The Bone Conjurer

by Alex Archer

  Pretty? Had he ever called her pretty? Maybe, but if so, she’d never noticed. Hmm, she’d take the compliment. Lately, they were few and far between.

  “Bart, please.” She sat on the floor and tugged a pillow to her lap. “I’m so not like that.”

  His chuckle tweaked her to smile. All right, she was exactly like that. And that Bart knew as much meant a lot to her.

  She did have other friends. Some. There were the women on the Chasing History’s Monsters crew. And Doug Morrell was a friend. An irritating one, but that’s what friends were for, to irritate.

  “I’ll keep you updated,” she said to him. “Let me know if you learn more about the thief. Like where he’s been the past few days. You can track his movements, can’t you?”

  “Possibly. But I’ll need more reason to do so than curiosity. I may need a certain skull as evidence to trace to its origins. Would you turn it over if you did have it in hand?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Annja.”

  “Bart, don’t press on this one. You handle the police business. Let me follow the skull’s trail.”

  “Annja, you were shot at last night. So I am going to press. I’m getting a sense that you’re only telling me half of what’s going on. And why is that not unusual?”

  He cared about her; she knew that. It felt great. Sometimes too great. Because the moment she let down her staunch defenses and let her innate neediness rise, then look out. Sometimes a girl had to resist what she wanted most. A pat on the back, a compliment.

  Yeah, too risky.

  “So you’ll let me know if you come up with more info on Marcus Cooke?” she asked, avoiding his accusing question. “Anything that can point me to where the skull was found, unearthed and/or stolen is going to help me a lot.”

  “What if it’s just another skull?”

  “Men don’t kill for just another skull, Bart. I’ve had a look at it. There are some amazing carvings inside. It’s special—I can feel it. But it will help to know if it was taken from a dig, or a museum, or a private collection.”

  She made a mental note to get online and do a search for infant skulls.

  “Hey, Annja?”

  “What?”

  “Are we still going to dinner tomorrow night?”

  “Uh…”

  “Annja? How else will you hand off the tools to me?”

  “It’s a date. And not even because of business. I want to see you, Bart. It’s been too long. Talk to you soon.”

  She’d hand over the thief’s tools but there was no way she’d give Bart the skull.

  She hung up and went to bandage her wrist. She kept an arsenal of medical supplies stored in her medicine cabinet—which were presently strewn all over the floor.

  “He was looking for a skull. It couldn’t possibly fit it in this narrow cabinet. This wasn’t necessary,” she muttered.

  Minutes later, she’d dabbed the wound with alcohol and bandaged it with medical tape. It had stopped bleeding. She’d be fine. Heck, she took bullets and knife slashes all the time. This was nothing.

  “You are so not the Rambo you sometimes think you are, Annja,” she reminded herself.

  Thoughts to start picking up her trashed loft were counterattacked by the rumbling reminder from her gut that she hadn’t eaten yet. Picking through the debris on the kitchen floor and over the counters, she found a box of cereal Serge hadn’t emptied onto the floor. That he had emptied others and unscrewed all the jars astounded her.

  “Who’s going to hide a skull in a cereal box?” she muttered as she poured the cereal into one of two bowls remaining in the cupboard. “Really. Did the guy think he’d find the prize at the bottom of the box?”

  The fridge was relatively undisturbed. She knew that was because she hadn’t gotten groceries lately, and there wasn’t much to toss around. She poured milk over the chunks of colored sugar and fortified whole grain, plucked a spoon from a pile of scattered flatware and padded into the living room to sit before her now-clean desk and looked at her laptop.

  “And to think I was complaining about how messy this desk was. Guy did me a favor. Too bad he doesn’t dust.”

  The cereal was a rough go at first. Her aching jaw reminded her she’d taken a few more punches than she’d delivered.

  Pressing the spoon over the cereal so it sank deeper into the milk and would become soggy and easier to chew, she moused her way to the archaeological site and found a few replies to her post.

  BestMan573 wrote, You’ve seen one skull, you’ve seen them all. Though it does resemble that of a newborn. Where’d you say you found this? By the way, love the online pic!

  “Must not be an anthropologist,” she commented on his blasé dismissal of skulls. “And no, I’m not going to tell anyone I found this in some dead man’s backpack. Online pic? Must have seen my bio at the Chasing site.”

  In that picture, taken on a lavender-streaked Scottish moor, she wore a boonie hat, cargo shorts and hiking boots. Not at all sexy. But indicative of her true self.

  PinkRibbonGirl started by saying she was only in the seventh grade. Annja worked the numbers and figured she must be about twelve years old.

  Hi! I’m so excited to be talking to you. I think you have the Skull of Sidon. I just found out about it a week ago, and thought it would be an awesome idea for my history report. I handed the outline in to my teacher and she nixed the idea. Said I couldn’t write about necrophilia in middle school. It wasn’t very becoming of a young girl. I didn’t even know what necrophilia was until I looked it up. Eww!

  “What comes out of kids’ mouths today,” Annja said. “The poor teachers. If it isn’t bad enough they have to deal with gangs and cell phones and ADHD, there’s the class brain in the front row writing about necrophilia.”

