The Bone Conjurer (8 page)

Annja had cursory knowledge of the monks who had taken vows of chastity and promised to protect helpless peasants who traveled the highroads from thieves. Didn’t ring any bells to her, though, regarding skulls. The Templars were a few centuries earlier than her favorite research period.

She reread NewBattleRider’s e-mail.

“I don’t know. Worth a look,” she said.

She moused to Google and typed in
head worshippers.
The search brought up references to trepanning, which was carving a hole in the skull to give a swollen brain room or air. The ancient Greeks had used trepanning frequently. Macabre circular hand-cranked drills had been used to cut through the patient’s bone. Anesthesia was little more than some crushed herbs in those days.

The whole thing gave Annja a headache.

She typed in
ancient skulls,
which brought up more entries than her tired brain could manage. If she wasn’t careful she’d need trepanning to give her gray matter room for expansion.

“All right, so I won’t rule out the Knights Templar.”

She couldn’t get behind the idea. There were so many grail myths, she didn’t want to get drawn into that muck of rumor, legend and hearsay.

Worship of gods made more sense to her. And her skull did have decorative metal.

Going back to the archaeology list, she posted a quick note, asking if anyone had a skull that had recently gone missing. Not the one attached to your head, she added in parentheses.

She didn’t list specifics, beyond that it was possibly newborn and medieval. For sure she’d get lots of inquiries about missing skulls. But she never knew what might be found in the detritus.

Shoveling down spoonfuls of cereal, she dripped milk onto the keyboard. Swiping the milk from the space bar, she winced at the tug beneath the bandage about her wrist.

“Talk about the sword attracting danger. Can I just be a normal archaeologist for one day?”

Since she’d come into possession of Joan of Arc’s sword normal days were few and far between. And Annja realized she enjoyed the adventure, even the danger. But not the pain.

“My kingdom for an aspirin.” Annja swung around and winced at the mess in her loft. “If I can find one.”

She decided she wouldn’t get anywhere, or think clearly, until she’d done some major cleaning.

“You’re looking well, Serge.”

Serge Karpenko nodded an acknowledgment, but maintained a stare over the top of Benjamin Ravenscroft’s head. The businessman’s nose leveled at the center of Serge’s chest. He wasn’t short; Serge was tall. He could crush the ineffectual pencil pusher easily. But he would never do it.

Some men garnered power over others by manipulating reality—not the spiritual, as Serge was capable. Ben was a master at making things happen—or not. And Serge cherished his present reality, only because the alternative was unacceptable.

From what Serge understood, Ben sold nothing. And people bought those nothings. Things that could not be touched, held or looked at. It made little sense to Serge, and he hated that he could not wrap his mind around the concept. Should not a business have a tangible asset to show prospective buyers? It was like selling air!

Over the past year, he’d sought any means to crack open his employer’s psyche and begin to understand what made the cogs turn in his brain. Thus far, he’d been unsuccessful.

“Are you unhappy with your circumstances here in America, Serge?”

The tone of Ravenscroft’s voice wasn’t so much curious as delving. Serge knew better than to provide too much information. Or rather, he had learned a hard lesson regarding letting others know what you valued and what could make you do things you’d rather not.

“Very pleased, Mr. Ravenscroft. Is there a problem?”

“No problem. I just wanted to ensure I’m treating you well. I know the culture shock was initially difficult for you, but you seem to function with ease in the city.”

Function meant serving this man. It wasn’t as though Serge had a social life beyond his service to Ben. He wasn’t sure he wanted one. How to begin? He knew a few local merchants in the neighborhood. The dry cleaner, the old man at the Russian market, the cheery young girl who worked Mondays and Thursdays at the all-night video store.

“The apartment still satisfactory?”

“It is.”

“That’s a fine piece of real estate, Serge. Apartments in Lower Manhattan are hard to come by.”

“I have no complaints. The place is clean and quiet.”

“Your stipend is seeing you well fed and comfortable?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good, then.” Ben tilted his head, studying Serge’s face. It was a stoic visage Serge had practiced all his life. There were so many reasons not to show emotion. Especially when one communicated with spirits and passed along messages to the living.

Exhaling, Ben shrugged and gestured to the door at his right.

“The summoning room has been prepared for you. I’ll need information on the Tokyo funds listed in last week’s dossier. I’ve left a copy of the file for you to study. Spirits this afternoon?”

