Page 1 of Under Arthur’s Protection

Chapter 1

Gwen

I could date a blade by the feel of it in my palm. The balance, the taper, the way centuries of oxidation changed how the steel met my hand. But figuring out its age wasn’t the hardest part of my job.

No, the hardest part was being confident enough to tell other people.

I pulled open the glass door of Caine-Ferraro’s Fine Art Investigations and stepped into the vestibule between the outer and inner doors. Beyond, stairs rose to the investigations office that was part of a larger art conservation studio. A security panel hung on the wall, and before I hit the buzzer, an athletic woman in cargo pants and a long-sleeve T-shirt jogged down the stairs.

Samantha Caine-Ferraro’s long brown ponytail bounced as she moved. She smiled as she pushed the door open and ushered me in. “Thanks for coming so quickly, Gwen.”

“You said Sutton Hoo-era sword,” I said as I shook her hand. “I seriously considered chartering a helicopter.”

“I said possibly Sutton Hoo era.” She motioned for me to follow her through the conservation studio on the main floor. “The possibly part is why you’re here.”

“What did you tell the FBI about it?”

“That I needed the best arms and armor specialist I’d ever worked with, and that she’d be here by morning.” Sam glanced over her shoulder at me. “Glad I wasn’t wrong.”

Three years ago, Sam and I had crossed paths on an insurance investigation she was doing. The policyholder claimed significant damage had been done to his Roman-era helmet—a helmet I’d proven to be a fake. She’d hired me for a case when no firm would touch me, because my prior boss wouldn’t give me a reference. I’d been upfront with her about the scandal, but she’d countered with a long list of questions. She must have liked my answers, because she’d used me as her expert.

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” I said, and followed her through the studio.

The space was gorgeous with high ceilings and skylights that poured natural light over six long worktables. One conservator worked on a gilt frame at the nearest table, while another worked on a painting barely the size of my hand. The room smelled like linseed oil and turpentine, with a hint of spicy flowers underneath. Alternative rock came through tiny speakers mounted somewhere in the walls or soaring ceiling.

“You said it was a black-market auction?”

“Yeah, with a lot of artwork included. I consulted with the agent in charge and selected the items I thought we should review for them. Our conservators are handling the paintings, but the sword is mine,” Sam said, slowing until I caught up with her. “Well, yours now.”

“And you don’t know the sword’s provenance?”

“Not for sure. The paintings had paperwork I suspect is mostly genuine, but the sword didn’t have much documentation. The FBI logged it as ‘sword, medieval, origin unknown,’ which is why I called you instead of running it through our standard process.”

We passed two offices and the reception desk, then arrived at a heavy door at the far side of the studio. Sam pressed her thumb to a biometric reader beside the door, and the lock clicked. “Fair warning. When I unpacked it, I had a moment.”

“What kind of moment?”

She pushed the door open. “You’ll see.”

The storage room was cool and dry, with paintings standing in wooden slots along the walls. In the center, in a padded case, sat a sword.

I froze.

Long blade. Over two and a half feet. Golden pommel with red enamel and a ring attachment. The blade was old and heavily corroded. Even from twenty feet away, everything felt right. It didn’t look like a prop from a movie, or something a person simply claimed was ancient. It was worn and ragged.

And absolutely beautiful.

“Told you,” Sam whispered.

I withdrew a pair of nitrile gloves from my bag and approached the table. I circled it once before I let myself touch anything. The shape was consistent with seventh-century construction. The hilt might have been original, but the gold was warm and still gleamed. Black-market buyers would pay for the contrast between the degraded ancient blade and the near-perfect golden hilt. So either someone had cared for it, or someone had faked the caring to fetch a higher price.

The case itself was hard-sided black leather, with a light gray interior molded around the sword. I could examine one side, close the lid, and flip the case over for the backside.

I slid my fingers under the blade, and my pulse kicked up. “Was it in the case when they seized it?”

“It was.” Sam stood across from me and crossed her arms. “The owner may have been shady, but from the looks of the pieces the FBI recovered, he took care of his antiquities.”

I held my breath as I lifted it—no more than an inch, testing the blade’s integrity. But the weight settled beautifully in my hands. It wasn’t modern steel pretending to be old. No, this piece had a soul.