Celtic Fire (Rogue Angel) Page 6

  Breakfast came and went. By the time she’d finished, Annja felt decidedly more awake. Jet lag be damned, at least for a few hours until it caught up with her again and sleep came crashing down around her. That was the usual chain of events when she came off a long flight. It would take two or three days to get used to being on the other side of the world. All she could do was roll with it, which meant getting out of the hotel and taking a look at the museum, assuming it reopened today. Not that it would be open for a few hours yet.

  But that didn’t mean she was going to sit around twiddling her thumbs; that wasn’t Annja Creed’s style.

  She hit the books first, going through all of her papers that covered the village and surrounding countryside, highlighting things of potential interest, then cross-referenced them with the brochures the pub landlord had given her. The lobby carried the same range of brochures. There were enough things to keep her occupied for a few days at least without giving her time to develop itchy feet.

  She thought about checking in with Doug, but a quick calculation was enough to know that even a workaholic like him would still be fast asleep.

  She thought about reading a novel, but of the dozen they had on the wire carousel in what passed for the hotel’s guest shop only one of them caught her eye. The story featured a young aspirant seeking to prove himself by finding the unholy grail. She bought the book, then took a seat in the lobby and started to read. Annja had read three-quarters of the book, drunk three cups of coffee and was on first-name terms with the girl manning the lobby area by the time the museum opened for the day.

  The museum was quiet. She couldn’t tell if it was closed or not as she walked up the road toward it.

  Annja pushed the door tentatively, not expecting it to open.

  It did. A small bell rang above the door, announcing what was almost certainly the first visitor this morning. She expected the staff to pounce, only too eager to explain the exhibits in an effort to stave off boredom. She’d visited enough of these places over the years to know there were two poles they veered between; there were those where the staff were just a little too keen, and others where surly staff viewed visitors as an intrusion sent to ruin their shift. There didn’t seem to be anything in between.

  She saw a youngish girl behind the desk in the main room, probably a volunteer from the nearest university looking to add some summer credits. Behind her there was a display of books with faded jackets, and souvenir racks filled with postcards and faux-Roman trinkets. She smiled and the girl said, “Hello,” but that was all.

  Another woman polished the glass of the new display case, Annja realized as she circulated around the room.

  She came up beside the woman and said, “What happened?” looking down at the obvious emptiness where something had been on display up until yesterday.

  “Oh, hello,” the woman said, almost dropping her duster in surprise. She seemed to recognize Annja. “Sorry we couldn’t let you in yesterday. We had a little trouble, I’m afraid.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope.”

  “Anything that keeps us closed for a day is serious for us. We might not charge an entrance fee, but the money we take in for books and stuff makes all the difference in the world when it comes to what we are able to do. School parties, all of that, it keeps us afloat. That someone stole from us hurts because we’re all part of the same small community, but it’s these other losses that really hurt.”

  Annja looked into the case and saw that there was a stash of small coins nestling in a terra-cotta pot. “What did they take?”

  “Well, between you and me, that’s the strange thing. They left all these coins—not that they’re worth much, really—and took a grindstone.”

  “A grindstone?”

  The woman shrugged as if to say, Who knows? “I know. What on earth would a thief want with an old Roman grindstone? It’s essentially worthless outside the educational value, even to a collector. Next to the grindstone those coins are worth a king’s ransom.”

  “Kids? Maybe the whole thing was about breaking in rather than taking any particular relic?”

  “Maybe. The ridiculous thing is we were about to put it in storage, anyway. We’ve got limited space and much more interesting exhibits to take its place, but that’s life.”

  Annja couldn’t understand why anyone looking for the thrill would steal something as heavy as a grindstone. It didn’t make sense when there were so many other more portable—and resalable—things close to hand, including the slew of coins in the same case, the collection of pins and brooches in the case beside it, even the “cool factor” of the old sword in the display case in the center of the room. It really didn’t compute at all, even if it was about the thrill. Maybe it was a dare? Break-in and escape with one of the heaviest treasures to prove their manliness or something? And yet one of the memorial stones or the stone sarcophagus would have been more difficult to remove....

  There were plenty of items of interest—some large, some small—but what Annja loved about places like this was that each and every one of them had a story to tell. It was even more special when one considered they’d all been found locally, either in the town or nearby in Usk. Together they offered a fascinating insight into the people who’d lived and died in this area. She could almost hear the ghosts of the Roman legion marching down the street toward the amphitheater, a few good men so far from their own homeland. That was why she loved what she did.

  The sound of her cell phone broke the silence of the room.

  Both members of staff turned toward her, both smiling as she shrugged sorry.

  The screen displayed Garin’s name. She hit the refuse button to end the call before it began. He could leave a message and she’d return his call—assuming it was anything worth returning—when she was done.

  No sooner had the phone fallen silent than he called again.

  She killed it on the first ring only for him to call back again.

