“So we both want the thing. You,” Ben said, “I can only imagine for some kind of ritual that would serve your usual conjuring.”

Serge nodded. It was a guess he could live with.

“Or not.” A tilt of Ben’s head focused his devious gaze on Serge. “What does a man who conjures ghosts and demons, a man who can manipulate the wills of normal humans through the concentration of the otherworld, want with the Skull of Sidon?”

“I’ve no desire for riches.”

“Nor do I.” At Serge’s lift of brow, Ben elaborated, “I have riches already. But you—is it power you desire?”

“No more than I already possess.” And yet he never felt more lacking in power than when in Ben’s presence.

“Then I am baffled as to your desire for the thing. Yet I know you will not tell me. That is acceptable. But must we battle against each other to finally hold the prize? Why not join forces and share the rewards?”

“The rewards the Skull of Sidon offer would be twisted and vile in your hands, Mr. Ravenscroft. I will not be part of that.”

“You don’t know me at all, Serge. It saddens me. After all I have done for you and your family.” One hand thrust out in a slashing dismissal, Ben sighed. “Just so. To opposite ends of the lists, then, we two. You do realize your victory will see your family destroyed?”

Lifting his head to look upon the wicked piece of human flesh, Serge merely nodded. Then he turned and walked out.

He expected to receive a call from Ravenscroft very soon to occupy him, perhaps keep him from pursuing the skull. But he did not.

If he had the money, he’d fly to the Ukraine to protect his family. As it was, Ben kept a very tight rein on his bank account. He could no more afford to buy a new suit. So he’d find the skull, which meant finding that Creed woman.

And he’d beat Benjamin Ravenscroft to the prize.

28

Something clunked dully like pottery hitting stone. Annja woke from a sound sleep. Was someone digging nearby? She couldn’t recall getting to the dig—

Her body slid down the vinyl booth. She slapped her palms on the Formica diner table and dragged herself upright.

No dig. Just a weird dream.

Head woozy with sleep, she yawned and winced at the pull in her back.

“Rise and shine, sweetie.”

The waitress who’d served her coffee earlier loitered by the table, hand to one very generous hip. Her pink polyester uniform advertised a dribble of ketchup on the skirt, a splotch of grease at the hip and possibly gravy on the hem.

“I fell asleep? Sorry.” Not really. She’d intended to catch a few winks. Heck, what was a twenty-four-hour diner good for, if not that? Rest and…gravy.

“No problem, sweetie.”

“What time is it?”

“Four forty-five. My shift ends in fifteen minutes, so I wanted to give you a heads-up. The next gal on duty isn’t so kind to let her tables be used as bedrooms.”

Annja dug in her pocket, mining for a generous tip.

“One more coffee to wake you up,” the waitress suggested in a kindly, mothering tone.

Or what Annja suspected was a mothering tone. She’d never had one of those—a mother. But if given opportunity to design her own, this woman’s voice would qualify.

“Maybe I can get some breakfast while you’re at it,” Annja said. “I promise I won’t go back to sleep.”

“Eggs over easy and a side of bacon?”

“And pancakes.”

“With a dollop of whip cream on top for you, sweetie. Sit tight. I’ll be back with coffee.”

Dragging a folded wad of bills from her pocket, Annja sorted through the cash. She had enough for breakfast and a great tip. If she intended to play it on the down low she needed more cash. She wasn’t sure how safe home would be now that Serge had a death wish for her.

Did he know someone else was after the skull? That some stranger had killed the professor to get his hands on it? He couldn’t possibly know Garin had it. So that made her the bone conjurer’s only target.

She wondered if he still had pieces of her bone. The notion sent a shiver up her spine.

Rubbing a palm over her forehead to ease out the lingering sleep, she shook her head over her moping. “Way to go, Creed. Feel sorry for yourself much?”

She’d literally curled up in this booth like a scared little girl. Alone? No one to care for her?

“Man, I must have been tired. Time to think through this rationally before the necromancer sends ghosts or demons or whatever it is he conjures after me. What is going on with the Skull of Sidon?”

Dragging a foot across the opposite booth seat, she snagged her backpack and dug out the laptop. She scanned for a wireless network, and waited while it searched the area. It nabbed a connection in twenty seconds.

The waitress dropped off a pot of coffee and promised her breakfast would be out in “two licks.”

Annja sipped the hot brew and made the guttural sound men do when they’ve just been java-slapped awake. Now that was some black coffee.

She glanced around the dining room. One patron leaned over the counter at the front. He didn’t seem concerned by her sudden vocalization.

After spiking the black brew with four creams from the melamine dish sitting by the condiments rack, Annja started making notes.

Serge wanted the skull. For some sort of bone-conjuring hullabaloo she probably didn’t want too many details on. It would be nasty. Nasty didn’t require details. But said nasty would have to wait, because he currently did not have the skull.

On the other hand, Serge’s last words to her promised he’d track her down.

That meant big-time nasty.

“Bet I could fend him off with this coffee.” She stared into the brew, lightened to a rusty shade by the cream. “This stuff could blind a man after a few cups.”

After another sip, she typed Garin Braden’s name on the facsimile of a yellow sticky note displayed on the monitor.

Garin has the skull. That’s the second time in his five hundred years he’s held it. He knows it’s bad news. Andit did some kind of mojo on me and the bad guy while he held it, she thought.

So was that the proof? The skull really was the legendary Skull of Sidon? Capable of providing the holder with all good things?

What exactly did all good thingsimply?

Heck, winning the lottery sounded good to most people. Annja glanced out the window. It was snowing again. A nice warm bed and no bruises sounded like a good thing to her right now.

It would be a very good thing, from Garin’s perspective, to have me out of the picture so he could walk away with the skull.

That was what had happened last night.

“But then what would he use it for?”

To take the sword from her? He said he didn’t want it. This time. That meant he either wanted something greater only the skull could give him or…he intended to sell it.

From what she knew of Garin the latter was the likeliest. The man did like to make a buck. And not from selling office products or Boy Scout Christmas wreaths. He dealt in arms, art and other things she didn’t want to know about. When opportunity knocked, Garin Braden answered—with pistol in hand and a devious grin.

But seriously? The five-hundred-year-old immortal guy just wanted the skull to make a buck?

“I’m missing something. Some integral piece to this baffling puzzle.”

She tapped the tracking pad with a forefinger. She eyed the coffee. A few more sips were needed to clear her fuzzy brain.

Where had the skull come from? The thief, Marcus Cooke, had gotten it somewhere. And when she’d scanned the Internet she hadn’t found reference to the skull being found on a recent dig.