Rogue Angel 49: The Devil's Chord (8 page)

“It was a scratch.” She’d dampened his excitement and he was pouting. Treasure hunters. “I’m in. Tomorrow morning, same time as today?”

“Ten. See you at the boat. I’m going to head east. Why don’t you leave through the restaurant to give them the slip? Ciao, Creed.”

She turned as Scout took off, and eyed the two men standing in the corner. Thugs in suits. Her favorite kind. But were these goons really stalking her and Scout, or were they merely businessmen waiting for a table?

Deciding to give Scout the benefit of the doubt, she exited through the restaurant and noted one of the men did indeed follow Scout in the direction he had left, while the other...she could no longer see.

Chapter 7

Annja sprinted toward a courtyard, hoping that if she could attract the thugs’ attention by running, maybe the one guy wouldn’t follow Scout. Why she was feeling so chivalrous, she wasn’t sure. But she had a weapon and Scout probably did not. Both men were following her now and were gaining on her because she was only jogging, allowing them to catch up. There were only two of them. A number she could easily handle.

A line of hedges blocked her view of the courtyard that she knew of behind an old church. She wasn’t sure if the church was still in use, but she hoped the courtyard would be empty and provide a private place for whatever the thugs had in mind.

She sped up and leaped over the hedge, stretching one leg before her, and landed on the loose-pebbled grounds on the other side. She quickly tilted her body into a roll to compensate for the momentum. Coming up to stand, she waited for the thugs to follow suit.

The first veered right, while the second made the jump, landed right on top of the hedge and rolled off it into an ungraceful splay on the ground before her. But he was quick and hopped upright, displaying an agility that should have seen him over the hedge no problem.

He slashed a flat hand toward her neck. Annja bent backward, avoiding the strike. She let her shoulders drop and swung up to kick both his knees. That put him off balance and swearing a stream of Italian curses.

Standing, she stepped over him as he rolled on the ground, and kicked the back of his knee, ensuring the damage was painful. Jumping over him, she clutched his collar and punched his jaw. Blood spurted from his mouth. She dodged to avoid it. This time her boot toe landed at the side of his ribs, targeting the kidney. He yowled and begged her mercy.

“Really? Big tough guy running after a woman isn’t so sure about that move anymore? Sorry, but guys like you don’t deserve mercy.”

Another kidney shot reduced his ridiculous pleas to silence.

Annja turned, and though the night was dim, she saw every detail on the man who approached, holding his coat sides out to reveal a leather holster strung across his broad chest. And along that holster a line of throwing blades glinted menacingly.

“Not good,” Annja said under her breath.

The first blade soared toward her, and she dodged it, but felt it fly past her ear. While bent to the side, she called the sword to hand. Three feet of battle steel emerged within her grip. Energized by its presence, Annja blocked the next flying blade with the flat surface of her sword.

Two more blades soared toward her in rapid succession. She tilted the sword blade downward, preventing a blade from lodging in her calf. The next she felt cut through her sleeve at the shoulder, skimming her skin.

Not willing to stand there as a target, Annja charged the knife thrower. Even as he released another deadly weapon, she managed to deflect it to the side with a slash of her blade. She rammed into his chest with her shoulder, knocking him to the ground.

He, too, recovered quickly, but Annja also didn’t waste any time. Drilling her elbow into his ribs, she slid her sword down his arm, not cutting through his leather jacket, but at his bare hand she sliced skin and blood spilled out.

He yelled and cursed her.

“Who do you work for?” she asked.

He said something in a language she didn’t understand. It wasn’t Italian. Likely, he didn’t understand her, either.

She felt a blade cut along her wrist. How he’d gotten hold of one of his weapons, she wasn’t sure. Releasing him and pushing him away, Annja swung around, drawing her sword across his chest. It didn’t go in so deep she worried he’d die, but it was enough to drop him to his knees and stop his next move.

Striding away from him, Annja looked around but didn’t see the first thug she had too easily knocked out. He must have come to and was either hiding in the nearby hedges or had hightailed it out of the courtyard.

After taking in her surroundings, she determined it was only she and the blade man left. “Really? And here I was in the mood for a challenge.”

Not that the thug without a weapon would have offered her a challenge anyway.

