“What comes out of kids’ mouths today,” Annja said. “The poor teachers. If it isn’t bad enough they have to deal with gangs and cell phones and ADHD, there’s the class brain in the front row writing about necrophilia.”

She chuckled and clicked on the next e-mail.

NewBattleRider commented on the various skulls in history.

There are many black magic rituals involving skulls. Blood is drunk from the cranium to gain immortality. In medieval Cathay, rituals to honor gods involved skull bowls lined with brass or copper that blood was drank out of. The Knights Templar used to worship heads, which could be construed as a skull. That would jive with the cross pattée on the gold.

None of them felt right. The cross pattée felt like a red herring. A common marking. Could have been a goldsmith’s mark or some kind of freemasonry symbol, Annja thought.

She reconsidered the Knights Templar. Head worshipping?

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.

10

“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.