City of Swords (11 page)

Chapter 19

Morning? It still looked dark. But just enough light came in through the open window to reveal the men to be twins.

She slammed her hand down on the light switch on the nightstand. The lamp flicked on and they blinked.

She took their measure in an instant: lithe, athletic, muscles tensed beneath their tight-fitting pants and short-sleeved shirts, their clothes the color of shadows. She reached for the phone.

“Don’t.”

She reached for the sword, felt it with her mind, but decided not to call it. That would be what they wanted, wouldn’t it?

“Dr. Lawton sent you.” She didn’t mean it as a question.

“You are a beautiful woman, Miss Creed,” the one on the right said in a velvety voice. He sounded like a well-educated man, from Paris. “If you want to keep being beautiful—”

“And keep breathing,” the other one said in a tone a tad higher and breathier, “you should surrender—”

“My sword.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed. She’d worn a pair of flannel shorts and a loose
T-shirt to bed. Sometimes she didn’t wear that much, and was glad she’d opted for something last night. “I thought Dr. Lawton wanted to buy it.”

“And I thought you had declined to sell it,” the one with the breathy voice said.

Confirmation. They worked for Lawton. Had they stolen Durendal from the monks in Avignon? The Wallace Sword from the monument near Stirling?

“I don’t have it with me.” Annja nodded to her suitcase, a soft-sided duffel on the luggage stand. “You’re welcome to search my bag, not that any decent-size sword would fit in it. I’ve got nothing in the closet but an expensive dress.”

They stood silent for a moment. She heard a door open and close down the hall, followed by the sound a rolling suitcase makes. She knew better than to call out; she might put the other hotel guest in danger.

She hadn’t noticed any weapons on the men; their hands were out to their sides, fingers spread in a nonthreatening gesture. But their very presence in her room was a threat, and that they’d come in through the window. She was on the eighteenth floor, and not near the fire escape. There was a soft chime as the elevator arrived. A glance to her door showed the chair she’d set in front of it was still there.

“We think you do have it with you,” the breathy one said.

“Get up.” His twin reached behind him and pulled a sword from a sheath at his back. It was a pitted katana.

“Honjo Masamune,” Annja said.

“Perceptive. Now, get up.”

Annja felt for her sword. It waited for her, but she sensed a pervasive anxiety. Her mind churned. She could call the weapon, fight them here. She had fought in close confines many times before. The noise would bring security, other guests.

One of the twins tossed her a pair of shoes—the only tennis shoes she’d brought with her. Thank God they hadn’t made her put on the new leather heels; she had blisters.

“Put them on. Hurry.” This one pointed to his waistband. The handle of a SIG Sauer protruded.

For the moment, she’d play along

Chapter 20

Glancing at the nightstand, she saw it was 5:00 a.m. Her wake-up call was coming in a half hour. Would someone check if it went unanswered?

“Where are we going?”

“To get your sword, Miss Creed,” the twin holding the katana said.

“I’m not dressed to go anywhere.” The one with the breathier voice seemed the more anxious of the two, the muscles of his arms quivering ever so slightly. The other one had steadier eyes, and she guessed he was in charge. Associates of Lawton? Hired thugs like the Romany gang members? “Don’t you think I’ll raise some eyebrows in the lobby?”

“Move. We are not going out that way.” He pointed his sword toward the window. At the same time his brother fitted a silencer on his gun. “If you don’t cooperate, we’ll end this now.”

The gun was aimed at her. For a moment Annja felt the pommel of her sword against her palm, but she pushed it away.

She padded to the window and looked out. “Eighteenth floor,” she said. The roadway below was shiny, the glow from streetlights reflecting off the pavement; it must have rained a little while ago. The sky was only now starting to lighten. “Do you expect me to jump?”

“There is a ledge.” This came from the one with the gun, who had moved up behind her. “Step out onto it. Be careful.”

“You can’t be serious. You want me on the ledge?” It wasn’t her best performance. “We’re eighteen stories off the ground.”

“It should be no difficult matter for you. Step out onto it,” he repeated. “Walk to the fire escape on the corner, and we will follow you.”

She opened her mouth to protest again, but then decided against it. The ledge was certainly wide enough. It was how they’d reached her room. Someone on the street, or in one of the few passing cars, might see her and call the police. But did she really want that? She slipped out the window and walked east, the ledge a balance beam. She moved quickly, thinking she’d put some distance between them, get up to the roof, where there was more room to fight, or at least where she’d have more options. Annja was certain they wouldn’t kill her. If she was dead, Lawton wouldn’t be able to get her sword.

