23

Garin raced across the snowy tarmac to the Escalade. The tires spun on thin ice as he drove away. One hand on the wheel, and navigating the tight street, he held the skull in the other.

“Ha!” He tossed it up and down on his palm. “Maybe the second time will be the charm.”

As soon as he’d turned the skull face toward Annja, he’d felt the bone vibrate upon his palm, and then—whack! Two bodies hit the lumber.

He’d heard groans as he’d run out the warehouse door. Still alive, then. This time the skull hadn’t murdered. It had been a risk to hold it before Annja, knowing it could bring her death, but Garin had felt deep down it wouldn’t harm her.

She was not his enemy, no matter how she felt about that.

Did he regret leaving Annja behind to fend on her own?

“She’s got the sword. She’ll be fine.”

And if not? That wasn’t his problem, was it?

SERGE GOT OUT of the cab at the curb in front of Schermerhorn Hall. He wouldn’t attempt to stride up the sidewalk. Half a dozen squad cars flashed blue and red lights across the darkening winter sky.

The cab pulled away, leaving oily fumes in its wake.

Clenching his fist, Serge swore. He felt a lingering sense of power close by. Not active, but remnants, as if a great force had been utilized. Not on this campus, though.

The sensation made him scan north. Perhaps less than a mile from here?

The intuitive feeling meant someone had beaten him to the skull. And they’d used it already.

Across the street he spied a familiar figure standing outside a dark-windowed BMW. His attention was on the commotion, as well.

Serge sped across the street.

He grabbed Harris by the collar and slammed him against the car. “Where is it?”

“I know you. And I know I don’t work for you, you freaky thing, so let go of me.”

He didn’t need this obstinacy. Swinging the man around, Serge slapped his palm to the back of his scalp and slammed him down. Harris’s face dented the top of the car. He sputtered blood and, to his credit, didn’t yell or draw attention to them.

“You’re insane,” Harris whined. Hands gripping the edge of the car, he strained as Serge attempted to force his face again into the metal. He was strong. “If you’re looking for the skull, I don’t have it!”

“Where is it?”

“In the hands of the NYPD now. Look! The cops are everywhere. My guy is still inside. Getting cuffed, I’m sure. Ouch!”

A dribble of blood pooled on the dented hood.

Serge sensed Harris was telling the truth. If he had the skull why would he remain on the scene when the cops were swarming?

“You going after him?” Serge asked.

“Are you nuts? Oh, right, you are. Ravenscroft says you talk to spirits. What a freakin’ nut case.”

Another slam shut up the man. Serge cautioned his anger. If he knocked Harris unconscious he wouldn’t be able to tell him anything else.

“You intend to bail him out?”

“That’s not my call,” Harris said and spat blood.

“Ravenscroft?”

“Yeah, but I’m sure he’ll play it cool. Why are you after this thing? Ravenscroft won’t like hearing I had this unpleasant conversation with you.”

“Tell him what you want.” Serge reached inside his coat and palmed the bone biopsy tool. “The skull is mine.”

“Not according to Ravenscroft—ah!”

The tool passed neatly through flesh and the scaphoid bone at the base of Harris’s right thumb.

The man’s shout was loud enough to draw attention. Serge tugged him down against the car door and withdrew the tool as he did so. He dropped Harris near the rear tire. He had passed out.

Inside his pocket he carried a small plastic bag. He placed the tool inside and pocketed it.

He decided to track the skull’s latent spirit trail. If it was possible, he might be able to trace it to whoever held it. But he had to work quickly. Already the chill air dulled his sensory awareness of the skull.

PUSHING A BOARD OFF her shoulder, Annja winced. Pain seared through her hip. A good number of two-by-fours had landed her shoulders, but she hadn’t felt the impact completely because the murderer’s body had blocked the initial blows, and then she’d blacked out.

Now, various parts on her hurt like a mother.

Dragging herself from the Jenga scatter of lumber, she pushed with her toe against something with give. Then she remembered she wasn’t alone.

Clearing the boards, she gripped her hip and stood at a forward-leaning angle to counteract the pain.

