The Bone Conjurer

by Alex Archer

  “I’ll give you twenty-four hours to bring the skull to me.

  “If you do not comply, at precisely five minutes beyond the twenty-four-hour mark, I will kill you. Got it?”

  Annja nodded. “How am I supposed to find you?”

  Serge leaned close and hissed in her ear. “The Linden Hill cemetery off Starr Street. Tomorrow morning, this time.”

  “A graveyard? Swell,” she mumbled.

  Something sharp pricked her wrist. Annja let out a yelp as what felt like a knife entered her flesh and, with a forceful shove, traveled through to bone.

  Serge gave the instrument a twist. Annja screamed. Agony felled her to her knees. Serge tugged it out and stepped back.

  Struggling to maintain consciousness, and looking up to see the weird tubelike blade he tucked inside his coat, Annja reached out—for what, she didn’t know. It seemed as though something should come to her hand. Something that could protect her.

  Instead, she fell forward and blacked out….

  Titles in this series:

  Destiny

  Solomon’s Jar

  The Spider Stone

  The Chosen

  Forbidden City

  The Lost Scrolls

  God of Thunder

  Secret of the Slaves

  Warrior Spirit

  Serpent’s Kiss

  Provenance

  The Soul Stealer

  Gabriel’s Horn

  The Golden Elephant

  Swordsman’s Legacy

  Polar Quest

  Eternal Journey

  Sacrifice

  Seeker’s Curse

  Footprints

  Paradox

  The Spirit Banner

  Sacred Ground

  The Bone Conjurer

  ROGUE ANGEL™

  Alex Archer

  THE BONE CONJURER

  THE LEGEND

  …THE ENGLISH COMMANDER TOOK JOAN’S SWORD AND RAISED IT HIGH.

  The broadsword, plain and unadorned, gleamed in the firelight. He put the tip against the ground and his foot at the center of the blade. The broadsword shattered, fragments falling into the mud. The crowd surged forward, peasant and soldier, and snatched the shards from the trampled mud. The commander tossed the hilt deep into the crowd.

  Smoke almost obscured Joan, but she continued praying till the end, until finally the flames climbed her body and she sagged against the restraints.

  Joan of Arc died that fateful day in France, but her legend and sword are reborn….

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  PROLOGUE

  Granada, Spain, 1430

  Cool palace walls offered welcome respite from the thick August heat. Dusty air clogged at the back of Garin Braden’s throat. While journeying from the Christian lands of Castile to the great Muslim palace of Alhambra the two men had stopped frequently and rested much.

  His master’s horse was a fourteen-hand destrier of Arabian blood, but bred more for battle than long-distance travel.

  Garin’s own mount was a pale rouncey dusted with red clay from the roads, on its last legs, surely. Their greater destination of Rouen, France—his master had been called to protect the Maid of Orléans—would not be achieved with this horse.

  Tugging the hood from his head, the young man wandered down a tiled aisle that stretched along a vast pool of indigo water. He could feel the coolness rise from the surface. The water did not stink, which he would expect from so large a pool.

  Resisting a dive into the water would be a trial, but he’d been warned to exercise his best behavior in the palace. The sultan did not take kindly to interlopers.

  They’d been given a brief tour, and left to linger in this, the serrallo, which his master, the Frenchman, had mentioned was built less than a hundred years earlier. Elaborately detailed carvings on the walls arabesqued in precise wooden curves. Hand-painted colors were vivid jewels set into the design. The courtyard was open to the sky and bright morning light illuminated everything as if under a thousand candles. It was blinding.

  Garin had never before seen such a blatant display of riches. He did appreciate what coin and barter could bring a man. Someday he would have riches of his own.

  They’d come to visit an alchemist his master had met a decade earlier during a previous visit to Spain. His master had taken Garin under his wing as an apprentice. The elder man’s methods of teaching were brusque and not always pain free.

  Garin missed his father, a German knight. But the man had never so much time for him as Roux offered. Roux, he followed everywhere. Roux was master, teacher, reluctant friend and—rarely—father. Garin learned much during their travels. He thought he would never cease to marvel at all the world, and its riches, could offer.

  Yet he looked forward to a future with no master.

  “Ahead,” Roux said in his curt manner.

  Inside, a long hallway edged the courtyard. The men’s boot heels clicked dully. Here in the shade it was much cooler. A man could seek the liquid shadows and garner relief.

  Garin looked at the walls, his eyes traveling high to marvel over the intricate arabesque work carved into fine, varnished woods. It was a style he’d not seen before traveling to Spain. It was decadent and pleased him to look upon it.

