Текст книги "Destiny "

Автор книги: Алекс Арчер

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

Chapter 20

"SIXTY-THREE YEARS ago," Bart McGilley went on, "a woman was found dead in a hotel room in Los Angeles. She worked for MGM studios. Bought set pieces. Stuff they used in the backgrounds to make a scene more real."

"Anyway, from the way everything looks, this woman, Doris Cooper, age twenty-eight and an L.A. resident, was murdered for one of the things she bought."

"What was it?" Annja felt a sudden chill.

Bart shrugged. "Nobody knows. Nobody knew what she'd bought that day. The detectives working the case didn't follow up all that well. During the heyday of the movies back then, the death of a set designer only got a splash of ink, not a river of it."

"She was a nobody," Annja said, knowing the sad truth of how things had gone.

"Right."

Annja wondered if Roux was the type to kill a woman in cold blood. It didn't take her long to reach the conclusion that he was – if he was properly motivated. She was doubly glad that she hadn't followed Roux and Garin. Their talking about having lived five hundred years was already weird enough without also thinking of them as murderers.

"Those fingerprints popped up on a computer search?" Annja asked.

"At Interpol," Bart replied. "They're called friction ridges in cop speak, by the way. Back in the day, so the story goes, the L.A. investigators thought maybe the guy was from out of the country. On account of how Doris Cooper bought a lot of things from overseas. So they sent the friction ridges over to Interpol. After you sent them to me, I sent them on, thinking maybe you were looking for an international guy."

"Interpol happened to have the fingerprints of a sixty-three-year-old murder suspect?"

Bart blew out his breath. "Interpol has a lot of information. That's why they're a clearinghouse for international crimes. They've gone almost totally digital. Searchable databases. You get a professional out there in the world doing bad stuff, they've got a way to catch them. This case was one of those they'd archived."

"There's no doubt about the prints?"

Bart shook his head. "I had one of our forensics guys match them up for me. When I saw what I saw, that these friction ridges belonged to the suspect on a sixty-three-year-old murder, I knew I wanted a professional pair of eyes on that ten-card."

"Was there a name attached to the friction ridges?"

"No."

Two of Maria's cooks arrived with steaming plates of food. They placed them on the table in quick order and departed.

Annja's curiosity didn't get in the way of her appetite. Laying a tortilla on her plate, she quickly loaded it with meat, tomatoes, peppers, onions, lettuce and cheese.

"So this guy you printed," Bart said, "he was what? Eighty or ninety?"

He didn't look it, Annja thought. She would have guessed Roux was in his early sixties, but no more. During the shoot-out with the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain, he hadn't moved like even a sixtysomething-year-old man.

"I found the fingerprints on a coin," Annja said truthfully. She didn't want to mention that the coin was of recent vintage.

"So you thought you'd send them along to me?" Bart shook his head. "You had more reason than that."

Annja looked at her friend, thought about him getting married and realized that she truly hoped things didn't change between them. She knew one of the things that would change their relationship, though, was a lie.

"I was given the coin by a man in France," she told him. "He swapped it, while I wasn't looking, for a charm I'd found."

"Was the charm valuable?"

"Maybe. It was made out of hammered steel, not gold or silver. Not even copper. I haven't even found a historical significance yet." Annja couldn't tell him that it had been part of a sword that Roux had claimed once belonged to Joan of Arc.

Bart took a small notebook from inside his jacket. "Did you get his name?"

"Roux," she answered. "I'm not even sure of the spelling."

He wrote anyway. "No address?"

Annja thought of the big house butted up against the hill outside Paris. She'd never seen an address and Garin had never mentioned one.

"No," she said. "No address."

Bart sighed and closed the notebook. "I can ask Interpol to look up records on this guy. Maybe we'll get a hit on something."

"Sure," Annja said. Curiosity nagged at her. Roux was wanted in connection with a sixty-three-year-old murder. She wondered what other information the old man was hiding. She was glad that she was out of France and far away from him.

Annja spent the afternoon putting together the video on La Bête. She used the software on her desktop computer, loading up the video footage of Lozère, the books she'd cribbed for pictures and drawings of what the Beast of Gévaudan might have looked like, and the digital pictures she'd taken of the creature in the cave.

Using the green screen setup in one corner of the loft, she filmed different intros for the segment, a couple of closings, and completed the voice-overs. When she had it all together, it was late and she was tired.

