The Bone Conjurer

by Alex Archer

  “He’ll tell you when you meet him. He’s asked us to escort you to his office.”

  Did Serge have an office? He’d come after her himself, she felt sure. So that left Benjamin Ravenscroft. Much as she’d like to meet him, the current circumstances offered no appeal.

  She had no intention of going anywhere with these thugs. Much as she wanted to know who was behind this, she’d gone one too many times with thugs before, and it never turned out in her favor.

  “Think I’ll pass,” she said.

  She stood. The man who’d been sitting also stood. Cornered, she looked at the young man down the way. He was oblivious to anything but his tunes. The woman still slept.

  She was right-handed, but in times like this, ambidextrous was the way to go. Annja thrust out her left hand, opening her fingers to receive the sword. She slid it through the air, cutting across the man in front of her. He yelped and grasped a shoulder.

  Feeling the icy cut of blade across her right forearm, Annja hissed. She stepped toward the center of the car. The second man approached. His knife glinted with her blood. If he was smart, he should see the futility of his blade versus her three-foot-long battle sword, she thought.

  Tossing the sword to her right hand, Annja swung toward the approaching man. He dodged. He was more agile than she expected from such a hefty man. Points for him.

  She backed her spine against a pole. Dropping the sword freed both hands. Gripping the pole near her hip, she lifted her legs and kicked. Her hard rubber soles landed against the man’s face. He stumbled, and went sprawling backward against the doors.

  Red tunnel lights flashed swiftly. The prerecorded conductor’s voice announced the next stop.

  The other thug had recovered and wasn’t about to play stupid. Annja dodged a flying blade. It soared over her head. She followed its trajectory, wincing as it flew just six inches before the reading guy’s face. That got his attention. He tugged out his earbuds, and flashed her wide eyes.

  “Get to the end of the car!” she shouted at him.

  He nodded, and scooped up his book. He left the woman. So long as she stayed asleep she might not become a hazard.

  The train stopped, whistles blowing and the doors opened. Just get out! she should have yelled. No new passengers entered the train. The doors closed and they jerked into motion again.

  Grabbed by the shoulder, Annja swung her free arm, but her position was wrong. Elbow connecting with steel, she became twisted about the pole. Back to the thug, and the pole before her, she couldn’t swing across her body and turn.

  Fingers gripped her hair. A vicious shove banged her forehead against the pole. Bright colors flashed behind her left eye.

  Mental note: give up pole dancing.

  And keep the bad guys away from the innocents.

  Annja gripped the pole with both hands and kicked up and back. Someone grabbed her ankle and twisted. Her grip slipped. She landed on the floor of the rumbling car on her back and shoulders. A colorful gum jungle was stuck beneath the plastic seats.

  A kick to her hip made her cry out in pain.

  With a stretch of her neck she could see the book guy had jumped to stand on his seat. His fists were up, but he was acting out of fear. She hoped he’d stay put and not try to be a hero.

  A kick to her side forced her stomach against the steel pole. Another stop was announced and she prayed no new passengers joined the melee.

  This was not going the way she planned for it to go. It was time to start swinging blindly and hope for an advantage.

  Slapping her palm on the floor, she summoned the sword. It emerged from the otherwhere, the blade stretching along the floor with a glint. She gripped it and swung backward, using the moving train’s momentum to strike through fabric, flesh and bone as another kick was aimed for her elbow.

  The thug yelped and stumbled backward. The blood spraying the floor told Annja she must have hit an artery. Served him justly for kicking a girl when she was down.

  Jumping and landing four feet away from the thugs, Annja put her back to the book guy. The old woman was still sleeping, her head against the window and her lower jaw sagging.

  “Stay there,” she called to the young man. “I’ve got things under control.”

  “That’s cool with me, girlfriend.” He was too afraid to make a move—to get off the train or to summon help.

  Thug number two charged her, knife in hand. Annja leaped to a bright orange seat and, two hands gripping the sword, sliced it across his forearm. Blood flowed, but she hadn’t cut too deep. She didn’t want to sever any body parts, especially not in front of college boy. Gross anatomy, this was not.

