by Alex Archer
They could go at it like this all day and neither would emerge the successor. Hell, why not? Garin had decades—nay, centuries—of anger to get off his chest against this man.
Barreling his head into Roux’s chest, Garin and his nemesis crashed upon the coffee table. The glass cracked, dropping them to the floor in a spray of safety glass.
Garin felt the hard metal shape of a gun against Roux’s chest. He dug in and palmed the pistol. Trigger finger curling, he knelt over the man, aiming at his head.
“Go ahead,” Roux challenged. “The blood will spatter your white carpeting.”
“I care nothing about the decor.”
The old man glanced aside. The skull sat out of reach, on its side, just behind a leather chair. The eye sockets faced them. Garin winced. It had to be held to work. He hoped.
“The good things that skull gives,” Roux said, “are born of evil.”
“Listen to you.” Garin stood, his aim still on the man’s head. “Aren’t you the one who recently obtained the Devil’s Jade? That thing is evil incarnate.”
“I don’t use it, I just admire it,” Roux said frankly.
“Yeah? Well I’ve got some admiring to do with the skull.”
“You think it’ll get you the sword.”
Jaw pulsing, Garin didn’t answer. It wasn’t right the old man knew so much about him. Of course, you know someone for five hundred years, eventually you’re going to learn all there is to know about them.
But this time he was wrong.
“You think I need a magical skull to get the sword? You know nothing. If I wanted it, I could take it from her.”
“No, you can’t. The sword belongs to Annja. If she doesn’t want you to have it, it’s gone. Like that!”
“I have my means.”
“Seduction will only get you so far with Annja. She’s not your average female. If you don’t want the sword, then what?”
“That’s my business, old man.”
“Don’t hurt her,” Roux warned. “Not for your benefit.”
Garin tilted his head. The accusation he would harm Annja cut to his bones.
Roux kicked his ankle, swiping Garin’s balance away and toppling him. Garin’s back hit the couch arm. The gun fired.
Blood spattered Garin’s face.
27
Serge entered Ben’s office. An immediate wash of agony chilled over his flesh. He felt as if worms were crawling across his skin. He’d felt this way once before. The man who had given him the feeling was now in jail, serving life for murder.
“Serge.”
He craned his neck left and right to snap away the awful sensation, but it would not leave. Ben sat on the leather chair behind the desk, feet propped up and fingers crossed before his narrow dark eyes.
“You summoned me?”
“Yes, but not for the usual business.”
He’d been called in at nine in the morning for this? “I am not indebted to you beyond summoning for your business, Mr. Ravenscroft.”
“Yes, yes. Come closer. I simply want to chat with you, my protégé. See how the world is treating you. It’s been, what? More than a year since you’ve come to America. You like the apartment?”
“We had this conversation.”
Gritting his teeth against the foul aura spilling off the man, Serge cautioned himself against looking about the room. Always he wanted to remain calm and centered when in Benjamin Ravenscroft’s presence.
“True. But we didn’t finish it. How is your family getting along?”
The word family stabbed Serge in the heart. It was harder to hide that hit. And Benjamin wielded it as expertly as a prizefighter’s fist.
“I spoke to my father two weeks ago. He is healthy, as are the rest of my family members. My father sends his thanks to my patron.”
“Ah. Well, then, do return my best wishes to them next time you speak. I’m all for keeping the family ties strong. A man isn’t whole without family, yes?”
Serge nodded. Since leaving his family he had indeed felt broken. Not whole. But he was making a life of his own. Slowly. Tediously. His father was proud of him. Living in the big city, working for a prestigious client. Serge sent money every other week. It put food on his family’s table and clothes on their backs, and allowed his father a little extra to save for the new tractor required to till the land.
He would never allow his family to know the sacrilege he made against the ancient craft he’d been born into. Necromancy was an esteemed art, innate in the practitioner. Once his mother decided Serge’s tendency to talk to “the others” was a manifestation of that art, she had him tutored alongside the best necromancer in Odessa.
“And you?” Serge blurted. “How is your family?”
Ben’s eyelid twitched. Serge knew family was the man’s Achilles’ heel. So they shared the same weakness. He needed to show he could deliver the blow as well as Ben. This match would not be won with a knockout, but rather with finesse.
“My family isn’t your concern, Serge.”
“Just trying to be polite, Mr. Ravenscroft. You don’t require my services today, then? Just a friendly chat?”
“Let’s shove the bull out the window, shall we?”
Ravenscroft stood. His dark shirt was unbuttoned at the wrists and the cuffs were rolled back. He flipped his medium-length hair from one eye and pressed forward onto his fingers over the desk. “I have become aware of what you want, Serge. And I believe you know what I want, too.”
A loaded statement. Serge would be foolish to convince himself Ben was unaware he’d been tracking the skull. Hell, he’d accosted his man last evening. The news probably made it to Ravenscroft before Harris returned to the nest.
He’d been less than careful. Frustrated.
The cards had been laid out. There was still a risk in revealing himself, but he didn’t have the skull in hand, and was losing options quickly.
“Why did you arrange to have it brought here?” Serge asked his most desperate questions. “How did you learn of it?”