She watched the completed video and timed it. Chasing History's Monstersgenerally only allowed nine to ten minutes per segment, allowing for setup by the host and the ensuing commercials.

So far, she was three minutes over but knew with work she could cut that down.

Okay, she told herself, all work and no play makes Annja a dull woman.

After grabbing a quick shower and a change of clothes, she packed her gym bag and headed out of the loft.

Eddie's Gym was an old-school workout place. Boxers exercised and trained there, smashing the heavy bag then each other in the ring. It had concrete floors, unfinished walls, and trendy exercise machines had never taken up residence there. Free weights clanked and thundered as lifters worked in rotation with their spotters.

It was a place where men went to sweat and burn out the anger and frustration of the day. Young fighters learned the intricacies of the fighting craft and the statesmanship necessary to sweep the ring and move up on a fight card. No one tanned there, and hot water in the showers was a random thing.

There really was an Eddie and he and another old ex-boxer had each been Golden Gloves and fought professionally for a time. They owned the place outright and didn't suffer poseurs or wannabes with no skill.

Training wasn't part of what a membership bought. That was given to those deserving few who caught the eye of Eddie and his cronies.

Occasionally, young men who had seen Fight Clubtoo many times came into the club and tried to prove they were as tough as Brad Pitt or Edward Norton. The regulars, never very tolerant, quickly sent the newbies packing with split lips and black eyes.

Eddie's was all about survival of the fittest. Annja liked to go there because it felt real, not like one of the upscale fitness clubs that were more about the right kind of clothing and the favorite smoothie flavor of the week.

When she'd first started working out there, she'd had trouble with some of the men. Eddie hadn't wanted her around because he didn't want the complication.

But she'd stood her ground and won the old man over with her knowledge of boxing. The knowledge was a newly acquired thing because she'd liked the gym, had wanted to work out there and did her homework. She also worked out at a couple of martial-arts dojos, but she preferred the atmosphere at Eddie's. She was a regular now and had nothing to prove.

"Girl," Eddie said as he held the heavy bag for her, "you musta been eatin' your Wheaties. You're pounding the hell outta this bag more than ever before."

Annja hit the bag one last time, snapping and turning the punch as Eddie had taught her.

"You're just getting weak," Annja chided playfully.

"The hell I am!" Eddie roared.

Annja grinned at him and mopped sweat from her face with a towel hung over a nearby chair. She wore black sweatpants and a sleeveless red shirt that advertised Eddie's Gym across it in bold yellow letters. Boxing shoes and gloves completed her ensemble.

Eddie claimed he was sixty, but Annja knew he was lying away ten years. The ex-boxer was black as coal, skinny as a rake, but still carried the broad shoulders that had framed him as a light heavyweight. Gray stubble covered his jaw and upper lip. His dark eyes were warm and liquid. Boxing had gnarled his ears and left dark scars under his eyes. When he grinned, which was often, he showed a lot of gold caps. He wore gray sweatpants, one of his red shirts and a dark navy hoodie. He kept his head shaved.

"Don't tell me you just dissed me in my own place of business!" Eddie shouted.

"You're the one who said he was having trouble hanging on to the bag," Annja reminded him. He sounded mad, but she knew it was all an act. Eddie was loud and proud, but she liked him and knew that the feeling was reciprocated.

"Girl, you're hittin' harder than I ever seen you hit. What have you been doin'?"

"Archaeology." Annja shrugged.

Eddie waved that away. He looked at her. "You don't look no different."

"I'm not." Annja mopped her arms. "Maybe you're just having an off day."

"I told people I had an off day when I fought Cassius Clay. The truth of the matter was that man hit me so hard I couldn't count to two." Eddie picked up a towel and wiped down, as well. "But something's different about you."

Annja shrugged. "I just feel good, Eddie. That's all."

"Humph," he said, looking at her through narrowed eyes. "Usually when you come back from one of your trips, it takes you a little while to get back to peak conditioning."

"I do my roadwork and keep my legs strong wherever I go," she replied. But she knew what he was talking about. Tonight's workout had seemed almost… easy.

She'd done plenty of jump rope, the speed bag and the heavy bag, a serious weight rotation with more weight and more reps than she'd ever put up before. Something was different. Because even after all of that she felt as if she could do it all again.