  The thug growled at her and tossed the blade to his unwounded hand.

  She kicked. He slashed and managed to cut up under her calf. The sudden pain startled her and Annja toppled forward, losing her stand on the seat. She clutched an arm about the pole and swung out wide, coming to a landing in a crouch.

  All right, so maybe pole dancing had it advantages.

  The thug charged. She swung wide, cutting again through his shoulder and sending him veering left. The arc of her swing was powerful. Annja followed it through, spinning at the waist, and drawing the sword low. She halted its course. The tip stopped just below the college kid’s neck. A heavy dreadlock bobbed on the blade.

  He squeaked and swallowed.

  “Sorry.” Annja thrust back her arm, releasing the sword into the otherwhere as she did so.

  The train came to a stop. The guy’s eyes fluttered. He was ready to faint.

  She gripped him by the jacket and helped him to stand. “Let’s get you out of here. People are plain unfriendly today, don’t you think?”

  She steered him over the fallen thug, and shoved him hard to quicken his steps and keep him from looking too closely at the one who bled profusely.

  A glance to the sleeping woman startled her. She wasn’t sleeping—she was dead. No. Maybe passed out?

  Annja knelt on the hard plastic seat next to her. Alcohol fumes wavered off her body and, sure enough, there was a pulse.

  “Drunk. But good for you, you missed the show.”

  “They wanted to kill you,” the guy said. “I’ll testify. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

  “Thanks.” She patted him on the shoulder. “But I’ll be okay.”

  “What happened to your sword?”

  “Sword?” If the kid ever figured out who she was, and remembered the sword, things would not go well for her.

  She lifted the book he clung to. “Anthropology? Great career choice. I love an old pile of bones, myself.”

  “Yeah, I want to be like the chick on TV who works with the FBI. Er, not that I want to be a chick. I mean, I’m a guy.”

  Annja rubbed a hand across the back of his shoulder. He was scared and shaky. “Why don’t you get out of here?” The train rumbled to a stop and the doors opened. “I’ll take care of calling the cops. Thanks for being so brave.”

  He nodded, and smiled, but the smile faded too quickly. “You’re not going to stay? With those guys?”

  “Leave. Now!” She gave him a shove.

  He shuffled off, making a fast line to the stairs, turning once to wave back. But the warning signal pealed, and the doors closed.

  With a sigh, Annja tugged out her cell phone.

  “Bart is going to flip over this one.”

  30

  Before Annja could knock, Garin’s dark mahogany front door swung open. A seething half-naked warrior stood glowering at her.

  “Now what,” he growled. When he realized she wasn’t who he expected, his tense jaw softened. He smoothed a hand down his sculpted abs and hooked his arm along the door. “Annja.”

  Dragging her eyes down his fine form, Annja had to force her gaze to meet his. “Didn’t expect me?”

  “Actually, I did. But sooner. Does it always take you an entire day to retaliate?”

  “I’ve been plotting my revenge. That kind of thing takes
time.”

  “I see. Wouldn’t want to charge in gangbusters? And yet, I’ve seen you go gangbuster before.”

  “I like to mix things up. You going to invite me in or give me the third degree?”

  “Come in.”

  He left her at the door and strode off into the living room.

  With a peek down the hallway to where his bedroom was located, Annja listened, waiting—wondering when she’d hear the giggle.

  “I’m alone,” he called back. “Close the door behind you.”

  “Right. So, why don’t you go put on some clothes and I’ll wait in here.”

  She strolled into the living room, her eyes straying to the window to avoid the real tourist attraction who stood posing before the couch. Bright sunshine had melted most of the snow they’d gotten over the past two days, and it actually felt balmy outside. If you could call twenty degrees balmy.

  Garin slowly reclined on the couch, stretching his arms behind his head and propping his feet on the coffee table. Annja expected a cheesy come-on line, but he didn’t rise to the prospect.

  “Take me or leave me,” he growled.

  “I could take you much better if you weren’t half-naked.”

