Destiny (9 page)

Corvin Lesauvage was around six feet tall. He was broad and blocky, and looked like he could easily handle himself in a physical confrontation. Sandy-colored hair, cut short, framed his face. He looked freshly shaved, his jaw gleaming. Dark green eyes that held a reptilian cast gazed around the shop. His pearl-gray suit was Italian. So were the black loafers.

“Good morning, Roland,” Lesauvage said. His voice was low and rumbling.

“I haven't any more books for you, sir.” Roland was a gray ghost of a man. Life had pared him down to skin and bone long ago. But he was attentive, intelligent and quick. He barely topped five feet.

“I knew that,” Lesauvage said. “If you'd found any, you'd have sent them along.”

“Yes, sir. I would have.”

“I came today only to browse.” Lesauvage studied the stacks, but his cold eyes never found Annja in the shadows. “Is anyone else about?” he asked.

“A guest, Mr. Lesauvage.” Roland never called the prospective buyers who entered his establishment customers. Always
guests.
“Just the one. Shouldn't be any bother to you,” he assured Lesauvage.

“Who?”

“A young American woman.”

Lesauvage smiled. “Good. I was hoping to catch her here.”

Annja looked around the shop. There was no other way out. The bookshop butted up against a launderette in the back and was sandwiched between a cobbler and a candy store. The only door was at the front.

And at present, Lesauvage stood blocking the way.

“Have you met Miss Creed?” Roland asked. “She's a television celebrity.”

“So I'm told. Unfortunately, I haven't had the pleasure,” Lesauvage said. “Yet.” He raised his voice. “Miss Creed?”

Annja debated calling the police. But after the report last night and their lack of interest, she doubted the effort would prove worthwhile.

She reached into her backpack and took out the spring-loaded stun baton she'd brought with her. The weapon was legal to carry as long as she packed it in luggage checked at the airport.

Sliding the baton into one of the deep pockets of her hiking shorts, Annja stepped around the bookcase so she could be seen. “Mr. Lesauvage,” she said.

Roland blinked behind his thick glasses. “Do you know each other?” He looked at Lesauvage. “I thought you said—”

“We've got mutual acquaintances,” Annja said.

Lesauvage smiled. “Yes. We did.”

For just a moment, Annja thought about Avery Moreau and worried that something had happened to the young man. Surely if something had, it would have been in the news.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Lesauvage?” Annja asked.

“Actually, I thought perhaps there might be something I could do for you.”

“Nothing that I can think of.”

Lesauvage flashed her a charming smile. If he hadn't sent men to kidnap her and possibly kill her, Annja thought he would have been a handsome man with intriguing potential. But now she knew he was as deadly as the Ursini's viper.

“I suggest that perhaps you haven't thought hard enough,” Lesauvage said.

Roland, obviously unaware of the subtext that passed between them, said, “I hadn't mentioned Mr. Lesauvage as someone you might talk to, Miss Creed. Though maybe I should have. He's one of the more educated men in the area when it comes to history and mythology.”

“Really.” Annja tried to sound properly impressed. But she never took her eyes from the dangerous man.

“Oh, yes. He's interested in La Bête, too. And he's been researching the Wild Hunt—”

Lesauvage cut the old man off. “I think that's enough, Mr. Roland. There's no need to bore her with my idiosyncrasies.”

Annja wondered why Lesauvage was interested in the Irish myth that had its roots in the days of the Vikings. She considered her own knowledge of the Wild Hunt.

According to Scandinavian myth, the leader of the Norse gods, Odin, was believed to ride his eight-legged horse, Sleipnir, across the sky in pursuit of quarry. Annja's quick mind juxtaposed the tale of the Wild Hunt and La Bête, finding similarities.

Except that she was in Lozère hunting La Bête, and Lesauvage, who was keenly interested in the Wild Hunt according to Roland, was hunting her. As an archaeologist, Annja knew coincidences happened all the time. But she was sure this was no coincidence.

