The Bone Conjurer

by Alex Archer

  “But he taught you things. You owe him a debt.”

  He stepped on the brake. “What dream are you living in, woman? I owe nothing to that man. We are bound together through a bizarre destiny, but that doesn’t mean we are brothers or family.”

  “Sorry.” She looked out the window. “’Spose I won’t get a Christmas card from you and Roux, then? No family picture?”

  She sensed Garin’s smile but he looked out the driver’s side window.

  “Speaking of pictures,” he muttered. “You look great nude.”

  Annja gaped. He’d seen the online pics? Had the whole world?

  Garin chuckled. “Don’t worry, Annja. I know it’s not you.”

  Affronted, she lifted her shoulders. “How?”

  “You forget I know your bra size. And the assets in that picture were a few cup sizes larger. Silicone, I’m sure. You, I can only imagine, are all natural.”

  About to agree, but feeling too unnerved, Annja left that one to hang. Something must be done about removing that picture. But how?

  Silver flashed in her peripheral view. Squinting, Annja made out a very familiar box tucked under the arm of a tall, thin man walking swiftly down the sidewalk. It wasn’t Serge. But that was the original box she’d found the skull in. “That’s him!”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Nope. It’s not the bone conjurer, but that is the skull, I’m sure of it. You drive, I’m going on foot.” Annja opened the door. “Can you keep close?”

  “No problem. Go get him, sword-wielding warrior woman.”

  She sprinted down the sidewalk. A good two hundred feet ahead of her, the man turned. The small case the skull had been enclosed in swung out in his grip. He saw her and took off in a run. He dodged right, disappearing from view.

  Pumping her arms, Annja forced her pace to long strides. She considered calling the sword to hand, but dismissed that idea. She didn’t need it right now, and it would only slow her down.

  Taking the turn led into a long narrow alley, which opened on to some kind of building yard enclosed by chain-link fencing. That didn’t stop the man. He expertly mounted the fence, and swung himself over.

  “Thugs,” Annja muttered. “They never cease to surprise me.”

  Annja hit the fence at a run and landed high, her fingers piercing the chain links. The curved metal was cold and her toe slipped its hold, dropping her body to hang by her fingers. Working the tips of her boots into the convoluted links, she levered herself up to latch a forearm over the top of the fence. Lifting her upper body, she pushed, and when her chest had risen above the chain link, she dipped forward, releasing the fence and arching her back.

  She landed in a crouch. The man ran toward a warehouse.

  Garin’s Escalade pulled up with a squeal behind the fence as Annja entered the warehouse. It was late. Moonlight cast across the floor at the far wall, but where Annja stood, the atmosphere was hazy at best.

  Scattered lumber and plastic-covered pallets stood everywhere. The dusty smell of Sheetrock clued her to a stack of whiteboard to her right.

  Before her on the hardwood floor, smeared shoe tracks advertised the murderer’s intentions. He’d gone right.

  Garin entered with pistol held before him and a keen eye to the surroundings. Annja nodded, acknowledging the trail by pointing it out. He nodded left and gestured she go right.

  She dashed between two stacks of lumber piled three feet higher than her head. The building must be a lumber warehouse. Racing to the end, she slapped a palm on a stack of wood. An electric air nailer wobbled.

  “Oh, yeah?” Annja grabbed the yellow nailer and gave the trigger a squeeze. No nails were expelled because the safety was on. But it was charged, and ready to use. “Nice.”

  The clatter of boards alerted her that the man was close. Nailer wielded like a gun, she slunk along a wall of lumber, her shoulders tracing the clean edges, and crept to the end of the stack.

  Raising the nailer before her, she decided it would prove a fitting weapon. With a sword she’d have to put herself close to the danger. With the nailer she could buy herself some room.

  Stepping forward to the next aisle of stacked lumber, she dodged a look down the aisle. Empty.

  Heavy breathing signaled her quarry was nearby. Putting her back to the next stack of lumber, she guessed he was down the aisle. Footsteps moved closer.

  Annja spun her hips and turned her body to stand in the aisle.

