Free Rogue Angel 49: The Devil's Chord by Alex Archer

go down again.”
    “Why weren’t they filled this morning?” Annja asked snappishly.
    “That’s cool.” Scout tugged down the zipper on his suit. “I’m going to take the lovely Miss Creed to the emergency room. She’s getting testy.”
    “I am not!’
    “I think it’s from blood loss,” Scout said. “We’ll drive to the hospital, then out for a nice meal, pamper her a bit. She needs it. Uh, Ian, you can come along, too. If you want to.”
    The cameraman raised a brow at the crummy invitation. “That’s okay. I’m going to help Kard fill the tanks, and then I’ll edit yesterday’s footage. Will you give me a call after you’ve had your head stitched up, Annja?”
    She nodded that she would and signaled for Ian to follow her belowdecks. Annja tugged the wet-suit zipper down in the back.
    “Annja?”
    She quickly caught the wall to avoid falling down the stairs and realized she was not quite right. Maybe she did need medical care.
    “Talk to Kard, will you? He’s dangerous.”
    “That was my intention of staying on board. I’ll take care of it, Annja. You let Scout get you to a doctor.”
    “I’ll be up in a minute.”
    “One minute. If not, I’m coming back down after you, whether you’re half-dressed or— I’m worried, Annja.”
    “I’ll be fine. I’ll be right up.”
    * * *
    A NNJA RECEIVED TWELVE stitches from a chatterbox of a physician’s assistant who recognized her from reruns of Chasing History’s Monsters he’d seen while visiting friends in the States. He recounted half a dozen episodes, detailing Annja’s exploits as if she hadn’t been there.
    She was content to let him talk. Seemed to focus him for some reason, and she’d prefer the stitches small and tight. They only had to shave a narrow line in her hair, so afterward Annja had but to pull her hair to one side and tug it into a ponytail to disguise the cut.
    Scout waited in the hospital reception area. When they released Annja an hour later, he announced to her he’d made reservations for supper. Though she wasn’t inclined to dine with him, Annja didn’t refuse. She needed carbs.
    * * *
    T HE A NICE S TELLATO RESTAURANT was located not far from Annja’s hotel. It was a cozy place to relax at day’s end. The hostess seated Annja and Scout at an outdoor canal-side table. The salty wood smell from the water was overwhelmed by the delicious savory scents wafting out from the restaurant.
    While they waited for their meals, their waitress brought wine and a basket of bread. The Madonna dell’Orto church stood nearby, and now the bells for compline sounded.
    Annja loved church bells. She preferred the Gothic architecture of the medieval cathedrals, trimmed with layer upon layer of ornamention, buttressed and arched, and not a single spot of stone left undecorated. Such precision and attention to detail never ceased to amaze her. And to know that all the building materials had been transported onto the island of Venice with ancient means made the local monuments even more impressive.
    Across the table from where she sat, Scout’s smile told a tale. His blue eyes had probably netted him more than his fair share of women with no more than a wink and a teasing grin.
    Despite the romantic atmosphere, Annja wasn’t in the mood. She’d almost been scalped by a boat motor, and Scout seemed ever oblivious to danger. Or rather, he anticipated it, which was almost more disturbing. She always expected danger and kept a keen eye out for it. Yet she had been complacent on the dive. Floating in the water as if in a dream? She had no one to blame but herself for the injury.
    “Your head still numb?” he asked.
    They’d shot her up with painkillers before stitching her scalp. “It’s tingly, but I’ll survive.”
    “So you think this business will prove good fodder for your television show?” he asked. He stretched his legs out from under the table, propping them on the stone curb just beneath a wrought-iron railing that edged