The Bone Conjurer

by Alex Archer

  She shook her head. “Can we quit the dance and get to the showdown?”

  “Yes. Time is, as they say, of the essence.”

  With a nod of his head, Ben laid out a silent command. Annja was gripped from behind, her left arm twisted across her back. The backpack strap, hooked over her right shoulder, slipped to her elbow.

  “Is it in there?” Ben approached. “Give me the bag.”

  She struggled, but allowed him to take the backpack. Until Maxfield was free, she couldn’t be too quick to fight. Especially not with the thug standing in the shadows with a machine gun aimed on the bound man.

  The thugs handed the backpack to Ben. He set it carefully on the ground.

  “You have it, now let me take Maxfield and leave.”

  Ben squatted over the backpack, making great show of slowly drawing down the zipper and reaching inside. “You don’t want to see if it works?”

  “It doesn’t,” she said. “I don’t know what you think an old skull is going to do for you, but it certainly isn’t going to bring riches or raise the dead.”

  Ben’s smile wavered. He stood, the box in both hands. “You know nothing about me, Annja Creed. You think I’m some evil man who wants to kill, maim or destroy to get what he wants?”

  “I’m a pretty good judge of character. I call ’em as I see them.”

  Ben caressed the box and lifted it to study. Now he reminded her of a wicked wizard who held Pandora’s box and intended to unleash untold evils upon the world.

  Oh, Annja, you’ve been watching far too many fantasy movies lately, she thought.

  “I already have the riches,” Ben said. His dark eyes searched hers.

  Annja saw the glint of life in his eyes. They glittered. With madness? No, there was something so sad in the dark depths she momentarily wondered if he was truly mentally disturbed.

  Hell, he’d hired a necromancer. He believed a skull could give him power. Of course he was disturbed.

  “But I do need to ensure one destined for death is granted a reprieve,” he said.

  “What does that mean? We’re all destined to die sooner or later.”

  Ben tucked the box under an arm and tilted a quizzical look upon her.

  “Annja, what if you knew you were going to die. It was fated. Let’s say, tomorrow.”

  “If that’s when I’m meant to go…so be it.”

  “Ah, but what if you knew something was out there to reverse that fate? Would you attempt to utilize it?”

  He didn’t want to know her philosophy of life and death. He must be talking about someone close to him. Who else would a man try so desperately to save?

  “You think the skull can stop death?” she asked.

  “That would be a very good thing, don’t you agree?”

  She could only tilt her head and offer a doubtful shrug. If Maxfield’s guess that the skull only worked in the hands of those who had not received enough good already, she figured it would produce a maelstrom for Ben.

  “I would give my very heart to have it work.” Ben clenched a hand over his shirt. “I would rip it out and hand it over to you, if you could tell me this skull can stop death.”

  “I…I can’t do that. Who do you need to save?”

  He was starting to frighten her now. And with her arm twisted uncomfortably behind her, she was in no position to escape.

  The man with the machine gun had moved closer to Maxfield. “Let him go,” she tried again.

  “Ben!”

  Annja recognized the voice yelling from the doorway behind her. She flinched as the sound of bullets ricocheted in the room—and struck flesh and blood.

  The man guarding Maxfield dropped to the floor. The thugs behind Annja engaged and prepared.

  “Hold your fire!” Ben shouted. He held the box, unflinching.

  Tears ran down Maxfield’s face.

  Annja was able to stretch a glance over her shoulder. Two men were down. Serge approached with a pistol in each hand.

  “I thought you weren’t into taking life, necromancer?” Ben challenged.

  Annja struggled against her captor, but he held her wrists behind her back firmly.

  Serge didn’t answer Ben. Instead, the tall bald man aimed for Annja and pulled the trigger.

  37

  An SUV slid to a stop at the end of the pier. Bart paused from inspecting the warehouse fronts. Thick snowflakes dusted the black night sky. The world was strangely silent, save for the rumble of the engine. A huge man with hell in his eyes swung out from the car and stalked toward him.

  “Who are you?” he growled at Bart. He reached inside his leather jacket, as if going for a weapon.