Eddie stood by his office with his arms folded and stared at the young black man in headgear beating on a guy who couldn't seem to hold his own against his opponent. Annja had noticed the guy, watching the sadistic way he'd beaten the other fighter.

"Who's the new fighter?" she asked.

Eddie shook his head. "Trouble."

"Does he have another name?" Annja watched as the fighter knocked his opponent down again.

Three men about the fighter's age all clapped and cheered the fighter's latest triumph.

"Name's Keshawn. He says he's a businessman." Eddie didn't sound ready to give the young man an endorsement.

Annja took in the tattoos marking the fighter's arms and legs. "He looks like a banger," she said.

"He is," Eddie agreed. "Knew him when he was little. Had a heart then. It all turned bad now. He keeps doin' what he's doin', he'll be dead or locked away in a couple years."

This time the other guy in the ring couldn't get to his feet. Keshawn's hangers-on cracked up, cheered and threw invective at the man.

Keshawn turned to Eddie and spit out his mouthpiece. "Hey, old man!" he yelled. "You sure you ain't got nobody that'll spar with me? Just a couple rounds? I promise I won't hurt 'em much." Arrogance and challenge radiated in him like an electric current.

The other boxers working the rotations didn't respond.

"Anybody?" Keshawn gazed around the club. "I got a thousand dollars says nobody here can put me outta this ring."

"It time for you to go, boy," Eddie said. "Your ring time is up."

Keshawn beat his chest with his gloves. "I'll fight anybody who wants this ring."

Eddie walked toward the ring. "That ain't my agreement with you, boy. You paid for time, you took your time. Now you haul your ass outta my place."

A cocky grin twisted Keshawn's lips. "You best stop callin' me 'boy,' old man. I might start takin' it personal."

Annja stepped behind Eddie, staying slightly to his right.

"Go on," Eddie growled. "Get outta here."

Releasing his hold on the ring ropes, Keshawn skipped out to the middle of the ring and took up a fighting stance. "You want this ring, old man?" He waved one of his gloves in invitation. "Come take it from me."

Eddie cursed the younger man soundly, not holding back in any way. "You best come on down outta there."

"You best not come up in here after me," Keshawn warned. He was over six feet, at least two hundred pounds and cut by steroids. His hair was blocked and he wore a pencil-thin mustache. He grinned and slammed his gloves together. "You'll get yourself hurt, old man."

Eddie started to climb up into the ring.

Annja caught the old man's arm. "Call the police. You don't need to go in there."

"This is my place, Annja," he told her fiercely. "I don't stand up for what's mine, I might as well pack up and go sit in an old folks' home." He shrugged out of her grip and slid between the ropes.

Keshawn smiled more broadly and started skipping, showing off his footwork. "You think you got somethin' for me, old man?"

Annja caught hold of the ropes and stood at the ring's edge. The confrontation had drawn the attention of the rest of the club's regulars. No one appeared ready to intercede, though. Annja hoped someone had called the police, but she didn't want to leave long enough to go to her locker for her cell phone.

Slowly, hands at his sides, Eddie walked toward the younger man. "I told you to get outta here, boy. I meant what I said."

Keshawn danced away from Eddie. "They say you used to be somethin' to see, old man. Were you really? Were you a good boxer?"

Eddie moved so fast that even Annja, who had been expecting it, almost didn't see it. He fired a jab straight into Keshawn's face, slipping past the headgear and popping the younger man in the nose.

Surprised, Keshawn staggered back. He cursed virulently. Holding a glove to his nose, he snorted bloody mucus onto the canvas. Crimson ran down his face. "You're gonna pay for that, old man."

"I told you to get out," Eddie said. Although his opponent was taller and bigger and at least forty years younger, there was no fear in the old boxer. "You best listen to your elders. Somethin' you shoulda learned at your granny's knee."

Without a word, Keshawn attacked. For a minute, no more, Eddie withstood the flurry of blows, tucking his elbows in and keeping his curled fists up beside his head to protect his face. He even managed a few punches of his own, but Keshawn blocked them or shook them off, in the full grip of rage.

In seconds, Keshawn had the old boxer penned in the corner and was beating and kicking him.

Annja used her teeth to unlace her gloves, then shook them off. Other gym members started to move in, but Keshawn's hangers-on held them back.