Hearing the blade man’s body shuffle on the pebbled ground, Annja swung, gripping the thrown blade near her cheek. “Good one.”

She whipped it toward the thrower, landing it in his throat.

Striding off, knowing she wouldn’t get any information from the guy struggling to keep his voice box inside his body, she swept out an arm, releasing her sword into the otherwhere.

* * *

I
T
WAS
A
GOOD
THING
he hadn’t had an opportunity to reveal what the key was for back at the restaurant. Scout had sensed Annja Creed’s anger over not being told the whole story by Roux. That gave him a secret thrill. And proved that he’d successfully nudged a wedge between Roux and Annja. Or at least, he was beginning to.

When he’d accepted the job from Roux, he had not been told Miss Creed was going along for the dive. The surprise had not been welcome. To him or his other benefactor.

Now he had to think fast and smart. Which he could do. By nature, he was an obstacle jumper. Always prepared to leap when something came at him. There was nothing he couldn’t jump over or climb under or even slither between and out the other end.

Nothing but a woman scorned. He’d have to avoid Creed’s questions when next they met. She was curious. Though if she didn’t ask for details, that might bother him even more.

He opened the package he’d gotten in the market after ditching the thug and sorted through the contents in the palazzo kitchen where he was staying. He wasn’t hungry, so he tossed the carrots and yogurt he’d also bought in the fridge. He wasn’t sure why he’d bought the things. He preferred to eat out; much easier than actually having to prepare a meal.

Opening the cupboards, he browsed through the clear canisters of pastas and rices and spied a few boxes of loose tea stocked by the resident.

“Excellent.”

Now to revoke Annja Creed’s babysitting privileges.

Chapter 8

After three days of no contact, Roux finally answered his phone. Annja didn’t bother castigating him for his inattentiveness. It was the man’s style. And it could be a means of exerting his control. Likely that was the reason, so an argument wasn’t worth the wasted breath.

Foregoing niceties, she asked, “Tell me everything about the Lorraine cross. Everything that you, a man who possesses intimate details from the time period, would know.”

Clearing his throat, Roux complied. A refreshing change from his usual dodgy tactics.

Roux had known René d’Anjou since the Jeanne d’Arc days, but hadn’t spent any amount of time with him until decades later when d’Anjou had been in the midst of his quest to further the Renaissance. They’d initially hit it off, as Roux had noted the man’s genuine interest in promoting education, which at that time had only been available to the clergy and wealthy, privileged men. They had become enemies only after d’Anjou was thought to have been hiding important valued items, possibly for his own gain.

“So you’re telling me René d’Anjou may or may not have been entitled to the cross from Joan of Arc?” Annja asked.

“Whether he was or not, I don’t think it matters now. What does is returning the cross to the proper authorities. In this case, the museum from which it was stolen.”

Annja couldn’t stop her laughter and she almost felt bad as it continued to roll out. Roux was not this man talking to her on the phone right now. He was a collector who cared not for a thing’s origins, only that he owned a specific treasure and had trekked the world to obtain it.

“Fine, you want to do good?” she asked. “I’ll let that selfless admonition hang out there for you to consider. But Scout seems to think the cross is a key to something.”

Roux was the one laughing now, which was more a gentlemanly chuckle. “A key? To what? Did he say?”

“Actually, he didn’t have time. We had to split ways and divert the thugs who were after us.”

“That’s my Annja Creed. Always attracting the riffraff.”

“You joke about it, but who else knows about this dive for the cross? There have been two attempts on my life in two days. Not to mention the close brush with a harpoon Scout had the first day of the dive.”

“Annja, really?”

She sensed his concern, which surprised her. “Did you think you were really sending me on a mere babysitting mission?”

“Yes. I mean... Well...” Caught in a lie. Roux sighed. “Yes. I don’t know Roberts. And I do trust you. It was necessary. But you were able to get rid of the tail?”

“Yes. But I wasn’t able to have a chat with them between punches to learn their intentions. Do you think they could be following the bread crumbs from the museum heist? Of which, I have yet to receive the police reports. Can you fix that?”

“I...will get my hands on them. Scout said he’d gleaned a few details from them, but that none were helpful. The exact location of where the attaché had been dropped was not noted by the police. But it did place you in the correct canal, yes?”