  Not easily riled, Bart flicked his jacket to expose his detective badge. “NYPD.”

  He had no time for a harried husband with a pregnant wife needing to get to the hospital, or a drunk looking for a fight. Annja would not wait for him. He knew that better than he knew his own mind.

  Then the guy surprised him by asking, “Where’s Annja Creed?”

  “Why don’t you tell me who you are, and—I hope that’s not a gun under your coat.”

  “It is.” The man propped a hand at his hip, boldly revealing the weapon. “Annja’s in danger. And I’m Garin Braden.”

  That was a name he had heard. A couple of times.

  Bart nodded once. “Bart McGilly.”

  “I’ve heard of you…”

  “Seems we’re both in Annja’s circle. I don’t think we should waste time chatting about her, though, do you?”

  “Nope. Benjamin Ravenscroft may have her,” Garin said.

  “Shit. You know which warehouse?”

  “Haven’t a clue.”

  “There’s only a few on this block that aren’t occupied, but the buildings are huge. Let’s split up. But keep your weapon holstered, buddy.”

  The man didn’t reply, only rushed down the sidewalk, leaving Bart damn sure his warning would go unheeded.

  THE THUG’S BODY SLAMMED into Annja’s back as he took the bullet from Serge’s pistol. Pulled down by the man’s drag on her wrists, Annja stumbled forward, landing on the ground on her stomach.

  “Stay there,” Serge commanded her. One of his pistols was aimed at her head. “And you won’t be harmed.”

  It was a good option. For now.

  Pressing her palms flat, Annja inched onto her knees to assume a ready-to-move position.

  Serge’s long strides passed her as he approached Ben. All of Ben’s guards were down. Unless he had some hidden out of sight for emergency. Good villains always stashed a few thugs for such an occasion, she thought.

  “We are at an impasse,” Ben said to Serge.

  “Only from your perspective. Hand over the skull.”

  “And then you shoot me?”

  “No. Then I walk away with my freedom,” Serge said. “You’ve been served your part of the bargain. You got the skull. Now it’s my turn.”

  “But I’ve not had the opportunity to use it,” Ben argued. “Hell, I haven’t even looked at it. She could have put anything in this box.”

  “Open it,” Serge commanded.

  Annja tilted to rest on one hip and Serge pointed the gun at her leg. “Be still.”

  “Gotcha,” she muttered.

  The idea of holding the sword hummed loudly in her brain. It was as if the sword wanted to become whole, while she still felt it wasn’t the right time. She could sweep up and kill the bad guys and rescue Maxfield.

  But she wasn’t so sure Serge was a bad guy anymore. He could have shot her. Instead, he’d granted her freedom by shooting her captor. Nothing made sense.

  “You must allow me to use the skull,” Ben said as he snapped open the locks on the box. “You would not allow an innocent little girl to die, Serge. I know you. You’re compassionate.”

  “I am. But I’ve told you the skull does not hold the power of life.”

  “We’ll see. If it can cure my wife, it’ll cure Rachel.”

  “Your w
ife?” Annja said.

  “She tried to kill herself earlier. A few hours ago. And my daughter has bone cancer. She’s suffered so much. You see why time is so desperate?”

  “Did you call the police about your wife?” Annja asked.

  “My secretary is with her. Why do you care, Annja? You, who would ignore a little girl’s plea for help.”

  “I’m not following you, Ben.”

  “My daughter e-mailed you a few days ago about the skull. She told you about it. You didn’t bother to reply. Busy TV star too good for the little people?”

  “She e-mailed me?” Annja didn’t have to think hard to remember. “PinkRibbonGirl?”

  “Yes. She was excited to have contacted a woman she looks up to. She watches your show. She wants to be like you someday. And you ignored her.”

  She had dismissed the girl’s suggestion the skull was the Skull of Sidon. Until she’d learned differently. “I would have never purposely ignored her, Ben. I get a lot of e-mail. I can’t answer them all.”

  But that didn’t make her feel any better. She should have replied to the e-mail.

