The Bone Conjurer

by Alex Archer

  “Avoid major wars, plagues or enlightenments. I want something tangible. Rumor-mill stuff.”

  “Gossip, eh? Very well. Name a century,” he volleyed.

  “Sixteenth.”

  “Hmm.” He thumbed the corner of his mouth in thought. “Catherine of Aragon. Not so devoted to her good king husband as she wanted him to believe.”

  “Hmm. Don’t believe it. She raged against Henry VIII’s infidelities.”

  “As she should have. But their early married years were a struggle. Henry was quite the tightwad, and her father, King Ferdinand, refused to send Catherine money for her household. She sought compassion in the arms of a man who gave her brief love and a bit of coin to tide her through the tough times.”

  “If you’re going to tell me that man was you…”

  Garin lifted a mischievous brow. “You did ask for something salacious.”

  “I didn’t use that word exactly. Seriously? You and Catherine of Aragon?”

  He nodded. “But you didn’t hear that from me. I guard my secrets well.”

  Okay, so that nugget weighed in his favor. Not that she believed him—entirely.

  On the other hand, was it so difficult accepting the man had notched a queen on his bedpost?

  Annja looked over Garin, trying to imagine him in doublet, breeches and the wool hose that were worn in the sixteenth century. She could see it. And would bet he had wielded a battle sword with cruel intention, as well.

  Time travel would so rock. She gave her head a shake.

  “So the skull,” she said. “Tell me everything you know. And did you know about the thief?”

  “The guy you met at the bridge?”

  “Were you there, too?”

  “Not at the bridge specifically.”

  “In the area? How many people know about this?”

  He cleared his throat and said, “I heard about the drowned man the next morning, and sometimes it’s very easy to put two and two together and come up with Annja Creed.”

  His easy smile kept her from tightening a fist on her lap.

  “The skull,” she said.

  He leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. Noticing how he mirrored her, Annja pulled up her legs, clasping her arms around them.

  “I’ve seen it once before in the fifteenth century, a few years before the execution.”

  “So the two of you were mortal at the time?” Annja asked, intrigued.

  “Yes. Roux and I were on our way to France to meet the Maid of Orléans. We’d stopped by a Moorish palace in Granada. I think it was the Alhambra.”

  “That’s a famous palace.”

  “Yes, isn’t it? I held the skull while Roux talked to an alchemist.”

  “How can you know it’s the same skull I’ve seen?”

  “As far as skulls go, it is unique.”

  “Describe it to me.”

  “Small, likely belonged to an infant. Silver lines the divides between the bones.”

  “They’re called sutures.”

  “Oh? I’m not up on skull terminology. Sound like the one you’ve held?”

  “Not really.” Silver and gold were two very different metals. “So you just let it get out of your hands, then?”

  “I had no idea what it was. Thought it just another trinket, though I had thought to hear it whisper to me. The alchemist was convinced it was the Skull of Sidon.”

  “The Skull of Sidon?” Where had she recently heard that?

  Garin smirked. “A legend the great archaeologist doesn’t know about?”

  “Is it Templar related?”

  “Points for you. Yes, it is. How did you guess?”

  “There was a small cross pattée on the gold edging the sutures. But it’s so obvious a symbol. I placed it to Teutonic’s.”

  “There’s gold on it?” Garin rubbed his jaw. “There was silver on it in the fifteenth century.”

  “So you’ve got the wrong skull.”

  She took great delight in that statement. But too quickly.

  “Or you do,” he said.

  Annja knew well and good artifacts were tampered with all the time. And if the skull had not been buried for centuries, whomever might have owned it over the years could have embellished it. Perhaps the original silver had worn away or been taken out and melted down for sale.

  “It could have been added later,” Garin said. “Hell, the alchemist might have put it on. He prized that skull, and felt it gave him great success. Although, he didn’t have it to hand after we left.”

  “Who was the alchemist?”