  The man ran toward her, but seeing she was armed, he abruptly stopped.

  Flicking her forefinger over the safety guard, she took aim and fired. His skull snapped backward with impact. Three inches of steel finishing nail pierced flesh, bone and brain. He stumbled a couple paces, slapping his palms against the plastic-covered lumber.

  Prepared to fire again, Annja waited for the man to drop. Remarkably, he maintained balance. A gruff shake of head and a growl preceded his wicked grin.

  She gaped at the man.

  He gripped the two-inch portion of nail jutting from his skull, and yanked it out. A bubble of blood pooled at the nail hole, but didn’t drip down his forehead.

  He winked.

  “You are so kidding me.” Annja tossed the nailer aside. “I hate it when I feel like the heroine cast in the movie opposite the villain who just won’t die.”

  The man’s feet shuffled. He fled down the aisle away from her. Annja pursued.

  In the narrow aisle she couldn’t call the sword to her, but as soon as she exited the first row and spotted the man’s coattails, she summoned the sword.

  Reaching out, her fingers tingled as the sword found its way from the otherwhere and into her grip. She liked the solid feel as it made itself whole. It claimed her as much as she claimed it. They were one.

  Annja raced forward. The footsteps in the dust stopped, but only because she skidded up to a swept section of cement flooring.

  Garin’s voice echoed close by. The men must have run into each other.

  The crunch of a fist connecting with bone sounded before Annja saw either of them. Charging to an abrupt stop at the edge of stacked Sheetrock, she lowered the sword and caught her breath.

  The warehouse resounded with male grunts. Clothing whipped with sharp kicks and precise punches. The murderer possessed some knowledge of karate or judo and delivered a few direct kicks to Garin’s chest. The formidable immortal took the violence with little more than a wince.

  Fist to skull crushed the nail hole in the man’s temple. He didn’t go down. Of course not; he was the villain who would not die.

  Drops of blood tracked across Annja’s forearm. That was from Garin.

  She scanned the floor. Garin’s gun lay against a stack of lumber, thirty feet from where the men fought.

  The men matched each other in height and bulk. Yet Annja wondered what strength the thug could wield against Garin’s very human strength. Just because he was immortal didn’t mean he had superpowers. She’d seen him injured by bullet and blade.

  Something slid away from the clash of testosterone. The case containing the skull. Annja tracked it as it cut a fine path through the Sheetrock dust, and came to a wobbling stop against a two-by-four.

  “You just going to watch?” Garin said on a huff. He managed a bloody grin at Annja, before lunging to deliver a pulverizing punch to the man’s gut.

  The man landed three feet from where Annja stood. She tapped him on the skull with the sword’s tip. “My turn, big boy. You up for taking me on?”

  She allowed him to roll over and jump to his feet. The hole where the nail had pierced was bloody but it hadn’t magically healed. He was just a man. She had no reason to fear him.

  The man eyed the sword curiously. He spat blood to the side. “I don’t normally fight chicks,” he said. “But I’ll give it a go.” He spread out his arms, not a position of preparation but of surrender. “Would you fight an unarmed man?”

  She tipped the sword up under his chin. Don’t get too cocky, she chided
inwardly. You may feel as though you have control here, but if you’ve learned anything, it’s that you never do.

  “I hardly believe you would walk about unarmed. Don’t have another guitar string handy?” she asked.

  He lifted his hands slowly to place palms out near his shoulders. Annja kept the sword tip under his chin. A twist of her wrist pressed it into his neck above the Adam’s apple. Flesh opened and blood beaded, a shallow cut.

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about, girlie,” he offered. “Watch the blade. Where’d a sexy thing like you get a badass weapon like that? Someone’s going to get hurt with that thing.”

  “You must be that someone. Who are you? You work for Serge?”

  “Serge? Lady, I was just taking a casual stroll, then you come along and go all Witchblade on me.”

  “Wrong mythology, idiot. And I’m not buying your lies. You took the skull from Professor Danzinger after you killed him.”

  “Never heard of no professor. As you can tell, I never went to no college.”