  “You’re a big girl, Annja. Get over it.”

  Many scars marked his ribs and abs. A particularly thick one dashed right over his heart. She recalled him mentioning he’d once almost been staked as a vampire. What disturbed her was that there were still people in this world who believed in blood-suckers enough to go so far as to attempt to stake someone.

  “I assume you’ve come to snatch the skull from me and trundle it off to some dusty old museum?” Garin asked.

  “I see you know the script. You could save me the trouble and simply hand it over,” she said.

  “Can’t do that.”

  “Didn’t think so.” She gripped her fingers about the semblance of the sword’s hilt, but didn’t summon it to reality.

  “Don’t even bother.” Garin noticed her grip. If anyone was able to guess what she was thinking, it would be the one man in the world who wanted said sword. “On the other hand, if you want to show me your pretty weapon, I’d like to take a look.”

  “Not sure there’s room on you for another scar.”

  “You wouldn’t get that close, sweetie. Trust me.”

  “I can throw the thing and stab you.”

  “Really? Then would it disappear if I tried to pry it from my heart?”

  “I think so. But, hey, if you want me to give it a go, we can both learn the answer to that one.”

  He flashed a mirthless grin at her. “I don’t have the skull, Annja. See this?”

  He tapped the edge of his jaw. Annja noticed the bruise now. A modena decorated his deeply tanned skin. Funny she hadn’t seen that right away. The six-pack abs shouldn’t have been that much of a distraction.

  Her hopes falling, Annja sighed. “So does that mean Serge has it now? Or did you sell it to the highest bidder?”

  “Nada on the Ukrainian. Thought the guy had eaten you for breakfast.”

  “No, but the man in the warehouse was eager to take a bite. You are the sweetest man, have I ever told you that? Tricking me into helping you track the skull, then abandoning me to the dogs when push comes to shove.”

  “I couldn’t trick you if I tried. You’re smarter than that, Super Action Chick.”

  “Please, no comic-book monikers.”

  “No? Look at you. Annja Creed, the comic-book heroine. Average unassuming archaeologist by day, supersexy crime fighter by night.”

  “I have been known to pull out the sword in full daylight.”

  “All you need is a cape and a tight leather bustier with gold wings or some such emblazoned on it.”

  “So long as I don’t have to do the tights. I don’t like tights.”

  He chuckled and the sound of his relaxed mirth nudged a smile onto Annja’s mouth. For two seconds. No more Miss Nice Super Action Chick. This goose chase of musical skulls was getting tedious.

  “You could have killed me. You have no idea about the power of the skull. And you had just finished telling me how it had killed dozens of people the first time you held it. Bastard.”

  “I knew it wouldn’t kill you.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Intuition.”

  “Liar.”

  “Annja, I don’t want you dead.”

  “Yeah? So what, then? Only slightly maimed?”

  He looked aside, brushing his jaw with a palm. “You want an apology?”

  “No, it could never be genuine.” She spoke over his protesting gape, “So who’s got the skull?”

  “Roux.”

  That was the last name she’d expected to hear. “What? How the—? He’s in town?”

  “You didn’t know? Here I thought he’d hooked up with you. So the man is working by himself. Clever. Should have expected as much from him.” He leaned forward, sliding his elbows along his thighs to rest on his bare knees. “I am sorry. But you don’t look the worse for wear.”

  “Seriously? Dozens of two-by-fours fell on my head and body. I bet I’ve got bruises bigger than yours. My wrist still hurts. And some goons tried to fillet me on the subway as I was coming here.”

  “Classic Annja Creed. You want me to fix you up? Hey, you’re bleeding.”

  She looked down at her forearm where the knife blade had skimmed her. Her blue shirt was stained with her blood, but it was dried.

  She felt her neck. “That’s the second time in two days someone has tried to take me out and missed. It’s just a skim. I’m fine.”

  “Come with me.” He gestured for her to follow, but Annja remained where she was.