“I don't think your interests are boring,” Annja said. “To the contrary, I find the idea of the Wild Hunt suddenly quite enlightening.”

Lesauvage frowned. It was obvious he'd rather she not know of his obsession. “Perhaps we could talk elsewhere,” he said.

“Do you have somewhere safe in mind?” Annja countered.

“There's a coffee shop across the street,” Lesauvage suggested. “Or, if you're unwilling, I'm sure Mr. Roland would put us up for a brief conference.”

Annja thought about the veiled threat in Lesauvage's words and hated the man for them. Roland would obviously be an immediate casualty.

“All right,” she said.

 

D
URING THE WALK
across the street from Roland's bookstore, after she had paid for her purchase, Annja had been aware of the sleek gray Mercedes limousine that followed Lesauvage like a pet dog. Three men sat inside.

Annja wondered if Lesauvage had matched the color of his suit to the car.

The server guided Annja to a table in the rear. Lesauvage followed.

As she sat across from him, Annja took the baton from her pocket and placed it on the seat beside her, within quick, easy reach.

“You're being overly cautious,” the man told her.

“After being shot at by your people yesterday?” Annja shook her head. “Overly cautious, in fact, sensible, would have been climbing onto the first plane out of France.”

“But you couldn't do that.”

“I can.” Annja had no illusions about her courage. There was a fine line between bravery and stupidity. She knew what it looked like and made a habit of never crossing it.

“But you haven't.”

Annja didn't say anything because there was nothing to say.

“You're here for a story,” he said. “About La Bête.”

“Yes.”

“How did you find that cave yesterday?” he asked. “I've had men up in those mountains for years.”

“There was an earthquake. I fell in.”

“You're joking.”

“No.”

The server brought two steaming cups of espresso.

“I sent those men back up in the mountains last night and this morning,” Lesauvage said. “During all the confusion—”

“During their attempts to kill me,” Annja stated flatly.

“I ordered them only to restrain you and bring you to me.”

“Kidnapping is a big crime,” Annja pointed out. “Huge.”

A feral gleam lit Lesauvage's eyes. “Let us cut to the chase, Miss Creed.”

Annja waited.

“You have something I want. Something that you found in that cave.”

“What do you think I found?” Annja countered.

“A coin,” Lesauvage said. “About this big.” He circled his forefinger and thumb, gapping them about the size of a euro. “On one side is the image of a wolf hanging in front of a mountain. On the other is a die mark.”

“The symbol of the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain,” Annja said.

“Yes,” Lesauvage admitted reluctantly. He pursed his lips unhappily. “You know more about this than I'd believed.”

Elation filled Annja. She had confirmed a piece of the puzzle. She decided not to ask about the monastery. She'd consult her new book later.

“Knowledge, Miss Creed,” Lesauvage said in a dead, still voice, “is not always a good thing.”

But it's the things that you don't know about that kill you quickest, Annja thought. She chose to ignore the threat inherent in his words.

“Why do you have an interest in the Wild Hunt?” Annja asked.

“I want the coin you found,” Lesauvage said. “I was told you found it around the dead warrior's neck. He wore it on a leather strap.”

“Most people believe the Wild Hunt is an Irish myth,” Annja said. “Or British. Depends on your bias. They're supposed to be a group of ghostly hunters who go galloping across the sky on their horses. They blow their hunting horns and their hounds bay.” She grinned, noting the man's discomfort. “It's supposed to be a really spooky experience.” She shrugged. “If you believe in that kind of thing.”

Sitting back in his chair, Lesauvage regarded her from under hooded lids. “You don't believe in it?”

“No,” Annja replied. “It's an old tale. A good one to scare kids when you want them inside the house after dark. According to the legend, if you witnessed the Wild Hunt, you would either become their prey or one of them.”

“Yes.”

“I hadn't thought about it until this morning,” Annja said, “but the legend of La Bête might have something to do with the myth of the Wild Hunt.”

Lesauvage remained silent.