  All of a sudden he can’t speak properly? Maybe he was an idiot.

  “Keep him there, Annja.”

  The hairs on the back of Annja’s neck prickled at Garin’s voice. She hadn’t been paying attention to him. Now he stood behind her, where the skull case had landed.

  The sound of bone slapping against flesh signaled Garin had the skull, and tossed it once in his hand. “This is mine.”

  Intuition had been horrifically on the mark.

  She spun, sweeping the sword around. “You’re not going anywhere, Garin.”

  Her head snapped up as a heavy weight squeezed her throat. The murderer garroted an arm about her neck. Even swinging the sword backward, she couldn’t connect with the bastard. To attempt a slice at his leg would first cut her own.

  “I’ll break her neck!” he threatened.

  Garin held the skull before him to look it over. His long fingers stroked the cranium and traced along the gold. “Hmm, let me think about that one. The girl for the Skull of Sidon?”

  “That’s your choice, buddy.” The man tightened his hold, compressing her carotid artery. “She’s a fine piece of work.”

  Annja’s vision blurred. Her fingers loosened around the sword grip and it slipped away. Whether or not the murderer noticed, he didn’t give clue. She clasped her fingers, trying to fit them around a solid hilt.

  Strangulation occurred within ten to fifteen seconds. Garin wouldn’t actually…

  “You’re not very smart, are you?” Garin tossed the skull and it landed in his palm with a smack. “If you’d had a better grip on your sniper, you’d have had this prize days ago.”

  “What sniper?” The man lifted Annja’s body a few inches but loosened his grip somewhat. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, man.”

  But Annja did. The sniper who had killed Marcus Cooke. How did Garin know about him?

  “I got to him just as he pulled the trigger,” Garin said. “He was going to take out my girl after the first guy.”

  Annja’s eyelids fluttered. Garin had been with the sniper? Had it been because of him the bullet hadn’t gone through her skull? What a swell guy. Seriously. He’d saved her life.

  “If she’s your girl, then you’ll be wanting her breathing. Hand it over!”

  If her guess was correct, Garin wouldn’t play into this bastard’s hands.

  His girl? Yeah—no. Not going there.

  “You should have offered to trade for her sword,” Garin said. He turned the skull so the eye sockets faced Annja and her attacker. “That would have got you this thing in an instant.”

  “The sword? Where’d it go?”

  “Exactly.” Garin held the skull from his outstretched arm. “Too bad. You lose.”

  A forceful wave of something plunged through Annja’s system. It was as if she’d been hit by a sound wave, yet it physically coursed through her body and pushed her shoulders into the thug’s hard frame.

  He released his hold on her neck. She gasped, breathing in deeply.

  A gust of wind blew her from her feet. And she didn’t stop moving.

  The man behind her cried out hoarsely. The next thing Annja felt was the brunt force of her body slamming into his, as he collided with the stack of lumber behind them.

  The hollow clatter of boards pummeled their heads. Annja recalled Garin’s story of the skull killing his enemies. Did he consider her the enemy?

  Annja blacked out.

  23

  Garin raced across the snowy tarmac to the Escalade. The tires spun on thin ice as he drove away. One hand on the wheel, and navigating the tight street, he held the skull in the other.

  “Ha!” He tossed it up and down on his palm. “Maybe the second time will be the charm.”

  As soon as he’d turned the skull face toward Annja, he’d felt the bone vibrate upon his palm, and then—whack! Two bodies hit the lumber.

  He’d heard groans as he’d run out the warehouse door. Still alive, then. This time the skull hadn’t murdered. It had been a risk to hold it before Annja, knowing it could bring her death, but Garin had felt deep down it wouldn’t harm her.

  She was not his enemy, no matter how she felt about that.

  Did he regret leaving Annja behind to fend on her own?

  “She’s got the sword. She’ll be fine.”

  And if not? That wasn’t his problem, was it?

  SERGE GOT OUT of the cab at the curb in front of Schermerhorn Hall. He wouldn’t attempt to stride up the sidewalk. Half a dozen squad cars flashed blue and red lights across the darkening winter sky.

