The Other Crowd
Page 26
“I seriously thought it was faeries that took me,” Eric said from the passenger side. “Man, that was some crazy stuff. LSD? You know I’ve never done drugs before, Annja. I feel kinda lousy about that.”
“Don’t dwell on it, Eric. It wasn’t your fault. And, as the doctor explained, you will not become addicted. What are you going to tell your father?”
“The truth.” He shrugged. “But I don’t want Doug or you to get in trouble.”
“Whatever your father has to say to us, we can handle. I should have kept a closer watch on you.”
“I’m a big boy. My father knows that, too. I don’t think he’ll huff too loudly after I explain it was necessary to obtain the information for our story.”
She wasn’t sure what to say to him about the fact that his father could be involved in sending notary supplies to Daniel Collins. MI-6 hadn’t found proof, because Garin had tipped Daniel off. It was something father and son could work out together.
Family. It was never easy.
Berlin
“GARIN.” ROUX NODDED as Garin entered the study. The old man had been examining his latest find displayed on a wood stand—the Concubine’s Jade. “This one must have set you back a pretty penny.”
“Pennies are worthless nowadays. That chunk of jade was all about the Ben Franklins,” Garin replied.
“Sixteenth century?”
“Rumored to possess untold powers of joy when the planets align just so and the moonlight flashes through the center of the stone.”
“As usual, joy remains elusive.” The old man chuckled and accepted the tumbler of Scotch Garin offered. “It’s odd when we find ourselves consuming hundred-year-old Scotch, isn’t it?” He tilted back a swallow and nodded satisfaction to its smooth texture.
“Only odd because we walked the world long before it was created.”
“Indeed. So about those charges on my credit card… Five hundred thousand to the Heifer Organization—a worthy cause—but really.”
“It’ll provide livestock to those in need. I personally buy a few arks of animals every year,” Garin said.
“Yes, but the other half million.” Roux narrowed his pale blue gaze on Garin, but such a look wasn’t capable of making him flinch. Garin had mastered indifference toward his once-master centuries ago. “The Infinity Life Cryogenics Society?”
Garin smiled. That had been Ruth Banyon’s dying wish. She’d wanted to be preserved cryogenically, until such a time when she could be defrosted, and well, after that it was all a bunch of nonsense to Garin.
Who was he to deny her?
Before he could explain, Roux’s attention was diverted behind him to the stairway. “Annja!”
“ROUX, I DIDN’T KNOW you’d be here.” Annja stepped off the bottom step and glanced around. The reception hall was vast and marble sparkled and gold accents glittered everywhere, but it was strangely quiet. “Where is everyone else?”
“The actual party doesn’t begin for another hour,” Garin, who wore a black tuxedo, the same as Roux, said. “Roux and I wanted to share a drink with you first. That dress fits you perfectly.”
She smoothed her palms down the white silk. It was fitted from shoulder to knee and clung to all her curves. Garin had left it in a guest room for her and allowed her to shower and relax a while. The dress was a nice change from tromping about in loose cargo pants or layered T-shirts and hiking boots.
The maid had helped her to sweep her chestnut hair into a chignon and said it called attention her brilliant hazel eyes. Taking compliments was never easy for Annja, but the change of clothing and location worked to release her inhibitions. She was in the mood for a party.
“You don’t mind, do you?” Roux asked. “That we keep you to ourselves a bit?”
She shrugged. “Not at all. Where’s the booze? I’ve got a nasty case of faeries I need to get over.”
“Did you find any?” Roux asked as Garin prepared a tumbler of Scotch for Annja.
“I found belief,” she said. “That seems to be more than enough for some folk.” She lifted her glass to them. “So, what shall we toast to?”
“To you, Annja,” Roux declared. “Happy birthday!”
She paused, midsip. Utterly flummoxed, she merely stared at Garin and Roux. For a moment she thought she might tear up, but then she gasped and said, “My birthday?”
“Don’t tell me you forgot?” Roux said. “I marked it in my calendar. I know I have the right day.”
“Yes. No, I didn’t—well, yes, I did. I just never think about it all that much. Seriously? So this party is…”
“For you,” both men offered. Roux lifted his chest proudly. The old man displayed much affection toward Annja, which she accepted as a sort of father to daughter relationship. While she suspected Garin’s feelings of desire and pride for her conflicted. “We’ve got a gift for you.”
