Rogue Angel 50: Celtic Fire by Alex Archer

needed that the burial place has been disturbed and the weapon I had thought safely out of reach has been found. That is why we are here, not to mourn an old friend—there’s time for that later. We have to recover Gerald’s sword and quickly, before whoever has it causes damage that cannot be repaired.” He returned his gaze to the dead man before adding, “Now, I’d like to spend a few minutes alone with him, if I may.”
    * * *
    T HEY WAITED OUTSIDE beside the car.
    The afternoon wore on. Annja was grateful for the fresh air, not least because it purged the scent of disinfectant from her lungs. It also served to keep her awake and alert and jet lag free. The parking lot had a distinctly clinical feel to it, but at least it avoided feeling exactly like what it was, a morgue. It could have been any sort of municipal building. But then, they all shared the same atmosphere of hopelessness, didn’t they?
    “You think he’s gonna snap out of it?” Garin asked, full of sympathy as always.
    Annja shrugged. “This is Roux. He’s never down—angry, sure, bitter, much, but focused and insanely driven. I’m not used to him like this.” She realized that this was the first time they’d been alone since he’d called; could she share the full extent of her anxiety and just how worried she was about Roux?
    No, but not for want of trying.
    Roux emerged from the building and started walking toward them.
    He looked like a shadow of the man he used to be, which was unsurprising, she figured, given the self-imposed weight of the world he was carrying on his shoulders.
    “Let’s get out of here,” Roux said when he reached them. He tugged at the door and got straight into the car.
    Annja clambered in behind the wheel and fired up the engine. The car didn’t purr so much as growl as it came to life. The sound was in keeping with her mood.
    Garin made a call to one of his people. It lasted less than a minute, and when he pocketed his cell phone he said, “That’s the accommodation sorted.” Annja used the blinkers to indicate right, and pulled out of the car park. “We’re a couple of streets from the cathedral, but the same could be said of everything in St. Davids, including the sea.”
    Annja concentrated on the road ahead—which really wasn’t developed enough to deserve the name—until they reached the outskirts of St. Davids, which was small enough to fit on the head of a figurative pin. It wasn’t difficult to find the cathedral; the spire dominated the sleepy little town. Garin gave directions from the screen on his cell until Annja finally pulled into the parking lot of a guesthouse. It only had space for three cars and made the hotel she’d stayed in back in Caerleon look like a palace.
    It had been a long day already, but it was still less than eight hours since she’d received the summons.
    Roux was first out of the car, before she’d even switched off the engine. Head down, he walked along the tight steps flanked with faux-Grecian urns overflowing with near-dead plants that led from the lot down to the main street. They made a particularly sad-looking set of sentinels. Annja and Garin trailed in his wake as he hurried to the cathedral.
    He stopped in front of it, keeping his head bowed, as he observed a moment’s silence.
    “So this tomb...?” Garin said, breaking the stillness.
    Annja wanted to ask the same question. She’d not read anything about Gerald of Wales’s final resting place in the various pamphlets she’d managed to accumulate, bar the fact he was supposed to be interred somewhere in the vicinity of St. Davids Cathedral. There was nothing more specific about his grave. Meaning it was highly unlikely he was inside the building, and despite their obvious age, none of the gravestones in the shadow of the cathedral looked anywhere near old enough to house him.
    As though reading her mind, Roux said, “It’s an unmarked grave. Even if you knew it was there it’s still unlikely you’d