Professor Danzinger’s murderer lay beneath the boards. Dead? She could hope. But as she scanned the length of his body, she saw one of his fingers twitch.

Time to call in the cavalry.

Bart answered on the first ring this time. “Annja, I’m at Schermerhorn Hall.”

“You found the professor’s body?”

“Yes, and we’re dusting for fingerprints now. Please tell me yours will not turn up in the mix.”

She winced. “I hope not. I did use his computer.”

“Annja—”

“Bart, before you go off on me, I’m standing over the professor’s murderer right now. I followed him from the scene of the crime.”

“I wish you called me earlier, Annja.”

Yeah, so did she. So maybe this was one of those times when she needed to step up and say, I need help.

The boards behind her toppled and the man sat upright.

Annja summoned the sword to hand and tipped him under the chin with the point. “Stay,” she ordered.

“What?”

“Not you, Bart. I’m in a warehouse about six blocks north of the university. It looks like new construction, maybe a lumber warehouse. I’ve got your man. We found the skull on him, stolen from the professor.”

“We?”

“Me and a—” Most definitely not a friend. She’d mentioned Garin to Bart before. But she had never explained their complicated relationship, or that he was immortal. “Will you just come over here, Bart?”

“Is the suspect conscious?”

“Not for long.”

IT WAS AS IF THE THING had power.

Annja had felt its force move through her. But when she expected something like that to have burned through her flesh and bone to incinerate, it had been not so much painful as encompassing. She’d held the power within her for one moment, and then it had passed through and she felt the angry force overtake the man who’d held her in a choke hold.

It was difficult to remain a skeptic with visceral proof. Now what she worried about was that incredible power being wielded by a man like Garin Braden.

The ease with which he’d used the skull against her proved one thing—he was in it for himself. And it obviously gave him little concern if Annja was a casualty.

Always thankful for Bart’s discretion, Annja heaved a sigh of relief when his voice called through the warehouse. He’d come alone. But not for long, he warned, as he wanted to call this in immediately. The NYPD was up the street at the college; it wouldn’t look right if he waited to tell them about this discovery.

“I understand,” she said.

Annja led him to the guy sprawled on the floor. Bart didn’t know about the sword; she’d knocked out the murderer so she didn’t have to reveal how, exactly, she’d kept him at bay until the cavalry did arrive.

“My prints are on the air nailer,” she said, nodding at the abandoned weapon on the floor. “That hole in his head is from a nail.”

Bart bent over the thug’s body, cuffs in hand. “You could have taken out an eye, Annja.”

“Seriously? I mean, you’re worried I could have damaged a man who murdered my friend?”

“Not at all, do all the damage you like. It’d just be kind of gross to see a guy with a nail through his eyeball.”

She smirked and he laughed. The release of tension was needed, and Bart seemed to sense it necessary. He cuffed the unconscious man.

With the thug secure, Bart holstered his gun under his arm, and led Annja to the open warehouse door. He spoke into his radio, explaining he’d followed a perp to the warehouse. Already a police siren gained on them.

Annja felt his breath on her neck before she realized he stood so close. “Need another one of those hugs?”

Did she. But now was no time to go all mushy and start wondering what Bart’s hugs implied.

“I can’t stick around,” she said.

“Don’t expect you to. Not sure if I want you to.” He grabbed her arm before she could take a step outside. “But I’m still a cop, and I have to follow some procedure. Where’s the skull?”

Annja sighed heavily.

“You don’t have it?” Drawing her close, he spoke in low tones, his head bowed over hers. “What is going on, Annja?”

“I’m not sure, Bart. There’s something about this skull that makes men kill for it. First the thief at the bridge, and now the professor. He was such a nice guy. I can’t believe I was responsible for his death.”

“How could you be responsible? You couldn’t have known someone would go after the skull.”

“I could have! I shouldn’t have left it with Danzinger after Serge tracked me to my loft.”

“Serge? Tracked you to your loft?”

