gotten two pregnant before his sixteenth birthday—three, but one he’d managed to sweep under the carpet on his own. His father was well-off and paid for his indiscretions, after eliciting a promise from him to study with the order in Avignon. Archard spent the summer among the monks before deciding their lifestyle was a little too austere for his tastes. Especially since he couldn’t tamp down his interest in women.

And so come the fall he’d mixed his two fields at the university, delving into religious studies while pursuing as many girls as he could manage, given his academic work. Eventually he tried to settle down with a beautiful history major, who agreed to share a flat with him at the edge of campus. In time they married. He knew she was aware that he sometimes stepped out on her, but he wondered if she knew just how often.

And then Archard’s promiscuity became an issue with Dr. Lawton. The more time he spent with the professor, and the more he opened up about his life, the more Lawton beseeched him to change.

“Choose your penchant for flesh or choose salvation for your soul,” Archard recalled his mentor telling him after one lecture. “There isn’t room in my company for both.” Archard had attended it with a visiting student from Ireland who’d caught his fancy. Dr. Lawton said no more on the matter for several months.

The more lectures Archard attended, the more he fell under the professor’s spell. He even enrolled in some classes as a student himself, and the professor took him under his wing.

“You are my Roland,” Lawton told him on a weekend trip to the Imperial War Museum and the Tower of London in England. That night over dinner, the professor had outlined his plan, and Archard bought into it. But Dr. Lawton worried that “his Roland” could not wholly focus on their mission.

Women had always been the one chink in his armor, the one distraction that kept him from a perfect life. So Archard found a doctor in Paris who cured his sexual appetite with anti-androgen drugs. In some circles it was called chemical castration, though that was a misnomer, as he remained intact. It was a treatment the courts sometimes imposed on molesters or rapists. The drugs reduced his libido by suppressing his testosterone. Women no longer aroused him.

His wife left him...and left the university.

He’d chosen this chaste, important life over the bawdy, selfish one he’d left behind.

A good trade. A more than adequate trade.

“Much good will come of this,” Archard recited. In the Song of Roland, the paladin had used Durendal to hold a hundred thousand Muslims at bay until Charlemagne and his army could retreat into France. Archard turned and regarded the two men and Sarah. “Recovering this sword, embarking on Dr. Lawton’s quest. Nothing but good will come.”

The men nodded. Sarah wrung her hands together.

“So...who’s gonna fix the sword?” she asked. She shifted her weight back and forth on the balls of her feet and dropped her hands to her sides. “I mean, it’s not really much use with the end of it broken like that, is it?”

Archard growled softly in his throat. “Let Dr. Lawton know we’re ready, Sarah.”

She thrust out her chin at the order. A year ago he would have found her attractive and probably lured her into bed. Now she was only irritating. “Sarah...”

Chapter 7

The largest oil painting on the wall—lit museum-style in an ornate gold frame above the wainscoting—was a portrait of a well-dressed man with an abundance of black curls that fell past his shoulders. His face was all angles and planes, his eyes hooded and intense. There were other paintings, too, and all of them looked as if they’d been rendered by the Old Masters.

The room they were displayed in was opulent, the furnishings new, but not modern. Brocade cushions on white high-backed chairs. Settees, low tables, candelabras, a thick rug on the floor shot through with metallic threads. It all looked to be a carefully arranged tourist exhibit. There was even a velvet rope stretched across one section of wall to keep people from getting too close to the paintings. But this wasn’t a public exhibition. It was simply a favorite spot in Dr. Lawton’s warehouse in Paris.

He nudged back a heavy drape and peered out the window, looking down on the loading dock and at another warehouse across the street. The neighboring structures were busier—one supplied grocers, another automotive dealers. In reality the automotive supplier was a front for stolen cars coming into Europe from the United States. Dr. Lawton found the operation distasteful and intended to turn them in when he wrapped up his own business in this area.

His antiques storage warehouse was a front, as well. He cluttered the lower level with all manner of objects he purchased legally. Some of them were even rare finds. Although one object that had arrived a short time ago couldn’t fit into that category....

He heard a sound behind him.

“Dr. Lawton,” Sarah said, “we’re back.”

