Day Of Atonement

A reckoning that will destroy them all…

Trials, persecutions, false accusations, the Inquisition—for archaeologist and TV host Annja Creed, the current episode they’re taping for her show is a fascinating one. But while Annja is filming the last segment in France, a vicious “accident” nearly kills her. It looks to be unintentional…until a man calling himself Cauchon claims responsibility.

The name Cauchon strikes a chord in the exceptionally—some might say unnaturally—long memory of Annja’s friend and mentor Roux. Discovering the old man’s secret years ago, Cauchon wanted to blackmail Roux before fate put the matter to rest. Or so Roux thought. Now this powerful fanatic has turned from seeking out the divine to meting out “justice.” Vengeance. And he will single-handedly resurrect the violence of the Inquisition to ensure that Annja and her friend are judged and found guilty. With so much at stake, Annja may soon find that friendship can be fatal.

The floor was cold and damp against her face.

There was a familiar smell.

“A crypt,” Annja said, without realizing she’d spoken the thought aloud.

“Most perceptive.” It was a woman’s voice.

The light began to move. The woman placed an oil-filled lantern on top of a great stone sarcophagus close to where Annja lay bound.

“How long was I out?” Annja asked.

“Four hours, nearly five. You must have the constitution of a horse. That dose should have put you out for much longer, unless he managed to screw that up, too.” The woman’s eyes flicked to a dark heap in the corner.

“Is he dead?”

She nodded. “I should hope so.” She made the shape of a gun with her fingers and thumb and mimed putting a bullet through his brain.

Did she really value life so cheaply? “And me? Am I just another loose end to be put out of my misery?”

“Oh, no, not at all. You’re far more important than that. I am sure my brother will tell you all about it.”

“Brother?”

“Enough with the questions. You’re almost as bad as your friend. The pretty one. Garin.”

“I suppose you killed him, too.”

“Of course not. He’s been most helpful.”

Annja thought of everything Roux had told her about the midnight visit and the theft from the vault and muttered, “I’ll kill him.”

“Not until we’re finished with him.”

Day of Atonement

Alex Archer

THE

LEGEND

...THE ENGLISH COMMANDER TOOKJOAN’S SWORD AND RAISED IT HIGH.

The broadsword, plain and unadorned,

gleamed in the firelight. He put the tip against the ground and his foot at the center of the blade. The broadsword shattered, fragments falling into the mud. The crowd surged forward, peasant and soldier, and snatched the shards from the trampled mud. The commander tossed the hilt deep into the crowd. Smoke almost obscured Joan, but she continued praying till the end, until finally the flames climbed her body and she sagged against the restraints.

Joan of Arc died that fateful day in France,

but her legend and sword are reborn...

Contents

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Back Cover Text

Introduction

Title Page

The Legend

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Copyright

On a winter’s nightTwenty years ago

“You have my attention,” Roux said.

The young man who sat across from him had been insistent, refusing to be put off no matter how many times Roux ducked the meeting. His excuses had become more and more elaborate, but that only made the young man try harder. That dogged persistence paid off. Eventually. The old man had been tempted to arrange the sit-down in a very public space, given the personality type that kind of persistence hinted at. There were some people he didn’t invite into his home, but Roux was tired. The search for the fragments of the blade wasn’t going well, with what he thought might be the final shard eluding him still, so just this once Muhammad could come to the mountain, or, in this case, chateau.

He regretted that decision now. Something about the intense young man’s scrutiny was decidedly uncomfortable. It wasn’t so much the stare as it was the slight twitch of his lower lip, like it was fighting back the urge to smile. It made his skin crawl. One thing the years had done for Roux was to offer an education in human nature. He liked to think himself a reasonable judge of character. This boy—because that’s what he was, really, a boy in man’s clothing—was somehow off.

So he waited, knowing the young man had something to get off his chest, and equally sure he didn’t want to hear it.

“I thought I might, eventually.”

“So how can I help you?”

“I suspect it’s more a case of how I can help you.” He settled a briefcase on the Louis XIV coffee table that acted as a barrier between them.

Roux winced as the young man pushed the case back an inch and thumbed the locks. It was all he could do not to reach out and slap the stupid boy. The table was a priceless work of art; the briefcase was not. “I wasn’t aware that I needed any help,” Roux said.