The Dragon’s Mark

by Alex Archer

  Just as the lights turned green, Annja shot out into the street, across the flow of automobiles and one very large city bus, rushing to get to the other side before any of them could move. More than one driver blew their horns, but she didn’t care; she was too busy reaching the opposite sidewalk and then looking back the way she had come to see if she’d left anyone flat-footed on the other side, trapped behind a wave of vehicles.

  There was no one paying the least bit of attention to her.

  Maybe I imagined it all, she thought.

  While it might have been a possibility, Annja didn’t think it was a very likely one.

  She stood on the corner for a long pause, watching those behind her, wondering.

  Where are you?

  HIGH ABOVE, ON THE ROOFTOP of the building adjacent to the corner where Annja stood, the very individual she was searching for at ground level watched her through a pair of military-grade binoculars.

  From Annja’s erratic movements over the past few minutes, the Dragon knew that Annja suspected she was being watched again, but without any hard evidence to confirm the suspicion she would have no choice but to brush it off. Not once in the past few hours had the target looked up, so the Dragon was confident Annja would not be able to locate where the surveillance was coming from. The decision to use the rooftops, rather than put a team on the ground, was apparently paying off.

  Maybe you’re not as good as you think you are, Annja Creed.

  12

  That night Annja spent hours on the computer, trying to learn everything she could about the Dragon. Unfortunately, as Bart and Garin had both explained, there really wasn’t much available out there that could tell her anything of value. Rumors abounded—about the Dragon’s background, personal tastes, business partners, weapons of choice, even what kind of women he preferred. But it was all nothing more than will-o’-the-wisps in the night, suppositions, maybe an occasional educated guess, but certainly nothing that could be labeled as cold, hard fact. She hadn’t seen anything so far that even assured her the Dragon was a man, though the general consensus seemed to be that he was.

  She also wasted a fair amount of time trying to track down any rumors about a mystical sword on the various conspiracy Web sites and newsgroups that she knew about, but aside from half a dozen spontaneous sightings of Excalibur, the legendary sword of King Arthur, that was a dead end, too.

  Finally conceding defeat, she decided to call it a night and get some sleep.

  AN INSISTENT BEEPING woke her.

  She reached out with one hand, fumbling for the switch, trying to remember just what on earth she had set the alarm for, where she was supposed to be this morning, when she discovered the alarm clock wasn’t where it was supposed to be.

  Rather than resting on the bedside table where it had been when she’d gone to sleep the night before, it now stood across the room on the window sill.

  That’s weird.

  She had no memory of moving the alarm clock, but she’d been pretty tired when she’d finally tried to get some sleep, so maybe she’d done it so that she’d be forced to get out of bed and therefore had no chance of sleeping through the alarm.

  But why had she set it in the first place?

  Her eyes caught site of something on the pillow next to her and she turned her head to get a better look at what it was.

  The origami figure of a dragon stood atop the pillow, its wings unfurled, staring at her with its featureless face.

  Annja recoiled, throwing herself back off the bed in order to get as far away from the little paper figurine as possible. At the same time she called her sword to her, holding it out in front like a symbol of protection as she scrambled frantically to get her back to a wall and ensure that she couldn’t be attacked from at least one direction.

  Then, and only then, did she look around.

  Sunlight streamed in through the thin gossamer curtains over the windows, lighting up the room and showing her immediately that no one else was standing in the room with her.

  She could hear the cars in the street below going about their early-morning business, but the noisy growl of their engines and the squeal of their brakes sounded as if they were from another country. She could see the curtains blowing in the morning breeze coming in the open window, could feel the shafts of sunlight reaching out across the room, intent on blanketing her in their warmth. But all she could feel was the icy touch of dread crawling about inside her mouth like a pair of disembodied fingers.

  One thought kept repeating itself over and over again in her head, blotting out everything else.

  The Dragon had been in her hotel room last night.

  Had been standing there, right beside her bed.

  Watching her sleep!

  Being watched in public at the Chapelle was one thing. Being followed on the streets of the city was another. But having a killer there in her bedroom while she was fast asleep?

  It was almost too much to take.

  Only the thought that she might not be alone, that the intruder could still very well be there, inside her hotel room, perhaps in the bathroom or the sitting room, just waiting for his chance to strike, released her from her frozen state and got her moving again.

  Just as she had the night before, she searched through the entire hotel suite, looking for an intruder. No one was there, not now, but the big smiley face with the X drawn through it in red lipstick on her bathroom mirror was enough to show that the Dragon had been in there, as well.

  She stared at it, momentarily numb, and then, making up her mind, swung into action.

  13

  Annja packed as quickly as possible, throwing what little clothing she had with her into her bag and jamming her computer into her backpack. She made sure to keep a low profile and not stand in front of any of the windows or the French doors while moving about the room. Just because the Dragon had never used a high-powered rifle before didn’t mean he couldn’t suddenly change his mind. She had no interest in being taken out before the fight had actually begun.