Annja rolled under the ropes and onto the canvas before anyone could stop her. Coming up behind Keshawn, she kicked the gangbanger's legs out from under him and pulled him away from Eddie.

"You shouldn't a done that," Eddie whispered, barely able to hang on to the ropes. "Should've stayed outta this, Annja."

Annja didn't say anything. There had been no choice. She turned as she sensed Keshawn moving behind her.

"Don't know who you are, white girl," the big man said, "but this sure ain't any business of yours."

"Somebody's called the cops by now," Annja said, lifting her hands to defend herself. "If you stay here, you're just going to get arrested."

Fear wriggled inside her. She felt it. She breathed in and out, concentrating on that, keeping herself ready. Reading his body language, she knew exactly when he was going to throw the first punch.

Chapter 21

KESHAWN THREW A jab with his left hand.

Twisting, Annja dodged the blow, letting it fly past her head to the left. At the same time, she brought her right hand up and slammed the Y between her thumb and her forefinger into the base of her attacker's throat.

As he stumbled back. Annja rolled her hips, drew her right hand back and swiveled. She drove her left foot into Keshawn's face so hard that she forced him back several feet.

Stunned, he landed hard, off balance, and rolled over to his knees. He looked at her in shock and rage, blood dripping down his chin. Leaping to his feet, he launched himself at her.

Annja dodged away, planting both hands in the middle of his back and shoving him into the ropes. He was tangled for a moment, cursing loudly and promising her that she was going to die.

Annja believed he meant it. She saw that Keshawn's friends were still struggling with other gym members.

He stood again, then came at her more slowly, trying to keep his hands up and use his size and reach, getting more canny now that his confidence was eroding. He threw punch after punch. Annja easily dodged them or blocked them, giving ground and drawing him to the middle of the ring. He breathed like a bellows.

Incredibly, even after her workout, Annja still felt fast and strong. Her breathing was regular, her mind calm. Eddie had been right. She hadchanged. She didn't know where the extra energy was coming from. She guessed anger and adrenaline had kicked in powerfully.

Annja stopped giving ground. Keshawn came at her with another flurry of blows. She stood still, moving her arms just enough to block everything he threw at her. Then – when he was tiring, gasping for breath – she struck back.

The right fist swept forward. Her first two knuckles slid through his defense and between the slits of his headgear. More blood gushed from his nose.

She lifted a knee into his crotch hard enough to raise him from the mat. Before he could fall, she swept her leg out and knocked the unsteady man's feet out from under him. He hit the mat hard.

Sirens wailed just outside the gym.

"You're done," Annja said in a slow, controlled voice. She felt much cooler than she would ever have imagined.

Annja watched as EMTs worked on Eddie Watts. Most of his injuries were superficial. He bled from his nose, split lips and a cut over his right eye. His left eye was swollen shut.

Uniformed police officers had taken Keshawn and his friends into custody. Detectives stood questioning witnesses.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Annja asked as she held Eddie's callused hand.

"I'll be fine, girl. When I came outta that fight with Cassius Clay, I looked worse than this." Eddie gave her a lopsided grin. "Don't know what you been doin', Annja, but what you just did?" He shook his head gingerly. "That was something special. Ain't ever seen nobody do that before."

Annja didn't know what to say. She couldn't believe everything that had happened. Over the years, she'd had to fight on occasion. Even in the past few days, she'd had to fight against the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain.

But this time wasdifferent. She had changed.

Hours later, after the police had finally released her and she'd checked on Eddie in the hospital, finding that the old boxer's daughter was with him, Annja returned home.

She took a shower so hot that it steamed up the bathroom, leaving fog on the glass walls and the mirror. Scrubbed and feeling clean again, she sat on the floor in the center of the loft with the lights out. She pulled herself into a lotus position, back straight, and breathed deeply.

Working slowly, knowing it would take time, Annja gradually relaxed her body. She breathed in and out, slowing her heartbeat, centering herself the way she had been taught.

She stared at the dark wall, then imagined a single dot on it. She focused on the dot until the city ceased to exist around her.

Something had changed about her, and she sought it out. In Eddie's Gym, she'd moved with greater speed and more strength than she'd ever possessed. Where had that come from?

Something had unlocked the speed and strength inside her. It wasn't just adrenaline. She'd been afraid before. She'd felt pumped from fear. But she'd never been that strong or that fast. The source was something else.