  He favored this land of dark-skinned Moors. They were tall, brave men who decorated their clothing with opulent metals and their blades more grandly with jewels and religious carvings. They prayed all hours of the day and bore a regal mien as if a birthright.

  “Ah!” Roux hastened his steps, but Garin meandered behind him at his own pace. “Alphonso!”

  The two men exchanged kisses to the cheeks while Garin hung back. Even when Roux walked in through the long strands of beaded wood to the alchemist’s lab, he did not gesture for him to follow. He merely expected Garin would.

  And the young man did, because he knew it was expected.

  “Someday,” he muttered under his breath. “Someday I will not follow you, old man.”

  Introductions were made. Alphonso de Castaña impressed Garin little. He hardly believed in men who claimed to change lead into gold, and cure all disease with an elixir of life.

  The alchemist gestured for Garin to have a seat on a wicker chaise padded with damask fabric, or even look about if he desired. He and Roux had matters to discuss.

  That suited Garin well and fine, though he did wish for something to drink. He was parched. A glance about convinced him the discolored liquids in the assorted vials, alembics and glass pitchers were likely not consumable. He didn’t want to look too closely at the one—was that a skinned creature inside? It had…fingers?

  Garin averted his eyes from the shelves.

  The room
was compact, yet the ceiling high and vaulted, so it gave the illusion of a grand yet intimate area. It was packed to every wall with items of interest. More than four walls—Garin counted six. Interesting.

  Dusty vases, stacks of leathered books and globes of thin glass covered every available space. Intricate metal devices must calibrate and measure, he decided. Wooden bowls and animal skins hobbled and propped here and there. Books open everywhere, some marked with a shard of bone, others tilting nearly off a table.

  Garin glanced across the room where the two men spoke in low tones. His master studied a kris blade with a bejeweled ivory handle. A glint of ruby caught sunlight beaming through a grilled window. Roux did like unique weapons.

  Garin stroked his fingers over a folded cloth run through with silver threading. Curious things. Unnecessary to him, but still, they were something to behold.

  Only last night he’d run his fingers along the shabby torn cloth of a serving wench’s skirts upstairs in the tavern where they’d stopped to eat. She, too, had been something to behold.

  But his master had been eager to find a more suitable resting spot, so Garin had left the wench with but a kiss and a remorseful sigh.

  He could appreciate all his master had done for him, shown him the way and taught him skills for defense and survival. But he did not fool himself that someday he would break free and be on his own. He deserved freedom. He was no man to answer to another.

  A small brass key tied through with a shimmery pink ribbon went untouched, for something marvelous caught Garin’s attention. He reached carefully behind a stack of leather-bound books and palmed the curved shape of a skull.

  It was not a man’s skull, for it fit upon his palm. A child’s?

  It looked like the many other skulls he had seen as he and Roux ambled over the highroads for days without end. Skulls attached to skeletons and hanging from a gallows or tree; lying roadside, detached from the neck as if fallen from a bone collector’s pack; or sitting upon a desk or windowsill in declaration of the dark arts.

  The bone was creamy pale and smooth. The scalp was delineated into sections and the pieces were held together by some kind of dirty plaster. The eye sockets were large in comparison to the skull, and the jaw quite small. It was missing the lower jawbone.

  It surely belonged to an infant.

  Did the alchemist practice the dark arts?

  Garin glanced again at the two men. De Castaña wore a white turban and his skin was brown, yet paler than most Moors. His voice was kind. He gestured gracefully with long fingers as he spoke.

  Roux had mentioned something about de Castaña having angels and demons at his beckon. What foul deeds men got their hands to, Garin thought.

  He turned the skull on his palm, smoothing his fingers over the slick bone. Poking two fingers into the eye sockets, he did it only because of curiosity. Hooked upon his fingers, he turned the skull and found the tiny hole at the base where it must attach to the spine.

  Compelled for no reason other than it was what his hands next decided to do, he lifted the upturned skull to his ear. Slithery, silver tones clattered within. A voice without words.

  “What have you there, boy?” His master fit the kris blade into the leather belt at his waist and glanced at his charge.

  “Ah! No!” The alchemist clapped his hands twice over his head. “Put that down, boy. Its secrets are not for you to know.”

  Roux cast him the fierce eye. Not a look Garin ever wished to challenge. He set the skull on the books, yet his fingers lingered. As did Roux’s gaze upon the skull.

  “It whispers to me,” Garin said with all due fascination.

  “Ah, ah.” The alchemist leaned in and snatched the skull from its perch and gave it a smart toss, catching it on his palm. “Not yet, boy, not yet.”

