The Matador's Crown (15 page)

The acrid scent of blood and musk nearly overwhelmed her. Toes pushing upward, she couldn’t gain another inch of space between her and the beast. She pressed her palms against its forehead but it was as if she was pushing an iron statue cemented into the ground.

The horn tips scraped the brick on either side of her torso. The bull lifted its head weakly, dragging its wet nose along her hip. And then it faltered, wobbling backward. A horn tore her pant leg, pulling a strip of fabric away from her thigh to hang shredded above her knee.

Annja pushed against the flat head. The bull’s legs shook. Drool spilled out of its open mouth. Its eyelids shuttered. It was dying—because of her.

The world rushed back in on her in a fury of sound. Screaming children. Shouting men. Close by, the honking of a car horn. The bull’s irregular panting prodded her conscience.

The bull fell to its knees, releasing her from the horned prison against the wall.

Annja stumbled forward and, in a moment of clarity, grabbed the sword hilt and pulled it out of the bull’s back. She released the sword to the otherwhere.

The bull’s head dropped. It tumbled to its side, hooves clacking against the cobblestone.

Shouts of “Olé!” and clapping erupted around Annja. Her shoulders were jostled as men congratulated her on defeating the bull and her stunning prowess.

Her eyes tracked to the children who were being claimed, one by one, by adults, who swept the boys to safety.

Annja lowered her head and pushed through the crowd that had begun to circle the fallen bull. She nodded, offering a weak smile to the people who continued to congratulate her.

When she cleared the street and turned the corner to stand against the door of a closed candy store, Annja exhaled.

16

Annja slammed her hotel room door behind her. The message light on her cell phone flashed. Mindlessly, she punched through the buttons and checked the messages. One from Doug Morrell, her producer at
Chasing History’s Monsters,
one from Garin Braden and another from an unlisted number.

The unlisted number intrigued her. Tossing the phone on the bed, she sat on the edge and stretched her back straight, straining her well-used muscles. Only now did she remember the tear in her pants and, for the first time, noticed the blood. On closer inspection, she found a six-inch abrasion across her upper thigh. The bull’s horn had gotten her and she hadn’t even been aware of it.

A much lesser cut than the one she had given the bull.

Digging through her backpack, she pulled out some prepackaged alcohol swabs and cleaned the wound. She’d survive.

Calling up the sword, she sat on the bed clasping the hilt in her lap. The blade gleamed. It wasn’t bloody. It never came back to her hands showing any sign of damage.

She had killed with this sword. It had been necessary for her survival and to protect innocent people. She never dwelled on that. At least, she tried not to.

Roux claimed that the sword had chosen her. She believed that to her marrow. She wasn’t Joan of Arc reincarnated.

But she had never killed an animal. Well, did a shark count as an animal? And there had been a pack of wild dogs… While her life and the lives of the children had been in danger, it hurt her to consider what she had done.

Where had the bull come from? Someone had to have opened the gate she’d closed behind her and pushed the bull through. Without her noticing.

The image of the bull’s brand haunted her, but she couldn’t bring herself to pull up a search on the laptop.

She had pressed her palms to the bull’s head and had felt its end. It hadn’t chosen to be used as a weapon. It had never chosen a life that would see its first freedom the final steps toward its death.

She pressed the flat of the blade to her forehead. The cool steel was a balm to her. Today she felt she had abused her power.

* * *

A
NNJA
WOKE
TO
the sound of a slamming door. She sat upright in bed. A woman in a red-and-black flamenco dress leaned against the door. Annja still held the sword.

“That’s some big steel,” Ava Vital commented, crossing her arms over her chest and arrowing her patented glared on Annja. “Don’t worry, I didn’t come to duel. Though that would be fun, wouldn’t it? Dueling. Whatever happened to dueling?”

“It went out during the Enlightenment when drunken fops battling to the death tended to walk themselves into their enemies’ rapiers.” Annja stretched her neck to the side, easing out a kink.

“We would never have dueled drunk. When we call someone out, we mean business.”

Realizing it would be risky to send the sword to the otherwhere now, Annja set it aside on the bed. “And who has wronged you that you would call out?”

“Let’s not rehash this, okay, Brooklyn?”

“Right. The matador.”

“I heard you killed a bull with that sword. Rescued a couple of kids.”

Annja shrugged. “News travels fast.”

“Faster than the internet in this old neighborhood. A man can slap his wife and walk out the door and by the time he reaches the end of the street, a posse of housewives wielding cast-iron frying pans stands waiting for him. So how does it feel?” Ava asked quietly. “To kill?”

“Not right.”

“Good. You’re a better person than I had initially thought.”

“I’m not sure I need the points right now.”

“Especially not from me, eh?”

No, especially not from someone who had a death wish for the matador.