The image of the sword appeared in her mind.

Earlier that day, after she'd returned from lunch with Bart McGilley, she'd sat in her loft and tried to reach the sword the way she had in the back of the taxi. Nothing had happened.

Now she saw the sword perfectly. It was whole, resting once more in the case.

Slowly, Annja reached in for the sword, closed her hand around the hilt and drew it out. When she opened her eyes, the sword was in her hand.

It was real.

She stood slowly, afraid that it would disappear at any moment as it had in the taxi the night before.

Taking a two-handed grip, Annja started moving through one of the forms she'd been taught in martial arts. Her interest in swords had started early, before she was even a teenager. She'd learned forms for the blade in several disciplines.

In the quiet of the loft, in the darkness of the night with the moon angled in through the window, Annja danced with the blade. In no time at all, it felt as if she'd always known it, and that it was a part of her.

The ringing phone woke Annja. She blinked her eyes open and glanced at the clock beside the bed. It was 9:17 a.m. Caller ID showed it was Bart, calling from his personal cell phone.

"Hello?" she said, her voice thick.

"Sorry," Bart said. "I guess I woke you."

"Yeah, again." Annja sat up and reached for the sword. It was gone. She'd laid it beside the bed before succumbing to fatigue in the wee hours.

"I heard you had a late night and a little excitement," the policeman said. "I told you before that Eddie's Gym is a rough place."

"I like Eddie. He's a good guy," Annja replied.

"He is a good guy," Bart agreed. "But his place is in a bad neighborhood."

Annja pushed up out of bed and walked over to the window. She raised the blinds and peered out. The city was alive and moving. "I live in a bad neighborhood."

"I know. Anyway, I wasn't calling to gripe at you. I just wanted to know if you were okay."

"I am," she said. "Thanks for caring." Where does the sword go?she wondered, distracted.

"I heard Eddie's going to be okay."

"He will be."

"Good. Do you need anything?"

"No."

"So what are your plans?"

"I'm going to stay in all day and work on my segment for the show."

"Fantastic," Bart said. "The way your luck has been running lately, maybe it's in your better interests to keep a low profile for a while."

Annja smiled a little. "I resent that."

"Yeah, well, sue me. Right now, you seem to be quite accident prone."

"No more than normal," she said, laughing.

"Stay in, Annja," Bart said. "Stay safe. If you need anything, call me."

"I will. You, too." Annja broke the connection.

She put the phone away and looked for the sword again. It made no sense. She wondered again if she was losing her mind.

Had the sword really belonged to Joan of Arc? She had no way of knowing. But she wanted to make sure she wasn't hallucinating. She didn't believe in magic. But every culture she'd studied had very deep and abiding beliefs in the supernatural and incredible powers.

Taking a deep breath, she visualized the sword hanging in the air before her. She reached for it. When she closed her hand around the hilt, she felt it. It was real.

Walking over to the bed, she put the sword down and drew her hand back. The sword remained where it was. She sat down in the floor and watched it. Twenty minutes later, it was still there.

Deciding to experiment, she closed her eyes and wished the sword was not there, that it would return to where it came from.

When she opened her eyes, the sword was gone. Panic swelled within her. She couldn't help wondering if she'd wished it away and broken whatever mysterious force bound them.

Stay calm, she advised herself. Breathing easily, shaping the sword in her mind, she reached for it.

She held it in her hand once again.

It was the most frightening yet wonderful thing she had ever seen.

Frustrated, her back aching, Annja straightened up from her desk. Judging from the darkness outside her windows, it was evening – or night.

She'd worked without stopping since that morning, except for phone calls to different museums and libraries to gain access to information that wasn't open to the general public. Instead of working on the La Bête piece, she'd researched Joan of Arc.

Surprisingly, she didn't really find much more than what she'd remembered from childhood. There was little mention of the sword other than it was commonly believed at the time that it held magical powers. And there were stories that it had been shattered. But as far as she could tell, no fragments from the warrior maid's weapon had ever been authenticated.

Giving up for the time being, totally stumped as to what to do next, she went to the bed and picked up the sword. She was ready to experiment some more.

Annja dropped the sword back onto the bed.