  “Alphonso de Castaña.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Nor had you heard of the Skull of Sidon.”

  Touché, she thought.

  “Does it have the markings on the interior?” Garin asked.

  She balked at giving the answer, but he read her reluctance.

  “They appear as though they were there originally, yes?”

  “Yes,” she said on a gasp. “They don’t look carved, but it’s ridiculous to believe they were born into the skull as Professor Danzinger has suggested.”

  “Ridiculous, but not impossible. Especially if you look at the skull’s origins. It’s all very macabre and taboo.”

  “Sounds like ninety percent of my work. I love the taboo stuff. But the Skull of Sidon? I don’t know the history.”

  “Hmm, then get comfortable, Annja. Let me tell you how the Skull of Sidon came to be.”

  18

  “The Knights Templar, as you know, were formed after the first Crusade to police the high roads and keep the pilgrimage traveling to Jerusalem safe from thieves and cutthroats,” Garin explained. “They took vows of chastity, poverty, piety and obedience.”

  “The cross on their robes,” Annja added, “didn’t that symbolize martyrdom?”

  “Yes, and to die in combat was considered a great honor, a sure trip to heaven. They never surrendered in battle, unless all the Templar flags had fallen. They were a feared force of the times.”

  “Medieval. Twelfth and thirteenth century.”

  “Yes, the Templars fell in the fourteenth. Accusations of blasphemy and heresy led to their demise. They were accused of trampling and spitting on the cross. Engaging in vile sexual practices, such as homosexuality and head worshipping. Their doomsday happened on a Friday the thirteenth.”

  “Really? Here I thought that was Freddy’s day,” Annja only half joked. “I thought I’d heard everything about the Templars. What with all the DaVinci Code and grail stuff in the media.”

  “There is much on the knights, true. But the Skull of Sidon is often overlooked by scholars as mere myth.”

  Garin leaned forward from where he sat on the couch, splaying his long tanned fingers before him as he explained.

  “There was a Templar knight in love with a lady from Maraclea.”

  “Clear waters,” Annja said. “Isn’t that what Maraclea means?”

  “Yes, or simply sea. And then there are some scholars who will goad a person into believing it means something like greater shining, an allusion to the Holy Grail. Which makes the tale more interesting than not.

  “The knight was actually a lord of Sidon, rumored to not only be a Templar but also a pirate. Sidon was rife with pirates at the time—the city was crawling with them. Anyway, because of his vows, the knight could not consummate his relationship with the Maraclean lady. But, after her untimely death, all vows were null. Or so he decided.”

  “Oh, don’t tell me.” Annja could guess the next part, and it couldn’t be good.

  Garin’s wicked grin made her lean forward, anyway. “He exhumed her corpse and, well, let’s say he had his way with it. Those of a certain mind would have the knight coming into the greater shining, actually gaining the grail, this means of enlightenment, through that copulation.”

  “Seriously?”

  “It’s a theory, Annja. So after the macabre act, it is said the knight heard a voice telling him to retu
rn to the grave in nine months. Which he did.”

  “Because one always obeys disembodied voices after committing necrophilia.”

  “Naturally.”

  The two shared a wink, and Annja looked down and aside to avoid the man’s mesmerizing gaze.

  “Upon returning,” Garin continued, “the knight found a skull placed above the woman’s crossed leg bones—which some believe is the origin for the skull and crossbones symbol. And if he was really a pirate, then all the more basis for the belief.

  “Anyway, the knight took the skull and again the voice spoke. It told him to guard it well, because it would be the giver of all good things to him—become his protecting genius. That is also what the Holy Grail is supposed to do, be the giver of all good things.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard that. So he left with the skull and—?”

  “When he wielded it in battle his enemies were put back, destroyed. His protecting genius granted him all good things. Or so that is the story.”

  Annja waited to see if he would continue. Garin rubbed his chin, eyeing her intently.