“I…haven’t been given a birthday gift for ages. What is it?”
Garin stepped back and swept a hand before an easel standing beside a white marble hearth.
Annja stepped over and tugged the black cloth away from the painting. “Oh, it’s a…well, the style looks a lot like Jean Fouquet.” Medieval studies were her forte, and she admired many renaissance painters. Fouquet was fifteenth century. “But no. It’s not Fouquet. It can’t be. I’ve never seen this painting before.”
The painting was a subject that had become very much her own. It featured Joan of Arc tied to the stake with the flames at her feet and a disturbed crowd looking on.
“The colors are beautiful. My gosh, this is so…generous.” She turned to both men. “Thank you. I love it. It’ll add some much-needed color above the couch in my living room.”
“What makes you believe it’s not by Fouquet?” Roux asked. “Take a good look.”
Roux winked at Garin as Annja bent to closely examine the painting. She almost touched it, but then jerked her fingers away. “This is an original.”
“It is,” Garin said. “It was listed at auction as in the style of Jean Fouquet.”
“But it is Fouquet,” Roux said.
“The style is most definitely his, but…” She searched her memory for what she knew of Jean Fouquet. “He didn’t actually start painting until around 1445. So he couldn’t have possibly witnessed this scene.”
“What makes you think the man wasn’t sketching the events he witnessed as he journeyed toward becoming a painter?” Roux asked.
“Really? Do you think he actually witnessed Joan’s burning? It’s so sad to consider now.”
Though she wielded Joan’s sword, Annja was ever aware what the sainted warrior had gone through in her quest to accomplish what she believed must be done. And to be punished so cruelly was unthinkable.
“Wait a second.” She bent closer to inspect the face of one of the soldiers in the crowd. Utter horror stretched his face as he looked up the flames that licked at Joan’s feet. “Is that—? It can’t be.”
“It could be.” Roux stood beside the painting and assumed the tilted head pose of the man in the picture.
“That’s you! And the other guy is—” The soldier standing shoulder to shoulder with the horrified one looked away from it all, unwilling to witness the tragic event. She turned on Garin. “You?”
He nodded and shrugged. “It was not a good day.”
“This is absolutely incredible. That Fouquet sketched this and then later rendered it—but it’s not in his gallery of work.”
“It was lost after a fire obliterated his workshop in Tours. We’ve been aware of its existence but have never quite been able to put our hands to it until it showed up at auction recently,” Roux explained.
“We thought you’d like something from both of us,” Garin said over her shoulder. “Deny it all you like, but we three are a sort of family. In a roundabout way.”
So that was the reason behind his reference to family earlier. If she had known he’d been planning this surprise she might have been nicer to him. On the
other hand, probably not.
“This is amazing. It’s perfect. Thank you.” She turned and hugged Garin, which surprised the hell out of him. But before he could settle into the warmth of her embrace, she pulled away and went to hug Roux. “Family? I can see that. In a roundabout way.”
“Families can never claim to be perfect, or even nice to one another all the time,” Roux said.
Garin lifted his tumbler. “To family.”
RACHEL COLLINS STOMPED out the back door of her house to the scrubby plot where forest met the field. She spotted the gray rabbit immediately. It disregarded her. She was just the old lady who tended the garden and made it full of carrots and cabbage every summer.
Lifting the spear of Lugh over her head, Rachel thrust it forward. She wasn’t strong, but the spear left her grip with an unnatural speed and found a sure path.
Upon impact, the rabbit flipped into the air, its hind legs twitching and flailing. The spear cut through its gut and moved clean out the other side.
Holding her arm out straight, fingers curled to catch, Rachel caught the spear as it returned.
“Handy piece of work, this old spear.” She trudged toward the rabbit, but a glint on the ground caught her eye. She bent and nabbed the small, cold nugget. “Coo, what’s this? Looks like gold.”
ISBN: 978-1-4592-0232-0
THE OTHER CROWD
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Michele Hauf for her contribution to this work
Copyright © 2011 by Worldwide Library
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Worldwide Library, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39