The Bone Conjurer

by Alex Archer

  A visit to an Odessa deli had resulted in the most interesting experience.

  There were only six tables in the deli, each crammed chair to chair, and topped with faded red-checked tablecloths. A smiling elderly woman had seemed to be waitress, cook and hostess. Ben had marveled over the borscht. He’d never tried it before, and though reluctant at first to taste the brilliant pink cold soup, he eventually ordered a second bowl.

  On about the last spoonful of soup, Ben was startled to hear a low humming sound coming from behind the long brown wool blanket that served as a curtain between the dining room and the kitchen. It was a man’s voice.

  He questioned the old woman to see if someone was in pain. She clasped Ben’s face with warm, pudgy palms and shook her head sweetly. “Summoning the spirits,” she said. “Reading the future.”

  Ten minutes later, a pregnant woman emerged from behind the wool blanket, smiling and rubbing her belly. She’d obviously heard what she wanted from the fortune teller.

  “You next?” the old woman asked Ben. “You want to know your future?”

  Ben shook his head, trying to dismiss the request, but at the sight of the tall bald man standing behind the curtain, just a glimpse of his side view, curiosity changed Ben’s negative nod to a positive.

  There wasn’t much difference between selling futures and telling the future, was there? he thought.

  Remarkably, Serge had pinpointed Ben’s need to obtain nothing. The man didn’t know what that meant, only that it was what the spirits offered to him. With that, Ben knew the man was for real.

  Ben had taken Serge to dinner that evening to an expensive restaurant in Odessa. The fortune teller had marveled over the waitstaff’s manners and was fascinated with the linens and devoured the steak. He’d never had such a fine meal. The price of the wine alone would surely feed his family for a week.

  Serge traveled to Odessa to find jobs to help his family, but unsure of navigating the city proper, always kept to the impoverished outer suburbs. He found work mostly in the back rooms of family diners or feed shops. His skills were unusual, but not questioned. The old folk believed, and those who would scoff at him didn’t need his help, anyway.

  He had to keep a low profile. If the Odessa police got wind of a man who conjured spirits, they would have him arrested and he’d never see his family again.

  Ben had seen opportunity. He was the man who believed in things one could not see or touch. He’d made a good living buying and selling just such things. Embracing Serge’s talents had come easily.

  And he’d been rewarded for his beliefs.

  It was possible to learn the future through spiritual contact. Ben had no idea how it worked—only that it did.

  But at the moment, Serge landed second on Ben’s list of persons of interest. His mole in the NYPD had reported there was nothing more than clothing and a roll of sodden twenties on Marcus Cooke when his body had been dredged from the canal. No skull.

  Ben decided Annja Creed must have the skull.

  What would an intrepid young archaeologist do with a skull like that? Obviously bones and stuff were her thing. Could she know what she held? Marcus hadn’t been told what it was, so he could not have clued her in.

  So then, Ben thought, she must be curious about it. She’d probably search online for information about it. Likely try to date it, as he suspected archaeologists would do. She couldn’t have any fancy equipment herself, so how would she do it?

  “A university?” he wondered.

  Turning back to his computer, he reread the bio on the television show Web site. He scanned her academic credentials. She’d spent a summer at Columbia.

  “Bingo.”

  16

  “I didn’t know you had a place in New York,” Annja said as Garin tapped out the entrance code on a digital pad beside the door.

  “I do now. With real estate at such a delicious low, how could I resist? I do love to catch a Broadway show now and then.”

  Annja couldn’t help but grin widely. Wonders did never cease.

  “I’d give you the official ‘Enter freely and of your own will,’” Garin said as he stepped inside, “but I suspect you’d reserve that statement for me.”

  He had that one right. She never found vampires on her trip to Transylvania. Maybe because the closest thing to one stood right before her. Immortal and hungry for blood, be it racing or spilled.

