by Alex Archer
The evidence dropped from inside Evan’s shirt into a policeman’s hand. He was brought in to the station, booked and, after the police contacted Interpol, he was transferred to a Polish jail for holding until a trial date could be determined.
The day following the weirdness in the central square, Annja had left Rouen, got on a train and had returned to Palermo, where Ian Tate waited. He’d shown her the footage he’d edited together during the days she had been in France. It was impressive. And just mysterious enough to make a person wonder. Maybe selkies really did exist.
“How was Rouen?” Ian asked as they strode the stone beach not far from Matteo’s cottage.
“It was...” She hadn’t given it a moment’s thought since leaving the city. She didn’t want to think about it because some things should simply be accepted. Like a sword that appeared whenever she needed it.
“Where is the artifact that had been stolen?”
“Uh, I understand that Evan Merrick—the thief—has been arrested. The police found the Lorraine cross on him.”
“Awesome.”
Ian didn’t know about the music box, and in fact, he didn’t need that information. As far as Annja was aware, Roux and Garin had battled it out over the treasures, and she didn’t care who had gotten them. She could guess who had walked away with the relics. And since they held no personal value to Garin, she suspected he’d sell them to the highest bidder.
A good archaeologist would have stayed to make sure the music box and notebook were sent to a university for study, at least. This was one project she would have to mark down as a failure.
“There’s Matteo.”
Glad for the distraction, Annja picked up speed and met Matteo, who stood on the shore before his cottage, looking out over the waters. He turned to acknowledge her and Ian, who had the camera on. Matteo noted the camera, but made no comment.
“Figured I’d see you again,” he said. He sniffled and tilted his head away from the sun.
Annja did not miss the signs. “Are you all right, Matteo? Where is Sirena?”
“Gone home,” he replied and glanced to the ground.
Annja noted where he was looking. A hole about two feet across had been dug in the ground. Or had something recently been unearthed? Sirena’s pelt? He’d told her he didn’t know where it was.
“I set her free. I thought a lot after you left me lying on the stones.”
“You can’t keep someone who doesn’t want to stay.”
“She loved me,” he told them. “We loved each other.” He faced the camera directly. “I never hurt her, Miss Creed. I can’t do a thing like that. I may be a drunk and like to pick fights, but I never laid a hand to Sirena. She loved me. But what the sea gives, the sea takes away. Her first love was always to the sea. She had this deep sadness. I felt it in her every time I looked into her eyes.”
Deep sadness was a feeling Annja could relate to. So much had happened to her that she couldn’t begin to explain, much less process. And ever since leaving the central square particularly, Annja had been carrying a weight within her that could only be termed sadness.
“So you—” she would be reaching here, but, she reminded herself, it was for the show “—gave her back to the sea?”
Since, after all, some things a person just needed to believe in.
Matteo nodded. “That’s all I have to say. Will you turn the camera off now?”
“Ian.”
The cameraman lowered his camera and stepped back.
“Story’s over,” Matteo summed up. “They can’t all end happily ever after.” He turned and strode off toward his cottage.
France, 1488
THE TAVERN OUTSIDE a small village a day’s journey from Lyon was cool and quiet. The evening was quickly chilling as autumn settled across the land, sweeping leaves from the trees and sending animals deep into the forest to prepare for rest.
Roux found a table near the open hearth, ordered the stew—the tavern’s only offering—and a mug of hot spiced mead. The sweet drink settled in his belly with a warm splash.
He’d managed to give Braden the slip two days ago while crossing from Italy into France along the Alps. He’d known the man’s eyes had fixed on the wench in the Italian inn, and thinking that Roux was going to rest for the night, Garin had taken her upstairs.
Roux hadn’t slept. He felt sure he’d gotten a half day’s head start on the man. And by veering south instead of north, he hoped he’d given him the slip. For months perhaps. Maybe even years. They two came together through odd, unpredictable ways. Sometimes their union was amicable, and at other times they were opposed to one another. They were destined to play this game for— Who could determine the amount of time they would walk this earth?
Roux tugged out the leather pouch he kept secured beneath his shirt and tied up high so it hugged just under his armpit. He unlaced the opening and tilted the contents into the palm of his hand. Firelight glowed across the small jagged steel pieces. He’d collected many, but there were so many more to be found. It was incredible that they had traveled so far from Rouen, the place where they had originated.
“Forgive me,” he muttered, then poured the pieces back inside the pouch and secured it with a tight knot. “I could not save you, Jeanne. But I won’t cease my search to bring together your sword.”
Who knew what such a quest would lead him to? Might it erase the travesty done against an innocent woman?
He could not begin to guess, but he was confident his quest would not be in vain.
* * *
NOT AN HOUR after arriving back at her Brooklyn apartment, Annja signed for a delivery. No return address, but the tracking slip said the package originated from Rouen, France. Something from Roux? She hadn’t spoken to him since leaving Rouen. There had been no need.
Peeling away the plastic strip to open the postal box, she had to admit she felt slightly anxious. Inside, snuggly padded in Bubble Wrap, she spied the music box and the notebook. A note scribbled on a plain piece of paper read:
You’ll know what to do with these. G.
“Interesting.”
She did know what to do with them. Most important? Ensuring the cross, music box and notebook were never again connected to each other. That would be fairly easy. The cross would remain in police custody until it was eventually returned to the museum. The music box she could trace its history and return it also to the castle or wherever Merrick had lifted it from. And the notebook...
The notebook was the key that tied them together.
Annja went to her desk and flipped aside the postal box to reveal what lay beneath. A random ziplock bag. She carefully placed the leather-bound notebook in the bag to keep it from further damage until she could determine the correct place to send it.
She placed her palm over the plastic and entertained the idea of copying the pages before handing it over to the rightful owner.
“At the very least,” she said, “the sketch of Roux.”
Was the world prepared for what would result should the notebook be preened over and its contents released for all to see? Was Roux prepared? Certainly someone would recognize him and call attention to it.
“Not as if they could convict him of a crime four centuries after the fact.” And of what crime could they accuse him? The evidence of his theft was hers to protect now.
She opened the ziplock bag and, grabbing a set of latex gloves stuffed in a drawer, put them on, then pulled out the notebook. Paging to the sketch of Roux, she stopped to consider her options. Did she have options? She could certainly make options. Yet could she live with that choice if she made it?
Annja took the corner of the page in hand and turned it forward, as if to rip it away from the stitched binding. Just testing, she thought as she eyed whether or not the paper would tear easily or instead pulling would result in the removal of more than the single page. The paper was so old it would tear with but a flick of her wrist.
“This is what I can live with,
” she said and drew in a breath.
She hoped Roux could live with her decision, as well.
* * * * *
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ISBN-13: 9781460335123
THE DEVIL’S CHORD
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Michele Hauf for her contribution to this work.
Copyright © 2014 by Worldwide Library
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