“Yes. I’d still like to look over the actual reports, though.”

“I’ll get on it and will email them to you.”

“I’d appreciate that. Do you know what the key is for, Roux?”

“I’m looking for a cross, Annja.”

“Yeah, well, I’m surprised you brought me in on this project. The cross was stolen from a museum. You know what I will do as soon as I get my hands on the thing.”

“Yes, you’ll see to returning it to the museum.”

“If and when it is found, the cross remains in my care at all times. Can you agree to that?”

“I will need to examine it, look it over. Else what worth is this expedition?”

Annja sighed.

The man was not going to make this easy, and she knew his agreement to let her deal with the cross would be null and void as soon as the old man had control of the artifact. She was stepping into dangerous territory with this one.

“I’m okay with that,” she said. “But I will be standing right there when you look it over.”

“Excellent.”

“It doesn’t end here in Venice, does it, Roux?”

“Let’s just stay en pointe, shall we? You’ve yet to find the cross, so until then, every promise toward future actions is only conjecture.”

“Spoken like a man who has a plan. I need you to help me by listing any names of persons you believe could also have an interest in the cross. Scout seems oblivious to the danger.”

“He is a rather cocky sort. I’ll give it some thought, Annja, but I honestly have no idea. Scout came to me—”

“Yes, I’m glad you mentioned that previously. Here I thought this dive was your idea and that you had hired him. So you joined forces with a random treasure hunter who knew you had an interest in Joan of Arc? Did you bother to look into how Scout Roberts learned so much about you?”

“It was after an auction featuring a sword from Joan’s army. Nothing of hers, unfortunately. Roberts approached me and made an assumption that was correct. Are you going to fault him for that?”

“Hey, I’m just the babysitter. You’re the one with the reputation, and history, to protect. I’m due at the dive site in half an hour. If there’s nothing else you can give me now, I’ll talk to you later. Oh, uh, weren’t you going to meet me here in Venice?”

“I find that I am detained at the moment.”

That could imply any number of situations, of which more than a few could be illegal. Annja did not want to consider the options.

“I should be there by Friday, at the latest.”

“That’s two more days. If we find the cross, you know I’ll get itchy sitting on it.”

“I do know that. But I also know that you are a curious woman. Oh, I got a text from Scout regarding the cameraman.”

“You okayed Ian’s coming along.”

“Right, but I don’t want this expedition showing up on your television show.”

“I’m not going to make any promises.”

“You know I can confiscate any and all footage.”

Yes, and he’d do it without her or Ian being aware until it was too late.

“I know of your need for privacy and to keep out of the media’s spotlight. Your name will never be mentioned, I can promise that.”

“Not good enough.”

“Well, it’s going to have to be. Goodbye, Roux.”

She hung up and guessed what she wasn’t hearing right now were Roux’s curses. The only one who could tell her what she could and could not film for the show was Doug Morrell, and he was only ever concerned with the bottom line.

Annja wasn’t sure this fruitless hunt was going to provide that ratings jolt Doug loved so much.

She checked her email and found Bart McGilly had replied.

Hey, Annja, long time no type. We need to get together soon. Tito’s? Let’s make a date for next month. Okay?

She would try her hardest to make that date. Tito’s served up the best Cuban cuisine in the States. And Bart’s company was always fun and interesting. They were both members of the gym not far from where she lived in Brooklyn. They boxed a few rounds on occasion. He was a good guy.

Sorry, but I wasn’t able to access the case files you requested. They belong to Interpol. Out of my jurisdiction. You in trouble?

She replied that she was not in trouble and was, in fact, chasing mermaids in Italy. Close to the truth was always best with Bart. He knew she hosted the show about “weird things.”

She signed off with a
See you next month.

* * *

Milan, 1488

F
OLLOWING
THE
AUSPICIOUS
meeting in the tavern, Roux observed Leonardo da Vinci’s comings and goings for days. Prior to that night, he had not known that man was the painter and inventor so many talked about, but Roux had certainly recognized his genius in the few sketches he’d shown him in the little notebook he’d kept at his belt.

