Rogue Angel 50: Celtic Fire (15 page)

Awena shrieked and launched herself across the room, lashing out wildly with the ancient sword. Annja barely evaded the blow, stumbling in the process as she scrambled backward.

She needed to defend herself.

She didn’t want to kill the woman, just subdue her. Disarm her. If her anger evaporated, surely she could be made to understand it was just an accident.

Awena lashed out again, driving her back. Annja’s foot came down on an old leather journal that had been discarded, and the pages shifted beneath her weight, sliding out from beneath her. Annja went sprawling across the floor with Awena looming over her every bit as wild-eyed as her dead father had ever been.

As she hit the ground all of the air left her and she gasped for breath.

It’s some kind of madness,
she thought, feeling the heat of Awena Llewellyn’s blade on her arm as she reached out into the otherwhere, willing Joan’s sword into her hand.
She’s caught it, just like her old man.

She heard a scream, but didn’t realize it came from her own twisted lips.

The pain only lasted a moment as the blue flame scorched her skin.

It was more than long enough for Awena Llewellyn to drop onto Annja’s chest, pinning her arms, as she brought the firebrand sword up to rest its burning heat against her cheek. The madness in her eyes was every bit as real as the fire’s heat.

There’s no reasoning with madness.

And then a second thought:
this isn’t going to end well.

“It’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye, Annja,” Awena said, pushing the edge of the blade up toward Annja’s eyes. The writhing blue flame crept up across her line of sight, filling her vision.

The pain was incredible.

It was beyond bearing.

Annja shrieked and arced her back, trying desperately to dislodge the woman from on top of her. She bucked and writhed, lashing out like a bronco, but the woman clung on, pushing more and more weight behind the blade resting on Annja’s face, burning, burning, burning....

“An eye for an eye,” she said, and there was nothing sane in her voice now. “I’m a literal kind of girl, Mizz Creed.”

Annja felt the pressure ease and the pain diminish from searing to simply agonizing. Then she realized that Awena had lifted the sword intending to pluck out her eye with it or else drive the blade though it into the back of her skull. She didn’t have a chance to think; she had to react. The bucking had freed her right hand from beneath Awena’s weight, and Annja felt Joan’s sword in her hand even as she saw the slashing blade come down. She barely stopped the killing blow inches from her face, metal sparking on metal as the two swords came together.

She saw the shock in the other woman’s face, the lack of understanding.

She’d been robbed of her justice.

Annja didn’t hesitate; she slammed her left fist up into Awena’s face, a clubbing blow that connected with her chin and sent her head rocking back.

Awena lost her grip on the sword. It clattered to the floor.

Annja scrambled to her feet, breathing hard.

Tears stung her face.

Every inch of her skin felt as though it were on fire. Her sleeve was black and smoldering where it had touched the sword. She didn’t want to think what her face looked like. She focused on the sword in her hand.

“I don’t want to kill you, Awena. This doesn’t have to end like this. One death doesn’t cancel out another. That isn’t balance, that’s just two corpses.”

“Shut up! I don’t want to hear any more of your lies.”

“There’s already been enough death. Please. Leave the sword alone.”

But Awena wasn’t prepared to give up on her vengeance. She picked up the burning sword again. She wanted Annja to pay, and lunged at her, slashing wildly. She had no skill with the weapon, but pure rage made her more than dangerous.

Annja parried blow after blow, fending off the attacks, knowing that, like any fire, Awena would burn herself out. She didn’t have the stamina to match Annja, even if the blade somehow imbued her with unholy strength. It had to end, eventually.

Beads of sweat streamed down Awena’s face.

The room was cramped, the low ceiling making it difficult to fight properly.

There was blood around Awena’s mouth, too, from Annja’s fist.

Again and again Awena swung, coming at her, but the intensity of the attacks lessened as she tired. Annja felt the strain, too. The muscles in her sword arm burned where it had been touched by the blue flame.

She gritted her teeth and tried to get through again. “I didn’t kill him, Awena. It was an accident.”

“I don’t believe you!” the woman spat, her attacks becoming more frenzied and ferocious as her frustration boiled over. She didn’t seem to care if Annja hurt her or not. There was no thought to defense.

“But that doesn’t mean I’m lying,” Annja pleaded. “Please. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Liar!” Awena screeched, and launched another dizzying flurry of blows, all with the sole intention of cleaving Annja’s head from her shoulders.