“I know. I saw the car and the van arrive.”

“It took longer than I thought it would, going to that dink-burg of a town, and—”

“And?” He didn’t bother to turn around.

“It’s downstairs. Archard has it. Do you want to—”

“Of course.”

“Should I have him bring—”

“No. I’ll come down.”

He stepped away from the window and let the drape fall back, paused and then turned to see the girl. Woman, he corrected himself. But just barely. She was young. Beautiful, though he had to really look to see it. She unwittingly dimmed her loveliness by wearing baggy shirts spouting slogans and pictures of whatever rock band she was into. This evening she sported a white skull and crossbones with bat wings and A7X in big block letters. Her makeup did nothing to improve her appearance. She wore thick eyeliner and layered on the mascara. Smudges of shimmering green and blue paste covered her lids and tapered to points. Her lipstick was dark. Unnatural. Never red.

“We got into Paris a few hours ago,” she said. “But I needed to clean up and change. My clothes got pretty well shredded.”

He raised an eyebrow, inviting her to explain.

“It was worse than those rock-climbing walls at the gym,” she began. “Not the big part of the sword. It was just hanging out there in the open...right where your research said it would be. But the tip of it...” She held out her hands so he could see all the cuts and broken fingernails. “It was exactly like the legend you taught in class. Roland had tried to throw the sword away, off the cliff, so the enemy wouldn’t get it. But the blade hit the stone, and a piece of it broke off and stayed there.”

“And the monks displayed the point that fell.”

“Yeah.” She paused. “They never bothered to go get the other piece. I had a hell of a time in the dark, finding the spot where that little shard was in the cliff. Then I had a hell of a time getting it—”

“God guided your hands,” Dr. Lawton said. “And brought the pieces together so that they could be reforged.”

“Uh, yeah.” She waited, fidgeting in the ensuing silence.

He watched her for several moments, knowing she couldn’t keep her tongue from wagging.

“So...who’s going to get this one? Archard? I figured it would be Archard because of Roland’s significance. He thinks it’s going to be his sword. He’s down there drooling over it. Are you—”

“Yes, Durendal is to be Archard’s sword.” A longer silence settled over them.

Finally she broke it, stuttering, “Am I going to... Are you going to—”

“If there are enough, Sarah. I do not intend to leave you out.”

He turned his back to her and faced the large portrait. “He died on the twenty-eighth of January. It was the seventh day since he’d taken to his bed and after his final Holy Communion. Did you know that?”

Sarah shook her mass of short blond curls. “I’m not much of an historical scholar,” she admitted. “I tried to be. Loved your courses. Maybe I shouldn’t have quit like I did, but—”

He gruffly cleared his throat. “He was seventy-two years old, forty-seven years into his reign. Twice my age when the pleurisy killed him.” Lawton slowly paced in front of the painting. “Buried the same day, in Aachen Cathedral. The rush wasn’t necessary—it had been so cold and the disease hadn’t touched his outward appearance. A count in Aachen claimed to have found and opened the tomb, finding the corpse inside sitting on a throne, decked out with a crown and scepter, the tight flesh over the bones incorrupt. God-touched.”

Sarah appeared to be in awe, but the professor suspected it was for his benefit.

“He died depressed. He hadn’t been afraid of death coming—that comes to all men. But he was afraid of being incomplete.”

She tipped her head in question.

“There were things left undone,” Lawton explained.

“But you will finish those things,” she said, squaring her shoulders.

“Together, we will finish those things.” He paused and turned to regard her again. “If your belief grows stronger. If I can sense in you an honest interest and desire. If you shed your youthful curiosity. If you follow me honestly.”

“I do. I—I will.”

He grabbed her by the shoulders. “If you are to be one of my twelve, you must convince me, Sarah.”

“Anything,” she said. “I’ll do anything.”

“Then prepare for another foray. Now, shall we...” He glided past her toward the stairs, inviting her to follow. “Shall we see Roland’s Durendal?”

The big staircase was a wrought-iron, circular one he’d imported from an ironworks in Scotland. It ended in the center of a massive room filled with crates and forklifts—the trappings of a warehouse. An illusion he found satisfactory.