“You let yourself in. You must have good reason.” Annja stood and paced to the balcony door, aware that Ava had approached the bed to look at the sword.

“Looks a couple centuries old, but I’m no expert. A battle sword isn’t an easy weapon to get through customs.”

“No, it’s not.” Annja left it at that. “So, the reason for your visit?”

“I’d thought you’d left the city. Why are you still here?”

The only reason anyone would assume she had left would be because they knew she’d been escorted to the airport. Only the police were aware of that, and James Harlow. Which shone a new light on Ava Vital. Who did she know?

“I like the sun.” Annja grabbed the pitcher of water from the dresser and poured herself a glassful. She offered one to Ava, but the dancer refused with a shake of her head.

Her dress swished as she strutted across the room, her hands on her hips. A member of the Spanish Special Forces as well as a dancer. If the woman hadn’t tried to kill Manuel Bravo, she could imagine them getting to know each other better, perhaps even becoming friends.

And since when do you worry that your friends have murderous impulses?
Her conscience always made her face her truths.

“Have you come to tell me to leave Cádiz?” Annja asked. “I’m not keen on threats.”

“I guessed that about you. But I will warn you to stay out of my way.”

“And that way leads to Manuel Bravo?”

Ava leaned against the patio door, her elegant form silhouetted in the setting sun. Annja realized she must have fallen asleep for a few hours. “The matador is in deeper than he can imagine. In the ring he is a maestro. Outside the ring, he isn’t very smart.”

“Sounds like you have more against the guy than the suspicion he killed your friend.”

“Diego wasn’t a friend. Just a guitar player.”

“Who are you?” Annja finally blurted. She was beyond frustrated trying to figure out all the players in this game and their positions.

“I’m a dancer.” She lifted her skirts at the hip and pounded out a few steps that beat the dust up from the hardwood floor. “You didn’t notice the costume?”

“A dancer who carries a knife at the back of her skirt and who shoots a sniper rifle like the Special Forces she is and who has a very close relationship with the police.”

“The police? I don’t think so.” She wrinkled her nose.

“Then why haven’t they arrested you? I gave them an exact description. Including that tattoo. If I found you, the authorities shouldn’t have any trouble.”

“The police are stupid.”

“Do you know César Soto?”

The dancer looked down her nose at Annja, but didn’t answer. Annja couldn’t judge whether it was because she did know him or wanted to maintain her dominance by refusing to answer another question.

“Tell me about the tattoo on your wrist. I wasn’t able to find reference to it online.”

Ava moved her arm up in a sinuous glide, flicking her wrist in a classic flamenco move to display the tattoo. “It’s my tribute to Nemesis.”

“The goddess of divine retribution?” Greek vengeance. Often depicted with wings. Annja couldn’t believe she’d missed that. Though the tattoo was a single wing. “A strong female warrior.”

“Why the label? Can’t she simply be a strong warrior? Like Boudicca, or Althena, or Joan of Arc.”

Annja glanced at the sword on the bed. “I’ll grant you that. You get the tattoo after being trained in the Special Forces? Doesn’t really fit with army standards.”

“I had the tattoo done after—” She glanced aside. “A bad breakup.”

Bad romance and a retribution goddess? Made sense.

“It was the matador’s assistant who set the bull after you,” Ava blurted.

Annja tilted her head to eye the dancer. “Cristo?” How could she know that?

Ava nodded. “Did you see the brand?”

“Half circle above a bar.”

“The bull was from Cristo’s ranch. El Bravo considers his bulls unworthy of the ring. The two argue incessantly about that.”

“Yet Cristo works for Bravo. He was there the day I was out to his villa. I didn’t notice any animosity between the men.”

“Cristo can’t sell his bulls to the corridas—they share Bravo’s opinion—so he needs the money. I believe the man thinks someday the matador will use one of his
toros.
A twisted relationship, if you ask me.”

“Why would Cristo set a bull after me? Because Bravo asked him to?”

Ava nodded.

“Manuel Bravo strikes me as someone who never asks others to do his dirty work for him.”

Yet, he believed she had touched the votive crown. The man wouldn’t actually kill someone for touching one of them, would he?

No, that was ridiculous. He’d have to be a psychopath to let such a small affront affect him.

“He removes obstacles in his path,” Ava said. “With a sweep of his cape, El Bravo can direct a charging bull toward death. He does it for a living, Creed. You cannot trust him.”

“I think I can’t trust you. Or the police.”

“Never trust the police. Especially not regarding the corrida. Are you aware of César Soto and El Bravo’s relationship?”

“Were they once competitors?”

Ava laughed. “Soto would never have been considered anyone’s competition. He has weak ankles. He could never stand before the bull without his legs shaking. He was injured badly.”

“I’ve noticed his limp.”