  “But—”

  There was nothing more to say. His master shuffled him toward the stringed wooden beads marking the entrance. “Take yourself out to the serrallo, apprentice. I’ll follow directly.”

  Casting the skull a desirous glance, Garin licked his lips. He met the alchemist’s eyes and thought sure he’d seen a star blink in the center of each dark orb.

  “Someday, perhaps?” the alchemist said with a slippery grin. “Someday, all good things.”

  Garin rushed outside. The open-air serrallo beamed brilliant white sun upon his face, altering his mood for the better. Moments later he was joined by his master. Roux laid out plans to ride to the city and find a meal. Fine and well. Yet all the day, Garin’s thoughts tried to form sense of the mysterious whispers from the skull.

  All good things, he finally decided. Someday.

  1

  Desperation had prompted him to contact a stranger. Annja didn’t know him. Had never met him, save through a couple e-mails.

  So why agree to meet him?

  Others had helped her out of desperate situations. And this is what she did. She didn’t sit at home lazing before the television. She seized what the day offered.

  And today’s offering was too good to resist.

  The season’s first snow smacked Annja’s cheek with a sharp bite. It melted on her warm skin. Glad she’d the fore-thought to tug on a ski cap and warm jacket, she stalked onto the Carroll Street Bridge. One of the oldest retractile bridges in the country, this sweet little bridge was about one hundred and twenty years old.

  The traffic was sparse. Few cars crossed the Gowanus Canal at this bridge. Annja glanced up and read the antique sign hanging overhead on the steel girders.

  Ordinance of the City: Any Person Driving Over this Bridge Faster than a Walk Will Be Subject to a Penalty of Five Dollars per Offense.

  You gotta love New York, she thought.

  Peering over the bridge railing, recently painted a fresh coat of bold green, she decided the water in the Gowanus Canal wasn’t so lavender as rumors claimed. The city had gone to remarkable efforts to clean the grungy, putrid stretch of water. A flushing tunnel was also supposed to clean out the raw sewage more often.

  The effect of snow falling around her as she looked over the water produced an eerie hyperspace vibe.

  “It ain’t like dustin’ crops, boy,” she said in her best Han Solo imitation.

  So she could geek out with the best of them.

  “Not interested in a swim tonight,” she muttered. “Not without my hazmat bikini.”

  Turning her hips against the bridge railing, and shoving her hands in her pockets, she switched her gaze skyward. There weren’t a lot of stars to be seen with the ambient light from buildings and street lamps blasting the heavens. At least there was a sky to see. One of many advantages of living in Brooklyn was the lack of skyscrapers. The Cuban cuisine wasn’t too shabby, either.

  Somewhere, she gauged maybe half a mile off, a siren shrilled. Horns honked, announcing the bar crowd as they scattered to various haunts. The snow was heavy, but not enough to make the road slippery.

  Annja had walked from her loft. Passing cars had lodged muddy spittle onto her hiking boots. A quick walk in brisk weather always lifted her spirits. Until the chill set in. And it was nippy tonight.

  Staying home with a cup of hot chocolate in hand, and watching her latest favorite TV show on DVD, sounded a much warmer plan. But she was not one to resist a mystery when it involved an artifact.

  Only that afternoon Annja had received a desperate e-mail from Sneak. She didn’t know the person, just suspected he was a he. He’d followed her conversations at alt.archaeology.esoterica, and felt she could give him some answers about something he’d found—a skull.

  Skulls were more common than gold coins in the archaeological world. There was a skull in every myth, every legend, every thrilling adventure tale told. Skulls granting wishes, skulls promising fortune, skulls bringing about the end of the world.

  Plain old skull skulls that could be anything from some peasant who’d died of a heart attack working the fields to some deranged serial killer’s leftovers.

  What was so spec
ial about this one?

  Sneak hadn’t sent a picture, claiming his digital camera had been broken in a recent fall. But his mention of a dig in Spain grabbed Annja’s attention. He claimed to have apprenticed during the summers, though he’d abandoned his desire to dig for bones two years earlier.

  Annja related to a fellow archaeologist, even if he wasn’t official.

  He thought he held an important artifact, yet also feared people wanted to take it from him. Why? Had he stolen it from a dig? He couldn’t possibly know its value enough to cause worry.

  Annja held no favor for those who raided archeological digs. She’d had run-ins with more than her share of pothunters. They were unscrupulous and weren’t beyond putting a bullet in the back of someone’s head to clear their escape with a valuable artifact.