Authors: Alex Archer
Anyway, the last time I had it out was to show it to a visiting friend, Benjamin Ravenscroft.
Annja leaned forward; her toast went untouched.
He was fascinated with the legend. I felt a little odd watching him turn the skull over, tracing his fingers along the gold sutures. He’s quite the prominent businessman over in your country, or so he told me.
But you have the skull now, Miss Creed, and I would be grateful for its return. Of course, I’d graciously allow you to keep it for study as long as you wish. I believe, after noting your vigilant efforts to track its owner online, I can trust you with it.
Please instruct me what your plans are for the skull, and we can make arrangements.
“Huh.” Annja settled in the booth, the last pancake on her plate drowning in a pool of syrup. “Mystery solved. It belongs to some dude in Venice.”
She clicked open the photos he had attached. Three of them, featuring anterior, lateral and inferior view. “That’s the same skull, all right.”
A skull Mr. Wisdom did not name the Skull of Sidon, yet had detailed the same magical powers the legend spoke of. But if it belonged to his family, then she had every intent of returning it to its rightful owner.
“If I had the thing.”
Scanning through the e-mail again, her eyes stopped at the friend’s name. “Benjamin Ravenscroft. Why does your name keep coming up in association with this skull?”
It was about time she searched his name.
Forbes was the first site to bring up his name. It had just published its famous lists. Benjamin Ravenscroft was number twenty on the Top-Earning CEOs list. His company, Ravens Tech, auctioned intangibles and had a huge hand in the burgeoning enterprises in Dubai.
“Intangibles?” Annja was completely out of her element with anything white collar, Wall Street or high-tech.
A click on the CNN site brought up an article published a month earlier about Ravens Tech’s surprising rise to profitability. Who was Benjamin Ravenscroft, it posited? Where had he come from, and why was the world just hearing about him now? The man sold nothing. Or rather, things that could not be held, but only made, designed or promised for some future creation.
Like patents, air and domain names. Air? She read further. The guy started out in college selling air space to cell phone companies. Well, I’ll be. I bet he’s even sold the Brooklyn Bridge a time or two.
And yet each article about Benjamin and Ravens Tech also expounded on his charitable contributions. He’d established a foundation for children with bone cancer after his own daughter had been diagnosed. The most recent charity event had been held a month earlier, and had raised 3.2 million dollars. Unfortunately, the disease was a nasty one, and doctors forecast many decades before a cure is in sight.
“Sounds like a likable enough guy. Bummer about his kid.”
Annja scrolled through the search engine listing. They were all the same, listing Ravenscroft as the CEO to watch and extolling his charity work.
“And yet he’s had his hands on the skull once, when in Venice. Could he be the one who hired Marcus Cooke? Because I don’t think Serge did. Although Serge has had his eye on the skull ever since it arrived here, I’m sure. Are Serge and Ravenscroft connected?”
To think on it a few seconds tweaked a muscle at the corner of her eye. Really? Could he possibly? Annja reasoned the mystery behind Ravenscroft’s rise could be attributed to one certain bone conjurer.
Why not? He can summon the dead. Why not help a man make millions? Roux had said something about manipulating people and seeing the future. What a dream to see the future stock market.
The article had conjectured about his sudden rise over the past year.
She could go there with the theory. Hell, she was starting to believe a necrophilic liaison produced a skull.
Wonder how long Serge’s been in town? I’ll have to ask next time we chat. Because she knew she hadn’t seen the last of the necromancer, by any means.
Neither Serge nor Benjamin Ravenscroft holds the skull right now. And I think I’d like to keep it that way.
But the option of Garin Braden holding the skull wasn’t desirable, either. It belonged to Maxfield Wisdom, and Annja would see it returned to him.
Five minutes later her plate was clean, and she’d downed another cup of coffee. Annja had a plan. “Manhattan, here I come.”
“You just don’t care anymore, Ben! You didn’t even come home last night, and Rachel is not feeling well.”
Ben rubbed his temple and considered laying his cheek against the cool desktop. Instead, he propped an elbow and caught his head in a palm as he listened to Linda rage over the phone.
“How dare you say I don’t care about Rachel?”