Serge nodded. “They are most open to the future. The one I contact on your behalf seems to enjoy this field you work in. The untouchables.”

“That’s intangibles, Serge. I’d like to meet the spirit some day.”

“Impossible. It does not come to corporeal form, as I’ve explained.”

“Yes, just voices in your head, eh?” A curious smirk stretched Ben’s stubbled cheek. “You’re a marvel, man. You possess a remarkable skill.”

“I was born this way.” He’d previously explained his skills.

It was not so remarkable really. Many could commune with the dimension beyond this living realm, but few in the rushed, chaotic modern world took the time to notice that innate intuition.

Serge bowed and crossed the shiny black marble floor to the hidden door in the wall Ben had pointed to. He pressed the wall and the panel slid an inch inward. The action never ceased to amaze him.

Before entering the private room, he bowed his head and looked aside. Ben stared out the window at the view of Central Park below. He’d lit a clove cigarette, yet the smell didn’t cross the room.

“And all is well with you, sir? Your…daughter?” Serge asked.

Ben stopped midinhale. A wisp of thick white smoke wavered from his nostrils. He didn’t turn to Serge. The tension stiffening his shoulders became apparent.

“Measures must be taken, Serge. We’ll discuss it soon.”

Serge nodded and entered the low-lit room. They’d already discussed measures. Serge did not have the power to give Ben what he most wanted.

And when the man was again denied, what then would he do to Serge’s family?

B
EN STRUGGLED
to control his anger. The insolent man dared to bring up his daughter.

Did he think to pit Ben’s family against his own? The man could not conceive the move Ben could make against his family. They would be obliterated before Serge could remember the name of Ben’s daughter.

The Ukrainian peasant denied Ben something he
must
be able to control. The man communed with the dead regarding the future. Why not help his daughter? Had he no compassion?

“I need that skull,” Ben muttered. “But where is it?”

Could he ask Serge to send out spiritual feelers for the skull?

No, he didn’t want the man to have any more advantage when the playing field was so unbalanced right now.

There were better things to tend to than necromancing for Benjamin Ravenscroft. Like researching Annja Creed. With her bone sample at home, Serge could easily track her footsteps over the past weeks. It was as simple as attaching a bloodhound spirit to her aura.

But he had to focus. Ben squeezed the Karpenko family’s lives in his greedy corporate hands. And since Serge had bound himself to the man, he could do no harm against him. Powerless, he could only look to freedom.

Soon enough.

Bent over the crushed bone, sweet smoke curled into Serge’s nostrils. He drew in the odor, surrendering to its intoxication.

Almost.

The Creed woman prodded his thoughts. She hadn’t been the least unsettled to find him waiting in her home. A home he’d trashed. The skull had not been there.

Why hadn’t he run across the battle sword while creating that havoc?

When she’d brought it out, it had given him momentary surprise. He feared very little. No skinny woman with a big sword was going to intimidate him. He may not have martial arts in his arsenal—such a rudimentary grasp at self-defense—yet he could easily exercise enough brute strength to overwhelm and attack.

Since he’d begun necromancing as a young boy Serge had always felt protective forces about him. He thought of them as a sort of force field against evil and negativity. Yet even that force field could not stop Serge from agreeing to help when a man asked kindly and promised to secure his family’s future.

There were times Serge had ignored his intuition. It was foolish of him. For if he’d listened to his heart a year ago, he’d still be living on the small farm north of Odessa with his family. He’d be struggling to survive, but happier with those he loved in no danger.

He owed a call to his father and would stop by a phone booth on the way home. Serge no longer used the fancy cell phone Ben had gifted him. After a few strange clicks and tones during his first calls to his family, he became suspicious Ben was listening in or tracking his contacts.

Serge knew little about technology, but he was getting over that deficit quickly. Every Saturday he spent five hours at the New Amsterdam branch library. The class on Surfing the Internet for Fun and Profit had taught him about search engines, and how to go deeper for information worth having. It was how he found information on the woman he’d pulled from the Gowanus Canal.

Who would have thought the one television show playing in the café two blocks west of the canal, where he’d stopped for eggs and toast after that encounter with the woman, would be showing
Chasing History’s Monsters.
It was dumb luck.

Or rather, Serge’s intuition had been working strongly after it had failed him at the canal. It had led him the direction he needed.