Leaving the loft, she made her way up to the rooftop. Lightning ran thick veins across the sky, heated yellow blazing against the indigo of swirling clouds. The wind rushed through her hair and cooled her. She breathed in, wondering if what she proposed would work.

Closing her eyes, she imagined the sword and reached for it. She felt the cool of the metal and the roughness of the leather in her hand. When she opened her eyes again, she held the sword.

Thunder rolled, pealing all around her and echoing between the buildings. A light rain started, cooling the city and washing the air free of dust and pollution for the moment.

Filled with childish glee, still not quite believing what she had proved over and over again, Annja whirled the sword. The blade glinted and caught lightning flashes. In seconds, her clothing was sodden and stuck to her, but she didn't even think of going inside.

The bizarre reality of her situation struck her hard. She was holding Joan of Arc's sword! And somehow it was bound to her!

On top of the building, with the sounds of modern life echoing through the concrete caverns of the city, Annja went through the sword forms again. This time she elaborated, bringing in different styles. Her feet moved mechanically, bringing her body in line with the sword.

No matter how she moved, the sword felt as if it were part of her. When she was finished with the forms, breathing hard and drenched by the rain, she closed her eyes and placed the sword away from her.

She felt the weight of the sword evaporate from her hand. When she opened her eyes, the weapon was gone. Another breath, eyes still open, and she reached out for the sword. In a flash, the sword was in her hand.

Despite her familiarity with the process now, she still felt amazed. If it's not magic, she asked herself, what is it? She had no answer.

Giving in to impulse, Annja held the sword in both hands high over her head. Almost immediately, lightning reached down and touched the tip in a pyrotechnic blaze of sparks. For a moment, the blade glowed cobalt-blue.

Annja dropped the sword, grateful she hadn't been electrocuted.

When she inspected the sword, it was unmarked. If anything, the blade seemed cleaner, stronger. Energy clung to the weapon. She felt it thrumming inside her.

Soaked and awed, Annja stood for a moment in the center of the city and knew that no one saw her. She was invisible in the night. No one knew what she held. She didn't even know herself. She breathed deeply, smelling the salt from the Atlantic, and knew she'd somehow stumbled upon one of the greatest mysteries in history.

"Why me?" she shouted into the storm.

There was no answer, only the rolling thunder and lightning.

Of course the idea came to her in the middle of the night. That was when her subconscious mind posed a potential answer to one of the riddles that faced her.

She sat up in bed and found the sword lying on the floor. I've got to protect this sword, she told herself.

Though after the blade had been hit by lightning and hadn't been harmed or allowed her to come to harm, she didn't think much could destroy it.

The sword was destroyed once,she reminded herself. Roux had told her that. She had seen the pieces. But why was it back now?

Slowly, she visualized the pieces in the case at Roux's house. She drew her fingers along the sword's spine, trying to link to whatever force tied her to the weapon.

Part of the sword had been the charm she'd found on the warrior who died bringing down La Bête. Somewhere inside that sword, the mark that had been struck on both sides of that piece of fractured metal still existed.

In her mind's eye, she lifted the image of the wolf and the mountain to the surface of the blade. On the other side of the weapon, she brought up the die mark of the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain.

Thunder cannonaded outside, close enough to make the windows rattle.

Annja focused on the sword. She traced her fingers along the blade. This time she felt the impressions of the images.

Opening her eyes, she looked down. In the darkness she couldn't see the images she felt. Then lightning blazed and lit up her loft for a moment.

There, revealed in the blue-white light, the image of the wolf and the mountain stood out in the smooth grain of the steel. When she turned the blade over, the die mark of the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain was there.

She grabbed one of the digital cameras she used for close-up work. She took several shots of the images.

When she was satisfied that she had all that she needed, she stared at the imperfections on the blade. She ran her fingers over them again, feeling how deeply they bit into the metal.

The sight of them, the feel of them, was almost unbearable.

She willed the sword away, back into wherever it went when it was not with her. It faded from her hands like early-morning fog cut by direct sunlight.

Taking a deep breath, she reached into that otherwhere and drew the sword back. Light gleamed along the blade. The marks had disappeared.

A quick check of the images on the digital camera revealed that the shots she'd taken still existed. She put the sword on the bed and turned her full attention to the camera images.

Was the sword weak while it was shattered?Annja wondered. Or had it allowed itself to be marked? And if it had allowed itself to be marked, why?

She set to work.