  Rather than grab a cab at the taxi stand outside her hotel, she slipped out a side door and hustled down the street, cutting down the occasional alley, until she reached the main thoroughfare one block over. Then and only then did she flag down a passing cab and ask him to take her to the airport. The front door of the hotel was sure to be watched, but maybe she had avoided giving herself away by taking the alternate route.

  She went straight to Terminal One at Charles de Gaulle International Airport and traded in her first-class seat to New York on the next day’s flight for the first available seat that morning. She ended up riding coach, and paying a hundred-dollar change fee, but it was all Garin’s money, anyway, and there was no way she was staying in Paris given the Dragon’s interest in her. She hoped the sudden flight back home would throw him off her track, at least for a little while. That should give her time to figure out just what she intended to do about the whole mess. If she could discover more information about the sword he carried, maybe she could divine his intent or at least find a way to neutralize his abilities.

  She grabbed her cell phone and called her producer, Doug Morrell, while she waited for her flight to be called. She wasn’t worried about him being busy or asleep. It was a Tuesday, the show was his life and, without her finishing off the edits for the episode slated to run later that week, he was sure to be at home panicking.

  Right, she was.

  “Annja!” he said when he recognized her number on his caller ID. “Tell me you’re finished and the show’s ready to go.”

  “Not yet, Doug, but it’s close.” The truth was she hadn’t even thought about it, but what was a little hedging between friends? “But I’m stuck and need some help.”

  “Are you having trouble with the editing boys again? Need me to come down there and knock some sense into them?”

  For his young age, Doug took his authority pretty seriously—or at least, challenges to his authority—and he didn’t like folks in
other departments giving his hosts a hassle. Not that he’d ever actually leave his office to deal with the troublemakers, but it was the thought that counted, Annja told herself with a sigh.

  “No, Doug,” she said. “I’m just fine and the editing team is great.”

  “Aren’t they, though? You should have seen how they handled that Jamaican zombie stuff last week. Totally class act, I tell ya.” A bright thought suddenly hit him. “Hey, any chance of zombies in this one? We could do a two-part special, you know? Zombies from…”

  “No, Doug, no zombies.” She cut him off before he could go any further. Doug was her friend, but still, sometimes it took a bit more patience than she had to listen to him when he got on a roll.

  “But I need your help in getting me in to see a hypnotist ASAP.”

  “A hypnotist? Whatever for?”

  Annja winced; she hadn’t thought of a decent excuse. She went for the mystery line. “I can’t tell you that yet.”

  “Can’t tell me? Why not?”

  “Because I’m not sure if I can use it or not. I have to talk to the hypnotist first.”

  Doug was silent for a minute. “All right. I think I can line somebody up. There was this guy we used for the office party last year who might work. Lenny the Magnificent or something.”

  If she’d been in the same room she would have reached out and swatted him across the back of the head. It served her right for trying to pull a fast one, she thought, but she was in too deep to back out now.

  “No, Doug. I need a real hypnotist. Preferably a doctor or at least a licensed therapist.”

  “Lenny won’t work?”

  “Definitely not. No Lenny.”

  She could hear him flipping through some paper, maybe an address book or even the yellow pages. She didn’t care as long as he came through.

  “All right, all right. Let me think. This might take me a little bit. How about I call you back when I have something?”

  “I’m just about to catch a flight so can you leave me a message on the voice mail?”

  “Catch a flight? Annja, where are you?”

  Oops.

  “They’re calling me, gotta run! Thanks, Doug!” she said, and hung up before he could ask her anything further. Just to be safe, she also turned off her cell phone.

  She had more than an hour to kill before they boarded her flight and she spent the entire time holed up in a corner of the waiting area with her back to the wall, watching everyone who came even remotely close or showed the slightest interest in her. Was that man in the janitor outfit watching her too intently? How about that woman with the stroller? Was that even a real baby? Maybe it was just a doll, designed to throw her off the scent? Or how about that businessman two rows over who kept looking in her direction and smiling? Was that smile a little too forced? His gaze a little too intent?

  Every loud noise made her jump, every person she saw was a potential enemy, and it kept ratcheting her anxiety level higher and higher until she realized that the flight crew and gate attendant were constantly looking her way.

  If you want to get on this flight, you’d better relax, she told herself. Closing her eyes, she tried to do just that.

  When at last she got on the plane, Annja settled into her seat and then carefully scrutinized each and every passenger who had gotten on behind her. She had no idea what she was checking for; she just expected to know it when she saw it. She was still looking when the flight attendants gave the all clear and shutting the main door, prepared for takeoff.

  Finally she managed to calm down.

  BACK AT THE GATE IN Paris, the watcher approached the attendant, looking anxious and concerned.

  “Excuse me? That wasn’t the plane to Chicago, was it?”

  The attendant smiled. “No worry, love. That was New York, not Chicago.”

  The watcher pretended to be relieved. “Oh, thank goodness, for a moment there I thought I’d missed it.”

  Turning away, the watcher wandered back down the concourse and over to the ticket counters.

  New York, it is, then. Now when is the next flight?

  ANNJA SPENT MOST OF THE flight either dozing fitfully or watching the people around her, trying to find one who was watching her, in turn, but she had no luck.