  His back view was spectacular. Scars in plenty, but also wide shoulders capable of balancing a desperate heroine across each side. Not that she was desperate. She didn’t need any man to rescue her. Not even from a grave.

  “I was almost out,” she muttered under her breath. “Didn’t need his help.”

  Garin gestured down the hallway. “No tricks. Promise. At least let me dab on some alcohol and bandage it. You wouldn’t want it to get infected. Come, Annja, comic-book heroines need medical attention every once in a while, too.”

  She resisted with forced stoicism. “Do we have to?”

  “Judging from the blood staining your sleeve…” He rubbed a palm thoughtfully over his tight abs. “I think we do.”

  The bathroom off Garin’s bedroom was the size of Annja’s entire loft. Marble floors, walls and a huge walk-in glass-tiled shower gleamed. The tub and toilet were black. Very macho. Doorknobs, drawer handles and faucets glittered, and she wasn’t sure, but they could be real gold. It was an embarrassment of wealth. But it fit Garin Braden to a T.

  “You going to take off your shirt?” he asked with a grin.

  She sneered as he sorted through the closet for supplies. “Not in your lifetime.”

  Sitting the edge of the black claw-foot bathtub, Annja rolled up her sleeve.

  “That’s a hell of a long time.” Garin dabbed the knife wound with a moist cloth.

  “As far as you know,” she said. “Do you have any proof your immortality wasn’t stolen when the sword was put back together? You could be dead tomorrow.”

  “Come now, Annja, would you wish that on me?”

  She wasn’t sure. After yesterday he deserved it. No, probably not. Maybe. “No. Ouch!”

  “It’s more than a skim. You should have stitches.”

  “No emergency room. I’m a big girl.”

  “Yeah? But do you possess the comic-book powers of instant healing?”

  “Do you?”

  “Not instant by a long shot. But faster than the average man. I’ve got some medical tape in the cabinet. Don’t move.”

  She hung her head and stared at her dirty boots. It seemed sacrilege sitting in this pristine room in her dirty clothes. It was also wrong to be sitting in the enemy’s lair. Garin was the enemy. He’d proved that time and
again.

  And yet, she couldn’t resist the offer of kindness, no matter how forced she suspected it must be. What girl could? It annoyed her she wasn’t able to just up and leave.

  Because when he wasn’t backstabbing her, he was romancing her in a weird kind of friendly come-on that intrigued her immensely.

  “So what did you find on me when you were snooping yesterday?”

  To deny it would just be wrong. “Nothing of interest. I was looking for clues to why you’d want the skull.”

  “Why not just ask?”

  “I did. You gave me the runaround.”

  Garin bent before her. “Think we’ll ever come to accord?”

  His heavy male sigh sifted over her hands. Something about a man and his innate scent and just…being always made Annja marvel. Men were so…male. No matter their shape, height or penchant toward fisticuffs or bookish avoidance, she did like them.

  She needed to consider making time for dating once in a while. Just so she didn’t forget the easy comfort of a man’s presence. And sex. Nothing wrong with sex.

  But not with this man.

  Garin’s muscled body blocked the light, and Annja did not look up because that would put her eye level to his bare pecs.

  “Do you want that?” she asked. “Peace between us?”

  “Not sure. It’s amusing, the clash of wills and the quest for things we don’t have and perhaps never will have, don’t you think?”

  “Depends on who’s getting hurt in the process.”

  Now she did allow a look over his stomach. Her gaze landed on his hip. “That one’s huge,” she said.

  “Why, thank you.”

  She chuffed. “You know I’m not looking that low. That scar. How’d you get it?”

  He tilted his torso, which tugged at the white flesh as thick as a night crawler that crossed from his side and to the center of his chest. “Almost lost my spleen that time. Not that I knew what a spleen was back then. It was one of many adventures Roux and I barely escaped by the skin of our teeth. Good times.”

  Resisting the urge to touch the scar, Annja nodded. The man might like to extol the many ways he despised Roux, but when he spoke of their adventures reverence and respect tainted his voice. They were alike. In fact, the only two of their kind in this world. They needed each other more than they would ever admit.