  Annja entered the thirtieth-floor Manhattan apartment with reluctance. She peeked around the corner as she entered the foyer, expecting to see a half-clad nymph scrambling away like a blood-drained Renfield into the shadows. The few times Garin had called her, she’d heard feminine giggles in the background. Gentleman he may be, he wasn’t discriminating by any means.

  “There are no booby traps,” he said as he closed the door behind her.

  “Just want to steer clear from the giggle brigade.”

  “It’s just you and me, Annja. I would never be so rude to impose on your presence by including another woman.”

  “I’m honored.”

  “You’re being snarky.”

  “Yeah, well.” A brush of her palm still sifted dirt from her jacket. It landed on the polished hardwood floor. “Where’s that shower?”

  “Down the hall and left is the guest room. Let me take a look at you first. Those clothes are too filthy.” He drew his dark gaze up and down her body. Her coat was unzipped, and he lingered at her breasts, which should have offended, but it was just so Garin. “You’re still a size six, I’d guess.”

  Annja nodded. “You going shopping?”

  “Annja, please, I have people who do that for me.”

  She rolled her eyes, and twisted her hips to start down the hallway. People? The man was a real item. Tall, dark and too knowing for her own good. He’d once before arranged to have her dressed by some high-fashion name she couldn’t recall.

  With a reluctant nod, Annja had to admit the dress had rocked. It made her look and feel sexy. Not something she felt when mucking about on a dig or swimming through toxic canals.

  That had also been the time Garin had kissed her.

  She would maintain vigilance this time.

  WRISTS CROSSED UPON his lap, he knelt within the circle on the bare cement floor. The circle had been painted with tar. It was wide enough for him to kneel comfortably and to work the bone powder on the floor before him.

  He wore a black linen coat over his shirt. The coat was not his and it gave off a musty odor. It was once worn by the man he now conjured to help him, one of his closest spirit contacts. It was important to wear a piece of the dead subject’s clothing to open the connections.

  He’d crushed the bone sample taken from Annja Creed in a mortar and had placed half in a vial for later use.

  Serge slipped a slim silver lighter from the coat pocket. Holding the flame low over the bone fragments he moved it to singe the particles. Wifts of smoke rose but it did not take to flame. Unnecessary.

  The scent of burned bone wavered through his nostrils. Sweet, always, a scent he’d grown up with.

  It had been a serendipitous accident that night his father had been burning some old junk found in the field—unearthed clothing, half a wagon wheel and a human leg bone. Serge had inhaled the smoke and the next moment had felt the presence within him. He’d been occupied by something not himself. Yet he’d been calm, leery to tell his father about it. The spirit had whispered of a lynching and his death. He’d left Serge with the idea he could learn anything he wished by contacting the dead.

  Serge’s very soul spoke to the dead.

  After mentioning the experience to his mother, she’d brought out an old ring her deceased mother had worn. Serge hadn’t been able to contact his grandmother. He needed the bones—the visceral evidence of what was once life.

  Now, after years of training, he only needed an item the spirit had once worn or treasured. But still he needed bone if he wished to summon regarding a living being.

  Serge h
ummed, low in his throat. It vibrated in his chest and throbbed against his ribs. The space between life and death was vast and navigated with vibration. A unique trip he enjoyed making.

  He bowed his head low, moving his forehead to his wrists. Closing his eyes pushed away all unnecessary thoughts from his mind.

  Humming continuously, he moved up an octave, notching the tone higher in his throat. It was an ancient means of communication, taught to him by his grandfather. This language of no words was his own. It belonged to the Greater All. An All he was humbled to be a part of.

  Stretching out his arms, and holding his fingers parallel to the floor, he began to keen, a high-pitched wailing that crackled in his ears and filled his sinuses.

  There were a few particular spirits he worked with often. They treaded the edges of his reality, willing and oftentimes curious to communicate with the corporeal realm.

  Alone in this soundproof room behind his bedroom, Serge touched the Greater All. It emerged swiftly and filled his being with presence. It tasted the burned bone and assumed the constitution of the bone’s owner.