“El Bravo’s father had been training César when it happened. A bull gored him in the thigh. Went all the way through and damaged the muscles permanently. Manuel’s father could never get over the guilt. He’s been supporting Soto since.”

“Really? Like, paying his rent?”

Ava nodded.

“His bills?”

“Everything. Except now the burden has fallen on Manuel’s shoulders. He is now the primary supporter of the family. And in this country, family pride is everything.”

Ava waited in silence as Annja considered what she’d said. So Manuel Bravo was working not only to support himself, but also César Soto? Over a wounded leg? When did such a guilt payment end? Would he pay Soto’s way forever? That certainly gave the matador a reason to be angry. But not Soto. She still couldn’t see how that gave Bravo a reason to murder Diego.

“Does Soto return the favor by overlooking El Bravo’s indiscretions?” Annja posited.

“Now you’re using your brain,” Ava said. She spun, the move flaring out the skirt of her dress.

“How do you know so much about the torero?”

The dancer lifted her chin. “You haven’t done enough computer research, clearly.” Ava sighed. “Remain in Cádiz at your own risk.”

Annja’s shoulders stiffened. “Is that a threat?”

“Not at all.” Ava strode to the door and opened it. “I’m dancing at the Gato Negra in a few hours. Stop by for a drink.”

Annja raised an eyebrow.

“Now,
that
was a threat.” Ava sauntered down the hallway, leaving the door open.

Annja’s skin crawled. She felt as if Ava had cursed her.

Soto and Bravo were indebted to each other…. Interesting. And that Ava knew so much about their relationship added a new twist to the mystery. Somehow, the three were tied together. Clearly one of them had been her lover. Is that why she’d taken a shot at Bravo?

17

Garin glared at the guard standing in front of the steel door to the seaside office. The neckless lackey had been placed there to pat down everyone who entered, and Garin understood that it was his job. He locked eyes with the bruiser, who stood as tall as he was. “Drake expects me.”

The guard let his gaze, hidden behind dark sunglasses, drop to Garin’s chest, where he could be concealing a weapon—and was. He favored a Heckler & Koch Tactical lately. With a nod, the guard stepped aside and opened the door.

“Braden!”

The enthusiastic welcome came from somewhere beyond a forest of ferns and palms set before a panoramic window with a breathtaking view of the Atlantic Ocean. Garin strolled into the luxurious office, waiting for the door to close behind him, then unbuttoned his suit coat and shrugged his shoulders. He’d been going casual the past few days, so suiting up this morning felt restrictive.

“I’ve made tea,” Drake called from within the forest. “It’s brewed. Help yourself. I’m almost finished.”

The palm-tree fronds shivered and Garin heard the sharp clip of snippers. He poured a cup of tea that filled the air with sharp punches of cinnamon, clove and anise. Settling into an armless leather chair before a massive granite desk, he nodded when the thin, tall man appeared, his sleeves rolled up. The red silk shirt he wore matched the red in his cheeks. An extreme sun allergy, Garin knew, which is why Hannibal Drake did all his gardening indoors.

The man pulled off his gardening gloves and tossed them onto the desk. Gesturing to the miniature forest, he said, “I think I’ve been watering them too much. Rot is setting in. You like the brew? I have it sent from Nepal.”

“Spicy. Heats the throat going down.”

“Indeed, and it’s good for the circulation.”

Garin set the fragile teacup on the desk in front of him. “So you’re into gardening and tea now?”

“It calms me. Or it’s supposed to.” He moved the gloves to a steel table on wheels that was stocked with garden supplies, and poured himself a cup, adding an unhealthy dose of sugar. “My physician says I’m to cultivate serenity in my life.”

“How’s that working for you?”

“Not bad. Not bad at all.” Hannibal Drake sipped, then winced. “This stuff is awful. I can’t get the knack for tea. It always tastes like weakly flavored water with bits of stick in it. Don’t tell me you actually like it?”

Garin shrugged. “I’ve tasted better brews, and usually bearing a wax seal that promises it’s been aged for decades.”

“Right.” He veered toward the wet bar behind Garin. Glass clattered as he poured two tumblers of brandy neat. “If anything will bring me serenity, it’s this.”

Garin tilted back the golden spirits Drake handed him, and guessed it was some fine stuff. Smooth. Sweet, smoky and sultry. Exactly like the perfect woman.

“Portuguese,” Hannibal said. “Sweeter than the Macedonian stuff I usually serve.”

“Send me your supplier’s information,” Garin said. “This is worth stocking up with a few cases.”

“I will. Hell, I’ll send you a case. You catch a fight while you’re in town?” Hannibal asked as he opened a desk drawer and pulled out a flat wooden box.

“Wouldn’t miss one. El Bravo is a good friend.”