Dr. Lawton approached Archard, who was kneeling in front of one of the smaller crates, now draped with a length of velvet. It was as close to an altar as could be arranged here. The lighting was poor, which helped hide the true nature of the building, but the makeshift altar was directly beneath one of the fixtures.

“Dr. Lawton,” Archard stated solemnly.

“Durendal,” Lawton said. “Our mission has begun in earnest.”

Chapter 8

“I thought it was a wrap, that we were done. You sent the rest of the crew home.” Rembert Hayes was Annja’s photographer for the dog-men segment in Avignon. He’d worked diligently with her on the project for the past three and a half days, and now he nudged his wheeled suitcase with his foot, jiggling it just enough to make a soft clacking sound against the marble floor of the Hotel Danieli lobby. He’d been her cameraman in the catacombs under Paris before that, never complaining, happy to get the work, in fact, as he was a hungry freelancer. But he’d just gotten a text from his daughter, who was on her way to the hospital to give birth. He was obviously going to miss the event, but he wanted to get back home to New York as soon as possible, and Annja sympathized. His daughter would be a first-time mom with single-parent responsibilities.

“I thought it was a wrap, too.”

“May I call a car to take you—” the bellman began, but Annja’s scowl cut him off.

“Rem, I’m very sorry, but—”

“Plenty of footage, Annja. We have some great color work.” He drummed his fingers on the concierge counter and jiggled the suitcase again. “I called. We can catch a flight in two hours at the Caumont Airport, just outside town. It’ll take us to Manchester, and we can connect to New York and—”

“Be home sometime tomorrow,” Annja finished. She studied him and offered a sad smile. “I thought your daughter wasn’t due for another two weeks.”

“The baby had other ideas, I guess.”

“Look, your wife’s with her, right?”

He nodded.

“Then she’ll get your daughter through this. We’ve got one more interview.” She waved a sheet of paper at him. She’d had the concierge print out an email off her phone. “Some tipster named Gaston claims to be one of the dog-men.”

“That’s...what Doug Morrell’s call was about?” Rembert sputtered. “One more interview? We don’t need it.”

“I might not have liked this whole assignment, Rem. But I’m not going to do a half-assed job when this could add something to an otherwise mediocre piece. And that’s what our dog-men story is right now...nothing special.”

“Damn, Annja.”

“I’m not going to argue with Doug about it. We’re doing this.”

“Doug doesn’t have a pregnant single daughter.”

“Doug’s twenty-two.”

“My point.” Rembert made a face. “All your beloved producer cares about are ratings.”

“Let’s go see this guy and get it over with. Then we’ll take the train back to Paris and get a direct flight. We might still make it home sometime tomorrow.” She told the bellman to store their suitcases.

“Damn, Annja.” He held the door for her. “A dog-man, eh?”

“A cynocephalus.”

“Yeah. Yeah. I know what he’s called. I just hope he’s had his rabies shot.”

Annja shot him a look. “We’ll walk. It’s not far from the hotel. The Centre Historique.”

“Our old hotel was closer.”

“You’re going to complain about everything today, aren’t you, Rem?”

He said yes one block later, when the gray afternoon sky opened up and drenched them.

Their previous lodgings, the Avignon Grand Hotel, had been much closer, practically across the street from their meet at the Palais des Papes. But their stay there hadn’t sat well with Annja, after the beating she’d taken in the stairwell and the theft of her laptop from her room. She’d told Rembert about the theft, but didn’t mention the beating. After she’d come to at the bottom of the stairs, picked herself up and staggered back to her room, she’d discovered that all her things were just where she’d left them, but there were tiny differences that raised the hairs on the back of her neck. And there was the missing computer. So she’d relocated the crew to the Danieli and reported the theft to the police. Again, she didn’t report the beating. Annja healed quickly—a strange phenomenon somehow linked to the sword—and she didn’t want to explain that particular quirk to her photographer or the police.

They were soaked by the time they reached the cluster of centuries-old buildings at the edge of the Rhône. It looked as if the walls of the medieval structures might tumble down the bank and spill into the river. The grandest, the Palais des Papes, was considered one of the most important Gothic buildings in Europe. Annja had been through it twice in the past.