  She broke out in laughter. “You’re kidding me, right? Who set you up to this story? Roux? I mean, please. A skull born of a necrophilic liaison?”

  He stretched his arms across the couch back and propped an ankle across his knee. “Annja, bearer of a magical sword that appears from out of nowhere at her beckon, does not believe my tale of a magical skull?”

  She chuffed out another half laugh and took a swallow of pomegranate juice. Why did the immortal men always have to mention the obvious?

  “I believe what I can see, touch and hear,” she said. Yes, still a skeptic, and proud of it. “Giver of all good things? The skull didn’t do anything particularly good when I had it. In fact, it brought a nasty bad guy to my doorstep, who proceeded to tear apart my home. He destroyed some irreplaceable research books.”

  “Better a book than you.”

  She curled her fingers about her bandaged wrist. The long sleeve hid the bandages, but Garin noticed. The fact he didn’t ask about it went a long way toward his discretion.

  “So that’s why you want it?” she asked. “You need good things? What, that money can’t buy, do you need?”

  “I didn’t say I wanted the skull.”

  “You don’t have to. You never show up to help me without an ulterior motive.”

  “Annja, you bruise me.”

  “Doubtful. That ego of yours is ironclad.”

  “It is merely I feel you are out of your league. You don’t know the maelstrom you’ve stepped into. You think the bone conjurer won’t stalk you until your feet are bloody and you offer your own skull to get him off your back?”

  “Bone conjurer?” She tucked a leg on the seat and leaned onto the overstuffed arm. “I’ve heard the term before. Is that what Serge is? And how do you know him?”

  “I don’t know him personally, but I’ve heard of him, or rather his kind. Bone conjurer is an ancient term, used since biblical times. He’s a necromancer. One who summons the dead, can communicate with spirits, manipulate and redirect common mortals by utilizing revenants. Much like a modern-day medium. The term is old-world.”

  “Peachy. I haven’t had any adventures with the dead lately.”

  Garin steepled his fingers before his mouth and nose. “Annja, you must take this seriously. I believe in the immense power the man holds. A necromancer can manipulate the dead to great means.”

  “So what good is a centuries-old skull to him?”

  “I can only imagine it is a necromancer’s grail. And let’s just forget all the connotations to the real grail legend.”

  “Hallelujah. There are so many it’s become comical.”

  “This Skull of Sidon, born of a necrophilic encounter, will no doubt serve a necromantic master incredible evils.”

  “I thought it gave good things?”

  “Yes, but your perception of good may be completely opposite of what someone like Serge believes to be good. Good to him may be unspeakable to you and me.”

  Anything unspeakable to Garin was definitely not good. As well, to Annja. She’d seen a lot since taking Joan’s sword to hand. Demons, murderers, twisted scientists intent on cloning history’s monsters, even those who would create Frankenstein’s monster.

  “I still don’t buy it. Skeletons don’t give birth to skulls.”

  “It is said the birth was most grisly.”

  She laughed. “Wonder if she asked for an epidural.”

  “Skeptic.”

  “To the bone.” She rubbed her wrist again. A bone conjurer had a sample of her bone? That could not be good. “But I’m willing to do some research. You got a laptop I can borrow?”

  “I do. I wouldn’t expect you to take my word for what it’s worth.”

  “It’s worth a trick, if you ask me. And I’m so not buying you not having an interest in the thing. Worried about little old me? Last time I believed you wanted to help me I ended up dodging machine gun fire.”

  “That was an oversight, Annja. Listen, I’m hungry. I’m going to order Thai. You have any requests?”

  “No, just hook me up with a laptop, and feed me anything. I’m good.”

  “It’s down the hall in my office. Second door on the right.”

  19

  Closing the office door behind her, Annja surveyed the ultra-slick room. Everything was stainless steel and tempered glass. Nice, but cold. She had Garin figured for a more earthy kind of guy. Then again, he did like to toss around cash as if it was confetti.