He thought he should have processed her bone right away. Began to summon with it. See what the Greater All had to give him about her. He’d do so later, when he returned home.

Of course, he could wait. In the morning she’d bring the skull to him. If she wished to live. And who would not?

Annja Creed had impressed him with her defensive skills, and hadn’t backed down from him no matter the fight he’d given her. Serge knew he was imposing. He stuck out like a bull in a daisy patch when walking the streets of Brooklyn.

He was very patient. But his patience was growing thin with Benjamin’s unrelenting demands. The man kept insisting Serge could conjure a spirit to save the girl. He could not. A necromancer had no power over life and death. Such was ineffable.

He could but contact spirits and use them to manipulate the will of mortals, such as convincing them to turn right into traffic instead of left across a safe intersection. He could use spirits to cause illusions, either visible to all or but a figment in a man’s mind. If he wished, he could drive a man to insanity—but he had no such malicious desires.

He most frequently contacted spirits. The spirits, unattached to this mortal realm or its constraints of time, provided him knowledge both from past and future.

Such knowledge was what Benjamin paid for. How certain stocks would perform, and those patents he bought and sold as if candy. Serge did not understand the man’s business, but he did not have to. The spirit he contacted understood completely, and took greedy delight in providing details. It was demonic, the vibe Serge felt when he conjured.

Rarely did he summon demons, though they had their uses.

Remembering what he was doing, Serge gave his head a shake. He’d fallen out of trance. He’d never get this right if he couldn’t concentrate.

He was so close to holding the skull. It would give him good things.

He felt it in his bones.

S
HE’D BE AT
T
ITO’S
in less than ten minutes. Annja couldn’t walk fast enough. She shoved a hand in her coat pocket to retrieve her jingling cell phone.

Professor Danzinger started in without introduction. She had to chuckle at his enthusiasm.

“It’s quite incredible, Annja. I know I was initially reluctant about looking over another skull, but those carvings…Well, I don’t believe they are actual carvings.”

She paused on the street corner, waiting for a green light. The thief’s backpack, with tools intact, was slung over her shoulder. “What could they be, if not carved?”

“I don’t know! It’s as if—well, you’ll think me crazy.”

“That’s a word I’ve never heard associated with the rock-and-roll Danzinger.”

“You tease, Annja. But the markings inside the skull? It’s as if it was
born
that way. As if the brain’s many convolutions had somehow made the impressions on the skull’s interior. They are not carved, it is a reverse imprint.”

The light turned green. She was bustled across at the head of a crowd of pedestrians. “Born that way? Professor, what have you been smoking?”

“Nothing! Yet. Heh.”

Again she chuckled and skipped across the street to the restaurant.

“I’m mapping out the interior with the snake camera, but it’s a slow go. I stayed most of the night. It’s so incredible, I didn’t want to leave it alone.”

“Huh. Then maybe we really have something there. Do the markings give any indication to provenance? Year? Nationality?”

“Who can know? And I’m no anthropologist, so I haven’t a clue to begin assigning nationality or even sex from bone structure. It’s difficult enough with an infant’s skull. I haven’t had the opportunity to research online for anything like this. I never do trust the Internet. Not sure I’ll find time to run over to the library, either. There won’t be many researchers around because of the holiday break.”

“Right, I forgot, it’s Thanksgiving weekend.”

“I take it that means you’ve no family plans?”

“Nope, just me and the Macy’s Parade on TV.”

“I’d invite you to share the day with me, but all I can offer is turkey TV dinners.”

“Sounds like heaven. Tomorrow?”

“It’s a date. But I will be here all evening pouring over this incredible skull. Can I keep it until our date?”

Should he have termed it a date? She was not going to sleep with the man. Seriously. She was no longer a blushing college girl.

“Certainly. You know of anyone in the area who can date it for us?”

“I’ll give Lamont a call. Not sure if they have the equipment, but it’s worth a shot. That is, if anyone is around and not packed off over the river and through the woods to grandmother’s house. Annja, I must let you go. I got another clear shot from inside. I’m starting to paste things together to get the big picture.”

“Call me when it’s finished. Thanks, Professor.”

Annja slid the phone into her pocket, and entered Tito’s. The hostess knew her and directed her to a table near the back. Born that way? Incredible, she thought.

