Still, he'd invited her. If she could make it on her own.

That was why she was here in Lozère chasing after a monster she didn't truly believe existed.

She kept running, telling herself that another day or two and she would be clear of France, and whatever problems the two men had brought with them.

Chapter 2

THE RENTAL AVERY had arranged turned out to be an old Renault pickup truck. If Annja had been a layman, maybe she'd have mistakenly called it ancient. But she was a trained archaeologist and she knew what ancientmeant.

The man who'd rented it to her had seemed somewhat reluctant, but that had lifted once she'd put the money in his hand and promised to get the vehicle back in one piece.

For the money she'd handed over, Annja thought perhaps the man would replace the truck with a better one. But there weren't many vehicles to be had in town that the owners would allow to be driven where she was going.

At least the old truck looked high enough to clear the rough terrain.

After thanking Avery for his help and a final goodbye, Annja climbed behind the steering wheel, stepped on the starter and engaged the transmission with a clank. She headed toward the Cévennes Mountains.

Once out of town, following the dirt road leading up into the mountains, Annja took out her cell phone. It was equipped with a satellite receiver, offering her a link in most parts of the world. Still, the service was expensive and she didn't use it any more than she had to.

Caller ID showed the number that had called her while she'd been in the alley. She recognized the number at once.

Steering one-handed, trying to avoid most of the rough spots, Annja punched the speed-dial function and pulled up the number.

The phone rang three times before it was answered.

"Doug Morrell." His voice was crisp and cheerful. He sounded every bit of his twenty-two years of age.

"Hello, Doug," she said. "It's Annja. I'm returning your call."

Doug Morrell was a friend and one of her favorite production people at Chasing History's Monsters. He lived in Brooklyn, not far from her, and was a frequent guest and dining companion. He was young and trendy, never interested in going out into the field for stories as Annja did.

"I was just looking over the piece you're working on," Doug said. He affected a very bad French accent. "The Beast of Gévaudan."

"What about it?"

"French werewolf thing, right?"

"They don't know what it was," Annja countered.

"Looking over it today, after Kristie did the werewolf of Cologne, I'm thinking maybe this isn't the story we want to pursue. I mean, two stories set in France about werewolves might not be where our viewers want to go."

Annja sighed and avoided an angry response. Evidently lycanthropy wasn't as popular as vampirism because Chasing History's Monstershad done a weeklong series on those. And neither history nor geography was something Doug had an interest in.

"Peter Stubb, the so-called Werewolf of Cologne, was German, not French," Annja said.

"French, German – " Doug's tone suggested an uncaring shrug " – I'm not seeing a whole lot of difference here," he admitted. "Europe tends to blur together for me. I think it does for most of our fans."

That was the difference between a big-name show and one that was syndicated, Annja supposed. The networks had audiences. Cable programs had fans. But she could live with that. This check was going to get her to North Africa.

"Europe shouldn't blur together," Annja said. "The histories of each country are hugely different."

"If you say so." Doug didn't sound at all convinced. "My problem is I don't especially feel good about sticking two hairy guys on as my leads so close together."

"Then save the La Bête piece," Annja said as she became aware of the sound of high-pitched engines. Her wraparound sunglasses barely blunted the hot glare of the early-afternoon sun. Just let me do my job and give me my airfare, she almost said aloud.

"If I save the La Bête piece, I've got a hole I need to fill," Doug said.

"The pieces aredifferent," Annja said. "Peter Stubb was more than likely a serial killer. He claimed victims for twenty-five years between 1564 and 1589. Supposedly he had a magic belt given to him by the devil that allowed him to change into a wolf."

Doug was no longer surprised by the amount of knowledge and esoteric facts Annja had at her command. He partnered with her at the sports bars to play trivia games on the closed-circuit televisions. He knew all the pop-culture references and sports, and she had the history and science. They split the literature category. Together, they seldom lost and in most of Brooklyn's pubs no one would wager against them.

"There's no mention of a magic belt in Kristie's story," Doug said.

Annja wasn't surprised. Kristie Chatham wasn't noted for research, just a killer bod and scanty clothing while prowling for legends. For her, history never went past her last drink and her last lover.

"There was a magic belt," Annja said.

"I believe you," Doug said. "But at this point we'll probably have to roll without it. Should send some of the audience members into a proper outrage and juice up the Internet activity regarding the show again."

Annja counted to ten. "The show's integrity is important to me. To the work I do." Archaeology was what she lived for. Nothing had ever drawn her like that.

"Don't worry about it," Doug said. "When the viewers start trashing Kristie's validity, I'll just have George re-release video clips of her outtakes in Cancun while she was pursuing the legend of the flesh-eating college students turned zombies during the 1977 spring break. Her bikini top fell off three times during that show. It's not the same when we mask that here in the States, but a lot of guys download the European versions of the show."

Annja tried not to think about Kristie's top falling off. The woman grated on her nerves. What was even more grating was that Kristie Chatham was the fan-favorite of all the hosts of Chasing History's Monsters.

"The ratings really rise during those episodes," Doug continued. "Not to say that ratings don't rise whenever you're on. They do. You're one hot babe yourself, Annja."

"Thanks loads," Annja said dryly.

"I mean, chestnut hair and those amber eyes – "

"They're green."

" Youthink they're green," Doug amended. "I'll split it with you. We'll call them hazel. Anyway, you've got all that professorial-speak that Kristie doesn't have."

"It's called a college education."

"Whatever."

"She still has the breakaway bikini."

Doug hesitated for a moment. "Do you want to try that?"

"No," Annja said forcefully.

"I didn't think so. Anyway, I think we'll be okay. Maybe I can sandwich a reedited version of the zombie piece between the German werewolf and your French one."

"La Bête was never proved to be a werewolf," Annja said, skewing the conversation back to her field of expertise. "Between 1764 and 1767, the Beast of Gévaudan killed sixty-eight children, fifteen women and six men."

"Good. Really." Doug sounded excited. "That's a great body count. Works out to an average of thirty-three people a year. People love the number thirty-three. Always something mystical about it."

Annja ignored his comment because they were friends. She didn't bother to correct his math, either. Counting 1764, La Bête had killed for fouryears. "The creature was also reputed to be intelligent. It was an ambush predator and often avoided capture by leading horsemen into bogs around here. It also outran hunting dogs."