  “Someone really wants to talk to you,” the woman said.

  Annja answered. “Persistent, aren’t you?” she whispered, heading back outside. “Twice in two days? Should I be worried or flattered?”

  “You should be moving. Fast.”

  “Should I now? Why might that be? Thinking of paying a visit, after all?”

  “It’s Roux. He needs us.”

  That changed things.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “We’ve got to get to a place called St. Davids yesterday. I’m picking the old man up. We’ll be there by lunchtime.” His voice sounded strange and there was a noise in the background she knew should have been familiar.

  “What’s going on?” She still found it slightly ironic that a man who was more than five hundred years old could call anyone else an old man.

  “No idea, but something has really upset him. And you know what he’s like. He doesn’t upset easy. See you soon.” The call ended, leaving Annja with a growing sense of unease. Garin was right; Roux wasn’t rattled easily, so if something had got to him it had to be serious. It was equally unnerving that he’d used Garin as a messenger boy. What kind of trouble was Roux in?

  Chapter 11

  Annja was on the road again.

  So much for being on holiday.

  But weirdly, though, the thought of saying no never occurred to her; that was just the way it was. Garin said Roux was in trouble, what else was she going to do? She owed the pair of them more than she’d ever admit, technically everything her life had become. That the older man had recovered every shard of Joan of Arc’s shattered sword was down to Roux, and that she’d ever walked away from la Bête du Gévaudan was down to Garin’s timely arrival. The man sure knew how to make an entrance.

  The manager of the hotel hadn’t batted an eye when she asked to extend her stay a week and paid for the room up front. Although he h
ad cocked a curious eyebrow at her bags, she’d explained how she was making an unplanned detour and expected to be back in a day or two tops.

  The landscape changed as she traveled. Mile by mile it became more mountainous and increasingly spectacular. She caught the occasional glimpse of the huge white turbines of wind farms as the road curved and coiled toward the urban sprawls of Newport, Cardiff and Bridgend before she reached the industrial landscape of Port Talbot. There she was greeted by a huge gout of flame blazing brightly from one of the chimneys of the steelworks. It was a different world.

  Eventually the motorway came to an end and the road narrowed considerably. The cars around her slowed without any warning signs, their drivers used to the slower pace of life and the end of the motorway regardless of the speed limit. She followed the road from village to village rather than town to town; houses were dotted across the hillsides, a few huddled together in small clusters. She had to pull over to the side of the road more than once to double-check the map to be sure she was still on the right road as every few miles it became less and less convincing. The landscape, though, was breathtaking and more than made up for the permanent feeling of being lost. Lots of signposts she saw were in duel languages—English and Welsh—though the Welsh seemed to lack a lot of vowels. At last she skirted the fringes of Haverfordwest and picked up another winding road that would take her to St. Davids.

  Her cell phone rang again: Garin.

  She pulled over to the side of the road to take the call.

  “If you take the second exit at the next island you’ll see a small private airfield on your right. If you pull in you can give us a ride.”

  “That really is creepy, you know.”

  “What is?”

  “Spying on me.”

  “Annja, it’s because I care.”

  She heard the low drone of an aircraft overhead and, leaning up against her window, could see it coming in to land. It had the name of one of Garin’s companies on the side of it, or one of the shell companies his companies pretended to be. She could never really work out what he owned and what he didn’t, only that after five hundred years he’d amassed a stupid amount of money. And where Roux was content with his château and pretending it was pre–French Revolution most days, Garin wanted it all—bigger, brighter, shiner, sexier and most definitely more expensive. There was no point berating him; he was just testing another one of his new toys out. Next week it would be some other invasion of her privacy that was merely part of his dubious charm.

  They really were the odd couple, Garin and Roux—apprentice and master long gone beyond the original scope of their relationship. She knew how much Garin struggled with the new dynamic and wanting to be seen as more than Roux’s former pupil.

  She ended the call and followed his directions.

  The plane still trundled down the short runway as she pulled the hire car to a halt on the fringe of the strip’s hardtop. There’d been next to no security in place, a barrier with an old guard who had been drawing his pension for the past few years. He waved her through without asking for any identification so she assumed Garin had phoned ahead to log her license plate with him. In these days of increased security alerts and color-coded terror threats, this little backwoods airstrip felt incredibly quaint.

  The facilities were limited to say the least, but given the location it served a purpose. It was unlikely there was another airfield within fifty miles of the place, and even the daredevil in Garin’s soul wouldn’t have fancied bringing the plane down in a field unless there was no other choice.

  Of course, if Roux was in trouble he’d have landed in the middle of Broadway if he had to. But he’d never tell Roux that. Likewise Roux would have done anything in his power to help Garin if he was up to his neck in it, and he’d be every bit as grudging in admitting that Garin was the yang to his yin.

  She stayed behind the wheel, waiting for Garin to debark the Gulfstream.