But nothing—as the holder of Joan of Arc’s sword should know—was impossible.

“I ordered for you,” Bart said as she slid into a booth. “I know you like the pulled pork with sofrito.”

“Mmm, all those peppers and onions. Thanks for agreeing to meet me today.”

She rubbed her hands together and blew on them to bring up the warmth. “Wine, too? You spoil me, Bart.”

“It’s on the house.”

The owner, Maria, knew them both and always made sure they were well fed and happy. This wasn’t the first time she’d gifted Annja and Bart with wine. It was almost as if she wanted to play matchmaker, designing a romantic setting with wine and food.

“Is that the evidence?” he asked.

She nudged the backpack toward his feet under the table. “All intact, save one very interesting skull. I just talked to the professor. He’s very excited about the inner carvings.”

“Sorry, I can’t relate to anything old and dusty like you do, Annja.”

“Sure you can. You must study cold evidence? Bones dug up from backyards? Old bloodstains? It’s all the same.”

“I leave that for forensics.”

Dinner arrived. Tito’s served generous portions designed to feed a small crowd or, at the very least, a hungry archaeologist.

“I’m so glad we changed our plans, Bart. I’m starving.” Annja dug in. The plantains nestled beneath the tender pork were sweet and, combined with the savory meat, absolutely sang on her palate.

Arms crossed on the table, Bart looked her over, smiling. A tiny scar at the right of his eye gave him a heroic visage, yet Annja knew it was from falling off the swing when he was seven. He’d been trying to jump higher than the cute neighborhood girl, and had failed miserably.

“You look great, Annja. I haven’t seen you in a while. Really good,” he drew out the compliment.

“Thanks.” She shoveled two more forkfuls and a hearty swallow of water.

“And famished. Pace yourself, or we’ll need another bottle of wine before you get to dessert.”

“Nothing wrong with that. I’m no connoisseur, but this stuff is excellent.”

“It is better than anything I’ve had lately.” He dodged his glance from the wine to her face. “Is that a bruise?”

She rubbed her jaw. “Slipped on a dig.”

“I doubt it.”

Annja shrugged and sipped the white wine. The man was a detective and possessed remarkable deduction skills. She couldn’t put a lie past him if she tried. So back to redirection. “This stuff is great. I wonder if I could get another order just to take home for lunch tomorrow?”

“Avoiding the subject as usual.”

Setting down her fork and settling against the hard chair back, Annja relented. “What
is
the subject?”

“You and your current death-defying adventure. And me and my worries.”

“I’m a big girl, Bart.”

“You are. But big girls don’t swim in the Gowanus Canal with dead men.”

“I thought this was a reunion, not an interrogation.”

“Okay, let’s eat. But don’t fault me for caring about you.”

“I would never.” She drank more wine because it was easier when she had something to do with her hands than just sitting dumbly, open, allowing him into her personal space with his delving gaze. “So how’s it with the NYPD?”

“Great. Couldn’t be happier. Well, I could, but that’s personal.”

“Personal stuff! It’s about time. I want to hear some dirt. No girlfriends?”

“Not lately. You?”

“Girlfriend? Nope, I don’t swing that way.”

Bart chuckled. “I’m glad I got you out tonight.”

“I am, too.” She held up her wine and Bart matched the move. “To good friends.”

“Who worry about each other,” he said.

By the time they’d finished the meal and the bottle of wine Annja had learned Bart was considering online dating. Just to check it out. To learn the scene, he’d used the excuse, in case it ever came up on a case.

Why a good-looking guy like Bart had to resort to finding a woman online was beyond her. It must have something to do with his broken engagement. It had hurt him, she could sense. Bart was doing the rebound thing, looking for a replacement for his fiancée. Rebounds never worked out. Even he confessed that much.

So he was basically looking to get laid, though he’d never say it outright like that. She could understand. Who didn’t want a little human contact now and then?

They stepped outside into a light flutter of snow. Before Annja could say anything, Bart pulled her in for a hug. A good hug. Not flirtatious, yet it warmed every part of her body. She clung to his shoulders before gently moving away.

“How’d you know I needed one of those?”

“Really? That one was for me.” He winked as a snowflake dashed his eyelid. “This one is for you.”

The second hug was even better than the first. Yet Annja couldn’t enjoy it completely because, much as the close contact appealed, she did not want to be Bart’s rebound girl.