  She chuckled and clicked on the next e-mail.

  NewBattleRider commented on the various skulls in history.

  There are many black magic rituals involving skulls. Blood is drunk from the cranium to gain immortality. In medieval Cathay, rituals to honor gods involved skull bowls lined with brass or copper that blood was drank out of. The Knights Templar used to worship heads, which could be construed as a skull. That would jive with the cross pattée on the gold.

  None of them felt right. The cross pattée felt like a red herring. A common marking. Could have been a goldsmith’s mark or some kind of freemasonry symbol, Annja thought.

  She reconsidered the Knights Templar. Head worshipping?

  Annja had cursory knowledge of the monks who had taken vows of chastity and promised to protect helpless peasants who traveled the highroads from thieves. Didn’t ring any bells to her, though, regarding skulls. The Templars were a few centuries earlier than her favorite research period.

  She reread NewBattleRider’s e-mail.

  “I don’t know. Worth a look,” she said.

  She moused to Google and typed in head worshippers. The search brought up references to trepanning, which was carving a hole in the skull to give a swollen brain room or air. The ancient Greeks had used trepanning frequently. Macabre circular hand-cranked drills had been used to cut through the patient’s bone. Anesthesia was little more than some crushed herbs in those days.

  The whole thing gave Annja a headache.

  She typed in ancient skulls, which brought up more entries than her tired brain could manage. If she wasn’t careful she’d need trepanning to give her gray matter room for expansion.

  “All right, so I won’t rule out the Knights Templar.”

  She couldn’t get behind the idea. There were so many grail myths, she didn’t want to get drawn into that muck of rumor, legend and hearsay.

  Worship of gods made more sense to her. And her skull did have decorative metal.

  Going back to the archaeology list, she posted a quick note, asking if anyone had a skull that had recently gone missing. Not the one attached to your head, she added in parentheses.

  She didn’t list specifics, beyond that it was
possibly newborn and medieval. For sure she’d get lots of inquiries about missing skulls. But she never knew what might be found in the detritus.

  Shoveling down spoonfuls of cereal, she dripped milk onto the keyboard. Swiping the milk from the space bar, she winced at the tug beneath the bandage about her wrist.

  “Talk about the sword attracting danger. Can I just be a normal archaeologist for one day?”

  Since she’d come into possession of Joan of Arc’s sword normal days were few and far between. And Annja realized she enjoyed the adventure, even the danger. But not the pain.

  “My kingdom for an aspirin.” Annja swung around and winced at the mess in her loft. “If I can find one.”

  She decided she wouldn’t get anywhere, or think clearly, until she’d done some major cleaning.

  10

  “You’re looking well, Serge.”

  Serge Karpenko nodded an acknowledgment, but maintained a stare over the top of Benjamin Ravenscroft’s head. The businessman’s nose leveled at the center of Serge’s chest. He wasn’t short; Serge was tall. He could crush the ineffectual pencil pusher easily. But he would never do it.

  Some men garnered power over others by manipulating reality—not the spiritual, as Serge was capable. Ben was a master at making things happen—or not. And Serge cherished his present reality, only because the alternative was unacceptable.

  From what Serge understood, Ben sold nothing. And people bought those nothings. Things that could not be touched, held or looked at. It made little sense to Serge, and he hated that he could not wrap his mind around the concept. Should not a business have a tangible asset to show prospective buyers? It was like selling air!

  Over the past year, he’d sought any means to crack open his employer’s psyche and begin to understand what made the cogs turn in his brain. Thus far, he’d been unsuccessful.

  “Are you unhappy with your circumstances here in America, Serge?”

  The tone of Ravenscroft’s voice wasn’t so much curious as delving. Serge knew better than to provide too much information. Or rather, he had learned a hard lesson regarding letting others know what you valued and what could make you do things you’d rather not.

  “Very pleased, Mr. Ravenscroft. Is there a problem?”

  “No problem. I just wanted to ensure I’m treating you well. I know the culture shock was initially difficult for you, but you seem to function with ease in the city.”

  Function meant serving this man. It wasn’t as though Serge had a social life beyond his service to Ben. He wasn’t sure he wanted one. How to begin? He knew a few local merchants in the neighborhood. The dry cleaner, the old man at the Russian market, the cheery young girl who worked Mondays and Thursdays at the all-night video store.

  “The apartment still satisfactory?”

  “It is.”

  “That’s a fine piece of real estate, Serge. Apartments in Lower Manhattan are hard to come by.”

  “I have no complaints. The place is clean and quiet.”

  “Your stipend is seeing you well fed and comfortable?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good, then.” Ben tilted his head, studying Serge’s face. It was a stoic visage Serge had practiced all his life. There were so many reasons not to show emotion. Especially when one communicated with spirits and passed along messages to the living.

  Exhaling, Ben shrugged and gestured to the door at his right.

  “The summoning room has been prepared for you. I’ll need information on the Tokyo funds listed in last week’s dossier. I’ve left a copy of the file for you to study. Spirits this afternoon?”

  Serge nodded. “They are most open to the future. The one I contact on your behalf seems to enjoy this field you work in. The untouchables.”

