Authors: Alex Archer
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.