Warrior Spirit. Alex Archer

still in the car and then after another minute smiled slowly.

      Annja Creed, he thought, you might just be my dream woman.

       5

      Annja hunched over her laptop and started composing a post for alt.archaeology.esoterica—the newsgroup she favored so much for its candid information on many of the more obscure topics relating to history and relics. She hesitated, trying best to make sure she didn’t come across sounding like a lunatic. After a moment, she sighed and typed:

      Does anyone know anything about the Japanese martial art of Ninjitsu?

      I’ve met someone claiming to be involved with this art and I’d like to know if they might be legit. Thanks!

      She leaned back and crossed her arms. It could take hours before anyone would respond, giving Annja plenty of time to think over the night’s events.

      She decided on a long, hot soak in the deep tub that sat in the corner of her small bathroom. Everything in Tokyo seemed as if someone had pressed the reduce button on a copy machine, but the tub looked large enough for her.

      Annja padded into the bathroom and turned the spigot. A rush of hot water blossomed and streamed into the tub. In seconds, steam filled the air and Annja realized she was suddenly overdressed.

      Outside in her room, she stripped down. With her pants and turtleneck off, she ran her eyes over her skin, doing a basic damage inspection from the tournament. Nezuma’s kicks had left some nasty welts. She could see purplish bruising above her ribs and on the backs of her legs. His punches had also left souvenirs. She frowned. Someday, she’d get him back. And the idea of him flat on his back while she stood over him as a proud victor definitely appealed to her.

      She walked into the bathroom and stepped into the piping-hot tub. She knew the Japanese favored hot baths for their health benefits and the relaxation they provided. Annja gritted her teeth, wanting to enjoy the hot water but also aware that it felt as if she were burning the skin off her bones.

      She withdrew her leg, emptied out some of the contents and then added cold water. After another minute, she tried getting in the tub again and this time found that she could stand the heat.

      As she sank into the bath and let the water come up to her jaw, Annja closed her eyes and tried to breathe deeply, allowing the stress of the day to melt away. She was tired and the steamy heat made her feel even more so. As she replayed the day’s events, she found herself focusing on Ken and his strange past.

      Certainly she hadn’t come to Tokyo to get involved in the hunt for some relic. Japan was supposed to be for herself only—away time from the stress and pace of her vigorous lifestyle. Not that fighting in a martial-arts tournament was the kind of prescription most vacation-bound folks would equate with rest and relaxation. But for Annja, it enabled her to play to some extent, without it being a matter of life and death. And since so much of her life lately had revolved around serious fighting, Annja also felt that any time spent practicing was time spent well.

      “He is handsome, though.”

      Annja’s eyes popped open. Had she just said that out loud? A smile flickered across her face. Apparently the hot water was doing its job by relaxing her to the point she felt comfortable speaking out loud. Annja sank deeper into the water and grinned just beneath the surface.

      She tilted her head back and rested it on the edge of the tub, her eyes still closed as the heat enveloped her. The way Ken had moved in the restaurant earlier played across the screen of her mind. Annja slowed the reel down and tried to study how he had managed to thwart the gang without even appearing to break a sweat.

      Marvelous, she concluded.

      If Annja had even a small percentage of the same skill, Nezuma would be the one nursing not just bruises, but his wounded ego, as well.

      If ninjitsu truly did exist still and Annja had a chance to see a class being taught, there was no way she’d turn down that opportunity. She didn’t feel any particular obligation to one form of martial arts over another. She was far too pragmatic to get lost in the politics of that silly debate. Annja needed what worked; it was as simple as that. And if adding some ninjitsu to her arsenal helped her stay alive, well, bring it on.

      A cool breeze suddenly blew over the room, scattering the blanket of steam that had hung about the tub like mist over a swamp.

      Annja’s eyes opened again.

      Her stomach tensed.

      Someone was in her room.

      She could feel the air currents being disturbed. But she heard nothing. Whoever was inside the room, knew how to move in absolute silence. But movement—any movement—disturbed the air ever so slightly.

      Annja wondered, could she move just as quietly and get out of the tub without them knowing?

      She frowned. Not a chance.

      The invaders must have known she was there. And depending on how long they’d been in the room, they might have even heard her say that line about Ken. It couldn’t be Ken, could it? That was enough, she decided.

      It was time to get out of the tub.

      Instead of doing it as quietly as she could, Annja engaged a different strategy. She started to whistle.

      “That felt good,” she said as she stood and stepped out of the tub.

      The door to the bathroom was closed almost all the way, except for a gap of about five inches. Annja braced herself behind the door in case they rushed the bathroom. But she didn’t think they would. If they’d meant her harm, they would have already come into the bathroom when she was far too vulnerable.

      She felt for the towel hanging on the hook and then mopped at her hair and shoulders.

      Still whistling, she tried to figure how best to wrap the towel so she could fight if necessary.

      The hell with it, she thought, frowning. If someone wants to throw down right now, being naked might just help my cause and give me a split second to get the upper hand.

      So much for modesty. She almost grinned. Too bad the cameras weren’t rolling now. This would earn her top ratings for Chasing History’s Monsters in a way that bimbo Kristie Chatham never could.

      Annja took a deep breath and flushed her system with oxygen. Adrenaline flooded her body as it readied itself for a fight. She flexed her fists and steeled her will.

      And then stepped out of the bathroom.

      Her room was empty.

      Annja noticed that her stomach was more relaxed now.

      Were they gone?

      She shivered in the cooler air of the room. She felt certain someone had been here. And she’d been getting reacquainted with her long-lost primal instincts enough to place some trust in them when they warned her of danger. Somewhat. Annja was the first to admit that she still had a lot of trouble having one hundred percent faith in her instincts. Especially when her logical mind seemed ready to always mount a good argument for why she shouldn’t.

      Someone had been in the room.

      But now they were gone.

      Annja knelt and checked under the bed and at the base of the simple curtain framing her window. She carefully checked the closet, as well. Otherwise, there was no place to hide in the Spartan room.

      She frowned again. A cursory glance around told her that they hadn’t taken anything. Her laptop still sat open on the desktop, although the screensaver was bouncing around from a lack of activity. Annja’s bags sat unopened next to her bed. And her cell phone and purse remained near the door.

      Weird.

      She padded back to the bathroom and toweled herself dry before pulling on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. Then she walked around her room again before ending up at the window.

      Annja’s room was on the