Blood Cursed (Rogue Angel)

by Alex Archer

  Annja Creed jumped out of the new rental Jeep, wielding the remarkable and mysterious battle sword. Where she’d gotten it, Luke didn’t care. He just hoped she had the sense to talk this crazy man out of killing him.

  “Hold steady, Santos,” Annja said calmly. She remained near the hood of the Jeep. Santos’s blade didn’t move from where it was against Luke’s neck. “He’s done nothing to warrant such treatment.”

  “He upset my mother in her home!” Santos hissed, his spittle wetting Luke’s neck. “Telling her lies!”

  “The lie that you’re involved in trafficking children for voodoo rituals?”

  Voodoo? Much as he should be worried about the blade, Luke couldn’t help but feel a twist in his gut to imagine the horrors the missing children must have experienced. What monsters would do such things? And how had he become involved in this? By merely unearthing a skull? It was too incredible.

  No matter what fate offered him in the next minutes, Luke knew Annja would find the men responsible and stop them.

  “I know nothing!” The blade tugged sharply at his skin and Luke felt his own warm blood seep down his neck.

  “Let him go, Santos! And if you tell me where to find Bracks, Mr. Spencer and I will walk away and leave you and your family alone.”

  “You are lying!”

  The tall man stumbled, wobbling forward. The abrupt move almost causing Luke to go down, which would have led to his decapitation—but Santos caught himself, jerking Luke back with the blade, which cut deeper.

  “Bracks is in London, right?” Annja pleaded. She’d taken two steps forward, and held out her sword to the side, nonthreatening. Her eyes tracked to Luke and held his gaze briefly, yet betrayed neither worry nor confidence. “Where in London can I find him? We need to protect the children.”

  “I don’t care about the children.”

  “Because you lost your own?” Luke guessed. The toys in the kitchen could have belonged to the dead boy, or perhaps to a man who had once played with his own child.

  The blade cut even deeper, and Luke swallowed.

  “Is that true?” Annja asked cautiously. “Did you lose a child, Santos?”

  “None of your damn business.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss, but that doesn’t mean you have the right—”

  “Annja!” Luke managed to say. Now was no time to lure the man with the sword into recalling devastating memories.

  “I don’t know where Bracks is,” Santos insisted. “Do you think he would tell me? He’s smarter than that. Everything I did was approved by Canov.”

  If Luke swallowed, he guessed the blade would cut so deep blood would run down his esophagus.

  “But he must call you, this Canov,” Annja insisted. Luke could feel the urgency in her voice waver through his system and he felt light-headed. Ready to face fate. “Your cell phone,” Annja urged. “It might have his phone number and we can track him that way. Santos, please!”

  Annja’s shout was the last thing Luke processed as his knees bent and he fell. He didn’t gauge the impact of his body hitting gravel as his oxygen had been depleted and he blacked out. The release was quick and sweet.

  * * *

  SANTOS EXECUTED Luke Spencer right before Annja’s eyes. Her breaths choked. Heartbeats stopped—then stuttered back to a thunderous race.

  As Luke’s body fell slack onto the grassy roadside, she charged the Gypsy. A warrior cry erupted from her lungs. She leaped over Luke’s fallen body, swung her sword through the air and brought it down across Santos’s chest as he stumbled away from his violent deed. Her blade cut across his leather jacket and she smelled blood, but couldn’t know if it was his or Luke’s.

  Drawing back the sword, she readied for another punishing blow as she couldn’t drown out the awful choking gasps she’d heard Luke make before going down.

  A split second of wisdom stopped her from slashing her blade across Santos’s neck.

  He killed an innocent man!

  Her fingers tightened around the sword hilt. While he may have murdered Luke, Annja did not relish answering to the authorities her reasons for killing Santos. Vengeance was justified only in the eyes of the weak and criminal.

  “May your most feared curse accompany you to hell,” she spat out. “If I guess correctly, that will involve the vengeful undead.”

