The Bone Conjurer (20 page)

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.

“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.

“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.

S
ERGE 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.