“Did you know that several people in history claimed to have taken part in the Wild Hunt?” Annja asked. She remembered the drunken arguments Professor Sparhawk had had with an undergraduate during the Hadrian's Wall dig in England. It had continued over the three months of the dig a few summers ago.

Shifting uncomfortably, Lesauvage crossed his arms and glared at her as if she were merely an annoyance.

“Primitive peoples among the Gauls and Germans used it to combat the encroachment of civilization,” Annja said. “The Harii warriors painted themselves black to attack their enemies in the night. They pretended they had special powers granted by the gods they worshiped. Whipped everyone there into a frenzy.”

“You're wasting time,” Lesauvage interrupted.

Annja ignored him. “Others took part in it, too. There are documented cases showing involvement by St. Guthlac and Hereward the Wake. In the twelfth century, one of the monks who wrote the
Peterborough Chronicle
gave a treatise on a gathering of warriors under the Wild Hunt banner during the appointment of an abbot. The monks and the local knights later disbanded the warriors.”

“I want the coin,” Lesauvage repeated. “Or things could get dire.”

“I hadn't thought about La Bête being part of the Wild Hunt,” Annja mused. “Not until you came calling this afternoon.” She studied him. “Why are you so interested in the Wild Hunt? And why did you send your men after me? Unless you figured La Bête was part of something you were interested in.”

“You're playing with things that don't concern you, woman.” Menace dripped in Lesauvage's words.

Annja closed her hand over the baton.

“Now I want that damned coin.”

“I don't have it,” Annja said. She didn't want to make herself a target. She had the rubbings. For the moment, they would have to serve to help unlock the mystery before her.

“You're lying,” Lesauvage snarled. His face grew dark with suffused blood.

“No,” Annja said, “I'm not. The old man I met in the mountains has it.”

“What old man?”

“Didn't your men tell you about him?”

Lesauvage stared daggers at her.

“His name is Roux.”

“What's the rest of his name?”

“That's all I know.”

Lesauvage cursed, drawing the attention of nearby patrons. Even the English and German tourists who didn't speak French understood the potential for violence. They got up with their families and started to sidle away.

“We're done here.” Annja said, grabbing her pack and sliding out of the booth.

Lesauvage reached for her with a big hand.

Pressing the button on the side of the baton, Annja released the extended length, giving her almost two feet of stainless steel to work with. She slapped Lesauvage's wrist away, causing him to yelp in surprised pain. Shoving the baton forward with an underhanded strike like she would deliver with an épée, Annja caught him with the end between the eyes and batted his head back. Before he could recover, she was on her feet.

With the baton still in her fist, her heart thumping rapidly, Annja strode toward the front door. Just before she reached it, two men dressed in black robes blocked the way.

They were young and hard-looking. When they lowered their cowls, she saw that their heads were shaved smooth. Tattoos at their throats repeated the same design that had been struck on the back of the charm.

“Miss Creed,” one of them said in flawless English, “you must come with us.” He reached for her.

Annja struck at the man with her baton. The other man shifted then, revealing what he hid beneath his robe. The short blade caught the light as it came up to intercept the baton.

Metal shrieked against metal.

Annja disengaged at once, stepping back to give herself more room. Glancing at the coffee shop's rear entrance, she saw that two more black-robed men were entering there. Outside the big windows that lined the side wall, four more black-robed men stood waiting.

Things did not look good. Annja hadn't been this outnumbered in a long time. Well, yesterday seemed like a long time ago.

She tightened her grip on her baton and looked at Lesauvage.

The man sat at the table cradling his hand. He grinned at her. “They're not after me.”

The black-robed warriors closed in on her.

 

G
ARIN
B
RADEN WAITED
in the black Mercedes while Avery Moreau dashed inside the bookstore to find out if the woman was still there.

After arriving in Lozère, Garin had experienced no trouble in picking up Annja Creed's trail. Within an hour, a private-investigations firm he owned had located the bed-and-breakfast where she was staying. Over the years, he'd found the investment in the detective agency had helped with a number of things, including blackmail and corporate espionage.