followed with rakes to sweep sand over the blood so as not to spook the next bull.
Annja knew Spaniards were zealous about their national pastime. More than a pastime, it was a sport highly revered throughout the ages. Though the sides for and against bullfighting were equally passionate. She’d watched a few bullfights on YouTube and found she could relate to the art of the fight, yet she couldn’t help but want to look away when it came time for the kill.
Garin tipped his cigar to her before the next fight. The man possessed a wicked charisma. Yet with his twisted morals, he wore the costume of a villain as easily as the hero.
Annja winced. Hero was too powerful a label to give the man. It was also a label used too often and easily by the media. Real heroes never expected to be recognized for a brave act. At his best, Garin Braden tended toward helpful citizen. At his worst? She did not want to be in his vicinity.
The man was an enigma. He’d lived for more than five hundred years thanks to the sword she controlled. He was connected to the battle sword, having been there when Joan of Arc had been burned at the stake. He’d witnessed the British soldier break her sword and scatter the pieces among the crowd who had damned Joan and made her a martyr through their own ignorance.
For some reason Garin and his friend Roux, whom Garin had been apprentice to at the time of Joan of Arc’s burning, had both obtained immortality that fateful day. And a lifelong connection to the ineffable sword.
The two men had tracked the pieces over the centuries, and when finally the last piece had been placed, Annja had touched the sword—and as it had become whole, it had also become a part of her. She had not asked for possession of such an object, nor had she anticipated anything of the sort. But now that she did wield the sword, she did so as if it had always been meant for her. It was, in fact, her destiny. Only she could bring it forth from the otherwhere, and as soon as she released it, it was made intangible once again, unless she allowed another to hold it. Then the battle sword would maintain its solid state until she decided it should not. She couldn’t explain the innate process even if a gang of terrorists held AK-47s to her heart. That was just how it worked.
Garin wanted the sword—hell, she’d let him hold it for a few moments of wonder—but she hadn’t decided if it was because he believed keeping it whole would render him mortal or if breaking it would ensure his continued immortality.
Either way, she never let down her guard around Garin Braden.
She accepted the beer he offered her, which had been delivered to his hands moments after they sat down. Obviously, he held some status here. Then again, the man could make things happen no matter where he was. That wasn’t incomprehensible magic, but rather confident command honed over centuries.
She hadn’t taken time to shower after he’d dropped her at the hotel, she’d been so involved in research. She still wore the ponytail she’d hastily tied back this morning after her escape from the hostel, which had dried tightly and was probably looking pretty scrappy right now. Add to that her dark, loose camo pants, standard wear for Annja Creed, adventurer and archaeologist, and a T-shirt. Garin was just lucky she hadn’t dug her boonie hat out of the backpack. But from where they sat the sun promised to stay out of her eyes.
“So how is it you always manage to stumble upon dead bodies, Annja? That’s, what? Two in one day.” He tilted his beer bottle to her in salute, then swallowed down half.
“I think I have a kind of dead-body radar, actually. It does kick in more often than not. I’m never to blame, of course.”
“Course not. Not my sword-wielding adventuress. How is the sword, by the by?”
“True, straight and always there when I need it.”
“They say the man in the hotel room was killed by a sword.”
“Really? Why didn’t you mention
Annja knew Spaniards were zealous about their national pastime. More than a pastime, it was a sport highly revered throughout the ages. Though the sides for and against bullfighting were equally passionate. She’d watched a few bullfights on YouTube and found she could relate to the art of the fight, yet she couldn’t help but want to look away when it came time for the kill.
Garin tipped his cigar to her before the next fight. The man possessed a wicked charisma. Yet with his twisted morals, he wore the costume of a villain as easily as the hero.
Annja winced. Hero was too powerful a label to give the man. It was also a label used too often and easily by the media. Real heroes never expected to be recognized for a brave act. At his best, Garin Braden tended toward helpful citizen. At his worst? She did not want to be in his vicinity.
The man was an enigma. He’d lived for more than five hundred years thanks to the sword she controlled. He was connected to the battle sword, having been there when Joan of Arc had been burned at the stake. He’d witnessed the British soldier break her sword and scatter the pieces among the crowd who had damned Joan and made her a martyr through their own ignorance.
For some reason Garin and his friend Roux, whom Garin had been apprentice to at the time of Joan of Arc’s burning, had both obtained immortality that fateful day. And a lifelong connection to the ineffable sword.
The two men had tracked the pieces over the centuries, and when finally the last piece had been placed, Annja had touched the sword—and as it had become whole, it had also become a part of her. She had not asked for possession of such an object, nor had she anticipated anything of the sort. But now that she did wield the sword, she did so as if it had always been meant for her. It was, in fact, her destiny. Only she could bring it forth from the otherwhere, and as soon as she released it, it was made intangible once again, unless she allowed another to hold it. Then the battle sword would maintain its solid state until she decided it should not. She couldn’t explain the innate process even if a gang of terrorists held AK-47s to her heart. That was just how it worked.
Garin wanted the sword—hell, she’d let him hold it for a few moments of wonder—but she hadn’t decided if it was because he believed keeping it whole would render him mortal or if breaking it would ensure his continued immortality.
Either way, she never let down her guard around Garin Braden.
She accepted the beer he offered her, which had been delivered to his hands moments after they sat down. Obviously, he held some status here. Then again, the man could make things happen no matter where he was. That wasn’t incomprehensible magic, but rather confident command honed over centuries.
She hadn’t taken time to shower after he’d dropped her at the hotel, she’d been so involved in research. She still wore the ponytail she’d hastily tied back this morning after her escape from the hostel, which had dried tightly and was probably looking pretty scrappy right now. Add to that her dark, loose camo pants, standard wear for Annja Creed, adventurer and archaeologist, and a T-shirt. Garin was just lucky she hadn’t dug her boonie hat out of the backpack. But from where they sat the sun promised to stay out of her eyes.
“So how is it you always manage to stumble upon dead bodies, Annja? That’s, what? Two in one day.” He tilted his beer bottle to her in salute, then swallowed down half.
“I think I have a kind of dead-body radar, actually. It does kick in more often than not. I’m never to blame, of course.”
“Course not. Not my sword-wielding adventuress. How is the sword, by the by?”
“True, straight and always there when I need it.”
“They say the man in the hotel room was killed by a sword.”
“Really? Why didn’t you mention
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