“That’s better. Finally, we’re talking.”
Ben strolled around and perched on the edge of the desk, crossing his arms over his chest. He lifted the end of a letter opener on the desk, twirled it back and forth, then set it down carefully. “I met the man who owns the artifact a few weeks ago. He showed it to me and explained its legend. Fascinating.”
“And you believed in the legend?” Serge asked.
“How could I not? I believe in a man who can commune with the dead, bring great riches to my accounts and annihilate my competition with a mere suggestion. A magical skull? An easy leap. What I want to know is how you knew I was having it brought here?”
That he kept tabs on Ben through the spirits was not information he wished to divulge.
Ben nodded. “I suspect you have your ways, yes? It’s not prudent to wield control over the man who puts coin in your pocket, Serge. In essence, you’ve been spying on me.”
“Not spying. I am simply…alert to entities that accompany my profession.”
“Entities. That’s an interesting way of putting it. Spirits spying for you? Have they been following me about? Don’t answer. I don’t even want to know. It’s weird enough when you conjure in the next room. I feel so unclean after you leave.”
“Really? More so than now? The skull can mean little to you,” Serge offered, containing his tight desperation. “It is not a tool to be used by inexperienced hands. It can bring great calamity as opposed to the goodness it promises. What does it mean to you?”
“Do you know what power that thing possesses, Serge?”
“I do.”
Ben leaned forward, giving Serge a look he wagered the man volleyed across the boardroom at his competition. “Then you tell me what you think it can do for me. Let’s see if we’re on the same page.”
No, he wasn’t going to give up the goods so easily.
“I’d prefer hearing your rendition of its legendary powers,” Se
rge said carefully. “If you don’t mind.”
Ben smirked. Leaning backward over the desk, he pulled out the top drawer. Sliding aside the contents, which Serge was unable to see, he then pulled out a single photograph. He waved it before him. “Nice-looking family, Serge.”
That damned picture. Taken on the eve Serge had said goodbye to his mother, father and two sisters. Written on the back were their address, the location of his sisters’ schools and the hours his father worked. No doubt, Ben kept copies on encrypted computer files, as well.
That night, in a limo, he’d left with Ben Ravenscroft’s valet, who had escorted him to the airport and paid for his flight to the States. To begin a new life. To start a journey that would see him financially sound, and able to support his parents and siblings.
He had been naive and open to Ben’s wide-eyed visions for Serge’s future. New York was a city that welcomed one and all. Serge would love it. He would have his own apartment, a car, fine things, whatever he desired. Ben would make it happen.
And in return, Serge would pledge his summoning skills completely to Ben. He would help Ben do good things, finance charities, build his business and create jobs for many.
Or so he had been promised.
The smell of wrongful death gushing from Ben’s body renewed Serge’s determination. He would have that skull, and his liberty from this bastard. His family must be free from Ravenscroft’s vicious threats once and for all.
There was a taunting flick of the photo with a finger. “Serge?”
“It is said to be the giver of all good things,” he said.
Ben replaced the photo in the desk drawer and closed it with a twist of his wrist.
“All good things,” Ben recited. “That covers quite a lot, wouldn’t you say? A man could do remarkable things with such an object.”
“Aren’t your charitable contributions satisfying enough?”
Ben stabbed him with a look. “You are in no position to question my motives. Remember your place, boy. I made you. I can break you.”
And he could, thanks to the team of watchers Ben had placed close to his family’s home. He’d taken an afternoon not long after his arrival in the States to show Serge the satellite photos, some positioned but half a mile from his family’s home, others posted in town where his mother shopped and his sisters went to school.
“So we both want the thing. You,” Ben said, “I can only imagine for some kind of ritual that would serve your usual conjuring.”
Serge nodded. It was a guess he could live with.
“Or not.” A tilt of Ben’s head focused his devious gaze on Serge. “What does a man who conjures ghosts and demons, a man who can manipulate the wills of normal humans through the concentration of the otherworld, want with the Skull of Sidon?”
“I’ve no desire for riches.”
“Nor do I.” At Serge’s lift of brow, Ben elaborated, “I have riches already. But you—is it power you desire?”
“No more than I already possess.” And yet he never felt more lacking in power than when in Ben’s presence.
“Then I am baffled as to your desire for the thing. Yet I know you will not tell me. That is acceptable. But must we battle against each other to finally hold the prize? Why not join forces and share the rewards?”
“The rewards the Skull of Sidon offer would be twisted and vile in your hands, Mr. Ravenscroft. I will not be part of that.”
“You don’t know me at all, Serge. It saddens me. After all I have done for you and your family.” One hand thrust out in a slashing dismissal, Ben sighed. “Just so. To opposite ends of the lists, then, we two. You do realize your victory will see your family destroyed?”
Lifting his head to look upon the wicked piece of human flesh, Serge merely nodded. Then he turned and walked out.
He expected to receive a call from Ravenscroft very soon to occupy him, perhaps keep him from pursuing the skull. But he did not.
If he had the money, he’d fly to the Ukraine to protect his family. As it was, Ben kept a very tight rein on his bank account. He could no more afford to buy a new suit. So he’d find the skull, which meant finding that Creed woman.