Not that he was going to get it with her living, either.

“I thought your boss was willing to buy my sword. He made an opening bid last night.”

She wrapped her fingers around the iron of the fire escape and started climbing, not giving them a chance to tell her what direction she was supposed to go.

“You refused. Have you changed your mind?” She wasn’t sure which one had spoken.

“No. I haven’t changed my mind.” She glanced down. Both men were close behind her. The one with the sword had sheathed it to have his hands free to climb, and she saw that he had a second sheath and a smaller blade below it. From her vantage point, she also saw a sheath on the other twin’s back. Both were swordsmen.

What the hell was this all about? Buying and stealing ancient swords?

“So if I’m not willing to sell,” she mused, “you’re going to try to steal it from me?” Like these two had stolen the Wallace Sword and Durendal. Maybe.

“Climb.”

She was doing just that, and not too long after reached the top. “Now where to?” She stood a yard in from the edge of the roof. Her hotel was the tallest building on the block, at twenty-two stories, and it gave her a remarkable view of the city. The sky was lighter up here, the air cooler and cleaner. A half-dozen pigeons eyed her from their perch on the service exit to the roof.

“Your sword. We have come to—”

“Yes, I know. You’ve brought me up here because you want my sword. You have me at more than one disadvantage,” she said. “I’m practically in my underwear. I’ve no idea where we’re going—”

“To get your sword,” they said practically in unison.

“And I have no idea who you are.”

The one with the gun grinned. “Gaetan,” he said. “I’m Gaetan.” The other shot him a withering look, but he only shrugged. “It doesn’t matter that she knows my name.”

Because you intend to kill me after you have my weapon.

The velvet-voiced man didn’t introduce himself, but he drew the sword again. The hiss of the blade coming free from its scabbard sounded like a cat’s purr. A heartbeat later, he pulled out the other, a saber—relatively new, from the looks of it.

“Honjo Masamune,” Annja observed of the katana. “A fine weapon.” So the professor wasn’t putting it up on a shelf to gather dust, she thought. “Dr. Lawton gave it to you.”

“To use,” Gaetan said. “Only for my brother to use. But not so fine a blade as yours. Now, your sword, please.”

She walked backward.

“That’s far enough,” Gaetan said. Annja judged that she was roughly in the middle of the roof, where it would be harder for anyone below to see her. In truth, she didn’t want the police to come; she wanted to handle this on her own. The cops would only make it more difficult for Annja to get to the bottom of the mystery about Joan’s sword.

She held her arms out. “You think I’m going to take you to some locker at the airport where I have it stashed? What sword?”

“Joan of Arc’s,” said the man with the two blades. “Produce it now.”

“I don’t know what you’re—”

“You know exactly,” Gaetan declared. “You can produce it out of thin air.”

“How do you know?” she asked. “Just tell me. How do you know about my sword?”

Sirens cut through the stillness, several of them heading west. Fire trucks off to fight a blaze. Cars started honking.

“Tell me how you know,” she said. “Give me that much.”

“A fair request,” No-Name said.

That was double confirmation that they intended to kill her. She’d seen enough movies to know that if the villain started to talk, there was lethal intent. So Lawton wasn’t as civilized as he’d appeared at the auction.

“In researching swords online, Miss Creed, your name came up. There were no pictures, but what there was was intriguing,” Gaetan said.

Certainly enough people in the years since she’d first held Joan’s sword had seen her wield it, but—

“When you came to France, publicity of your filming preceded you,” Gaetan continued. “It saved us a trip to your country. Convenient that you came to us.”

“In Paris it wasn’t difficult to have you followed,” the other said. “And provoked.”

Annja gritted her teeth. The gang she’d fought outside the train station—each man there had seen her with the sword. If she hadn’t picked that fight, this might not be happening. But then she might not have learned about the theft of Durendal or the Wallace Sword, either, and certainly she’d know nothing about Dr. Lawton or Archard Gihon.

“And what makes you think my sword belonged to Joan of Arc?”

“A portrait,” Gaetan said.

Annja had read extensively about Joan. “Only one portrait was painted of her and the famous sword, and history records it as being burned.”

“History is not always right,” Gaetan countered. “I have seen it.”

“That’s enough. We’ve told her more than necessary. Wasted minutes. The sword. Now.”

“I hand it over and you let me walk away?” Annja had been judging how far they could reach, guessing at their speed, wondering how much training they had. Some of the Romany toughs had exhibited a measure of skill, but most were just thugs. These two wielded swords of their own. A different kind of challenge.

