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.”

30

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 isworking 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.”