  Shoving Santos to the ground, she landed on his chest with a knee and stabbed the sword into the loose gravel beside his head. Grabbing him by the scruff she lifted his head.

  “Where is Bracks?”

  “London,” the man blubbered. “Canov mentioned it. That’s all I know. He doesn’t give his location to field scouts.”

  Field scouts who located children for the man’s evil endeavors.

  “Give me your phone!”

  “It’s in my back pocket!”

  Annja fisted the man in the jaw, knocking him out cold. Turning him over, she took the phone from his back pocket and shoved it into one of the cargo pockets on her thigh. Standing, she found she couldn’t walk away without first kicking his jaw. Swinging the sword out angrily to cut the air, she almost slashed it down and across the bastard’s neck. But some force greater stopped her.

  Joan of Arc’s spirit?

  Annja opened her fingers and released the hilt, sending the battle sword off into the otherwhere. No spirit, just her own conscience.

  She could have killed with it. She should have. But she would not have this bastard’s death on her hands.

  Rushing to Luke, she knew he was dead before lifting his hand from the ground. The cut had gone deep, exposing the spinal column and surrounding muscles. He had likely choked on his blood.

  Swearing, and with a glance to Santos, she gave one last thought to committing murder. It won’t change things, except to lower you to his level of unscrupulous morals.

  With a shake of her head, she stood and dialed the police number she’d entered in her phone at the hospital and reported the site she’d found on the road out of Chrastava. A colleague of hers had been walking, and she’d found him dead. She suspected his assailant was the one lying nearby.

  Slapping her cell phone shut, she knelt over Luke and pressed her arms over his warm torso and bowed her head. She should have never left him here by himself. She’d thought he’d be safe talking to Mamma, and hadn’t considered Santos could have survived their earlier battle and would be lying in wait for Luke.

  Only, she had been compelled to return while waiting outside the train station. Call it intuition.

  Call it the sword beckoning her.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

  Had Luke not called her about the archaeological find, he may have still encountered the angry Romani, urged on by Santos and whoever this Canov was, and yet would have never learned the truth behind the mistaken beliefs.

  Was it good that she’d traveled here and had learned what she had about the evils taking place, when wherever she went people died? People she grew to care about?

  She had to find Bracks and make him pay for the dead children, and for Luke.

  She waited for the ambulance and police to arrive and spent half an hour answering questions and explaining repeatedly that she had found the men exactly as they were, sprawled on the road. Santos was still unconscious and couldn’t deny her story. Yes, it appeared as if both had been wounded by swords, and no, she hadn’t noticed another weapon in the vicinity. Luke was a colleague and they had been working on the dig near the Roma camp. She had reported Santos chasing them out of town last night. Mention of her duel with Santos was unnecessary. The emergency techs reported the cut on his chest was superficial, but he would probably not survive the blood loss from a previous injury on his leg.

  “Justice served,” Annja muttered as she walked toward the Jeep after being told she was free to go.

  She left her new cell phone number with the authorities and gave them Luke’s home number to contact family in London. She vacillated between remaining in tow
n or leaving while the coroner’s office processed Luke’s body, so she could then accompany the body back to England.

  Death had taken people she cared about before. It never got easier.

  And was she to blame, or was it that fate colluded to ensure she remained alone, a woman unattached and always available to answer a quest? If so, she’d give back the sword in a heartbeat to have her loved ones all back. Yet she knew that was impossible. She had taken ownership of the sword and all that came with it, good, bad or horrible.

  The best thing she could do right now was to find Bracks and stop his reign of terror.

  * * *

  “WE MEET AGAIN,” Garin said to his freelance help, Slater.

  The man nodded, hands folded before him as he awaited instructions. He stood beside a man tied to a chair. Wayne Pearce, who Garin had once seen at Bracks’s side. An assistant of sorts. He’d been found in a nightclub popular with celebrities, hanging on a leggy young thing, dosing on Ecstasy like it was going out of style. He was high now, and though his hands were bound behind the chair he sat on, and his ankles were secure, as well, he grinned a stupid smile.