“Of course,” Gaetan said.

“You’ve told me your name and I’ve seen your faces.”

He pushed the SIG Sauer into the waistband of his pants. “The sword and you walk. Easy. My word and my honor.”

Annja concentrated, and in the same breath her fingers wrapped around the pommel. She held it with both hands, up and ready, but made no move on them.

“Set it down,” Gaetan instructed.

Annja almost did…as she had under the bridge in Avignon. “Joan of Arc had two others, you know. Swords.” She could trick these men, let them think they were going to simply take the sword and then have it disappear on them.

“Not as important as your sword, those other two Joan used.” Gaetan took a step closer. “And they were easily obtained, purchased. I’ve seen them, too.”

“That’s enough.” His twin shot him a look.

“Fine. Now, do not make this too difficult, Miss Creed,” Gaetan said. “Surrender the sword—”

“Surrender it now,” the other cut in, “or I will lop off your hand to get it.”

Annja crouched. “Come and get it, then.”

She’d known from the moment she saw them in her hotel room that it would come to this and that she would win. The thing left undecided was whether she would have to kill them. Annja detested killing. The sword she wielded had not been entrusted to Joan of Arc for that purpose. At least, Joan had not used it that way. The Frenchwoman had led an army and fought bloody battles, certainly slaying men along the way, but she’d used her other two swords for the grisly work. This special sword, the one the voices in her head had told her to claim at Saint Catherine’s Church, Joan had considered a divine relic. Historical records stated that she’d used it to chase whores out of her army’s camp, turning it sideways and swatting them with it. In the fourth session of her trial, she was quoted as saying the blade was “excellent for giving hard clouts and buffets.”

Annja, however, had used it to kill…but only when she believed there was no other choice. Each death weighed heavily, and in the back of her mind, she could see the face of each person she’d cut down.

The man with two blades came at her first, and in the same instant Gaetan pulled a sword from his back, a saber. They separated, coming at her from each side, flanking her. A part of her felt the welcome rush of adrenaline, and her heart started beating faster. Roux had called her an adrenaline junkie once, and though she’d scoffed, she had to admit it was a valid assessment. She spun to parry Gaetan’s lunge. He was using the flat of his blade, not trying for a lethal strike.

The other twin? He intended to hurt her. Annja jumped back and pulled her arms in tight. He’d led with the katana, and the air whistled as he brought it down where her arms had been. She felt the breeze from the blade, the swing had been that close.

He had just tried to cut off her hands.

Chapter 21

Annja shifted her weight to the balls of her feet and reassessed her situation. The pair exhibited considerable skill, having the moves of fencers.

When they came at her again, she twirled away, nearly slipping when her foot touched a slick spot on the roof. The recent rain had puddled, and she skipped over a patch of water outlined by pigeon droppings. Annja crossed her feet, right in front of left, pivoting as she crouched, coming up and kicking out, catching Gaetan on the jaw. She heard a crack and saw him spit out blood and a tooth.

In pain and anger, he swung faster, turning the blade. He was no longer trying to hit her with the flat of it. But his temper made him sloppy and his rhythm was off. She dropped under the swinging weapons of both men, spinning toward the roof access door. Annja kicked out again, missing her target and again nearly losing her balance on the slick surface. But she regained her composure quickly and darted closer to Gaetan, who appeared only slightly less adept than his brother. Ducking again, she brought her elbow up when she straightened this time, jabbing him in the stomach.

Gaetan stumbled backward, and she followed, keeping a wary eye on the other one, bringing her sword up to knock away the saber and barely managing to avoid the swipe of the katana. Actually, not entirely avoiding it, she realized, noting a line of red forming on her arm and registering the sting. He stabbed both weapons at her, nearly connecting again.

She decided to pursue Gaetan first, get him out of the way, so raised her leg at a high angle and kicked at his head. The move succeeded in catching him off guard. She turned into him and jabbed him in the stomach again, at the same time avoiding the katana by a hairbreadth.

So far she hadn’t resorted to a lethal move against either of them. Killing them wouldn’t help get her answers. Neither man spoke, concentrating on flanking her. She raised her sword toward Gaetan, avoiding another blow from his twin.

They both wore chest protectors, a piece of fencing gear made of thermoplastic or Kevlar, the latter from the looks of it. In her T-shirt and flannel sleep shorts, she had no such advantage.

The breath rushed out of Gaetan as he lunged, and she parried with her own thrust. He circled her like a cat, his twin mirroring the move to retain the flank, both stepping back beyond her reach. Then the unnamed twin darted forward and almost managed to hit her twice. He would have—scoring himself points in an épée competition—if she hadn’t blocked him. Points instead to Annja.

