"Good evening, sir." Henshaw was tall and thin, thirty-eight but acting at least forty years older.
"Good evening, Henshaw."
Roux's good-natured greeting must have taken the man by surprise. Henshaw's eyebrows climbed.
"There's been a problem with the SUV?" Henshaw asked. In his capacity during the past six years, he was well aware of some of the problems Roux dealt with.
"Yes." Roux tossed the man the keys. "Take it. Dispose of it. Destroy all of the paperwork that ever tied me to such a vehicle."
Henshaw caught the keys effortlessly. He wasn't surprised by the request. He'd done it before. "Of course, sir. Will there be anything else?"
"A drink. Cognac, I think. The Napoleon."
"A celebration, sir?"
"Yes. In the study, if you please."
"Of course, sir."
Roux walked through the house, across the marble floor of the great room with its sweeping staircase and private elevator, to his personal study.
The study was huge, very nearly the largest room in the house. It was two stories tall, filled with shelves of books and artifacts, scrolls and pottery, statues and paintings. Even a sarcophagus, canopic jars and the stuffed and mounted corpse of an American West gunslinger that had been so gaudy he just hadn't been able to resist acquiring it.
At the back of the room, Roux took out his key chain and pressed a sequence of buttons on the fob.
Immediately, the back wall separated into sections and slid back to reveal a huge vault. It was built into the hillside. The only access was through the heavy vault door.
As Roux pressed more buttons, the vault's door tumblers clacked and turned. When it finished, the door slid open on great hinges.
Lights flared on. Shelves held money and gems and bearer's bonds. Roux didn't care much for banks. He'd found them greedy and unscrupulous, and entirely too curious about where his wealth had come from.
He had other such hiding places around the globe. When he'd told the young American woman he was independently wealthy, he hadn't been lying.
A sealed case five feet long occupied a pedestal at the back of the vault. He pressed his hand against the handprint scanner. Ten seconds later, the locks clicked open.
The excitement thrummed within him as he flipped open the lid. He gazed down at the weapon protected within the case.
The hilt was plain and unadorned. The blade, when it had been whole, had been nearly four feet long. Now it lay in pieces but appeared almost intact.
Over the years, Roux had scoured the world in search of the fragments. He couldn't believe how far and wide the pieces had been scattered.
Or how quickly. After the sword was shattered, they had seemed to disappear overnight.
Only a small piece, no bigger than a large coin, remained to be found.
Surprised at the way his fingers trembled, Roux took from his pocket the charm the young American woman had found in the cave. He still wondered about the way she had found it. In all the times he had visited the Cévennes Mountains, he had never known an earthquake to take place.
Hesitantly, almost reverently, Roux held the charm in his fingers and positioned it the best way to fit with the sword. He dropped it onto the velvet bedding.
Nothing happened.
Roux noticed he wasn't breathing and thought it might be better if he were. He frowned.
Looking at the piece, he had no doubt that it was the one he'd been seeking. But why wasn't anything happening?
"Bollocks," Roux snarled. "After five-hundred-plus years, somethingshould bloody well happen."
Steeling himself, he nudged the missing piece in closer to its mates.
Still, nothing happened.
"Oh, bollocks!" Roux roared, unable to restrain himself. He glared at the broken sword and wondered what the hell was wrong.
"Sir."
Turning, Roux stared at Henshaw standing in the study. He held the brandy and a snifter.
Angrily, Roux stormed out of the vault. He thumbed the remote control and heard the vault hiss shut behind him. A heartbeat later, the wall reassembled.
"Something wrong?" Henshaw inquired politely.
"Yes," Roux growled as he snatched the brandy and snifter from Henshaw's hands.
He dropped into the large leather chair behind the ornate mahogany desk and poured a copious amount of brandy into the snifter. Then he drank it like water. It wasn't the most refined way to enjoy two-hundred-year-old brandy.
"Will you need anything else, sir?" Henshaw asked.
"A miracle, obviously," Roux grumbled. He filled the snifter again.
"I'm afraid I'm short of miracles, sir."
"I know," Roux stated sourly. "But once, I tell you, the world was fairly littered with them." He shook his head, thinking of the twisting flames that had consumed the young woman to whom he'd promised fealty. "So many people believed in them. And died because of them." He sighed. "I was stupid to believe. It's my own fault. I'm just lucky it hasn't gotten mekilled."
Chapter 10
THE STRIDENT RING of Garin Braden's cell phone woke him from a narcotic-and-sex-induced slumber. It was something he'd almost grown used to. He peeled the arms and legs of two young women off him and reached for the bed's remote control.
Fumbling, Garin pressed buttons from memory and caused the bed to swivel around to the nightstand that held his cell phone. Cupping the tiny device in one of his huge, scarred hands, Garin stared blearily at the buttons and hoped for the best.
"Hello?" He didn't know who would call him at – he looked at the clock across the room and couldn't make out the hand placement – at whatever time it was.
"Are you awake?" the scurrilous voice at the other end of the connection demanded.
Garin was now. He knew the voice immediately. It belonged to a man he'd hoped would never contact him again.
Instantly, feeling as if deluged by ice water, the narcotic haze enveloping Garin's thinking and senses evaporated. He shoved himself up from the bed and looked back at the twisted and intertwined limbs of the women he'd convinced to share his bed last night.
He stood to his full six feet four inches, shook his long black hair and blinked his magnetic black eyes. He gazed at his reflection in the mirror. A goatee framed his mouth and he knew he looked like his father.
Scars covered his body from fights he'd had over the years. One of the scars was over his heart and had nearly killed him in Los Angeles. He'd stayed there too long and had almost been staked as a vampire.
It was amusing to him now, but at the time it caused quite an uproar. He gazed at the women again. At the moment, he couldn't even recall where he'd met them. The occurrence wasn't too uncommon.
"I'm awake," Garin finally said.
"You don't sound awake," Roux argued.
Stealthily, Garin crossed the room and checked the elaborate panel that relayed all the information about his security system. Everything was intact. No one had breached the perimeters.
No one was caught, Garin reminded himself. Even in this age of marvels, nothing was infallible.
The bedroom was large, filled with electronic entertainment equipment. The pedestal under the bed contained several items for adult entertainment. And a large supply of batteries and lotions.
"I'm awake," Garin said again. He slapped a hand against a section of the wall near the bed.
A panel flipped around and exposed a dozen handguns – revolvers and semiautomatics – and three assault rifles. There was even an assortment of grenades. He picked up a Smith & Wesson revolver and quietly rolled the hammer back with his thumb.