stared blindly at Wesley. A few leaves were tucked in the dirty blond strands of her tangled hair. Her fingers and palms were dirty, as well as the knees of her khaki pants. All in all, though, she looked healthy; maybe she’d just taken a stumble in the dirt.
Annja recalled what Daniel had said about her disappearance. She had been missing a little over thirty-six hours.
“Who took you?” someone called out from the crowd.
“Yes.” Annja stepped forward and addressed the woman. “Do you know what happened? Who took you? Or did you get lost?”
Beth looked up and when Annja thought the frail, shaking woman was looking into her eyes she realized she was focused just over her shoulder—where Eric stood with the camera.
“The fair folk,” the woman said.
The crowd nodded, muttering that they knew it. Didn’t want to believe it, but now it was a sure thing.
Annja turned to Eric and rolled her eyes at the camera. “Cut,” she said.
6
Garin left the details of landing at the airport to his pilot. The man had never failed him, and always managed to land within minutes of his estimated arrival time.
Garin planned to send his luggage directly to his Manhattan penthouse because he was headed straight for the auction house.
Strolling toward customs, Garin mused over why he’d jumped so quickly at the snap of Roux’s fingers. He didn’t usually allow the old man to order him about. Hell, for more than five hundred years the two of them had embraced a sort of unavoidable acceptance of the other. Because they were the only five-hundred-year-old men walking the earth these days. They had a connection that neither would deny, and when one truly needed the other, all petty disagreements were overlooked.
And if Roux thought Annja would appreciate the Fouquet, then Garin could see that—much as he never wanted to look at that painting again. Obtaining it would be no problem. So long as he made the auction in time.
He checked his watch. Bidding didn’t start for another hour and a half. The limo could have him there in forty-five minutes.
Annja Creed. Now there was a remarkable woman. She put the woman Garin had left in his bed to shame. There was simply no comparison between the two.
Annja was a breed apart from the sort of women with whom Garin surrounded himself. She would never allow any man to push her around, to make assumptions regarding her willingness to please and/or serve him. Smart, sexy and adventurous, she also owned the one thing that kept Garin up some nights.
The sword once wielded by Joan of Arc.
It was a sword Garin had seen in use by the sainted young woman, for he had been apprentice to Roux when the man had been appointed to guard Jeanne d’Arc. For some reason, after the sword had been wrested away from the Maid of Orléans and shattered, Garin and Roux had become immortal. He didn’t know why, but he’d accepted the gift for what it was. Who wouldn’t accept immortality?
But now that the sword had been put together and Annja wielded it as if a mystical extension of Jeanne’s will—what then?
Garin couldn’t be sure if his immortality had been lost. He didn’t feel older. It had only been a few years since Annja had taken possession of the sword. And Lord knows he’d tried to take it from her, to smash it, and put things back the way they should be. But he couldn’t.
Out of Annja’s hands the sword would not remain solid, unless she willed it so. She could hand it to him to look over, if she wished—and she had. But she did not trust him to do anything more than quickly inspect the thing. And she shouldn’t.
But would he really break the thing should he again be given the opportunity? Some days he wasn’t so sure. Gaining Annja’s respect overwhelmed any desire to push her away as a result of stealing from her. He sincerely wanted to know her. To experience her in ways that not only included the flesh, but the mind and soul, as well. She fascinated him.
Very few
Annja recalled what Daniel had said about her disappearance. She had been missing a little over thirty-six hours.
“Who took you?” someone called out from the crowd.
“Yes.” Annja stepped forward and addressed the woman. “Do you know what happened? Who took you? Or did you get lost?”
Beth looked up and when Annja thought the frail, shaking woman was looking into her eyes she realized she was focused just over her shoulder—where Eric stood with the camera.
“The fair folk,” the woman said.
The crowd nodded, muttering that they knew it. Didn’t want to believe it, but now it was a sure thing.
Annja turned to Eric and rolled her eyes at the camera. “Cut,” she said.
6
Garin left the details of landing at the airport to his pilot. The man had never failed him, and always managed to land within minutes of his estimated arrival time.
Garin planned to send his luggage directly to his Manhattan penthouse because he was headed straight for the auction house.
Strolling toward customs, Garin mused over why he’d jumped so quickly at the snap of Roux’s fingers. He didn’t usually allow the old man to order him about. Hell, for more than five hundred years the two of them had embraced a sort of unavoidable acceptance of the other. Because they were the only five-hundred-year-old men walking the earth these days. They had a connection that neither would deny, and when one truly needed the other, all petty disagreements were overlooked.
And if Roux thought Annja would appreciate the Fouquet, then Garin could see that—much as he never wanted to look at that painting again. Obtaining it would be no problem. So long as he made the auction in time.
He checked his watch. Bidding didn’t start for another hour and a half. The limo could have him there in forty-five minutes.
Annja Creed. Now there was a remarkable woman. She put the woman Garin had left in his bed to shame. There was simply no comparison between the two.
Annja was a breed apart from the sort of women with whom Garin surrounded himself. She would never allow any man to push her around, to make assumptions regarding her willingness to please and/or serve him. Smart, sexy and adventurous, she also owned the one thing that kept Garin up some nights.
The sword once wielded by Joan of Arc.
It was a sword Garin had seen in use by the sainted young woman, for he had been apprentice to Roux when the man had been appointed to guard Jeanne d’Arc. For some reason, after the sword had been wrested away from the Maid of Orléans and shattered, Garin and Roux had become immortal. He didn’t know why, but he’d accepted the gift for what it was. Who wouldn’t accept immortality?
But now that the sword had been put together and Annja wielded it as if a mystical extension of Jeanne’s will—what then?
Garin couldn’t be sure if his immortality had been lost. He didn’t feel older. It had only been a few years since Annja had taken possession of the sword. And Lord knows he’d tried to take it from her, to smash it, and put things back the way they should be. But he couldn’t.
Out of Annja’s hands the sword would not remain solid, unless she willed it so. She could hand it to him to look over, if she wished—and she had. But she did not trust him to do anything more than quickly inspect the thing. And she shouldn’t.
But would he really break the thing should he again be given the opportunity? Some days he wasn’t so sure. Gaining Annja’s respect overwhelmed any desire to push her away as a result of stealing from her. He sincerely wanted to know her. To experience her in ways that not only included the flesh, but the mind and soul, as well. She fascinated him.
Very few
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