  “Enough! I will walk out of here with this skull. My daughter’s life depends upon it. I can save her!”

  Annja caught Serge’s droll look. The bone conjurer said, “He’s not so magnanimous. He’s been using me to steal and extort.”

  “Yet you helped him,” she argued.

  Serge’s eyes burned into her gaze. “He threatened my family.”

  “I gave you a home and pay you well,” Ben interjected.

  Annja glanced to Ben, whose focus was on the skull.

  “What if the skull doesn’t work for you, Ben?” Annja tried. “It’s been in many hands lately, and hasn’t done a thing. You’re not going to give your daughter hope and then let her down. A caring man would not do something like that.”

  “What about the man in the warehouse?” Ben asked. “Garin Braden. He’s with you. He held the skull on you and my man, and defeated you both.”

  “He’s not working with me. And that was the wind.”

  “The wind! You’re not a good liar, Annja.”

  “I don’t care what you think of me, Ben. Just give Serge the skull and be done with it.”

  She caught Serge’s hopeful glance. Yeah, I’m on your side, she thought with a shrug. For now.

  Ben dug in the wool inside the box. “You don’t want it anymore?”

  “Of course I do. Well, I don’t. It doesn’t belong to any of us. It belongs to Mr. Wisdom. And it will be returned to him. But suddenly I’m thinking I’d rather stand on Serge’s side, if I have to choose sides.”

  “I want my freedom,” Serge said. “To keep my family safe.”

  The ache in the bone conjurer’s voice took Annja by surprise. His freedom? From Ben. The bastard had threatened Serge’s family to get him to perform his necromantic arts for him.

  And yet, who was she to judge? Ben had as good a reason as Serge for wanting the skull. Twisted as it may be.

  “Can it really prevent death? Cure cancer?” she asked. “Serge?”

  He shook his head no.

  But hope was a powerful weapon. She’d seen it work in her own life, many times. Some people thrived on hope and prayer. She would not dispute the power of positive thinking.

  You can’t be the one to deny a little girl because your beliefs don’t mesh with her father’s, she told herself.

  Annja turned to Ben. “Very well. You keep the skull. I don’t want to be the one who destroyed a father’s hope for his little girl.” She lifted a hand at Serge’s sudden gasp. “Do you believe in karma, Ben?”

  He smirked and crossed his arms. “Of course I do. Why the hell do you think I donate millions to charity every year? A man can’t employ a necromancer and expect the balance to remain.”

  “So charity is your way of covering your spiritual ass?” she asked.

  The guy didn’t get it. Probably never would get it. People like him needed a metaphysical smack every now and then. Sometimes they got it, sometimes they didn’t.

  Yet she was prepared to step back and let the universe work its mojo. Said mojo was currently itching at the fingers of her right hand.

  “It will work!” Ben took the skull from the box. “I will prove its power.”

  Ben held the skull up and turned the face toward Annja and Serge.

  38

  “No!” Sword in hand, Annja lunged. The sword tip connected with an eye socket on the skull.

  The skull soared into the air, turning end over end, high, so high.

  Using Ben’s gaping focus on the skull, Annja released the sword into the otherwhere and lunged for him. She shoved his chest, landing both of them on the floor. Straddling him, she grabbed his tie. Ben gripped her by the hair and yanked.

  “A sissy fighter, huh?” She punched him in the jaw. He spat out blood. “I never expect much from you business suits.”

  The punch to her gut came as a surprise. Ben slipped a leg around hers and twisted her onto her back. Fists to her jaw pounded like iron.

  “You think so?” He smirked. A dribble of blood trickled down his chin. “I’ve recently lost my aversion to violence. Let’s see how you like this.”

  Out of her peripheral vision, Annja saw the skull falling through the air and a hand reach up to grab it.

  Ben’s fist connected with her ribs. Wheezing out air from her lungs, she choked. The floor was hard and cold against the back of her skull. He pummeled her abdomen, taking far too much glee in the process.

  “You’re killing an innocent little girl,” Ben growled.