  The cab pulled away, leaving oily fumes in its wake.

  Clenching his fist, Serge swore. He felt a lingering sense of power close by. Not active, but remnants, as if a great force had been utilized. Not on this campus, though.

  The sensation made him scan north. Perhaps less than a mile from here?

  The intuitive feeling meant someone had beaten him to the skull. And they’d used it already.

  Across the street he spied a familiar figure standing outside a dark-windowed BMW. His attention was on the commotion, as well.

  Serge sped across the street.

  He grabbed Harris by the collar and slammed him against the car. “Where is it?”

  “I know you. And I know I don’t work for you, you freaky thing, so let go of me.”

  He didn’t need this obstinacy. Swinging the man around, Serge slapped his palm to the back of his scalp and slammed him down. Harris’s face dented the top of the car. He sputtered blood and, to his credit, didn’t yell or draw attention to them.

  “You’re insane,” Harris whined. Hands gripping the edge of the car, he strained as Serge attempted to force his face again into the metal. He was strong. “If you’re looking for the skull, I don’t have it!”

  “Where is it?”

  “In the hands of the NYPD now. Look! The cops are everywhere. My guy is still inside. Getting cuffed, I’m sure. Ouch!”

  A dribble of blood pooled on the dented hood.

  Serge sensed Harris was telling the truth. If he had the skull why would he remain on the scene when the cops were swarming?

  “You going after him?” Serge asked.

  “Are you nuts? Oh, right, you are. Ravenscroft says you talk to spirits. What a freakin’ nut case.”

  Another slam shut up the man. Serge cautioned his anger. If he knocked Harris unconscious he wouldn’t be able to tell him anything else.

  “You intend to bail him out?”

  “That’s not my call,” Harris said and spat blood.

  “Ravenscroft?”

  “Yeah, but I’m sure he’ll play it cool. Why are you after this thing? Ravenscroft won’t like hearing I had this unpleasant conversation with you.”

  “Tell him what you want.” Serge reached inside his coat and palmed the bone biopsy tool. “The skull is mine.”

  “Not according to Ravenscroft—ah!”

  The tool passed neatly
through flesh and the scaphoid bone at the base of Harris’s right thumb.

  The man’s shout was loud enough to draw attention. Serge tugged him down against the car door and withdrew the tool as he did so. He dropped Harris near the rear tire. He had passed out.

  Inside his pocket he carried a small plastic bag. He placed the tool inside and pocketed it.

  He decided to track the skull’s latent spirit trail. If it was possible, he might be able to trace it to whoever held it. But he had to work quickly. Already the chill air dulled his sensory awareness of the skull.

  PUSHING A BOARD OFF her shoulder, Annja winced. Pain seared through her hip. A good number of two-by-fours had landed her shoulders, but she hadn’t felt the impact completely because the murderer’s body had blocked the initial blows, and then she’d blacked out.

  Now, various parts on her hurt like a mother.

  Dragging herself from the Jenga scatter of lumber, she pushed with her toe against something with give. Then she remembered she wasn’t alone.

  Clearing the boards, she gripped her hip and stood at a forward-leaning angle to counteract the pain.

  Professor Danzinger’s murderer lay beneath the boards. Dead? She could hope. But as she scanned the length of his body, she saw one of his fingers twitch.

  Time to call in the cavalry.

  Bart answered on the first ring this time. “Annja, I’m at Schermerhorn Hall.”

  “You found the professor’s body?”

  “Yes, and we’re dusting for fingerprints now. Please tell me yours will not turn up in the mix.”

  She winced. “I hope not. I did use his computer.”

  “Annja—”

  “Bart, before you go off on me, I’m standing over the professor’s murderer right now. I followed him from the scene of the crime.”

  “I wish you called me earlier, Annja.”

  Yeah, so did she. So maybe this was one of those times when she needed to step up and say, I need help.

  The boards behind her toppled and the man sat upright.

  Annja summoned the sword to hand and tipped him under the chin with the point. “Stay,” she ordered.