“What secrets are you hiding, Annja Creed?” the Dragon asked. “And why is preserving your life so important to Sensei?”

She did not know the answers, but she was certain she would find out.

Maybe then she could quench the fire of jealousy that was suddenly burning in her heart.

27

Now

Annja slept badly that night, her dreams plagued by faceless samurai soldiers and a massive feathered dragon that breathed fire in great scorching arcs. Roux appeared more than once, as well—a gagged and bound captive who endured torture after torture at the hands of a beautiful porcelain doll with long dark hair.

By the time she awoke for the fifth time, heart pounding, Annja decided that it wasn’t worth trying to sleep any more. She got up to greet the sun.

She ran through a series of katas to get her blood flowing and her head clear, then settled down in front of the windows for some meditation and deep breathing. The sun kissed the rooftops nearby, then rose high enough to shine its light directly into her loft, illuminating her as she sat lotus style on the floor.

Satisfied she was ready for what was to come later that day, Annja got up, showered and ate a hearty breakfast, knowing she was going to need the energy reserves later.

All the while, her thoughts were on her sword. The plan called for her to give it up to the Dragon and do what she could to hold it here in this world as she and Henshaw tried to free Roux. Then she would call the sword back to her, ultimately returning it to the otherwhere.

It wasn’t half-bad as plans go.

There was only one thing wrong with it.

They had no idea what would happen when she voluntarily gave up the sword. Would it still be bonded to her at that point? Would the link between them be shattered? Would she ever be able to command the sword again?

She didn’t know.

And not knowing scared her.

HENSHAW ARRIVED AT THE park just after it opened. He carried a backpack over one shoulder and had several cameras slung around his neck, emulating the look of just another picture-obsessed photographer come to document the beauty of the garden in bloom. A tour bus with New Jersey license plates was unloading passengers as he approached the entrance to the park so he merged with the crowd and struck up a conversation with one of the tour’s patrons as they waited to buy their entrance tickets.

If the park was under surveillance as Annja suspected, then they would be looking for a solitary individual and might not pay too much attention to the group as it entered the park.

He stayed with his newfound friend until they had moved through the entrance pavilion and into the park itself, then wandered away on his own.

When he was certain that no one was taking an undue interest in him, Henshaw took out the little map he’d been given when he’d bought his ticket and quickly located the Japanese Hill-and-Pond Garden.

He’d entered off Flatbush Avenue, which was on the opposite end of the park from where he needed to be. It seemed a prudent move; the two entrances off Washington were certainly closer, but were also more likely to be watched for just that reason. In order to get to the Japanese garden, he was going to have to stick to the outer walkway, past the Steinhardt Conservatory, the Lily Pool Terrace and the Magnolia Plaza Visitor Center before he was even close. From there he could cut through the Celebrity Path or the Fragrance Garden to reach his destination.

Henshaw took his time, using his cameras on a regular basis, doing what he could to remain in character and not appear out of place. Several passersby smiled and said hello. He nodded or waved hello in return, but kept his mouth shut at all times. He didn’t want people to remember the man with all the cameras and the British accent, just in case something went wrong later.

At last he reached the southern edge of the lake. The viewing pavilion was directly in front of him; this was the location of the meet.

He had to find a suitable watching place.

He consulted his map and tried to match it up with his surroundings. He could see that on the other side of the narrow lake the land began to rise toward a wooded ridgeline. A second path wound along about halfway up the hillside and he decided to follow that to see what he might find.

Another ten minutes of walking found him looking directly back across the lake at the viewing pavilion from that second, higher walkway. This is the place, he thought.

He left the path and climbed through the trees, emerging on a narrow ridge above the edge of the Japanese garden. From there he could look across the lake to the viewing pavilion, as well as both walkways, the one on this side of the lake and the other that led up to and away from the pavilion itself.

He found a small copse of trees that provided him with a clear line of sight to the pavilion, as well as some shade. Setting his pack on the ground, he walked fifty paces in every direction, looking back at his selected spot from a variety of locations. He was pleased to find that he couldn’t see the backpack no matter how hard he tried; the position was a good one and would provide the cover he needed to carry out his part of the plan. Later, when the sun was setting, the whole area would be layered with shadows and he’d be almost invisible.

Returning to his chosen location, he removed a pair of binoculars from his pack, found a comfortable sitting position with his back to a tree and settled in to start his watch.

BY MIDMORNING ANNJA WAS going stir-crazy. When something needed to be done she was the type who just went out and did it, so waiting around was driving her nuts. She paced the floor of her loft like a caged lioness, back and forth, until she just couldn’t take it anymore.

She had to get out of there.

She threw on her sweats and went for a jog, sticking to the main streets and avoiding any of the alleys or shortcuts she might have used. She wanted to be certain she was around people in case the Dragon’s goons tried to make another move ahead of the meet.

When she returned to her apartment she showered for the second time that morning and then dropped in front of the television in her bathrobe for some mindless entertainment. Halfway through whatever show it was that she was watching—it was that interesting—she decided to call Garin.

If there was one thing Garin was good at, it was self-preservation. Since both he and Roux were tied to Joan’s sword in some indefinable way, she knew he would want to be kept abreast of what was happening. He’d also want to know what had happened to Roux; just because their last encounter had ended badly didn’t mean that they wanted nothing further to do with each other. If that was the case, they would have stopped talking to each other hundreds of years ago.

Annja dialed the cell number she had for Garin and listened to it ring several times before the call was finally routed to a general voice-mail system. There wasn’t even a message; it just beeped to indicate that it was recording.

She left a message, explaining that Roux was in trouble and that she needed Garin’s help. After that, there wasn’t anything more she could do.

THE HOURS PASSED SLOWLY.

The park had a fair number of visitors and Henshaw watched them all in turn, looking for that one telltale sign that something was out of place, the one little detail that would give them away for who they really were, but he didn’t see anything that made him suspicious.