“You don’t know the meaning of caring, Ben. Starting a charity means little. You’re just doing it for the media exposure. You don’t even know what Rachel’s T-cell counts were the last time she was at the doctor, do you? Do you!”
“I’m doing my damnedest, Linda.”
“Well, it’s not enough. I can’t do this anymore, Ben! I’m tired. I—I can’t look Rachel in the eye when she asks me when she’s going to be better.”
“Linda, put the whiskey back in the cabinet. It’s too early in the morning for that nonsense.”
“Don’t tell me what to do, Ben. You don’t get to tell me what to do since you’re not even in this family. I can’t do it, Ben!”
It had become Linda’s script. She’d call him up after she’d had a few drinks, then rail about her inability to cope.
He was an asshole for hating her slip into drinking. An even bigger asshole for not being able to rush home, wrap her in his arms and promise he’d make everything better.
Ben didn’t know how to make things better through normal means. He wasn’t wired to be compassionate and offer gentle words of reassurance. He only knew how to get a deal done. And he’d be damned if the skull was going to slip through his hands.
He would make things right for Rachel. No matter who he had to kill.
“You’re a bastard, Ben.”
The slammed phone surprised him. Nowadays most people couldn’t slam the phone anymore. But Linda insisted on using the landline because she thought cell phones caused cancer. She also thought processed food, plastic and anything artificial could do the same—invade your healthy cells and kill you.
Rachel’s cancer had seeded Linda’s paranoia.
Now Ben did press his face against the cool desk and stretch his arms out above his head. “I’m trying, Rachel,” he whispered.
A
NNJA SWIPED HER
MetroCard and got on the train. The subway car was fairly empty except for a young guy, probably early twenties, with blond dreadlocks who bobbed his head to tunes. He did not look up to acknowledge her; his attention was on a textbook. Annja couldn’t see the spine, but it made her smile to see a young man with his head in a book.
Across from him sat an elderly woman, head bowed, snoozing. Annja thought perhaps she was homeless, for the layers of sweaters that bulged out beneath her tattered jacket. It was early morning, the weekend, so there were no commuters to jockey for position or seats.
Before the doors closed, two men rushed on. Each wore a long dark coat and dark sunglasses. Annja shook her head. The
Matrix
look was so over.
She had a fifteen-minute ride, she estimated.
The car’s gentle rumble lured her to close her eyes, but she didn’t. She kept one eye glued on the men in black.
She hadn’t had much sleep in the diner. What she really wanted to do was to go home and crawl between the sheets. Calling Bart to stop by her loft and give it a once-over would not be a bad idea, but she didn’t want to upset him.
Hell, he already knew about the body in the river. And the body in the university.
She smiled. Bart had no idea she was the bearer of Joan of Arc’s sword. Telling him something like that might put him over the edge. But he had to wonder about her for the many times she’d called him to help her out of a bind, or to avoid the scene of a crime that may have her fingerprints, or yes, to let him know how the victim had been murdered because she’d witnessed it firsthand.
Good old Bart. He was the best friend a chick could have. It had been a while since they’d paired up for bar trivia. When they teamed no one in the Brooklyn area bars could compete.
But what if they paired for more than that? Like dating? Or sex?
Never work, she told herself. I’d hate to lose a good friend over something like sexual incompatibility. And I can’t tell him the truth about the sword. That would really kill him.
“Miss Creed?”
A chill zinged up Annja’s spine. The fiberglass seat next to her creaked as one man in black sat next to her. The other loomed over her, clinging to the vertical steel pole extending from floor to ceiling.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. This didn’t feel right. And she’d learned to trust her intuition. It was rarely wrong.
There was the kid at the end of the car. A sleeping woman. And a few stops between here and Manhattan that might introduce more riders.
“You know me,” she said, tilting her head to look directly at the one next to her. “Must have seen me on TV, huh?” Keep it light, Annja. Protect the innocents. “I haven’t a pen for autographs…”
The man standing before her slid aside his coat to reveal a knife tucked in a shoulder strap under his arm. She couldn’t see the blade. Had to be a big one to secure it that way. “We’re not here for an autograph.”
“I guessed as much.” She planted her feet. The man to her right likely also wielded a knife or pistol. “Can I ask who is so interested in me?”
“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.”