by Alex Archer
“You must have been laid out a while from the wound,” she said.
“A couple of days. You can’t imagine my wonder, in those early days after Joan’s death, over my own ability to survive what should have been fatal wounds. Roux and I hadn’t yet figured out we were immortal. That would take surviving the entire fifteenth century before we finally wrapped our brains around that reality.”
“I suppose when one gains immortality—unless they’re specifically told, and given the instruction manual—it is a wacky surprise.”
“Exactly. Wacky. But good, you know?”
“I don’t know. Don’t think I would ever take immortality if it was offered.”
“Oh, you would, Annja.”
No, she was sure she wouldn’t. But she’d allow Garin the fantasy of being right this time. Skeptic that she was, she still found it hard to wrap her head around the living five hundred years thing. It would be a gift. It would be a nightmare. She was perfectly happy with eight or nine decades, thank you very much.
“You really don’t want it for yourself?” she tried. “The skull.”
“Nope.”
“Then you intend to sell it.”
“Assumption.”
“But correct.”
“Annja, would you believe I think the thing needs to be dropped down another well, and this time covered over with thirty feet of cement?”
“Not sure. Gotta think that one over.”
“You do that.”
His fingers tugged at the wound as he placed the tape over it. The smell of antiseptic cut through her brain and in its wake Garin’s aftershave wavered. The spicy scent curled her toes.
“You can touch,” he commented.
“Wh-what?”
“You’ve been eyeing my abs since you walked in, sweetheart. Go ahead, touch. I won’t break.”
“That’s it.” Annja paced over to the vanity, hand to her hip.
The nerve of him to suggest she wanted—whatever. So she was getting a little soft and melty around the guy. Time to get back to business.
“You said Roux has it? Where’s he staying?”
“Haven’t a clue.” Garin dropped a wad of bloodied gauze into the sink. “Would you like to join me for lunch? Griggs is preparing haddock and asparagus.”
Food sounded divine. And Annja knew Griggs was an amazing chef from previous meals. But she’d had breakfast. And she’d had enough of Mr. Poser here.
“No, I’m finished with you.”
She marched from the room, making damn sure she didn’t call out any apologies for her abrupt departure, or thank him for the medical attention.
Women could be like that sometimes. Worried about offending someone or acting aggressively. She wasn’t like most women. Garin knew that. He probably enjoyed their little tête-à-têtes.
Just as much as she did.
31
“You say the skull isn’t in hand? How can I trust you even know where it is?” Ben tapped the corner of his phone on his thigh. How the caller had gotten his number disturbed him, but he wasn’t about to admit that.
“My associate has it,” the gruff male voice said. He’d said his name was Braden. That’s all. Ben didn’t know if that was a first or last name. “She’s a professional when it comes to handling artifacts.”
She, huh? Annja Creed’s image popped into his mind. Could he be so lucky to be pulled back into the search for the skull with a simple phone call?
But he wasn’t willing to shell out the amount of money Braden was asking for. Five hundred thousand wasn’t chump change. And Ben felt sure he could get the thing for nothing now he knew that Annja Creed held it.
“I’m interested,” he said.
“Great. I’ve got another bidder who wishes opportunity to match bids.”
“I’ll go as high as is necessary,” Ben offered. It wasn’t true, but Braden didn’t have to know that.
“I’ll be in contact soon, Mr. Ravenscroft.” The phone clicked off.
Ben hit a speed-dial number.
SERGE RETURNED to the warehouse where Annja Creed and the man he did not know had been with the Skull of Sidon. The police had arrested the man. He’d been working for Harris, which meant he was one of Ravenscroft’s employees. He had to track the skull before Ben got to it.
He hadn’t been able to track Creed from the warehouse, and she hadn’t returned to her loft. He’d headed home to obtain his supplies. This setback was not acceptable.
To be safe, he’d left his cell phone in the car. The frequency of Ben’s calls of late did not bode well for Serge’s concentration. The man suspected something but Ben could not possibly know why Serge sought the skull.
Yet he hadn’t anticipated Annja Creed. An archaeologist? What stakes did she have in obtaining the skull? Unless she also sold artifacts to finance—what, Serge did not know. Her loft had been nice enough, but far from richly furnished. The woman must make money from her television appearances. Why would she need to sell artifacts?
Unless she had a drug habit or an expensive vice Serge could not know about. The woman appeared in control of her faculties.
“No, not drugs,” he muttered as he walked inside the warehouse.
The extreme scent of cut wood overwhelmed the latent tendrils of arsenic likely used to preserve the wood. There were many footprints in the lumber dust on the floor. Difficult to determine a specific track, or if one might be a woman’s footprint.
Serge wandered about until he found an upset tangle of two-by-fours, and what looked like signs of struggle. Attuned to the world and the energies left behind by its inhabitants, he sensed the lingering whisper of…
Power.
The skull had been in this warehouse. He knew it.
He knelt and emptied his pockets onto one of the boards. He didn’t have the proper substance to mark a circle, but in a pinch, anything would do. Shuffling up a pile of sawdust, he then leaned over the small dune and blew it out evenly over the concrete floor. With his forefinger, he drew a circle large enough to sit inside.
