She found herself standing before a quaint little café on the corner of Bleaker and Main. The place was only half-full, with several of the tables outside under the canopy empty. She sat at one and glanced over the menu until a waiter came to see what she wanted.

“What can I get for you today?” he asked.

She ordered lunch—a glass of water and a chef’s salad—even though she wasn’t all that hungry. It was more about giving her something to focus on, something for her hands to do, rather than needing to fill her stomach.

Once she had relaxed she pulled out the sketch pad she had taken with her from Dr. Laurent’s office and flipped it open to one of the pages where she had drawn the execution scene. With the detached eye of a scientist she studied it.

Had she seen the image before? she wondered. When she had first acquired the sword she’d done a tremendous amount of research into the woman who had once carried it—could she have seen it then? In a museum or an art book? Maybe a research site on the Internet?

There was really no way to know.

The other solution—that it wasn’t something she had seen, but a memory from another time and another place—freaked her out more than she expected. She had always known that there was a reason the sword had chosen her, but having it do so because she was…what? A descendant? A distant blood relative? Or even crazier yet, the reincarnation of Joan herself?

Heaven only knew and right now it didn’t seem to want to tell her.

Tired of chasing down streets that seemed to have no end, Annja gave up on those images and turned to the other set that she had drawn, marveling again at the detail she’d been able to capture.

She was examining the image of the sword itself when someone said, “Excuse me?”

Annja looked up to find an Asian woman standing beside her table. She wore ripped jeans, a black concert T-shirt, and a jean jacket that had been drawn on with Magic Marker so many times that the words had long since blended into an incoherent stream of letters. Her long black hair hung freely down her back.

“Excuse me, but are you Annja Creed, from Chasing History’s Monsters?” the young woman asked.

Not now, Annja thought, but it was too late. Might as well get it over with.

“Yes,” she said, a bit abruptly.

The woman couldn’t help but notice the tone. She dropped her eyes to the ground and began backing away. “I’m sorry to have bothered you. Sorry.”

Way to go, you coldhearted idiot! Annja berated herself. Probably took all her courage just to come over and say hello.

As she turned to go, Annja said, “No, I’m the one who should be sorry. Please, don’t go.”

The woman hesitated, clearly uncertain what to do.

“Come on, join me for a minute,” Annja said, forcing a smile to show that she meant it. Her audience was small enough; she didn’t need to go chasing off any of her viewers, no matter how badly her day had been going.

The fan sat down and, smiling shyly at her, held out her hand.

“I’m Shizu,” she said.

“Annja, though you already know that.”

“Right. And, like, don’t worry about it, by the way.”

Annja was confused. “Don’t worry about what?”

“That you were going to dis me like that. I mean, you’re a celebrity, right? You must get people interrupting you all the time—like, what a bummer. I completely understand.”

Annja stared at her as if she was from another planet.

Someone up there must hate me, she thought, but she smiled graciously and said, “Thanks. For letting me apologize, that is.”

“Like, no problem.”

Once she got beyond Shizu’s annoying speech habits, Annja actually began to enjoy herself. She discovered that Shizu was going to New York University, was majoring in philosophy and had lived most of her life in the San Francisco Bay Area before moving to the Big Apple. The girl was actually quite well-read and Annja began to suspect that the vapid airhead exterior was really just a front she’d developed through the years to allow her to fit in with others her age.

Annja, in turn, answered her questions about what it was like to work on a cable television show, how she’d gotten involved in archaeology, and whether or not she thought her cohost, Kristie Chatham, was any good at her job.

Lunch passed quickly and for a short while Annja actually forgot about the disturbing events in Dr. Laurent’s office.

Eventually Annja excused herself to go to the restroom and when she returned she saw that the waiter had left the check on the table in one of those black plastic sleeves. She was in the process of reaching for it when Shizu jumped to her feet and grabbed her hand.

“Oh, my God, like, I totally didn’t realize what time it was!” Shizu exclaimed. “I was supposed to meet my boyfriend twenty minutes ago! Thanks for talking with me for so long. My friends are never going to believe this!”

They shook hands and Annja watched her disappear into the crowd moving past at the corner. Still laughing over the uniqueness of the whole encounter, she picked up the small plastic folder with her bill inside and opened it up, intending to pay, only to recoil in surprise.

The bill had been folded into the shape of a dragon.

Alarm bells blared in her mind.

She shoved back from the table and managed to restrain herself from calling on her sword right then and there. Only the thought that drawing it in public might be just what the Dragon wanted her to do kept her from actually doing it; she didn’t need to be on the five-o’clock news wielding a sword in a public restaurant. She was already notorious enough as it was.

Heads turned in her direction as she surged to her feet and she glared at them all, mentally wrapping each face in a ninja hood and mask, searching for a pair of eyes that looked familiar to her, but none of them were.

She knew she had only seconds to pinpoint just where the origami had come from and every second wasted was another that the Dragon could use to either prepare for an attack or fade into the background, only to disappear once more.

She wasn’t going to let that happen this time.

Having eliminated those around her, Annja realized that the Dragon must be inside the café. After all, that was where the bill had come from and no one but her and her waiter had touched it.

She focused on the waiter.

She hadn’t even looked at him when he’d taken her order, not really. She’d been too wrapped up in her turmoil over the sketches. So for all she knew he could be the Dragon himself, though it was more likely that he had simply given the other man access to her check case. Either way, the waiter would have some answers.

Like an enraged lioness, Annja stormed inside the café itself and then, not seeing the waiter anywhere in the room, she pushed her way through the small crowd of customers near the bar and slipped into the kitchen.

A man in a dishwasher’s apron intercepted her just inside the doors. “I’m sorry, miss, but you can’t be in here.”

“Where is he?” she snarled, and watched in satisfaction as the help quickly backed away from her. She followed, deeper into the kitchen, until she could see the guy who had served her. He was in one corner, talking to the chef.

Hands reached out for her, trying to stop her, but she pushed past and cornered the waiter against the wall.

With one fist wrapped in his white shirt and the other holding the folded-up bill in front of his face, she shouted, “Who did this? Did you do this?”

The guy shrank back from her. “Lady, I don’t know what you are talking about! Who did what?”

“Folded my bill up like this! Did you do it?” She shook him a little, being none too gentle about it.

His eyes grew even wider, if that was at all possible. “Easy, lady! Take it easy! I can’t even fold a napkin right, never mind do something like that!”