They shook themselves off just inside the entrance.

“The palace of popes, eh?” Rembert mused. “And the place of dog-men. Hope our fellow has been nice and dry in here.”

Annja cocked her head.

“You never had a dog, did you?” he pressed.

Annja had been raised in an orphanage in New Orleans. There was a resident cat, but she’d never caught more than a glimpse of it—the thing always fled from the children. Her life had been too crowded for pets, and now she traveled so much. She envied people who had such companionship. “No. No dogs.”

“Well, they stink to high heaven when they get wet.”

“I like you better when you smile.”

“That doesn’t mean I think this interview is a good idea.” Rembert brushed the water drops off his camera, then dug a dry handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe it. “So, what’s with this place? Enlighten me a little. Only got an outside shot of it two days ago for color on the city.”

“Gascon Bertrand de Goth—Pope Clement V—moved the papacy here after his election in 1305. This building went up after his death. Terribly expensive...”

“You’d think religious people would spend the money on the poor. It’d be the religious thing to do, wouldn’t it?” Rembert panned the camera around the interior and then got a shot of Annja with her wet hair plastered against the sides of her face.

“This was fortified to withstand attacks, expanded over the years, the wings flanked with high towers. Adjoining buildings were added to enclose the courtyard.”

“Beautiful, but excessive,” Rembert said.

Despite the archaeological significance of the place, Annja agreed with him. A dozen tourists wandered in the cloister, and they looked so tiny under the high, arched ceiling. Like ants. No doubt the rain was keeping the bulk of the tourists away. She tried to imagine what the place had looked like when the popes walked these chambers, before it had been seized and sacked. Before it became the setting for a massacre of revolutionaries in the late 1700s and was turned into a barracks and prison. Frescoes had been obliterated, the interior woodwork used to build stables. But in the early 1900s, when it became a museum, restoration began, and the renovation work still continued all these years later.

The place carried the smell of old stone and cleaning products, and through the open front door came the smell of the wet city and the Rhône. Rembert focused his camera on the tourists.

“So what’s our dog-man look like? A Great Dane? Boxer? A bitzer?”

“Bitzer?”

“Ah, that’s right, no dogs. A bitzer...bits of this and bits of that. A mutt.”

Annja studied the tourists. “No idea. Doug’s note said Gaston would find us. We just have to be visible and wait for him.”

“Wait. That’s great.” Rembert edged farther in, dribbling water on the stone. Annja followed him, looking down corridors that led to other wings. “So we wait. How long? Let’s give him an hour, tops. Would maybe still give us time to catch that plane, and—”

“Mrs. Creed?”

Annja and Rembert whirled around to face a wiry youth standing just past the entrance, squinting against the rain. His oversize pants and jacket made him look small.

“Miss. Miss Creed.” Annja stepped closer. Rembert began filming. “Are you Gaston?” For some reason she had expected someone older.

“Gaston? No. Not me.” The rest of his words were in French. “My brother’s name is Gaston.” He twisted the ball of his foot against the stone. “I am to bring you to him.”

“This isn’t the guy,” Annja whispered to Rembert. “This is his brother.”

The air hissed out between her cameraman’s teeth. He looked at his watch.

“We don’t have time for a scavenger hunt. Gaston was supposed to meet us here. That was the message, right, Annja? That was the deal. We—”

“He doesn’t like to be seen in public, Miss Creed,” the kid interrupted, still speaking French. “He’s only doing this because of the money. You promised money for the interview.”

Rembert recognized the word for money.

“We’re paying for an interview, Annja?”

It happened sometimes. She nodded and said in English, “According to Doug, we’re paying this guy.”

“This just gets better and better.”

Annja almost called it quits, between Rembert’s attitude and the fact that Gaston wasn’t here. But her gut told her to pursue it. “Is he close, your brother? Nearby?” She repeated the questions in French.

The kid nodded. “Under the bridge. Away from the rain and people. He hides there and...you will pay him to talk to you, right? He said he would only talk for money.”