He tapped the vial of bone powder remaining from the sample he’d taken from Annja Creed out onto the board, spreading it into a fine circle with a fingertip.
Picking up a lighter from the contents of his pocket he waved the flame over the crushed bone fragments until the bits began to smolder. They would not light to flame—bone required high heat to burn—but would instead simmer to a hard black coal.
Leaning over the smoking bone, Serge drew in the scent. Humming deep in his throat he began the low droning that would center him and push away the world. He must focus to connect. The souls he could contact would read the bone and tell him all he required to track Creed.
An icy trickle scurried down his forearm. Touched by the otherworld. A presence had arrived.
Communicating was achieved through a high keening he altered in tones. He was about to ask after the Creed woman when he choked on the smoke—and rocked onto the heels of his hands. His mind fuzzed over with the scent of burned bone and the clatter of cars rushing by outside.
This wasn’t right. What had brought him out from the trance?
He winced as another twinge attacked his temple. Was it the souls? Had he asked too much?
“Damn it.” He fought to lean over the smoking bone, to concentrate on drawing in the essence, but the summons would only increase until it became unbearable.
The spirits no longer wished to communicate about Annja Creed. Interesting. It was as if they held back information about her. Or did not deem him worthy of knowing.
Serge returned to his car and slid inside, but didn’t start the engine. The phone rang.
He picked it up, and didn’t say a word.
“We need to talk,” Ben said.
32
Serge stood in the center of Ben’s office.
Ravenscroft strode before him. He’d removed the pinstriped suit coat and rolled up his crisp white shirtsleeves to reveal tanned forearms. The diamond Rolex m
ust have put him out tens of thousands of dollars. Likely thanks to Serge’s conjuring.
“It’s not working, Serge. We’re both going after something the other wants, and neither is having much luck in nabbing it. We really do need to join forces.”
“Why do you want the skull when you can have all that you wish through my summonings?”
Ben smirked. “Serge, you surprise me. You’ve refused me the only desire that means anything to me.”
“I’ve told you I do not have the power to give or take life!”
“She’s already alive,” Ben hissed. Curling his fingers into fists, he said, “You simply need to ensure that remains the case.”
If he could, Serge would move worlds to save the little girl’s life. Ben had told him about his daughter’s disease months earlier. She was dying from the bone cancer that had invaded her skull. Ben wanted Serge to make her new again, not sick, but free from the disease.
Serge had gone home that day and attempted to channel the spirits to ask for the girl’s life. It wasn’t so simple as that. The disease had come from the chemicals man put into this world. The spirit world could no more stop her death than medical science could.
And though he could speak to the dead, summon them to his bidding and learn about the future from them, the dead did not bring others to their realm, nor did they refuse those destined there.
If some had suffered due to the summonings Serge had performed for Ben it was because Ben had tainted the information Serge provided and caused it to happen. Serge’s hands were clean.
Yet he could not erase the blackness association with Ben had seared upon his soul.
He would do nothing for this man he was not forced to do.
“Ask me for anything but life and death,” Serge said quietly. “I am yours to command, as you have seen to exact the bonds about me.”
“So dramatic, Serge. Dance about your fancy words but avoid my daughter’s dying soul? When she’s dead will you then offer to summon her for me? What am I do to with my dead daughter’s soul? You bastard!”
Ben lunged and punched him in the chest. Serge allowed the man to beat upon him. His punches were ineffectual, and hurt his pride more than his flesh and bone. He could not move away. He would not. The dark demons inside Benjamin Ravenscroft needed an outlet. They needed to push fists into another man’s flesh and pound at his bones. A small justice for his dying daughter.
A wicked backhand across his jaw snapped Serge’s head smartly.
“Fight, you idiot!” Ben stalked off, rubbing his bruised fists. “Have you no mettle?” He leaned over the desk, snatching the burning cigarette and taking a drag from it. The scent of cloves infused the air.
“I merely wish my freedom, Mr. Ravenscroft.”
“Freedom?” He gasped on his inhale like an addict fighting to hold in the smoke. “Is that what you believe the skull will give you? You don’t like working for me, Serge?”
“I do not like the results of our association. Your heart is black.”
“My heart?” He rapped his chest with a fist. “My heart? You! You are the necromancer. You dally with dead souls every day.”
“It is not a black magic unless the conjurer makes it so.”
“Ah? So it is me who has twisted you?” Ben sucked in another long drag, his back to Serge. A flick of the thin brown cigarette sent ash particles to the marble floor. “Always someone else’s fault. It’s my fault Rachel’s sick, you know.” He glanced over a shoulder at Serge. “My wife blames me. Me? How is that possible? I only lost sight of her a few minutes that day in the park. Getting lost does not induce cancer. It’s not fair. It’s just…not fair.”
Serge sensed exhaustion purl from the man in waves.
Lauded by his peers, Ben had achieved much in the past year of their alliance. Serge had read the headlines at the newsstands. Benjamin Ravenscroft was a futurist and a philanthropist of the highest order, they claimed.
