She kept up her search for survivors all the way to the cathedral, but she didn’t find a single one by the time she reached her destination.

Inside, she found the abbott lying on the floor in front of the altar, a bullet through the skull. Four of the fingers on his left hand were broken and horribly twisted, letting her know that there’d been a serious effort to get him to tell them something. Whether he’d divulged what they wanted or not was uncertain, for they could have executed him after he’d given up the information or when they’d decided that they didn’t have any more time to waste.

In the end, it hadn’t really mattered, she thought. They’d gotten what they’d come for, anyway—thanks to her carelessness.

Standing there, looking down at the body of the man who only hours before had helped her uncover a key clue to the mystery unfurling before her, Annja felt a rage begin to build inside her. She vowed that she’d bring the perpetrators to justice, no matter what.

She searched the rest of the complex, but didn’t find a single survivor. The monks living there had been slaughtered to a man.

No witnesses, she thought bitterly.

She did, however, find a phone on the abbot’s desk. It was the only one she’d seen so far in the entire monastery, so she was thankful that the intruders hadn’t torn it loose from the wall. It was an oversight that could have come back to haunt them, had any of the monks been quick enough to capitalize on it, and Annja was pleased to see it. It meant the enemy, whoever they were, made mistakes.

Mistakes could be exploited.

She punched in 1-1-2, the general emergency number throughout all of France, and explained to the operator that there had been a violent attack on the monks at the monastery. She identified herself when asked and stated that they could contact the American Embassy for confirmation of who she was so that they would know this was not a crank call of any kind. Given the nearest town was almost an hour away, and she didn’t remember seeing any kind of emergency response services when she’d driven through, Annja knew she had a long wait ahead of her.

Now that she had taken care of the most pressing issues, she realized that her teeth were chattering and that she was shivering violently. Her clothing was still wet despite the long walk and the chill mountain air hadn’t helped any. She suspected she might be slipping into hypothermia and knew she had to do something about it quickly.

But a search of the abbot’s quarters turned up nothing but boxers, socks and the long brown robes she’d been seeing on every monk she encountered. The same held true of the rest of the rooms she looked into at the other end of the hall.

The idea of meeting the authorities dressed like Friar Tuck didn’t appeal to her at all, but what choice did she have? She selected a robe that looked to be the closest fit, stripped out of her wet clothing and used a towel from a nearby bathroom to dry herself as best she could. Resigning herself to the inevitable, she pulled the robe on over her head. To her surprise, the fabric was much softer than she’d expected, and warm, as well. She might be stuck looking like an extra from Monty Python and the Holy Grail,but at least she’d be comfortable while doing so.

Only half an hour had gone by when the sound of a helicopter’s rotors caught her attention. She glanced out the window, saw it approaching in the distance and went out to meet it.

The aircraft came in over the trees, nose forward, so Annja didn’t get a good look at the aircraft until the pilot spun it around and lined up for landing. That’s when the insignia, a stylized dragon in midflight, became visible on the black fuselage.

Annja knew that logo.

It belonged to Dragontech Security Services, one of the many companies owned by her sometime-ally, sometime-nemesis Garin Braden.

“All-the-time pain-in-the-ass Garin Braden is more like it,” she said.

The helicopter landed on the grass beside the parking area. The door opened almost immediately and a squad of armed gunmen disembarked, moving with the kind of crisp efficiency that marked them as former military personnel. They fanned out in a half circle, the assault rifles in their hands pointing beyond her at the windows of the monastery.

Behind them came Garin Braden.

She’d met Garin at the same time she’d acquired her sword, the one that had once belonged to Joan of Arc. Whatever power had been imparted to the sword at the moment of Joan’s death had also affected Garin and his former mentor, Roux. Both of them had been her failed protectors. Both of them had been there to witness Joan’s execution. Both of them had subsequently discovered that they no longer aged as other men did, that unless they were killed by injury or violence, it seemed they would most likely live forever.

Over the years they’d gone from being squire and master to equal competitors to deadly enemies. Only the arrival of Annja, and the reforming of the sword that had been broken, had brought them grudgingly back together again.

At first, Garin had been convinced that the sword controlled his destiny, that by possessing it Annja could threaten his very existence. He’d schemed to take it from her on more than one occasion, but thus far without success. Lately his overt activities toward that end had seemed to have been put on hold, but she was still wary around him.

Even knowing he often didn’t have her best interests at heart, Annja found it hard to simply dismiss Garin Braden. The fact that he was terribly handsome, with his black hair and immaculately trimmed goatee, didn’t help. He was also one of those larger than life personalities and being in his presence made her forget some of what she’d experienced with him. She constantly had to remind herself that he had a devil’s heart to go with his devilishly good looks.

Even that didn’t dampen her attraction to him, however.

He had a habit of turning up unexpectedly but just what the hell was he doing here?

Annja waited for him at the base of the front steps as he strode across the lawn. He was dressed beautifully, as always, in a suit that was tailored to show off his muscular frame. It was only as he drew closer that she remembered she was barefoot and naked beneath the monk’s robe. She wanted to sink right into the stone beneath her feet.

“Hello, I’m looking for… Annja, is that you?”

She used irritation to try and hide her embarrassment. “What are you doing here, Garin? Did you get lost on your way home?”

He ignored her jibe, focusing instead on what she was wearing.

“I must say you look ravishing in mud brown, Annja. And the way it accents your curves—”

“Cut the crap. What are you doing here? What do you want?”

A pained expression crossed his face. “Must I always want something?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

“Well, you have me there,” he replied, grinning.

Annja tried not to think about how that grin made her feel.

Garin surveyed the scene behind her, taking in bodies just inside the open door. When he looked at her again his expression had gone serious. “Any survivors?”

“I haven’t checked the entire grounds, but inside, no.”

He nodded, acknowledging her remark, and then waved to one of his men, summoning him over. They had a brief conversation outside of Annja’s earshot and then the first man was joined by two others as they fanned out to search the grounds.

“Come on,” Garin said. “We’ve got to get you out of here.”

Annja snorted. “I’m not going anywhere with you, Garin. The authorities will be here soon. Do you just expect me to leave all these bodies behind because you say so?”

The only person who knew where she was going was Bernard and she had no reason to believe the two men even knew each other. The more she thought about it, the more Garin’s sudden appearance wasn’t making any sense.