Roux’s travels had taken him across Italy the past month, and so a few days’ rest was opportune. His horse had taken a stone in a back hoof, which required the farrier to fit him with new shoes. The beast would require a day or two of rest if the stone had wedged in deep. Beyond that, he had no pressing business in Milan besides ensuring he not leave without the piece of Jeanne d’Arc’s sword Leonardo had mentioned.

Could it possibly be? If it had come from René d’Anjou’s hands, there could be little doubt of its authenticity.

Since the execution of the Maid of Orléans, Roux’s life had changed dramatically in so many ways. He admitted that there were some things he simply knew he must pursue, such as collecting the sword pieces. He must gather them all until— Well, he wasn’t sure what would happen when finally he did have all the pieces, but he understood it would be important.

His future stretched long and far ahead of him. He felt it in his soul. He had no explanation for it beyond that, yet he could accept it as a strange destiny that had befallen him that heinous afternoon of Jeanne’s death.

Now he slipped around the corner of a butcher shop buzzing with big black flies and hastened his steps to follow the man in the velvet tunic who marched away from the city. Nothing but wheat fields and hovels stood outside the gates. And the burial site where new mausoleums were erected daily.

Leonardo rarely left his studio, usually only for food or drink. Roux had found a convenient, discreet post from which he could keep an eye on things.

This morning, Leonardo had purchased paint from the color man—a bit of verdigris and a pale yellow Roux hadn’t a name for—and now, with dusk falling on the town, the painter walked along its busy streets.

Roux had decided wherever the man kept his treasures it was not in his studio, which was open all day to the public and his students. It seemed everyone was allowed to browse among the students at work or look over finished pieces for sale. Leonardo’s sleeping quarters were merely sectioned off with a curtain; no privacy whatsoever. Certainly no place to keep valuables.

Perhaps tonight Leonardo would lead him to the spot? It wasn’t long before Roux discovered the man’s destination.

The cemetery was eerily quiet and Leonardo did not look back as he wandered down a wide aisle toward a mausoleum on the north end beneath a copse of oak trees.

Roux held off, squatting between two gravestones, one frosted in verdant moss, the other new, for the name carved in its surface held a sharp edge. The fetid air did not agree with him, and he wished he’d brought along a clove sachet but then dismissed it as another foul situation he must endure. He was tired and hadn’t eaten since morning.

The man’s whistling echoed through the air. The painter was jovial and frenetic, always jumping from one idea to the next. As he’d explained, the notebook he kept secured at his hip with a length of braided leather provided the means to catalog his stream of creative ideas and thoughts.

Roux didn’t think he’d ever need to worry about having so much on his mind he must write it down to make room for it all. Despite his lacking position in a military or a royal court, he did have a focus. And he would not waver.

Moments passed, and the painter strolled by Roux’s hiding spot, which wasn’t concealed, yet Leonardo did not notice him, for the shadows had fallen over Roux’s brown tunic and pants. The painter jingled coins in his purse. A jingle Roux had not heard previously. For as sought after a painter as he was, he didn’t seem to reap many rewards for such work. Roux suspected the man was in debt.

When Leonardo reached the edge of the cemetery and silence hung over the place as if covered by a shroud, Roux snuck down the aisle to the mausoleum that the painter had visited. The narrow building that but a single man might stand inside was fronted by an iron door featuring a cut-out cross in the metal.

Roux pushed against the door and it gave. Not locked. But then, he didn’t see a means to secure even a padlock. He entered the dry, dirt-tainted air of the small chamber. The walls boasted burial drawers, something new he’d not seen until now. The darkness would not allow him to read the inscriptions, so he ran his fingers over the words and names carved into the stone.

Well, that didn’t help, either. Didn’t matter. He cast his gaze about the dark room, but didn’t see any handles or rings to open the sarcophagi. He tested the floor with some bounces on his boots. Oftentimes there was a chamber beneath for more burials. Felt solid.

A sweep of his hand along the front of a stone bench revealed a keyhole.

Roux cursed.

Stepping outside the mausoleum, Roux pulled off his hat and cast a glance at the starry sky. Now he would be forced to pinch the key from Leonardo da Vinci’s home.

He was not a thief.

Until he must be.

Roux made his way back toward the city, well aware of the shadowy presence that tracked a number of paces behind him. He didn’t have to wonder if it were a footpad or cutthroat. Some devils were impossible to shake. And this one in particular had been on his backside for years.