Hannibal set the box on the desk and met Garin’s eyes. “Ah, yes, I know the torero. That’s excellent. You choose your friends carefully.”

“As I chose you. So what do you have for me?”

The man slid the box across the desk and sat back without a word. He swirled the tumbler, watching as Garin lifted the lid. Inside, arranged carefully on black velvet, lay a necklace that had been crafted in the late nineteenth century during the Art Nouveau period. The metalwork was hand-chased brass, pounded and polished to represent acanthus leaves and ivy. A few flower petals skirted the edges. Rubies highlighted the curved motion of the piece but did not overwhelm it. They were only there to catch the light and draw the eye to the pendant.

As a centerpiece, the ivory pendant was half as large as Garin’s palm. The porcelain oval had been hand-painted. He knew this without question. It depicted a Rubenesque woman with titian hair spilling down her shoulders, eyes closed. Her lips were parted and she held a ribbon across her lower lip. An expression of ecstasy no man would ever mistake.

“Is it the one?” Hannibal asked.

Garin touched the pendant, careful not to press too hard or get the oils from his fingers on the paint. A piece this old, in watercolors, could easily be damaged. He traced a finger along the woman’s face without touching the piece. He’d forgotten those lips.

No, he hadn’t.

Garin rubbed a hand along his thigh, keeping his expression neutral. Some days he did forget. The centuries moved slowly. When people entered his life for years, it felt like mere moments. He remembered some. Few he recalled with such accuracy he could bring up the scent they had worn or their exact gestures and speech inflections.

This necklace stirred the memory of her mouth, curved on the one side in laughter. Just waiting to be kissed.

“Yes,” he said and closed the lid. “This is the one. How much do you want?”

“From a friend?” Garin doubted the man hadn’t already decided exactly how much he could snake out of him before he’d arrived. “One hundred thousand.”

Not worth that much. Unless it had been painted by a master of the time period, such as Mucha or
Toulouse-Lautrec.

Garin nodded. “Deal.” He placed the box on his lap and pulled out his cell phone. “I’ll wire the money to you. Give me the account number.”

In less than five minutes, Garin had a new trinket. No, not new, but a familiar piece he’d lost long ago.

“A pretty piece,” Hannibal said, rising and gesturing for Garin to follow him to the window.

With the box tucked under his arm, Garin joined his friend and marveled at the view. A white-sand beach intersected with a shipping dock to the left of Hannibal’s office. The dock couldn’t obscure the blue water, which glinted with sunlight.

“I often study the objects that pass through my hands,” the dealer said, “especially the ones with portraits. What do you think the name of that woman was?”

“No clue,” Garin said. Some memories he had to keep sacred.

His attention was diverted to the left. Sunlight glinted off a warehouse fronted by a parking lot crowded with rusted shipping containers when its steel doors rose to admit a forklift driver. Inside, a bustle of workers moved around crates of a certain size and shape that Garin suspected contained guns. Along any shoreline around the world you could find that kind of underhanded operation. Hell, it served a man well to have a few such places on his contact list. You never knew when they might come in handy.

“Not what you’re thinking,” Hannibal said, interrupting his thoughts. “No guns in that warehouse. But if you’re in the market for weaponry…?”

“Not at the moment.” He respected the relationship he and Hannibal Drake had cultivated. They could discuss almost anything and not fear that the other would share it with anyone else. “If not guns, what are they moving down there?”

“Artifacts. Small-time. Bunch of junk, if you ask me. Though they do bring in the occasional treasure. I have first pick, which pleases me to no end because that leaves—well—someone else in the lurch.”

“First to the treasure walks away with the spoils,” Garin agreed.

“And in this town you’ll find a whole nest of vultures eager to pick through the spoils. Most of the hypocrites work for the university or the local museum. Now, if you’re looking for something a little older and more interesting to display in your office…?”

Garin chuckled and slapped Hannibal across the back. “I’ve already put a small fortune in your pocket today, Drake. It was good to see you. Thanks for this.”

“I’ve been watching for what you described for years. Glad to know I finally found what you’ve been seeking. I’ll send the brandy to your place in Berlin.”

“Looking forward to it. Good afternoon, Drake.”

Garin left the office and decided to drive around the building to get a better view of the warehouse. The workers shuffling around outside weren’t very covert, though at a glance someone might guess they were merely shipping crated goods. He picked out an armed guard on the rooftop, a semiautomatic slung over his shoulder. Again, not covert at all.

“Artifacts,” he said. “And Annja Creed stuck in the middle of some kind of mess, as usual, that involves stolen artifacts. Should I or shouldn’t I?”

He weighed his options.

Her insinuation that El Bravo could have something do to with the guitarist’s murder had insulted him. Perhaps after a cigar and another brandy back at the villa he would decide what to tell Annja. If anything.