  After a moment the seal around the airtight door popped and the door came down, the built-in ladder descending until it reached the ground. Garin emerged a moment later, dressed in a ridiculously expensive suit, jacket slung over his shoulder, aviator sunglasses in place.

  Roux came a moment later, gray and grizzled and most of all tired. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week.

  He saw her car parked up on the asphalt and descended the steps, waving a hand toward her as he approached. He had an overnight case in one hand and a smaller leather grip bag clutched in his other. Garin carried one in his free hand. They were clearly prepared for this—whatever this was—to take more than a day to resolve. She’d expected nothing less, really. Roux wasn’t keen on forgoing his creature comforts if it could be helped, so whatever had happened was important enough to keep him away from the poker tables and the château. Add to the fact he’d called in both of them, and that spelled trouble with a capital T. But at least he was in one piece. She realized she’d been holding her breath, half expecting the worst; hell, if Roux could do one thing well it was get into trouble.

  “Annja, you’re a sight for sore eyes, girl. Good to see you. Thanks for agreeing to come,” Roux said as she got out of the car to embrace him. Annja decided not to tell him she hadn’t agreed to anything, as much fun as being pedantic could be. He knew he’d not given her an actual choice.

  “Not a problem,” she said, smiling as if butter wouldn’t melt as she popped open the trunk. They slung their luggage inside. Roux kept ahold of the leather bag.

  Garin smirked. It was the kind of smirk that he thought made him look raffish and debonair but really only made him look like a smug fool. At least he didn’t hold out his hands for the keys. She had no intention of letting him drive. He slid onto the passenger’s seat without a word. Annja hoped that he was going to stay that way. Every now and then silence really was golden.

  She gave it a few minutes, pulling out of the airfield and out onto the main road, before she asked, “Want to tell me what this is all about?”

  She watched the older man through the rearview mirror. He stared straight ahead, clutching that leather bag to his chest.

  He didn’t speak, but neither did he relax his grip on the bag.

  Annja couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him like this—half there, half somewhere else. Probably back when he’d been so manfully convincing her to surrender the fragment of Joan’s sword, back when Garin would have happily killed her to make sure her reconstituting the sword wouldn’t jinx whatever weird curse was supposedly keeping the pair of them alive. The worst of it, she realized, was how frail Roux looked.

  She knew him well enough to know he’d talk when he was ready and not before.

  “Sorry I had to drag you from your vacation,” he said at last. “I know you’d been looking forward to it, but needs must when the devil drives.” The road swung away from the last of the shoulder-to-shoulder houses and out into the country again.

  “Garin said you were in trouble,” Annja replied.

  She glanced at him but his eyes were still firmly set on the road ahead.

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “And what manner would that be?” Annja asked.

  “The pretty damn blunt manner,” Garin said. “Tell her, old man. No need to dress it up all pretty, she’s a big girl.”

  Roux took a deep breath, like he was preparing to off-load some huge confession. “I shouldn’t have involved you...not yet. Not until I was sure.” This didn’t sound like him; this sounded like a man who had been broken by events.

  Annja watched him steadily through the backward land of the mirror, trying to judge just how bad things really were.

  She resisted the temptation to press. “Okay, so where am I going?”

  “Follow the signs for St. Davids town center,” Garin said. “We’re going to a cemetery.”

  �
�You take a girl to all the most romantic places,” she said.

  Garin grinned.

  “Someone interesting buried in the cathedral?” she asked. She’d read up on some of the tourist literature about the town that was at least a city in name thanks to its cathedral.

  “Someone and something, I suspect,” Roux offered. “But I won’t bore you with that.”

  “Let’s try again—why the sudden rush to get the gang together and visit the boneyard?” Roux may well have been trying to duck the question, but he also had an annoying habit of specificity, so she’d learned to tailor her questions to meet his frustrating personality as best she could. “Something special?”

  “Ah, well, there are three things that make this place special to me,” he began, and she realized she’d unlocked at least one layer of security around the puzzle. She caught sight of Garin leaning back in his seat and she smiled, realizing he knew no more about the motivation for the trip than she did. Roux wasn’t one for confiding in people if he didn’t have to, which of course was one of the other things that frustrated not only her, but Garin, too; he really hated being treated like an errand boy after five centuries.

  “For one, this is the last resting place of Giraldus Cambrensis, or Gerald of Wales to you and me. Gerald was a chronicler of his age. A lot of what we know about Wales from that time comes from his writings, and it really was a different world. But more importantly, just as we know and have seen things that most of our world remains oblivious to, he saw things and knew things in his own time. Only a fraction of the events he witnessed still fall under the gaze of the world, but believe me, there was much more that remains hidden, secrets lost to all but a few....” It sounded like the beginning of a fable, the older man spinning a story for them, but she’d seen enough and lived through enough to know better.