She dropped her raised hands and turned from Bart’s eyes. Now he closed her in against the door frame, one of his hands to the wall over her shoulder. “Annja?”

“Yesterday, I returned home from the university to find a stranger waiting for me. My place was trashed. He was looking for the skull.”

Bart swiped a hand over his jaw and fixed her with a stare she wouldn’t wish on the hardest of criminals. He had a way of looking at her without saying a word that made her feel as if he could read her thoughts as they fired in her brain synapses.

He was a detective. Of course he should have that skill. But she wasn’t up on emotion. And she was still feeling out of sorts after finding Danzinger on the floor.

“I didn’t want to upset you,” she offered. He didn’t drop the castigating scowl. “Serge is a necromancer.”

“A what?”

“Guy who talks to spirits with bones.”

He had nothing to say to that. Annja wondered about pushing up his chin to close his mouth, but she wasn’t rude. And she didn’t want to rile him any more than he already was.

“Do I need to go in for questioning?”

“You should. But I don’t know if I want my coworkers to hear the tale you have to tell. Necromancers and gold skulls? This is not an episode of Indiana Jones.”

“It’s not a tale.”

“I believe you, Annja. But let’s keep the creepy skull stuff for the television show, okay? I’ll arrest this guy and match his prints at the scene of the crime. It’ll be simple murder and artifact theft, only we haven’t got an artifact to prove it.”

“I’m working on that.”

“You know where it is?”

“I have an idea.”

“But you’re not going to tell me? Maybe I do need to bring you in for questioning. If only because it’ll keep you safe.”

“I know the guy who took it,” she offered. “Remember I mentioned Garin Braden to you a while back?”

“I remember the name. He helped you out of one of those adventurous, bullet-dodging situations you tend to find yourself in so often. Such as now. You’ve dodged bullets, and the adventure level is pretty high. He’s helping you again?”

“Yes.” Not really. “I don’t know. Listen, Bart, give me a day to go after him and see what’s up.”

“Let me come along.”

“Too risky.”

“Then I’m not letting you go.”

Bart tugged handcuffs from his belt. Annja shrugged a shoulder against the warehouse door. “Bart, if you arrest me, you’ll have to name me as a suspect.”

“It’s just protective custody, Annja. I wiped the prints from the nailer.”

“You did?” That was risky. He could lose his job if anyone discovered his duplicity.

“Let me do this, Bart. You know I can take care of myself.”

“Actually, I don’t know that. You’ve given me the call more times than I can count. And each time I sit wondering, teeth clenched and feeling so ineffectual that I can’t help you. This has to stop. I know you’ve got the self-defense moves, but you’re not a superhero, Annja.”

“Never said I was.”

“So don’t do this one on your own. Let me help you.”

“I’m not in any danger. Garin wouldn’t harm me.” Too much. “He’s a friend.” Not really. But she’d never escape the handcuffs unless she convinced Bart seeking Garin was less perilous than it really was.

Still standing in close proximity, Bart leaned over her. She could smell his aftershave. Rebound girl? What the heck was wrong with that?

“Annja, why do you have to do this? Why is this personal?”

It wasn’t personal. She had just been sucked into the adventure.

You get off on the adrenaline rush from it now. You don’t hate the responsibility of the sword. You crave it. It’s so freakin’ personal you can no longer survive without the rush, she thought.

So that was it? She’d become some kind of adrenaline junkie? A nutty archaeologist who sought danger and got off on it?

“I know Professor Danzinger,” she offered. “Let me go after Garin. I just want to talk to him before it’s too late and he’s done something with the skull.”

“Where does he live?”

“Here in Manhattan. The cops are almost here. Please, Bart, I’ll stay in touch.”

He leaned back and tucked the handcuffs in his pocket. “I’ve had partners I’ve worried less about.”

“I’ll check in tomorrow morning. Promise.”

“If you don’t, I’ll be sitting on your doorstep waiting for you.”

“Deal.”

She kissed his cheek. It wasn’t an intimate kiss, but it felt pretty deep. Like some kind of promise she was afraid to keep.

“Talk soon,” she said as she ran off.