Destiny (27 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He would have killed you.”

“He didn't.”

“He tried to kill you.”

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

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

“Like you did with Garin?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Roux tossed the pistol away and spread his arms, leaving his chest open to her attack. He smiled benignly. “Lesauvage still has other drug-crazed fools in the mountains tonight. Do you want to argue about this right now?”

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

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

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

Avery Moreau sat huddled in a ball and looked consumed with fear.

She righted one of the motorcycles, threw a leg over, started it and looked back at the young man. “Come on. Let's get you safe.”

Slowly, Avery climbed onto the motorcycle with her. He wrapped his mud-covered arms around her, shaking with terror as he held on.

Annja didn't wait to see if Roux could manage. Even though he was limping and banged up, she felt certain the old man could fend for himself. She accelerated and raced down the mountain, hoping to get out of the cold and the wet soon.

Annja Creed swam with an easy stroke. As soon as her feet touched the sandy bottom, she stood and walked out of the ocean. She was conscious of dozens of male spectators watching her, maybe wishing she'd gone topless instead of wearing the bright red bikini she had on, and for a moment she luxuriated in the harmless attention.

She crossed the beach, basking in the heat after the cool of the sea, knowing that her tan was unblemished by scratches or bruises. She had healed quickly from her minor injuries.

Annja thought the sword had somehow enhanced her, but Roux didn't believe that was true. He wished she knew who her parents were. But if anyone had ever known, all that information had been lost when New Orleans drowned during the hurricane in 2005.

Roux was sitting in a chaise longue near hers when she returned to her seat. A large, colorful umbrella shaded both chairs.

“Enjoying the afternoon?” Roux asked.

“Yes.” Annja wrapped a towel around her waist and sat. “There's not much of it left.”

“Ah, well,” Roux said. “That only means the evening and all the nightlife won't be far behind.”

“I'm not much for nightlife,” Annja said. “I prefer quiet places and just a few people.” She gazed at the crowd scattered along the oceanfront. “Personally, I could do with a more secluded beach.”

“I know of several good ones,” Roux said. “I'd be happy to take you there sometime.”

Annja slipped on her sunglasses and regarded the old man warily. They had talked a little about Roux's murder of Corvin Lesauvage. At best, though, they'd agreed to disagree. Roux had ultimately decided that she didn't have to kill anyone she didn't want to kill, and he didn't have to spare anyone he didn't want to let live. Under the circumstances, and since Roux pointed out that he'd lived in such a manner for centuries, she had shelved the argument.

“Would you?” Annja asked.

“Well,” Roux said, “not right away. I'm going to be playing poker soon. I'm not about to give that up.” He took a cigar from his jacket and lit up. “Have you given any thought to staying for a while?”

“I have.” For the past three days, while waiting anxiously to see how the events that had happened up in the Cévennes would touch her, Annja had slept, read and swam, hardly leaving the spacious hotel suite Roux had arranged for her.

“And?”

“I'll spend some time,” Annja said.

“Splendid,” Roux enthused.

“A short while.”

“Good. Because I don't want you underfoot while I'm playing poker.”

“Have you heard from Garin?” she asked.

“No, but I still check for traps routinely.” Roux patted the arms of the chair. “And I suddenly realize this isn't really a good place to be if he's hired an assassin.”

“Maybe Garin doesn't really want you dead as much as he claims.”

“Truthfully,” Roux said, “I think the sword being reassembled has him spooked. He probably wants it destroyed more than he wants me dead. At least for now. Until he discovers whether the sword's reemergence is going to have an effect on him. If it does, who else is he going to talk to about it?”

A server passed by and Roux ordered drinks. In short order, they were delivered.

“Thank you,” Annja said, lifting her glass.

“My pleasure.”

Annja sipped, enjoying the cool, clean taste of the fruit and alcohol. With the wind skating under the umbrella and the sand warm around her, the mountain seemed very far away.

“Did you arrange for an attorney for Avery Moreau?” she asked.

“I did. I understand Inspector Richelieu is about to be temporarily suspended while an investigation into the death of Avery's father is conducted.”

“What about Avery?”

Roux shrugged. “I don't know. Even after all these years, I still find that I can't judge people well. They constantly surprise you.”

Annja silently agreed with that. Life was full of surprises. She sipped her drink again and smiled. “I've been thinking about Father Roger's confession. The one that he threatened the Vatican with.”

“And?”

“I think I know where it is.”

Roux shook his head. “I'm quite certain it doesn't exist.”

Annja sipped her drink again and remained silent.

After a while, Roux's curiosity got the better of him. “Enough with the mystery. Tell me what you think.”

“Are you sure you want to hear? I mean, you do think you're right.”

“Of course I do. But I'm willing to entertain a possibility of it being somewhere else.”

“It's in Carolyn's grave.”

“Where you found the last piece of the sword?” Roux asked.

“No,” Annja said. “In the false grave she was given in England. In Sir Richard of Kirkland's holdings. Or whoever has them now. I think he hid the truth in a lie.”

Roux smiled. “If he did, that was very clever.”

“There's only one way to find out.”

“Does it look like there's a bit of grave robbing in your future?”

“No,” Annja replied. “I thought maybe you, using some of your money and influence, could arrange for an exhumation of Carolyn's grave in England.”

“So you could broadcast it on that tawdry television show you do pieces for?”

“I thought about that, actually. I mean, I could propose a whole new possibility about who and what the Beast of Gévaudan was. It could be a good move.”

“Yet you're undecided about doing it,” Roux said.

“No, I'm decided. I'm not giving this story to
Chasing History's Monsters.
Though it is tempting to allow Father Roger his final jab at the Vatican.”

“The man did break his faith with God and the church,” Roux pointed out. “Not to mention disrupting a marriage.”

“I think he was punished enough for that. So was Carolyn.”

Roux nodded. “You're probably right.” He smoked his cigar for a time and they sat in silence.

Annja sipped her drink and studied the foaming white curlers rushing in from the sea. “What am I supposed to do with the sword?” she asked.

“What do you mean? It's your sword now. You do with it whatever you wish to do with it,” Roux stated.

“But shouldn't I do something special with it? Become—I don't know—
something?
”

Roux looked at her seriously. “Annja Creed, you are someone special. The sword only allows you to act on your natural gifts with more authority. You have a destiny ahead of you that no one in this world has ever had. You've not been given the sword to be another Joan of Arc. She did what she had to do.” He paused. “You have to figure out what it is you're supposed to do like everyone else, one day at a time.”

Annja looked at him and felt he was telling the truth. Roux had lied about things in the past and would again in the future, but she knew he wasn't lying now.

“Thank you,” she said. She moved the umbrella and lay back in the warm sun. She thought about everything she should be doing—all the cataloging of the things in her loft, the certificates of authenticity she had to do, the trip she wanted to take to North Africa, the next story she'd have to pitch to Doug Morrell—and somewhere in there, she dropped off to sleep.

Her destiny stretched out before her. There was no need to rush to meet it. It was waiting for her.

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