Annja blocked each one, swords ringing out as they clashed.

Tears rolled off Awena’s face.

Grief.

Failure.

Annja couldn’t kill the woman in front of her.

Awena seemed to shrink in on herself, drawing a single breath before launching the next swing.

Annja knew that this was the moment to strike.

One chance. One opening. That was all she needed. She had to end this now, before one of them was seriously hurt.

She charged forward, leading with her shoulder instead of her sword, and cannoned into the woman. The impact drove the wind out of her opponent even as the flaming sword cut through the air harmlessly.

Awena lost her footing, driven back by Annja, and Annja fell on top of her.

Both of them tumbled to the ground, their bodies so close that a sword was useless—unless it was made of fire and its very touch could burn and blind.

Annja pressed a knee against Awena’s forearm, keeping it down, then drove the hilt of her own sword into Awena’s wrist, springing her hand open like a trap. Awena howled in agony, the sword spilling from her fingers. The flames failed the moment the contact with Awena Llewellyn’s hand was broken. Annja couldn’t think about it. Somehow Awena found some final ounce of strength and reached up, grabbing Annja’s hair.

She tugged hard, tearing it out at the roots.

It was Annja’s turn to scream at the sudden pain.

She swung her left fist as hard as she could, hammering it into Awena’s nose, and felt the sickly rupturing of cartilage beneath the impact and the wetness of blood, but the woman didn’t release her grip. Instead, Awena writhed and bucked and tore at Annja’s hair until she had to shift her balance and release the arm that had been trapped beneath her knee.

They both scrambled to their feet.

Awena kicked out. It wasn’t exactly graceful, but her foot connected with Annja’s wrist and the sword spun out of her hand. The fabled blade skittered beneath the desk and disappeared back into the otherworld.

Awena grabbed her own sword, the blade reigniting as soon as her fist closed around the hilt.

She looked up, hair falling across her face.

Weaponless, Annja charged, throwing herself at the woman. She slammed into her, driving her back. Awena took the full impact of the charge and stumbled, unable to cope with Annja’s momentum.

One backward step became two, became three, and then she was falling, the burning sword flailing in the air.

The room filled with the crash of glass as Annja carried Awena into the window.

And Awena kept falling through it.

Annja stared in horror; she’d been trying to buy herself a second, time enough to reclaim her sword, to disarm the other...but the world slowed down and Awena kept falling. Glass shattered. Wood splintered. The window wasn’t strong enough to keep her inside the house.

Annja snatched out a hand, trying to catch Awena’s ankle even as Awena clawed helplessly at the air, unable to gain any purchase or stop her inevitable fall.

And then she was gone.

Annja stood in the bay of the broken window and stared down at the body below, Giraldus Cambrensis’s sword lying on the gravel driveway beside it.

Annja breathed hard. “It didn’t have to be this way,” she said, and turned away from the window.

No matter what the woman had done, though, Annja wouldn’t abandon her as she had her father.

She wouldn’t just leave her to die—if she wasn’t dead already. She would stay with her until the ambulance arrived, until the police arrived, whether it was to take Awena Llewellyn to the hospital or the morgue. She would stay with her.

She had no idea how she’d explain it. What could she possibly say that would make any sort of sense to the average person?

She picked up her bag and cell phone from where she’d left them downstairs in the kitchen and headed outside, already dialing 999 to summon the emergency services.

She walked around the side of the huge house to the stretch of driveway beneath Owen Llewellyn’s study window. Broken glass crunched underfoot with the gravel.

Annja stopped the call just as the emergency operator was asking which service she required.

There was no sign of Awena.

Chapter 29

“All I need is for you to get up onto one of the towers,” Roux said.

“All?” Garin replied. “There’s nothing like expecting miracles, is there, old man? I’m good, but there are special-ops guys crawling over everywhere. We can’t even get in through the front gate, but all you need is for me to somehow reach the top of one of the towers. What did you have in mind? Helicopter in and drop me from a great height?” Garin suggested facetiously.

“It’s an option,” Roux said, all sweetness and light, with a look that could have frozen a penguin in an ice floe. “There’s no need to go in through the front gate. There’s no need to go
inside
the castle at all.”