  Moving throughout Serge’s body the All gave him glimpses, for that is what he mentally asked to know. Glimpses from her eyes. The familiar walls of a loft Serge had only yesterday trashed. The screen of a laptop, scanning through text, and the photos of a skull he had found with his own search online.

  Snowflakes dusted her forearms. She walked briskly. A huge building stretched before her. She stood inside. The face of a man with curly hair smiled. He accepted the skull and—the images faded.

  The All left him. It gave only what he asked, and left with a painful tug to his soul.

  Would he simply give it over one day? His own soul?

  Not yet. Not until he was free.

  With a groaning noise, Serge slapped his palms on the floor as his body shuddered back to the present. He would remain in this position for a few minutes until all was as it had been before the summoning. His heartbeat slowed.

  But his thoughts raced. What was the building? It had looked like a school of sorts. Some kind of college? Where would the Creed woman study? Was there an archaeological center here in the city?

  He swallowed, in need of water. Reaching for the small brush and dustpan outside the tar circle, he quickly swept up the bone fragments. When the floor was spotless, he went to the kitchen, passing the hematite bedposts in the bedroom and tapping them four, then three, times successively.

  Tapping the stone before the kitchen entry, he then lifted the spigot and put his head down to drink a long drag.

  A university, he decided. Somewhere in Manhattan.

  17

  Annja strode out from the guest bathroom. Vanilla-scented steam wafted behind her. From what she’d seen of the place so far, it was all done in gray slate tiles and gray walls with brushed-steel accents and black marble. Ultramacho.

  She liked it. No lace or frills for this chick. But could a girl get a maid to stop by the loft once in a while?

  A large red department store box sat on the high king-size bed. Tugging her towel tightly about her chest, she checked the bedroom doors. Closed. The curtains bunched to either side of the window did not hide any lurking forms.

  “You never used to be so paranoid,” she said. With the gift of Joan’s sword had also come many a curse. And just plain suspicion.

  The closet door was still open from when she’d entered and had done a cursory search of the room. The balcony doors were also latched.

  With a resolute sigh Annja slid onto the bed and ran a hand over the glossy box. “If there’s silk or some kind of lacy stuff in here I’m going to stuff it down his throat,” she said, knowing it was quite possible Garin had the room bugged.

  The only occasions that would see her close to dressed up were better forgotten, as far as she was concerned. High heels and nylons were not on Annja Creed’s radar. And yet, one of the few times she had been wearing just that had found her dancing the tango in Garin’s arms and accepting his kiss.

  It was ironic the situations they found themselves in.

  “That man has a way about him. A way I don’t like.”

  On the other hand, that way did challenge her every time she came up against it. And she’d never walk away from a good challenge.

  Taking a breath, she opened the box and exhaled with relief. Inside a folded pair of khaki pants and long-sleeved turquoise shirt sat neatly folded. Beneath the pants, a slip of black lace revealed itself.

  Annja tugged out the bra and read the tag. “Hmm, French. The man knows his lingerie, I’ll give him that.” Much better than she did, she thought.

  After dressing, and combing her wet hair into a ponytail, Annja padded barefoot down the marble hallway in search of the kitchen. She wasn’t above rooting about for sustenance. Though she’d gargled plenty of water in the shower, the taste of earth still lingered in her throat.

  The lack of food in the huge stainless-steel refrigerator didn’t surprise her. Garin ate most meals at fine restaurants, with the requisite sexy lady by his side. And when at home, he probably ordered in.

  Evian water was stocked as well as vodka and pomegranate juice. A carton of eggs and half a dozen bright red apples sat beside a 9 mm SIG Sauer P-250.

  Annja smirked at the storage place. She supposed it was necessary for a man like Garin. One could never be too careful of the strangers one allowed into their bed. She might be packing, a spy sent by the enemy to take him down.