“He talks, and then I make arrangements to pay him. I didn’t bring the money with me.” Annja had not wanted to set herself up for a mugging. “I’m not carrying cash.” She pulled her pants pockets inside out to show him they were empty. “The money is at the hotel. He talks to me, you come back with me to the hotel and get it. I promise to pay.”

The nod became vigorous. “All right. That is all right, I guess. You come now, and then you give me money.”

He turned and tromped out into the rain, Annja and a reluctant Rembert following.

“Wait!” Annja called. “What’s your name?”

Without stopping, the boy replied “Jacques” over his shoulder.

“It’ll be a bitzer, that’s for sure,” Rembert grumbled.

The bank was slick, but Annja navigated it. Her cameraman was not as sure-footed and slid halfway down on the seat of his pants, cradling his camera to his chest and cursing when he bumped across rocks. The city above was clean, but the riverbank was another matter. Plastic foam cups, crushed cigarette packs and other assorted garbage pooled in low spots. The stink of refuse and sodden earth was strong.

“Let’s wrap this up,” Annja said, extending a hand to Rembert.

“I second and third that.” He checked over his camera and wiped at the water again, a futile gesture, as it was raining harder. “Doug’s bad idea is getting worse and worse and worse.”

“Miss Creed.” Jacques slogged forward, pointing to a recess under the bridge. “My brother waits there.”

“Now I have a bad feeling about this,” Annja whispered. The whole thing hadn’t felt quite right, not since she’d read the note from Doug about this interview. Actually, not since she’d set foot in Avignon... But she needed to pursue this. Something niggled at the back of her mind. “Gaston?” She raised her voice to be heard over the running river, the drumming of the rain and the slapping of Jacques’s footsteps ahead of them.

A figure emerged from the shadows. He had a build similar to Jacques’s, but she couldn’t make out any details other than that he looked bedraggled and rumpled.

“I am Gaston.” He spoke English, but his accent was thick.

Annja paused, but Rembert, camera to his face, crunched forward over broken glass and gravel. His backside looked like a mud slick.

“She said she would pay us,” Jacques announced. “Miss Creed has money and—”

“So you’re a cynocephalus?” Rembert asked. He paused and stood directly in front of the man, blocking Annja’s view of him. “One of the dog-men of France? You look pretty human to me. In fact...hey, what are you—”

It happened fast. The two grabbed Rembert and spun him around, the taller putting a knife to his throat, the other producing a blade and holding it to his stomach. Rembert dropped the camera, his arms flailing, but stopped moving when the one named Gaston drew blood.

“Stay still,” Gaston said. “If you want to live.”

Annja had been reaching for the sword with her mind, had felt the sensation of the pommel forming against her palm, but didn’t take it. The blade hung in the otherwhere, waiting.

“I told Jacques the money’s at the hotel.” She peered through the driving rain, eyes locking onto Rembert’s panicked stare. “I’ve only got a few euros with me. You can have them, but—”

“We don’t want your money, Annja Creed. We want your sword.”

The accent. It wasn’t French. Close, but there was a difference.

Gaston nudged Rembert farther out from under the bridge.

“You.” Annja recognized Gaston. He was one of the gang she’d fought in Paris, outside the train station. He was one of the Romanies who’d fled before the police arrived.

What was he doing here?

Had Gaston overheard her talking to Roux, telling him she was coming to this city for another episode of Chasing History’s Monsters?

“The sword! If you hand over the sword, Annja Creed, we’ll let your friend live.”

Chapter 9

“Annja!” Rembert’s face was pale. “What do they want? Money? I’ve got euros. Give them our money!”

Although Rembert didn’t know much French beyond asking where the nearest restaurant and bathroom were—and though he was oblivious to what the pair were really after—he recognized their intent. Annja saw his lower lip quiver. He had broken out in a sweat. He clumsily tried to reach into his pockets, maybe to pull out a wallet, but the Romanies snarled and poked him with their knives. Rembert stood still. Her photographer was not a physically weak man, but neither was he a stupid one.

“The sword, American archaeologist!” the taller of the two shouted. He pressed the knife harder against Rembert’s skin, which was white around the tip of the blade, with a splotch of red showing. “It was not in your hotel room. At either hotel. Where is it? Where is the old sword?”