  “Break time?” Garin asked.

  “Less than three minutes,” Slater reported with a slam of his fist into his opposite palm.

  “I’ll give you two.”

  Slater worked his head upon his neck, side to side, stretching and bouncing on his feet like a boxer. “I do like a challenge.”

  The echo of fist meeting jawbone was followed with a pitiful whining yelp. Pearce’s front teeth dropped onto his lap and he begged for mercy after the second punch.

  * * *

  WAITING AN HOUR for her flight to take off in the Berlin Brandenburg Airport gave Annja time to call the London coroner’s office. It wasn’t to notify them of Luke’s incoming body; the authorities would take care of that. Annja had a contact there. Not a friend so much as a spy. Years ago, Daniel Newton had contacted her online to tell her how much of a fan he was of Chasing History’s Monsters, and to let her know if she ever needed his help for a future show he was ready and willing. He was also an amateur archaeologist—a hunter of coins in his neighbors’ backyards.

  Never overlook the value of having an inside man in a coroner’s office. It was where she had hoped the organ in the cooler had been taken, and if not, then she was at a dead end.

  She’d never spoken to him personally, beyond the online contact, so when Daniel answered, and realized it was her, he gasped and stuttered enthusiastically before Annja was finally able to ask him for a favor.

  “Anything!”

  She winced and turned down the volume on her cell phone. Wandering to a corner in the airport terminal, she squatted against the concrete wall, feeling the strain in her calves and thighs.

  “A few days ago you may have received a white cooler with bags of blood or possibly human organs. I suspect it was a police confiscation. I assume it made it to your office, or hope it did.”

  “Sounds intriguing. Wait! Yes, it did. It was retrieved from a fire, though the firefighters were able to put it out fast enough and the cooler was intact. Benedict, the head guy here in the shop, has been working on it exclusively. Very hush-hush stuff. What’s this about, Annja? Have you got information on the case?”

  “No.” She didn’t need to get embroiled in the criminal investigation of something she truly had no solid evidence on. “But I do find that certain events in my life parallel the need to know more about what was in the cooler. I would never step on police authority, but I know a family who lost their child.”

  “Oh, Annja, that’s a terrible thing. The organ did belong to a child. Oh, hell, that was classified information. But you won’t tell anyone, will you?”

  “Never.”

  “Do you think it’s related?”

  “Probably not, but who knows. I’ve been reading articles about missing children who were dismembered for voodoo rituals. Terrible stuff. I’m wondering if there was anything odd or unusual about the evidence.”

  “Hmm, well, I haven’t had a hand in the project. It might take some doing to suss out information since, like I said, Benedict has been protecting this one. But I’d do anything for you, Annja. Is it for one of your shows?”

  “Not exactly. You run into any vampires lately, Daniel?”

  “No. But really? Is that what you’re working on for the show now?”

  Hell, she’d had to give him that one. He deserved it. And if she was going to get anything from the guy she had to make him believe he was helping not only her, but possibly the show. It was a huge lie, but she had no clue how else to proceed with this mystery, and felt sure the information might lead her to Garin.

  He wasn’t answering her calls, and she’d tried him twice now. She wasn’t one to beg, or act like a rebuffed mistress, so she’d take this route and meet him in the middle, whether or not he approved. Of which, she guessed, he would not.

  “Give me two secs, will you, Annja? Benedict takes a lunch break soon. I’ll slip into his office and see what I can learn.”

  “Don’t do anything that would jeopardize your job,” she said, but hoped he wouldn’t take the warning to heart. “Just let me know if you find out anything unusual. Thanks, Daniel. You can reach me at this number for another hour before my flight leaves.”

  “Oh, thank you, Annja! This is so awesome. I’m helping you with your research.”

  “Yes, well, you’re helping me quietly, right?”