  Rolling her eyes at the thought, Annja helped herself to a curvy bottle of pomegranate juice. Twisting open the plastic lid, she closed the refrigerator door.

  “Make yourself at home.”

  She choked on the first swallow. Garin stood where the open door had been. Arms crossed high on his chest, he smirked, and delivered that patented full-body once-over he did so well. The heat rose in Annja’s cheeks.

  “I guessed right on the sizes, I see.”

  “You’ve had plenty of practice.” Annja slid onto a high stool before the stainless-steel freestanding counter.

  “I have. But if you’ve followed women’s fashion through the ages, you’d be startled to know what passes as a size six today didn’t exist decades ago. Every year the manufacturers make the sizes fit a smaller woman. You’d think if they wanted to sell out they make a size twelve a ten.”

  “Male logic at its finest. So, no food?”

  “If you’re hungry I’ll order in. What’s your pleasure? Chinese? Thai? Tapas?”

  “Actually, I could go for a burger.”

  “Annja, the grease, and not to mention all that trans fat.”

  “Look at you, Mr. Health Conscious. Didn’t think it would matter for a man who’s immortal.”

  “As far as we know,” Garin said.

  Annja looked at him carefully. The man didn’t look as if he’d aged much, since the sword had become whole—and hers. Of course, she had never noticed those fine creases at the corners of his eyes before.

  “You thinking about investing in Botox, big boy?” she said with a laugh.

  “Now that you bring it up, how is the sword treating you? Keeping you from danger? From falling into coffin-size holes?” he taunted.

  “It’s there when I need it. There have been a few times I’ve wanted it, though, and maybe for lack of space, it wouldn’t come to my grip.”

  “Interesting. So it only appears when possible. Gotta watch those empty graves, Annja.”

  “Yeah, so rub it in. Haven’t I done you enough favors to earn amnesty from your sarcasm?”

  “If you’re keeping score, you’ll be disappointed to know I’ve racked up more brownie points than you have. But I don’t keep score. That’s so gauche.”

  She was fairly certain that when the indignities she had suffered for the man’s favor were measured against the times he’d helped her she would come out ahead. But Garin was right, keeping score was just wrong.

  But who said it couldn’t be fun? She’d take the points whe
n she could.

  “Let’s talk business,” Annja said. “You know about the skull and Serge. And Benjamin Ravenscroft is a name I’ve heard but know nothing about.”

  “Let’s chat in the living room.”

  She followed him into the long main room, which was lined with windows that looked out over Central Park. Snowflakes peppered the gray sky. They were supposed to get two inches of fresh snow.

  The brown leather furniture didn’t overwhelm the large room. Huge ferns and a plant with a bright red flower gave it a tropical touch. Annja chose a chair, because she didn’t want to share the couch with the man.

  She couldn’t be too cautious around Garin Braden. She just couldn’t let down her guard.

  Settling onto the chair, she tugged her legs to her body and conformed to the hug of the supple leather. She felt very relaxed and too comfortable.

  What are you doing, Annja? He’s the bad guy, remember?

  Garin reclined on the couch, legs spread and arms stretched across the back. His crisp white business shirt and black trousers gave him an undeniably sensual aura. Though his features were rugged, not quite handsome, she bet most women did a double-take when this man walked by.

  She hated that she struggled between despising the guy and wanting to learn more about him. But truly, there was so much to know. The man had walked through five hundred years of history. What archaeologist in her right mind would not grill him if given the chance?

  “Whimsical thoughts dancing in those hazel eyes of yours, Annja?”

  “Scholarly, actually.” She dropped her feet to the floor and propped her elbows on her knees. “Just give me something, Garin. One little nugget of history that the books and artifacts have never revealed.”

  His eyes twinkled. Annja imagined that glint of mischief guarded the universe’s mysteries. Indiana Jones watch out, Annja Creed was going to nab this lost treasure.

  “I don’t read history books, so how can I know what has been mentioned and what has not?”