So were he and Serge working together? She’d had the thought a necromancer could help a man rise in his career. Made sense, again. Supernatural sense.

But it didn’t seem as though Ben and Serge were on the same page now. Both wanted the skull. Yet Serge had seemed bitter about Ben. Could the skull be a means to retaliate against Ben? For what?

Turning down the street, Annja stretched her gaze across the building fronts. Half the area was active business, the other derelict industrialism. Sunset Park had done a great job of prettying up the area, but there was yet a lot of work to do.

At this pace, she’d beat Bart. And did he really think she’d wait for backup?

It bothered her that, of all the people she would expect to produce results upon holding the skull, one of those people was not her. She wielded a magical sword. Why wouldn’t a magical skull work in her hands?

Or was it she was only allowed one magical weapon to her arsenal in this crazy world of legend become reality?

Annja had no idea how the sword actually worked for her—coming to her grip when needed, and sometimes not appearing when it wasn’t needed, though she called for it. It worked, that was what mattered.

So did the skull only work in one specific set of hands? Why Garin’s? It was hard to tie Garin to a necrophilic skull that gave all good things. He wasn’t some chosen warrior set to change the world. Heck, warriors weren’t even in vogue anymore.

Or maybe he was. She had no right to judge. There were greater forces operating in her life, and in the lives of those orbiting about her. Roux and Garin were two of those orbiting planets.

Annja slowed. Her hair stood up on the back of her neck.

The warehouse was compact, yet six stories high. A bright light beamed out from the multipaned windows tracking the first floor. It was older, probably built in the industrial age, and likely marked for demolition. There were lots of buildings in the city that should have been demolitioned ages ago due to safety hazards.

Feeling as though she was the only one in the yard before the building, but sensing that couldn’t possibly be true, Annja instinctively held out her arms, putting up her hands in show of surrender. Her backpack with the skull inside hugged her shoulder.

Behind her, water slapped the decaying pier. She was in no mood for another swim in November waters.

As she approached the door she heard footsteps move up behind her, sloshing through the slush of snow. She stopped. Intuitive prickles tightened across her scalp.

A man called for her to stop. A little late, but she never did rate thugs too highly on the smarts scale.

“Hands behind your neck,” he ordered.

She complied, hating the vulnerable position. Wide male hands moved over her arms, patting her down in search of weapons. They groped down her torso and thighs.

A tug at the backpack prompted her to tug in return. “I only hand it over to Benjamin Ravenscroft,” she said. “Or the deal’s off.”

It was a lousy argument. They could shoot her, take the backpack and be done with the entire thing.

“Let her hang on to it. She’s clean,” someone said.

The door before her was shoved open by a man clad head to combat boots in jungle camouflage. He hugged an AK-47 to his ribs. The dark glasses were utterly inane this late at night.

Given a wide berth, Annja passed through the doors and into a vast empty room. She couldn’t determine what kind of factory it may have once been. There was no equipment or large industrial machines. The concrete floor was cracked and littered with building debris and bits of twig from overhead birds’ nests.

Ahead, light beamed over a man tied to a chair, his arms wrenched around behind the back of it. Blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth and down his chin.

Annja felt the need to hold the solid hilt of her sword. But she cautioned quick action.

Behind her, four thugs loomed. One stood close enough she could hear his labored breathing.

“Miss Creed, once again it is a pleasure.”

A man in black suit and silver tie stepped into the light beside the seated man.

“Your pleasure is my headache, Ben.”

“Yes, you can use my first name, if you desire. Most call me Mr. Ravenscroft.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Ben.Is this Maxfield Wisdom?”

The man on the chair, his mouth gagged, looked to her with pleading eyes and nodded profusely. He couldn’t be much over forty. He had a narrow face and was dressed in safari khakis.

“I’m sorry, Maxfield. I hadn’t intended for things to go this way,” she said to him. Then to Ben she said, “Why don’t you extend the olive branch and let him go? I’m here. I have what you want. There’s no need to further involve Mr. Wisdom.”

“You’re an impatient woman, Annja. That surprises me, knowing you spend your days digging fruitlessly about in the dirt in hopes of now and then snagging a bit of bone or pottery.”

“When I’m not pothunting—” she used the derogatory term loosely “—I seem to be negotiating with one or another type of bad guy. I’ve become very good at it.”

“Really? I knew something remarkable had attracted me to you. For a woman, you’ve got balls.”

She shook her head. “Can we quit the dance and get to the showdown?”

“Yes. Time is, as they say, of the essence.”

With a nod of his head, Ben laid out a silent command. Annja was gripped from behind, her left arm twisted across her back. The backpack strap, hooked over her right shoulder, slipped to her elbow.

“Is it in there?” Ben approached. “Give me the bag.”

She struggled, but allowed him to take the backpack. Until Maxfield was free, she couldn’t be too quick to fight. Especially not with the thug standing in the shadows with a machine gun aimed on the bound man.

The thugs handed the backpack to Ben. He set it carefully on the ground.

“You have it, now let me take Maxfield and leave.”

Ben squatted over the backpack, making great show of slowly drawing down the zipper and reaching inside. “You don’t want to see if it works?”

“It doesn’t,” she said. “I don’t know what you think an old skull is going to do for you, but it certainly isn’t going to bring riches or raise the dead.”

Ben’s smile wavered. He stood, the box in both hands. “You know nothing about me, Annja Creed. You think I’m some evil man who wants to kill, maim or destroy to get what he wants?”

“I’m a pretty good judge of character. I call ’em as I see them.”

Ben caressed the box and lifted it to study. Now he reminded her of a wicked wizard who held Pandora’s box and intended to unleash untold evils upon the world.

Oh, Annja, you’ve been watching far too many fantasy movies lately, she thought.

“I already have the riches,” Ben said. His dark eyes searched hers.

Annja saw the glint of life in his eyes. They glittered. With madness? No, there was something so sad in the dark depths she momentarily wondered if he was truly mentally disturbed.

Hell, he’d hired a necromancer. He believed a skull could give him power. Of course he was disturbed.

“But I do need to ensure one destined for death is granted a reprieve,” he said.

“What does that mean? We’re all destined to die sooner or later.”

Ben tucked the box under an arm and tilted a quizzical look upon her.

“Annja, what if you knew you were going to die. It was fated. Let’s say, tomorrow.”

“If that’s when I’m meant to go…so be it.”

“Ah, but what if you knew something was out there to reverse that fate? Would you attempt to utilize it?”

He didn’t want to know her philosophy of life and death. He must be talking about someone close to him. Who else would a man try so desperately to save?

“You think the skull can stop death?” she asked.

“That would be a very good thing, don’t you agree?”