“I don’t have a sword,” she snapped. Only the two of them, right? Not much of a threat... No threat at all, if Rembert wasn’t in the equation. “Do you see a sword?”

There could be more, hiding behind the embankment or up on the bridge, maybe behind her. She couldn’t hear any other people talking, no crunch of shoes over the gravel and glass at the edge of the river. She wasn’t going to risk a glance over her shoulder—not yet.

Her mind raced. They’d followed her from Paris.... Was it possible that night outside the old train station, when she’d been looking for a fight to ease her soul, they’d actually been looking for her? Her, specifically? That they were the ones doing the stalking? Had they known about her sword before the street fight? Was that possible?

Annja had always tried to be circumspect when she called the sword. She’d never been caught on tape wielding it. She would know if that had been the case; she had contacts all over the world who followed her interests on the internet and who would have notified her. If nothing else, Roux would have said something.

“The sword! Hand it over! Hurry!”

“I’ve got no sword here. No gun. No knife. You can see I have no weapon.” She paused. “But I have money. Euros. We were going to pay for an interview. We’ve got money for that. We can go back to the hotel, all of us, Gaston, and—”

He laughed. “A ruse to get you here. Dog-men.” He spat.

“Look, whoever you are—” She stopped when she heard the cry of some large bird passing low over the river, followed by the noise of a siren, which quickly receded. What sounded like a boat behind her on the river... She doubted anyone on board could see into the shadows under the bridge, but maybe she could do something to get their attention.

“We don’t want your money, American.” The tall one spat again, as if the notion of cash left a bad taste in his mouth, and drew the knife down Rembert’s throat. The pressure was enough to produce a line of blood, but not enough to cause the photographer serious harm.

“Annja!” Rembert howled. “Give them what they want.”

“I do not think you worry about your friend, American archaeologist. I do not think you consider us serious. I can promise you, we are serious. We will kill if we have to.”

His companion laughed and jabbed Rembert in the stomach, again enough to draw blood. “She should take us serious, eh, Dimitru?”

The tall one scowled.

So she had one piece of information, a name: Dimitru. Definitely Romany.

“Dimitru!” Annja had the thug’s complete attention. “You say you want a sword. I could—”

“No. Not a sword. Your sword. The one you flashed in Paris, that night so late. Before the police came and took my brothers.”

“I’ll have to go get it for you.” She extended her arms to her sides and opened her hands as wide as her fingers would stretch. “I’m not carrying a sword.” She turned slowly, taking a deep breath, glad for the opportunity to look behind her. She saw the ship, a barge. Not yet close enough. It didn’t look as if anyone was on deck. She hadn’t heard anyone come up behind her. Other than the threats of the Romanies, she’d heard only the sounds of traffic across the bridge and past the embankment. Finished her circle, she faced the Romany again. They’d pulled Rembert a little deeper into the shadows under the bridge. “It won’t take me long.”

“You think me simple,” the tall one hissed. “You have the sword, Annja Creed. You have it with you. Maybe it is invisible. Maybe it is a ghost thing. But I know you have it.”

“We are done talking to her, right, Dimitru?” The other guy poked Rembert again. “A boat is coming. Someone might see us.”

“They see nothing,” Dimitru said softly. “This rain.”

“Annja,” Rembert pleaded. “What do they want? We can give them money, can’t we? My camera...I dropped it there. They can have that. Annja, tell them they can—”

“We do not want your money,” Dimitru said in English. “We want the woman’s sword. I am done with this.”

“Stop!” Annja cried. “Leave him alone. Let Rembert out of here, let him leave, and you can have the sword. Let—”

“Rembert is our insurance, Annja Creed. Is the sword worth more than his life?”

“Of course not.” She nodded. “Let him go.”

“The ghostly sword for the photographer, then,” Dimitru said. “Now. Make it appear now. Like before.”

Annja felt the pommel touch her palm, and she wrapped her fingers around it.

“What the hell?” Rembert said.

“This what you want?” she asked.

“Drop it and back away,” Dimitru ordered her.