  “That’s intangibles, Serge. I’d like to meet the spirit some day.”

  “Impossible. It does not come to corporeal form, as I’ve explained.”

  “Yes, just voices in your head, eh?” A curious smirk stretched Ben’s stubbled cheek. “You’re a marvel, man. You possess a remarkable skill.”

  “I was born this way.” He’d previously explained his skills.

  It was not so remarkable really. Many could commune with the dimension beyond this living realm, but few in the rushed, chaotic modern world took the time to notice that innate intuition.

  Serge bowed and crossed the shiny black marble floor to the hidden door in the wall Ben had pointed to. He pressed the wall and the panel slid an inch inward. The action never ceased to amaze him.

  Before entering the private room, he bowed his head and looked aside. Ben stared out the window at the view of Central Park below. He’d lit a clove cigarette, yet the smell didn’t cross the room.

  “And all is well with you, sir? Your…daughter?” Serge asked.

  Ben stopped midinhale. A wisp of thick white smoke wavered from his nostrils. He didn’t turn to Serge. The tension stiffening his shoulders became apparent.

  “Measures must be taken, Serge. We’ll discuss it soon.”

  Serge nodded and entered the low-lit room. They’d already discussed measures. Serge did not have the power to give Ben what he most wanted.

  And when the man was again denied, what then would he do to Serge’s family?

  BEN STRUGGLED to control his anger. The insolent man dared to bring up his daughter.

  Did he think to pit Ben’s family against his own? The man could not conceive the move Ben could make against his family. They would be obliterated before Serge could remember the name of Ben’s daughter.

  The Ukrainian peasant denied Ben something he must be able to control. The man communed with the dead regarding the future. Why not help his daughter? Had he no compassion?

  “I need that skull,” Ben muttered. “But where is it?”

  Could he ask Serge to send out spiritual feelers for the skull?

  No, he didn’t want the man to have any more advantage when the playing field was so unbalanced right now.

  11

  There were better things to tend to than necromancing for Benjamin Ravenscroft. Like researching Annja Creed. With her bone sample at home, Serge could easily track her footsteps over the past weeks. It was as simple as attaching a bloodhound spirit to her aura.

  But he had to focus. Ben squeezed the Karpenko family’s lives in his greedy corporate hands. And since Serge had bound himself to the man, he could do no harm against him. Powerless, he could only look to freedom.

  Soon enough.

  Bent over the crushed bone, sweet smoke curled into Serge’s nostrils. He drew in the odor, surrendering to its intoxication.

  Almost.

  The Creed woman prodded his thoughts. She hadn’t been the least unsettled to find him waiting in her home. A home he’d trashed. The skull had not been there.

  Why hadn’t he run across the battle sword while creating that havoc?

  When she’d brought it out, it had given him momentary surprise. He feared very little. No skinny woman with a big sword was going to intimidate him. He may not have martial arts in his arsenal—such a rudimentary grasp at self-defense—yet he could easily exercise enough brute strength to overwhelm and attack.

  Since he’d begun necromancing as a young boy Serge had always felt protective forces about him. He thought of them as a sort of force field against evil and negativity. Yet even that force field could not stop Serge from agreeing to help when a man asked kindly and promised to secure his family’s future.

  There were times Serge had ignored his intuition. It was foolish of him. For if he’d listened to his heart a year ago, he’d still be living on the small farm north of Odessa with his family. He’d be struggling to survive, but happier with those he loved in no danger.

  He owed a call to his father and would stop by a phone booth on the way home. Serge no longer used the fancy cell phone Ben had gifted him. After a few strange clicks and tones during his first calls to his family, he became suspicious Ben was listening in or tracking his
contacts.

  Serge knew little about technology, but he was getting over that deficit quickly. Every Saturday he spent five hours at the New Amsterdam branch library. The class on Surfing the Internet for Fun and Profit had taught him about search engines, and how to go deeper for information worth having. It was how he found information on the woman he’d pulled from the Gowanus Canal.

  Who would have thought the one television show playing in the café two blocks west of the canal, where he’d stopped for eggs and toast after that encounter with the woman, would be showing Chasing History’s Monsters. It was dumb luck.

  Or rather, Serge’s intuition had been working strongly after it had failed him at the canal. It had led him the direction he needed.

  He thought he should have processed her bone right away. Began to summon with it. See what the Greater All had to give him about her. He’d do so later, when he returned home.

  Of course, he could wait. In the morning she’d bring the skull to him. If she wished to live. And who would not?

  Annja Creed had impressed him with her defensive skills, and hadn’t backed down from him no matter the fight he’d given her. Serge knew he was imposing. He stuck out like a bull in a daisy patch when walking the streets of Brooklyn.

  He was very patient. But his patience was growing thin with Benjamin’s unrelenting demands. The man kept insisting Serge could conjure a spirit to save the girl. He could not. A necromancer had no power over life and death. Such was ineffable.

  He could but contact spirits and use them to manipulate the will of mortals, such as convincing them to turn right into traffic instead of left across a safe intersection. He could use spirits to cause illusions, either visible to all or but a figment in a man’s mind. If he wished, he could drive a man to insanity—but he had no such malicious desires.