  By the time she got off the flight in New York, she was nearly numb with fatigue.

  She was too exhausted to take the train, so she splurged for a cab, asking the driver to take her to her address in Brooklyn. A long fare was a good thing and the cabbie, a tall, thin, bald fellow with a Ukrainian accent, was more than happy to oblige.

  Annja lived in a run-down neighborhood in the heart of Brooklyn. She liked to think of it as lived-in, but that kind of rationalization was also what made die-hard Manhattanites call an apartment the size of a postage stamp a one-bedroom studio. Still, it was home and when the cabbie pulled up in front of her four-story building, one of the oldest on the block, she breathed a sigh of relief.

  In practically no time at all she stood in front of her door, the wood scarred and chipped but still strong. The 4A was written in small white figures and affixed to the varnished surface of the door.

  She dragged her keys from her pocket, disengaged the five locks that prevented access, then stepped inside and locked them all over again, just to be safe.

  One thing was sure, if the Dragon had followed her here, he was going to have a bit harder time getting inside than he had in Paris. For one, there weren’t any balconies. For another, this was her home and she would brook no one inside its walls that didn’t belong.

  The big room had a fourteen-foot ceiling. Shelves lined the walls and many of them sagged under the weight of the books or rocks and artifacts that filled them nearly to overflowing. A desk sat in one corner, all but buried by the sketch pads, books and file folders scattered across its surface.

  Stacked haphazardly around, and in one case under, her desk was a veritable sea of electronics, from the hollowed out shell of an Xbox video console to a brand new LCD projector the size of a cigarette pack she’d gotten on loan from a company that was looking to have her test it in the field.

  All the nervous energy she’d been expending since she’d left her hotel room in Paris finally caught up with her. She dropped her bag and backpack by the bed, toppled into it and was asleep in less than a minute.

  14

  True to his word, Doug had called back and left a message on her voice mail, which she found when she finally returned to the land of the living early the next morning.

  “Hi Annja, it’s me, Doug. I managed to call in a few favors and get you an appointment to see Dr. Julie Laurent. She’s in the Village, on Houston, and can fit you in for a nine-thirty tomorrow morning. You might want to call her ahead of time and give her a little bit more information about how she can help you, as she had a lot of questions that I just couldn’t answer, but otherwise you’re all set. You owe me one. How about dinner on Friday at Domenico’s? Talk to ya later.” He rambled off the address and then hung up.

  Just as he’d suggested, Annja called the doctor ahead of time and gave her the story she’d come up with to explain why she wanted to be hypnotized. Dr. Laurent took it all pretty well, only asking a question here and there that focused on her family history and the state of her insurance, then said she’d see her soon.

  Annja took the subway to Manhattan, changed trains at Thirty-second Street and then rode another train the rest of the way to the Village.

  Once on the street, it didn’t take her long to find the building, sandwiched as it was between a deli and an office park.

  The doctor’s office had its own entrance with a buzzer, but the gate was unlocked and the door to the foyer open, so she didn’t bother ringing and instead climbed the steps just inside the door to the narrow landing at the top. A small brass plaque was tacked to the wall next to the only door in sight. Dr. Julie Laurent, Hypnotherapy.

  “Well, here goes nothing,” Annja said to the silence around her. Reaching
out, she knocked on the door.

  “Coming, coming” came a voice from within, and a moment later the door opened to reveal a gray-haired woman in her mid-sixties, dressed in cream-colored pants and a pale blue sweater. A pair of wire-framed glasses hung on a silver chain about her neck. Her dark eyes sparkled with intelligence.

  “Are you Annja?”

  “That’s me,” Annja replied, and extended her hand.

  They shook and the doctor led her inside the office and over to an arrangement of leather couches and chairs that occupied one side of the room.

  “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” Annja said as she sat down, taking in the room around her as she did so.

  It was a bright and airy place, despite its small size, and Annja was immediately charmed by it. French doors made up the external wall and beyond their gossamer curtains she could see a tiny balcony, with just enough room for a wicker chair and a table. In the far corner of the room, cloaked in shadow, was a masculine-looking desk that appeared to serve more as a storage depot than a work area.

  “Not quite what you were expecting?” Dr. Laurent asked, startling Annja out of her examination.

  Annja laughed. “No, not quite. I was expecting something a bit more doom and gloom, I guess.”

  Laurent nodded knowingly. “My clients bring enough of that with them on their own,” she said. “So I try to give them something a bit less intimidating. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?”

  Annja shook her head. “No, I’m fine, thanks.”

  “All right, then. Tell me what I can do for the star of Chasing History’s Monsters,” the doctor said as she leaned back in her chair.

  Annja relayed the same story that she’d given over the phone—how she had been plagued for months with this recurring dream of a swordsman, the blade he wielded with such skill and fervor, and the hand-to-hand combat they ultimately engaged in. She knew the dream was trying to tell her something, she said, for she’d never had one with such intensity or frequency before. Except every time she woke up, all she could remember was the fact that she dreamed of a man wielding a sword, and nothing about who he might be or what he might want. Annja hoped the dream story would cover any slipups she might make under hypnosis.