Читать книгу City Of Swords - Alex Archer - Страница 17

Chapter 10

Instantly, the sword was in Annja’s hands again and she was bringing it around, aiming to strike him in the arm with the flat of the blade. She’d hadn’t meant her blow to be a killing one, but she’d put all her strength behind it, and Dimitru somehow turned into it and rushed her in a crouch. She tried to pull her swing in that last second, but he was too fast and caught himself across the throat. At the same time he managed to stab her in the thigh, but his knife didn’t sink deep.

The knife wound hurt, but worse was the sting of death she thought she could have avoided. Dwell on that later, Annja told herself. She kept hold of the sword with her left hand, and with her right tugged out the knife and dropped it next to the body.

Annja stepped around Dimitru and headed toward the other man. Petre. The wiry Romany emitted a high-pitched wail. He’d been bending over Rembert, one hand grasping the back of his head, the other readying to slice his throat. But at the sight of Annja advancing on him, he bolted, angling up the steep, slick embankment.

The photographer stayed down, wrapping his arms over his head.

Annja glanced at him as she charged after the Romany, dismissing the sword and pumping her fists to speed her feet. Rembert didn’t appear to be badly hurt.

And she desperately needed to find out why they wanted her sword. How they knew about it.

She followed the youth up the bank, sliding once and hitting a chunk of concrete that sent daggers of pain into her knees, almost as bad as the knife wound in her leg. She picked herself up, catching sight of him cresting the top and sprinting into traffic.

Horns blared, tires squealed and someone rolled down his window to spew a stream of curses. Annja dodged the cars, taking only a little more care than her quarry had, which cost her precious seconds.

The rain made the city a blend of blue-grays that caused the buildings and people to look almost surreal—a muted watercolor painting dripping all around her. The storm had increased in intensity in the minutes since she and Rembert had slipped down the bank for the ill-fated interview. Fat drops hammered the pavement and splashed back up like ricocheting bullets.

Her quarry was easy to make out from the other pedestrians braving the weather. None of them were running and pushing people out of their way, and nearly all of them had umbrellas or hats. She was about a block and a half behind him, gaining a little.

“Hé! Que faites-vous?” a pedestrian shouted at her as she nearly tipped him over.

“Sorry,” Annja called over her shoulder.

“Qu’est-ce que tu fous là, toi?” This from a young man not quite as polite as the first.

She tromped through a puddle, sending a spray of water at a stooped woman with a large blue umbrella.

“Appellez la police!” the offended woman hollered. “Appellez les flics! Elle m’a poussé, c’te vache!”

Annja grimaced. She hadn’t pushed the woman. No doubt the police would be arriving soon, anyway, especially if Rembert had called. Lord, what would he tell the cops? Would he mention her sword?

The buildings she thundered past were dirty from age and darkened by the storm. Everything seemed ancient compared to her neighborhood in Brooklyn. Signs on the sidewalk were a blur of colors; she was going too fast to read them.

She lost sight of him when he rounded a corner. When she skidded around it after him, the Palais des Papes loomed into view, the place where she and Rembert had first met “Jacques.” There! She snarled when she spotted him dash through the entrance. It was a beautiful building, holy in its original intent, and she disliked the notion of the Romany punk hurtling through it.

Petre, that was what the other man called him.

“Petre!” she shouted. “Stop, Petre!” The sirens were growing louder. If Rembert hadn’t summoned the police, someone on the sidewalk had. “Stop, Petre! I only want to talk!”