  “Oh, yes. Quiet. Shh. I can skulk around with the best of them. I’ll call you soon, Annja. I have your number now. Yes!”

  She hung up before another excited shriek made her question her sanity in calling the man. Daniel would prove useful. And sometimes useful demanded sacrifices. But she’d look into changing her phone number once she returned to the States. Wasn’t like she hadn’t had to do that many times before.

  * * *

  GARIN LOOKED OVER the pummeled man wilted in the chair before him. Very little damage to his face because the teeth had done the trick.

  “The men’s club on Rossmore Road, not far from Hyde Park,” he said. “Good job, Slater. I do believe that was less than a minute.”

  “He was a wanker,” Slater said. “Pretty boys always go fast. They don’t know what pain is, and when they experience it, they start crying for their mommies. Isn’t that right?” He lifted the man’s head by a hank of his hair, but he was out cold. A mercy, knocking him out. One Slater generally didn’t grant his subjects. “You need me for anything else?”

  “No, that’s good. We’ll talk soon, I’m sure.”

  “Always a pleasure.”

  Slater strolled down the hallway to the washroom to clean up, and Garin checked his watch. It was ten in the evening. The nightclubs wouldn’t get rolling for another few hours. But a pool hall would be quiet this time of night. Which made for easier pickings when he wanted to catch someone unawares.

  He pulled out his cell phone. Three messages―all from Annja Creed. She was trying to find him, and if he answered, she may be able to track him to London. He wasn’t stupid. But she wasn’t, either, and he’d probably be seeing her sooner rather than later.

  That was fine. Because he expected her research on Bracks to parallel his, and maybe, just maybe, her pieces would fit into his and together they’d form a solid lead on the man. Because he knew the men’s club was only a front, a resting place for the man when he needed to do local business or chill with the boys.

  On the other hand, he could get lucky and come face-to-face with his nemesis tonight.

  * * *

  “CALABAR BEAN EXTRACT,” Daniel whispered over the phone line. “Or, more properly, physostigma venenosum. It’s a perennial indigenous to an area in Africa called the Calabar region.”

  The flight had started to board, but Annja needed to take this phone call from Daniel. “What is that?”

  “The seeds are a natural poison. Black magic potion.”

  “Black magic,” she sai
d, thinking it sounded out of place, but then, why should that be so? Her research had alluded to voodoo. It was easy enough to associate the two.

  “It’s used to paralyze a subject. And in that state of paralysis, they remain conscious. Annja, the extract was laced through the blood and organ of this child. Whoever gave it to the child may have removed the organ while the kid was conscious yet unable to move.”

  Annja gasped.

  “The child may have felt everything,” Daniel said solemnly. “It’s perfectly horrible. What are you working on, Annja? This doesn’t sound like anything for a television show.”

  “I’m not sure anymore, Daniel.” She felt sick. At least she hoped the people who had intended to drink the blood would also be affected by the extract laced through it. “Was that it?”

  “Yes, that’s the notation that Benedict circled and entered on the lab report for the police report. I’m sure Scotland Yard will investigate as soon as the report is turned over. Funny, this feels familiar. I feel as though there was something in the papers about this years ago. I should look into that.”

  “Do that, please, but be careful. This is a police matter. Whoever did this to that child must pay. Uh, my flight is at final boarding, I’ll have to go. Thanks, Daniel. I owe you one.”

  “If you’re ever in London, I’ll take you up on that.”

  Since she was heading to London, she figured she might have to make good on that offer.

  * * *

  WHILE FLYING ACROSS Europe, Annja surfed for information on voodoo clubs in London and found very little beyond some pseudoclubs that played on the idea and exotic allure of voodoo, but it was apparent they weren’t involved with real practitioners.

  Of course, any genuine hits were likely secret societies, and one generally had to know who to ask for to learn more. She considered putting a call out on the archaeology forums she frequented, but then decided she didn’t want anyone to ask questions this time. Normally, she invited questions and suggestions regarding her research and expeditions.