  She lifted a knee and managed to swing out, kicking the back of his thigh. He toppled off balance, slapping the concrete beyond her head, and putting his chest to her eye level. And his groin to knee level.

  Ben took the kick with a wincing gasp.

  “If your daughter is dying, perhaps you should have allocated some of those charitable dollars in her direction.” She instantly hated herself for saying that.

  “I have. There’s no cure for bone cancer, you bitch!”

  Where he’d kept the knife, she couldn’t know, but Ben slashed across his chest and Annja felt the icy bite of steel below her chin. It tracked a vicious line across her throat. No blood oozed down her neck. It couldn’t have cut too deep.

  “Now you’re starting to piss me off.” She reached out to grab for the sword, but something caught her attention.

  It wasn’t Maxfield scraping across the floor on the chair in a desperate attempt to escape this insanity.

  It wasn’t the wounded thug crawling toward an AK-47 twenty feet away that she knew she’d better dispatch sooner rather than later.

  It wasn’t the swinging door creaking in the wind and letting in a thunderous rain that seemed to have come from nowhere.

  It was the strange orange and blue light that surrounded Serge as he held the skull aloft over his head, staring up into the empty eye sockets.

  “Oh, no, not on my watch,” she shouted.

  Standing, Annja struggled with the hands Ben gripped about her ankle. Sword coming to hand, she stabbed him in the shoulder. “Stay there like a good boy, or I’ll have to do more than wound you.” She bent over him. “Got that?”

  Gripping his shoulder and cursing her, he managed an acquiescent nod. “My daughter…” he whispered.

  “Cannot be saved by an ancient skull,” she said, regretting her harsh words, but knowing there was nothing better to say.

  With no time to lose, Annja raced toward Serge. Another man entered the doorway, pausing to take everything in. His broad shoulders dripped rain. Garin.

  “No, Serge, don’t do it!” she yelled.

  The necromancer didn’t listen. He was making a strange keening noise and the lights spread around him. The floor rumbled, as if there was an earthquake. It literally moved her boots and made traction difficult.

  Windows burst. A vicious rain of glass slivers poured over a fallen thug, who screamed
as he was repeatedly sliced.

  Annja entered the orange light and swung Joan’s sword.

  The world slowed to a single heartbeat.

  Her sword scythed the air, cutting through the supernatural light as if cleaving open the universe. It swung smoothly, an extension of her arm. The first touch of steel to bone found no resistance. The blade moved forward. Annja followed its lead.

  Serge did not cry out in protest. Or if he did, she did not hear beyond the thunder of her own abnormally slow heartbeat.

  Annja came to a stop, the blade swinging around in front of her. Momentum tugged her muscles, stretching them tight. She let out a grunt of exertion. Sound shattered like the glass. Heartbeats accelerated.

  Two skull halves clattered to the floor. A hollow echo amidst the chaos.

  A thin red line opened the flesh on Serge’s throat. A sad grimace tugged down his mouth. Annja waited, panting. The slice did not open wide and begin to gush. She had not injured him mortally.

  “You destroyed all that power,” he said sadly.

  Staggering, she swung back her sword.

  He’d only been seeking freedom. The man had been enslaved to serve a more evil power, at the risk of his family’s lives. He should have that freedom now Ravenscroft had been taken down.

  “I’m sorry,” she gasped.

  “You were following the sword,” Serge said. “It has power, too. I respect that.”

  Somewhere across the room, Ben cursed her.

  Annja stepped forward into a waiting embrace. But Garin didn’t hold her or offer comfort. Before her, the sectioned skull wobbled on the floor.

  “You had no choice,” he said. His hand squeezed her shoulder. “The sword decided that one.”

  “The sword is not a thinking thing. I did this.” She pulled away from his touch. “I took away that man’s hope. Could his daughter have been saved?”

  Slashing the blade through the air she’d severed the contact with the immortal. She just needed….

  She needed.

  To not be responsible for it all. To not feel the weight of the world. To just…walk away from it all. She’d almost done that by granting the skull to Ben. And yet, some greater compulsion had led her to destroy it.