Gaetan stomped his foot in a puddle, startling her. She sidestepped, at the same time feeling the other’s katana rip her T-shirt.

“Last chance,” Gaetan said. “Hand over the sword.”

“Is the sword worth your life?” his twin asked her.

It wasn’t.

“Is it worth yours?” she replied. They weren’t giving her much of a choice. She changed her grip on the sword, noticed Gaetan registering the move. She wasn’t using the flat of the blade any longer.

He smiled slightly as he lunged and retreated, changing the tempo of his swings. Annja recognized the balestra maneuver, a French fencing technique. These two could teach her a few things.

She sucked in a lungful of air and inched toward Gaetan’s brother, right foot in front of the left, suddenly sprinting past him and slashing, catching the katana and nearly wrenching it out of his grip. At the same time, Gaetan jabbed at her, the tip of the saber biting into her side. The air rushed from her lungs and she performed a forward recovery, stepping into the en garde position and unexpectedly throwing them out of their flanking roles.

She feinted successfully toward Gaetan, sweeping in and slicing at his protective vest. It didn’t hurt him, but it forced him back, and that gave her a chance to attack the other one in earnest. The twin leaped forward and kicked, catching her in the stomach just as she brought her sword around at his leading arm.

“Aïe!”
he shouted, which Annja translated as “Ouch!”

Gaetan recovered before she had a chance to come at the other one again. He shot forward with a dropkick, his heel connecting waist high and sending her back into the metal door. Her head hit hard and she nearly lost her grip on the sword. He’d used enough force that she was woozy. She tried to shake it off, but her vision blurred and she began to wonder if indeed she might lose this fight.

Annja bounded to her right just as both of them stabbed forward. She whipped around the side of the structure, hearing at least one blade connect with the door. The rooftop was still out of focus, but she charged forward, feet flying across the slick surface, water splashing up behind her. She had to put distance between them. She could probably beat either man one-on-one. But together? Together they were actually better than her, and that realization settled in her stomach like wet cement.

If she could separate them, she could take them. Separate… That’s when it came to her. She’d seen them before, in an Olympic fencing match she’d attended in China. They’d competed separately, but the local news had run a brief segment on them because they were quirky—black men raised by white parents, twins who excelled at the same sport. A sportswriter compared them to the American Williams tennis sisters. She couldn’t recall the last name of the fencers. She ran faster, knowing they were right behind her. She reached the edge of the roof and without pause leaped off, dismissing the sword and stretching her arms forward. The buildings were close together in this section of the city, and she cleared the gap and fell a full two stories to the neighboring structure. She tucked and rolled, landing with her knees bent and a painful jarring sensation shooting into her spine.

Would they be daring enough to follow her?

She sprang up, her pounding head still making her dizzy, and risked a glance over her shoulder in time to see both brothers flying toward her over the gap, Gaetan with his sword out. The other twin had sheathed both of his. They would clear the distance; she didn’t need to watch. They were in superb condition and their legs were long. They might hurt themselves in the drop. If not, they’d be on her again in a heartbeat.

Annja continued to run, calling the sword to her again. This rooftop was covered with a gritty mixture that gave her better purchase. She idly remembered from her walk that this building had a café and a music store on the ground floor, and professional offices higher up. Would some businessman hear the pounding of feet overhead?

She couldn’t just keep running. They were going to catch her.

Little needles of pain flickered through her legs and up her back. She’d jarred herself worse than she’d first thought. If she made it through this brutal encounter, she was going to look for a chiropractor. She shot past the access door to this building, rusted and not sitting straight in its frame. But by the time she stopped to open it—if she could open it—the men would be on her.

God, what am I doing?
She was soaring again, propelling herself off the roof and onto another, this time only a one-story drop. She’d kept the sword out this time and landed better, but the pain shooting up her legs was worse. She caught her breath and twisted around to see both brothers leaping, too. But one was a beat ahead of the other.

A chance…

She stepped to the edge of the roof and swung with all her strength, catching Gaetan across the stomach. The vest protected him from the edge of her blade, but not from the force she’d used. For a heartbeat he hung suspended, horror on his face, eyes so wide they threatened to pop out. Then he fell, hands flailing for any kind of purchase, but coming up with nothing. She’d managed to knock him far enough out that he couldn’t grab the edge of the building.

His scream was like fingernails raking a chalkboard, and Annja clamped her teeth shut at the sound of it. A dull thud against something metal followed.

