The Matador's Crown. Alex Archer

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      Annja winced. Hero was too powerful a label to give the man. It was also a label used too often and easily by the media. Real heroes never expected to be recognized for a brave act. At his best, Garin Braden tended toward helpful citizen. At his worst? She did not want to be in his vicinity.

      The man was an enigma. He’d lived for more than five hundred years thanks to the sword she controlled. He was connected to the battle sword, having been there when Joan of Arc had been burned at the stake. He’d witnessed the British soldier break her sword and scatter the pieces among the crowd who had damned Joan and made her a martyr through their own ignorance.

      For some reason Garin and his friend Roux, whom Garin had been apprentice to at the time of Joan of Arc’s burning, had both obtained immortality that fateful day. And a lifelong connection to the ineffable sword.

      The two men had tracked the pieces over the centuries, and when finally the last piece had been placed, Annja had touched the sword—and as it had become whole, it had also become a part of her. She had not asked for possession of such an object, nor had she anticipated anything of the sort. But now that she did wield the sword, she did so as if it had always been meant for her. It was, in fact, her destiny. Only she could bring it forth from the otherwhere, and as soon as she released it, it was made intangible once again, unless she allowed another to hold it. Then the battle sword would maintain its solid state until she decided it should not. She couldn’t explain the innate process even if a gang of terrorists held AK-47s to her heart. That was just how it worked.

      Garin wanted the sword—hell, she’d let him hold it for a few moments of wonder—but she hadn’t decided if it was because he believed keeping it whole would render him mortal or if breaking it would ensure his continued immortality.

      Either way, she never let down her guard around Garin Braden.

      She accepted the beer he offered her, which had been delivered to his hands moments after they sat down. Obviously, he held some status here. Then again, the man could make things happen no matter where he was. That wasn’t incomprehensible magic, but rather confident command honed over centuries.

      She hadn’t taken time to shower after he’d dropped her at the hotel, she’d been so involved in research. She still wore the ponytail she’d hastily tied back this morning after her escape from the hostel, which had dried tightly and was probably looking pretty scrappy right now. Add to that her dark, loose camo pants, standard wear for Annja Creed, adventurer and archaeologist, and a T-shirt. Garin was just lucky she hadn’t dug her boonie hat out of the backpack. But from where they sat the sun promised to stay out of her eyes.

      “So how is it you always manage to stumble upon dead bodies, Annja? That’s, what? Two in one day.” He tilted his beer bottle to her in salute, then swallowed down half.

      “I think I have a kind of dead-body radar, actually. It does kick in more often than not. I’m never to blame, of course.”

      “Course not. Not my sword-wielding adventuress. How is the sword, by the by?”

      “True, straight and always there when I need it.”

      “They say the man in the hotel room was killed by a sword.”

      “Really? Why didn’t you mention that on the drive out of town?”

      “You didn’t ask about it.”

      She gaped at him.

      With a shrug, he added, “I suspect the authorities decided to keep the details from you in case you could be goaded to cough up said details.”

      “And how do you have the details?”

      “I heard it on the radio.”

      Officer Soto had mentioned a media leak. Was there a mole on the force? Interesting. Perhaps there was a dirty cop who had an interest in artifacts?

      She watched as the parade of banderilleros and picadors preceded the next matador into the ring. “Can you get more information for me?”

      “Why? Who was Diego Montera to you?”

      “I didn’t know him. But this hit close. As I’ve said, I had only recently unearthed the bull statue.”

      “Alas. I so had hopes for your descent into nefarious deeds.”

      “We can’t all be unscrupulous like you, Garin.”

      “Of course not.”

      “I took pictures.”

      “Ah, there’s my girl.”

      “The Cádiz police erased them from my camera.”

      He gave her a look that said “did you expect anything less?”

      “The murder isn’t my concern,” she said. “But it could aid my investigation into the stolen artifacts. I know you have connections. I wouldn’t ask if I couldn’t get answers some other way.”

      He nodded, but didn’t say he would look into it for her. Annja marked her request off as Ignored. It was a lot to ask. But generally he didn’t mind helping her, so his silence gave her concern.

      Garin leaned forward, resting his elbows on his pale linen pants. His attire was de rigueur for hot Spanish summers. He wore the look well, but then he always seemed to blend into any situation or country. Despite his size and sometimes menacing presence, he had that everyman look.

      Cheers erupted around them, and Annja turned her attention to the ring. The matadors spilled out onto the sand ring in suits of black and blue and violet. The man she pinpointed as the principal matador wore a brilliant gold traje de luces or “suit of lights,” along with a black felt montera hat, fuchsia stockings and the classic black flat shoes that reminded her of ballet slippers.

      “That’s Manuel Bravo, simply called El Bravo. Fearless. He is this generation’s greatest bullfighter from Cádiz,” Garin explained. “He completed one hundred corridas last year and is on schedule to do the same this season. The man’s a marvel.”

      One hundred fights in one season was a marker the pro matadors worked toward. It was an elusive goal, but those who made it were honored and guaranteed a full fight schedule the following season. A great matador could earn up to twenty-five thousand for one fight, so a hundred fights in a season added up nicely.

      Annja couldn’t share the excitement the surrounding crowd displayed as they cheered and waved white handkerchiefs and colorful scarves at the matador.

      “Though I’m not willing to get out a flag and protest,” she said, “I’m not sure how I feel about the blood sport.”

      “It is not a sport, Annja,” Garin reprimanded her. He tilted his beer bottle toward the ring. “Bullfighting is an art, a spectacle. But never a sport.”

      “Okay. I defer to your expertise to explain it to me.” Crossing her arms and leaning back in the chair, she braced herself to be convinced.

      “I will do my best, but you must know there are over thirty different ways to describe the placement of the torero’s sword according to depth, position and entry point. Tauromachy is an elaborate art. I think we’ll just enjoy it today, okay?”

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