Garin thought about what Roux was suggesting for a moment, allowing it to sink in, while his eyes traced their way up the outer walls of the castle. He sniffed.

“Which tower?”

There was no point in trying to say that it wasn’t possible; it was, obviously. In Roux’s philosophy there were only problems and solutions. Some problems needed more thought than others, but there was always a means of solving them. That was how the old man was.

“Walk with me,” Roux said, getting to his feet. He left the table clearly oblivious to the fact that there was still a bill to be paid. Garin slipped a twenty-pound note beneath the saucer of his cup along with his business card—plain black with his phone number and first name in foil, nothing else—and nodded to the girl as she came outside again. The tip was more than the price of the coffee, meaning she was going to remember him for more than just making her blush. With a bit of luck she’d call later. All he had to do was get to the top of the tower, find King Arthur’s cloak of invisibility, get back out and give Roux the slip for a few hours. And then maybe he could take her for a drink. Maybe in Paris. That always went down well.

“Try not to look too conspicuous, eh?” Roux said as he ambled across the square to the estuary that was alongside the castle. “Remember, we’re just tourists. There are plenty of those—some of them are even taking photos of the guards, but we’re just interested in the battlements.”

Garin nodded. “Long way up. Or more pertinently, long way
down,
” Garin said, scanning the stonework for natural handholds.

“Do you think you’re up to it?”

“With the right equipment, no problem.”

Roux shook his head. “No equipment. We can’t risk anything that will leave a trace. We were never here, remember?”

“Are you insane? You’re asking me to free-climb up the side of a castle in the dark when they’ve got armed guards waiting to shoot anything that moves?”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t use a rope, assuming you need one to exfiltrate the castle, but no pegs, nothing hammered into the rock. Nothing that will make a sound. You’d need to be able to self-release the rope, obviously, so we could take it with us. But yes, you are right—you would have to do it in the dark.”

“You
are
crazy.”

“Never denied it, but I’m not the one climbing castle walls in the middle of the night. Personally, I’m not sure you are up to it.”

“Don’t try any of your silly mind tricks on me, old man,” Garin warned. “I know how you work. Remember, I’ve known you for a very, very long time. I’m not going to be fooled into breaking my neck simply because you say I can’t do something. I don’t need to prove you wrong.”

“Of course you don’t,” Roux agreed.

With equipment, in broad daylight, no problem. In the dark, sans gear, that was another story. There was one person who was better suited to make the climb than he was, though he wasn’t about to suggest they call in Annja. She had enough on her plate.

“I suppose you’re volunteering to be lookout?” he said.

Roux nodded, a wry smile on his lips. He might look like someone’s doting granddad, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be a right bastard if the need arose, or that he wouldn’t enjoy it, either. “I’ll avail myself of the shadows down here, yes, and make sure you do not get into trouble.”

“Hooting like a barn owl no doubt?”

“If that is your warning of choice, yes. I can do wolves, too, if you prefer.”

“Funny. I was more concerned about what happened once I was inside—you know, the whole part about finding the secret hiding place of the mantle, which you haven’t actually shared with me. Am I to take it that it is stashed beneath some convenient flagstone on the battlements?”

“Not quite. No. I will give you directions when the time comes. Not that I don’t trust you, you understand.”

Garin ignored the barbed comment and continued to pace the length of the wall. “Okay, which tower are we talking about?”

Roux nodded to the one that looked out toward the sea. “That one.”

“Well, at least there’s less chance of being seen by any drunks stumbling across the square.” There were boats moored at the quayside. Most of them were small fishing vessels. None of them looked like the kind of place some bohemian would make their home, so the chances of someone spending the night on them were slim to nonexistent. That only left the army to worry about.

Even from this distance he could see that the blocks of stone had cracks between them wide enough to serve as toe-and fingerholds. They weren’t perfect or evenly spaced, but they would have been a piece of cake for Annja. The problem was she was at the other end of the country chasing a sword.

Or maybe she wasn’t.

Maybe she’d already found it.

The Porsche could do the journey in a couple of hours.

Might as well get his money’s worth.

“I’ll call her,” he said, making the decision himself. “If she’s done, she could be here before it’s dark.”

“Probably wise. Like I said, I’m not sure you’re up to it.”

“You won’t goad me into it, old man. You won’t.”

“If you say so.”