But in the time of their association, Ben’s family had suffered from his misdirected greed. While Serge knew the girl’s disease was not caused by her father’s neglect, he was aware of Ben’s affair with the secretary. No man should treat his wife so cruelly.
Karma had a way of slapping the most deserving.
Serge had compassion for the Ravenscroft family. But not so much for Ben.
“Very well.” Ben approached, his hands at his hips. “I’ve got a bargain for you.”
Serge let out a breath. A devil’s bargain, surely. He did not wager in evil. At least, he tried to avoid it.
“Your freedom for my daughter’s life.”
All he wanted was freedom. But the man did not understand!
Serge shook his head. “That is impossible, I have already explained…”
“Listen, necromancer,” Ben said sharply. The sweet spice waved before Serge as the man slashed the cigarette through the air. “The skull is yours after I’ve had my go at it. I get my daughter’s life, then you can have your freedom. You just need to put the skull into my hands.”
The man’s logic was fractured. If Serge got to the point where he could put the skull into Ben’s hands, there was no way in hell it would happen. He’d be long gone from New York City before then.
“You double-cross me,” Ben added with a dagger glare, “your family dies.”
Serge had no doubt a phone call is all it would take for them to die. Cruelly. Likely gunned down in front of one another.
Damned, he was bound to serve this man!
But could he trust when the skull was obtained, and handed over to Ben, his wicked employer would then hand it over to him?
Erratic heartbeats pleaded with him to rationalize, not jump, into any traps. Once he’d trusted this man, and look where that had got him.
“I must have more than your word,” Serge said.
“But you do. You, Serge, have my truths.” Ben looked up at him through a fringe of dark bangs. “If I try to swindle the prize from you, then you can go to the media and tell them all about Ben Ravenscroft’s dealings with the spirit world to get to where he is today.”
How stupid did the man think him? He may have come from an impoverished country, but he wasn’t naive. Go to the media? That would go over like a lead balloon. Serge could see himself being wrangled into a straitjacket and carted off while Ben stood atop his marble empire laughing all the way to hell.
And with the skull in hand, who was to say Ben wouldn’t be able to kill Serge with it? No one knew the skull’s true power. It gave all good things. That covered quite a lot of ground. And he felt sure the Skull of Sidon—unlike him—had the power to give and take life.
“You’re thinking too much, Serge,” Ben said slyly. “Take the deal. I only want that one thing. You’ve already put me on the top. Where else have I to go?” Spreading his arms like a deity, Ben mastered his empire. “I’m here. The hottest young CEO in New York City on a meteoric rise to the top. No one can touch me. I’ve got the world at my fingertips.”
“At the sacrifice of your family.”
Ben slapped a hand on Serge’s shoulder. “Worry about your own family, man.”
Serge tried to move away. He could not. It stunned him. Ben’s grip, not so tight, but more a heavy weight warning of his future, did not relent.
If he had known a year earlier that Benjamin Ravenscroft had more in mind than taking a simple man to America and helping him start a new life, Serge never would have followed. But the carrot Ben had offered—money to support his family—had been impossible to resist.
Just a few conjurings, Ben had promised. He’d wanted to improve his life, perhaps start a few charity foundations. All good, he’d said encouragingly.
He’d asked Serge to summon the best means to funnel research dollars to hospitals and medical organizations. The spirit world had eagerly complied. While Serge did not understand the stock market, he received stock tips that had tripled Ben’s charitable investments.
Soon after, Ben had started calli
ng Serge in weekly to look at the stock market. To enhance his business. One couldn’t front a huge philanthropic movement without the business success to back it up. The spirits had complied, and Ben’s knowledge for what intangibles were going to bring in the biggest returns grew.
Within months Serge began taking the subway to Ravens-Tech daily. Ben kept him busy. The spirits gleefully obeyed. And Serge realized instead of garnering a good life and business contacts, he was journeying farther away from his pursuits and into evil.
“We work together, then.” Serge finally surrendered.
“Good! So where’s the woman? Annja Creed. She’s our target. You have a fix on her?”
“I know where she lives.”
“Excellent. We’ll search her place—”
“I’ve already done so. She doesn’t have the skull. There’s another man who has obtained it. I don’t know who he is.”
“But he knows Creed?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“Then that’s where we start. Take me to her.”
“Very well, Mr. Ravenscroft.”
“Just so you know—” Ben eyed Serge’s fist “—I’ve got a contact who checks in with me on the hour. If I do not respond your family is dead.”
ANNJA WALKED THROUGH her open front door. This time she was not surprised it was open. Summoning the sword to hand, she called out.
A dark-haired man popped his head out from the kitchen. He set the open box of cereal on the table behind him and offered her a smile.
“Your housekeeping skills leave much to be desired, Miss Creed,” he commented. Stepping carefully over a toppled pile of research books, he waved dismissively at the sword. “You won’t need that. I come in peace.”
“I’ve heard that line before.”
A fashionable five-o’clock shadow stubbled his jaw. His dark complexion was probably a tan. Gold and diamonds flickered at his cuffs and fingers. He wasn’t ugly or villainous. Rather attractive, moreso than his pictures online. She could sense he wielded charm as a means to get what he wanted.