Annja set it gently at her feet in the scrubby weeds and the remains of someone’s fast-food dinner that had been tossed off the bridge. From the Romanies’ vantage point, they wouldn’t be able to see the sword. Annja stepped back and sent it into the otherwhere. Dimitru’s expression didn’t change.

“Let him go. Rembert is not a part of this,” she said. “There’s the sword. We had a bargain.”

Dimitru hurled Rembert behind him, and the shorter Romany kicked the photographer in the back of the legs, dropping him to the gravel. At the same time, Dimitru shot toward Annja, knife slashing to keep her at bay.

“Get back!” he hollered to her. “Get back and no one has to be hurt!”

A dozen steps and he was at the spot where she’d dropped the sword.

“Trick!” he screamed. “Where is it? Petre...she tricked us. Kill the man! Kill him—” The Romany’s voice caught in his throat.

Chapter 10

Instantly, the sword was in Annja’s hands again and she was bringing it around, aiming to strike him in the arm with the flat of the blade. She’d hadn’t meant her blow to be a killing one, but she’d put all her strength behind it, and Dimitru somehow turned into it and rushed her in a crouch. She tried to pull her swing in that last second, but he was too fast and caught himself across the throat. At the same time he managed to stab her in the thigh, but his knife didn’t sink deep.

The knife wound hurt, but worse was the sting of death she thought she could have avoided. Dwell on that later, Annja told herself. She kept hold of the sword with her left hand, and with her right tugged out the knife and dropped it next to the body.

Annja stepped around Dimitru and headed toward the other man. Petre. The wiry Romany emitted a high-pitched wail. He’d been bending over Rembert, one hand grasping the back of his head, the other readying to slice his throat. But at the sight of Annja advancing on him, he bolted, angling up the steep, slick embankment.

The photographer stayed down, wrapping his arms over his head.

Annja glanced at him as she charged after the Romany, dismissing the sword and pumping her fists to speed her feet. Rembert didn’t appear to be badly hurt.

And she desperately needed to find out why they wanted her sword. How they knew about it.

She followed the youth up the bank, sliding once and hitting a chunk of concrete that sent daggers of pain into her knees, almost as bad as the knife wound in her leg. She picked herself up, catching sight of him cresting the top and sprinting into traffic.

Horns blared, tires squealed and someone rolled down his window to spew a stream of curses. Annja dodged the cars, taking only a little more care than her quarry had, which cost her precious seconds.

The rain made the city a blend of blue-grays that caused the buildings and people to look almost surreal—a muted watercolor painting dripping all around her. The storm had increased in intensity in the minutes since she and Rembert had slipped down the bank for the ill-fated interview. Fat drops hammered the pavement and splashed back up like ricocheting bullets.

Her quarry was easy to make out from the other pedestrians braving the weather. None of them were running and pushing people out of their way, and nearly all of them had umbrellas or hats. She was about a block and a half behind him, gaining a little.

“Hé! Que faites-vous?” a pedestrian shouted at her as she nearly tipped him over.

“Sorry,” Annja called over her shoulder.

“Qu’est-ce que tu fous là, toi?” This from a young man not quite as polite as the first.

She tromped through a puddle, sending a spray of water at a stooped woman with a large blue umbrella.

“Appellez la police!” the offended woman hollered. “Appellez les flics! Elle m’a poussé, c’te vache!”

Annja grimaced. She hadn’t pushed the woman. No doubt the police would be arriving soon, anyway, especially if Rembert had called. Lord, what would he tell the cops? Would he mention her sword?

The buildings she thundered past were dirty from age and darkened by the storm. Everything seemed ancient compared to her neighborhood in Brooklyn. Signs on the sidewalk were a blur of colors; she was going too fast to read them.

She lost sight of him when he rounded a corner. When she skidded around it after him, the Palais des Papes loomed into view, the place where she and Rembert had first met “Jacques.” There! She snarled when she spotted him dash through the entrance. It was a beautiful building, holy in its original intent, and she disliked the notion of the Romany punk hurtling through it.

Petre, that was what the other man called him.

“Petre!” she shouted. “Stop, Petre!” The sirens were growing louder. If Rembert hadn’t summoned the police, someone on the sidewalk had. “Stop, Petre! I only want to talk!”

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