  This apartment was a recent acquisition. She wondered if it was a rental, or if he’d keep it. Did it matter? It wasn’t as though she intended any sleepovers.

  He, on the other hand, could be plotting just such a thing. She wouldn’t put it past him.

  She powered up the laptop. She did intend to go online and search. Not yet, though.

  Annja inspected the glass desktop. Just the laptop. She checked behind the curtains and roamed her eyes along the ceiling. No security cameras.

  She flexed her fingers and sat before the desk, pulling open the top drawer. It contained the usual office ephemera. No important papers. He may not have lived here long enough. Anything important may still be out in the open, she thought.

  The computer was warmed up. Chancing the look, Annja checked the browser’s history. It listed Web sites Garin had visited for the past week. eBay, Amazon, her show’s site and a few archaeology sites she recognized.

  “So he has been following me.”

  None of the sites offered a solid clue to the man’s motives.

  She slipped her cell phone from a pocket on the pants Garin had bought her. Roux’s number was on speed dial. Calling him was as precarious as walking into Garin’s home. One never knew who would answer.

  Annja had been surprised enough times by bubbly young female voices to not even be flustered when another answered this time. Roux and Garin were two of an old and distinct kind. They may not use the term playboy, but it’s the first word that came to her mind.

  The woman on the phone called loudly to Roux. The phone receiver dropped with a clunk.

  What must it be like for them to never age and have an entire world of women at their beck and call? she wondered.

  Heck, to have a single date would please her immensely. Dating was looking as precarious as the polar bear lately. If she didn’t start paying attention to it, it was going to disappear altogether.

  Bart was on her radar, and she knew she was on his. Since his broken engagement he’d been more open to her.

  “Don’t be the rebound girl,” she murmured. “You’re better than that.”

  Tito’s had been fun. But was she interested in risking a great friendship for something more?

  At the moment, extracurricular activity would have to take a backseat. She needed to figure out who was who and why they all wanted the skull. She should have asked Garin to tell her about Benjamin Ravenscroft.

  Shaking he
r head, she lifted her feet over the glass desktop, then changed her mind and dropped them to the floor.

  “Good evening, Annja.” Roux’s voice held a feather of his French accent, and it always sounded old-worldly to her. She liked it. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” he said.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” she started.

  “Nonsense. The girls are out enjoying the pool.”

  Girls. And probably not much older than legal, if she guessed correctly.

  “So what can I do for you?” he asked.

  “I’m here at Garin’s Manhattan apartment.” She paused to catch his reaction. He didn’t disappoint.

  “Did you call to joke with me, Annja? You shouldn’t do that with an old man.”

  “You may be old, but you’ve the attitude and physique of a fifty-year-old.”

  “Fifty? Annja, you wound me.”

  Well, she wasn’t going any lower. He looked a nice healthy fifty, if truth were told. An attractive, healthy fifty. Man, she did need to start dating if the two oldest men in the world turned her head so easily.

  “Garin pulled me out of a grave this morning as I was breathing my last breath.”

  “Sporting of him. Why the sleep with the worms?”

  She flinched at the mention of worms. Garin had plucked one from her hair, she was sure of it.

  “I’ve found a new friend who wants to kill me if I don’t hand over a fancy skull given to me by an anonymous—and now dead—thief.”

  “Ah, adventure again. I do love to live vicariously through you, Annja. You may think I’ve lived a dangerous life, but you, you do defy even my best adventures. What’s the skull about? I’m assuming Garin wants to get his hands on it?”

  “That’s my guess, but he’s playing Mr. Nice Guy right now. Claims he wants to protect me from a necromancer. He called it the Skull of Sidon. I’m just sitting down to research it right now.”

  At that, she typed it in at Google. Roux’s sudden intake of breath caught her attention. “You’ve heard of it?” she asked.

  Google brought up ten pages of matches. The first flashed Knights Templar in the blurb, along with mention of the Lady of Maraclea.