“No!” his twin shouted, landing on the roof within an arm’s length of her. He looked over the side. “Gaetan! Gaetan, no!”

Annja used the precious moment to gain some distance, darting toward the center of the roof and another access door. She heard shouts in Spanish from below.

Across the street a window of a taller building flew open and a woman stuck her head out, shouting. Annja didn’t even try to understand what she said, but could tell the woman wasn’t looking at the ground where Gaetan had fallen. She was gazing at her and at the man charging her with both swords swinging.

Annja put her back against the access door, dropped a hand to the roof and caught her breath as both his swords passed through where she’d stood a breath ago.

“Murderer!” he shouted.

Annja didn’t answer, but slipped under his next swings, changing position with him so that now he had his back to the door.

“My brother! You killed him!” His rage was saving her, his attack uneven and his attempt at footwork off.

Annja parried each blow and then took the offensive, lunging and recovering, then lunging again, an unanticipated move that let her land a blow. But it was against his chest, her blade scraping the Kevlar and not hurting him.

“I don’t want to kill you,” she repeated.

His face twisted into a grotesque mask. “You’ll be joining my brother, bitch. You’ll be the one to die.” He extended his left arm with the saber and then swept at her with the katana.

She skittered back a few steps. Finally her wooziness had passed, but her head throbbed, her side ached from where she’d been slashed, and with each step it felt as if she was walking barefoot on glass. Annja had thought separating them would let her win. She’d thought she could take either one of them alone.

But this man was better than her, and he didn’t have her injuries.

“Why does Lawton want all these swords?” Annja’s words came out in a rush, revealing that she was winded. She needed this chance to catch her breath.

Her opponent leveled a sharp, controlled blow against her sword, not managing to knock it aside, but loosening her grip. She clamped both hands around the pommel in response and held tight as he followed through with the saber, bringing it down hard at an angle, as if chopping a piece of wood.

The woman across the street continued to shout, and other voices joined hers. Out of the corner of her eye, Annja saw several windows open and faces appear, some of the watchers waving frantically.

“Policía!”
She heard this repeatedly until the shouts were drowned out by the sound of approaching sirens.

Annja jockeyed for a better angle, thrusting low and trying to catch her opponent beneath his protective vest. She feinted and tried again, cutting his saber arm instead, when he brought it in for a failed parry.

Blood sprayed in an arc from his wound, and he cried out. But he didn’t drop either sword.

“Murderer! Bitch!” he raged. Then he struck with a compound attack, twin feints designed to catch her off guard. He hit her sword, nearly wresting it from her, and scored a second hit with the katana deep into her leg.

Annja dropped to her knees and slammed her teeth together to keep from screaming.

“Murderer!” he shouted, as he came at her once more, aiming for her throat this time.

She couldn’t ignore the pain, so she used it as fuel, driving her sword up like a spear, finding a seam in the Kevlar and pushing in.

He gasped and stepped away from her blade, dropping the saber and pressing his hand to the wound, all the while slashing at her with the katana, keeping her from stabbing him a second time.

The sirens wailed louder, and she heard the screech of tires. Car doors slam. He continued to swing at her with the weapon, but he was distracted, and his gaze flashed between Annja and the edge of the roof.

“They’ll come up here, the cops,” she said.

“Salope meurtre!”
he hissed, retreating to French.
“Je vais vous tuer!”

Maybe he didn’t know she was fluent in French, or maybe he was just railing at her in his native language.

“Vous allez mourir!”

“Everyone dies,” she replied. “I just don’t intend to today.” Despite the agony, she forced herself to stand, meeting his next blow, feinting and sliding her sword against the edge of the katana, catching one of the deeper nicks. She beat her sword against his, stepping in and standing on his dropped saber.

“How about you?” she asked. “Are you ready to die today?” She was ready to kill him. A part of her wanted to.

He swung the katana back, the tip touching the access door behind him. Before he could bring it forward, Annja moved lightning-fast, kicking high at his head, then kicking lower and ramming him in the stomach.

The air left his lungs, but he didn’t go down. He held his right leg back, but straightened the left, his heel catching her across the kneecap of her already wounded leg. Annja dropped again. Dizziness crashed over her, and she watched as he raised the katana once more.

He looked like an executioner.

She tried to bring her sword up to counter, tried to roll away.

Her sword…Joan’s sword. Would she die before she learned its name?

“Fichu!”
he cursed.

The access door behind him opened.

“Un autre jour!”
he called to Annja, as he whipped around, running across the roof, sheathing the katana as he went. Another day.

Annja saw him leap, and then blackness claimed her.