And he’d beat Benjamin Ravenscroft to the prize.
28
Something clunked dully like pottery hitting stone. Annja woke from a sound sleep. Was someone digging nearby? She couldn’t recall getting to the dig—
Her body slid down the vinyl booth. She slapped her palms on the Formica diner table and dragged herself upright.
No dig. Just a weird dream.
Head woozy with sleep, she yawned and winced at the pull in her back.
“Rise and shine, sweetie.”
The waitress who’d served her coffee earlier loitered by the table, hand to one very generous hip. Her pink polyester uniform advertised a dribble of ketchup on the skirt, a splotch of grease at the hip and possibly gravy on the hem.
“I fell asleep? Sorry.” Not really. She’d intended to catch a few winks. Heck, what was a twenty-four-hour diner good for, if not that? Rest and…gravy.
“No problem, sweetie.”
“What time is it?”
“Four forty-five. My shift ends in fifteen minutes, so I wanted to give you a heads-up. The next gal on duty isn’t so kind to let her tables be used as bedrooms.”
Annja dug in her pocket, mining for a generous tip.
“One more coffee to wake you up,” the waitress suggested in a kindly, mothering tone.
Or what Annja suspected was a mothering tone. She’d never had one of those—a mother. But if given opportunity to design her own, this woman’s voice would qualify.
“Maybe I can get some breakfast while you’re at it,” Annja said. “I promise I won’t go back to sleep.”
“Eggs over easy and a side of bacon?”
“And pancakes.”
“With a dollop of whip cream on top for you, sweetie. Sit tight. I’ll be back with coffee.”
Dragging a folded wad of bills from her pocket, Annja sorted through the cash. She had enough for breakfast and a great tip. If she intended to play it on the down low she needed more cash. She wasn’t sure how safe home would be now that Serge had a death wish for her.
Did he know someone else was after the skull? That some stranger had killed the professor to get his hands on it? He couldn’t possibly know Garin had it. So that made her the bone conjurer’s only target.
She wondered if he still had pieces of her bone. The notion sent a shiver up her spine.
Rubbing a palm over her forehead to ease out the lingering sleep, she shook her head over her moping. “Way to go, Creed. Feel sorry for yourself much?”
She’d literally curled up in this booth like a scared little girl. Alone? No one to care for her?
“Man, I must have been tired. Time to think through this rationally before the necromancer sends ghosts or demons or whatever it is he conjures after me. What is going on with the Skull of Sidon?”
Dragging a foot across the opposite booth seat, she snagged her backpack and dug out the laptop. She scanned for a wireless network, and waited while it searched the area. It nabbed a connection in twenty seconds.
The waitress dropped off a pot of coffee and promised her breakfast would be out in “two licks.”
Annja sipped the hot brew and made the guttural sound men do when they’ve just been java-slapped awake. Now that was some black coffee.
She glanced around the dining room. One patron leaned over the counter at the front. He didn’t seem concerned by her sudden vocalization.
After spiking the black brew with four creams from the melamine dish sitting by the condiments rack, Annja started making notes.
Serge wanted the skull. For some sort of bone-conjuring hullabaloo she probably didn’t want too many details on. It would be nasty. Nasty didn’t require details. But said nasty would have to wait, because he currently did not have the skull.
On the other hand, Serge’s last words to her promised h
e’d track her down.
That meant big-time nasty.
“Bet I could fend him off with this coffee.” She stared into the brew, lightened to a rusty shade by the cream. “This stuff could blind a man after a few cups.”
After another sip, she typed Garin Braden’s name on the facsimile of a yellow sticky note displayed on the monitor.
Garin has the skull. That’s the second time in his five hundred years he’s held it. He knows it’s bad news. And it did some kind of mojo on me and the bad guy while he held it, she thought.
So was that the proof? The skull really was the legendary Skull of Sidon? Capable of providing the holder with all good things?
What exactly did all good things imply?
Heck, winning the lottery sounded good to most people. Annja glanced out the window. It was snowing again. A nice warm bed and no bruises sounded like a good thing to her right now.
It would be a very good thing, from Garin’s perspective, to have me out of the picture so he could walk away with the skull.
That was what had happened last night.
“But then what would he use it for?”
To take the sword from her? He said he didn’t want it. This time. That meant he either wanted something greater only the skull could give him or…he intended to sell it.
From what she knew of Garin the latter was the likeliest. The man did like to make a buck. And not from selling office products or Boy Scout Christmas wreaths. He dealt in arms, art and other things she didn’t want to know about. When opportunity knocked, Garin Braden answered—with pistol in hand and a devious grin.
But seriously? The five-hundred-year-old immortal guy just wanted the skull to make a buck?
“I’m missing something. Some integral piece to this baffling puzzle.”
She tapped the tracking pad with a forefinger. She eyed the coffee. A few more sips were needed to clear her fuzzy brain.
Where had the skull come from? The thief, Marcus Cooke, had gotten it somewhere. And when she’d scanned the Internet she hadn’t found reference to the skull being found on a recent dig.
