It was snowing again. More thick, heavy flakes. She preferred the downy stuff over the tiny sleety pebbles that made for nasty weather. Flakes collected on the grass surrounding the tightly spaced grave markers.

Annja pushed down the furred hood, and scanned the rows of tombstones. The graveyard was huge. A line of mausoleums stood south of her location. She expected Serge to pick the most out-of-the-way, least used area, maybe under some trees for privacy.

SERGE STOOD AT THE END of a long-neglected open grave sunk in around the four edges. The grave was half-filled with dirt. It could be dangerous to visitors, and had been marked off with orange cones that now lay in a pile tossed as far away as he could manage.

Open graves always came in handy.

The Creed woman stomped across the grass, her boots kicking up tufts of snow before her. Stompwasn’t the right word. She was graceful, as she’d been when wielding that curious sword yesterday at her loft.

He still couldn’t believe he’d missed that when rummaging through her things. And then he’d forgotten to look for it before leaving.

Rangy, observant and confident, she appeared keener than the average woman. She was not the sort who preened and expected others to notice. She altered his equilibrium. It was hard to remain focused around her. She was different. Unafraid. Not like ninety-nine percent of the females in this world.

Fearless women fascinated him. There were many here in New York—especially on the subway—but none who had prompted him to look outside his own world and wonder about hers.

If he didn’t need to threaten her life, Serge imagined it might be a thrill to get to know Annja Creed.

She stopped thirty feet from him. Puffs of air fogged before her parted lips. She held out her arms to reveal she carried nothing. Not the backpack, nor could he see where she might have hidden the skull. Black leggings skimmed long legs. The jacket had many pockets, but it fit her body as if a second skin. A rim of fake fox fur on the hood dusted her ears and cheeks.

There was no three-foot-long battle sword in sight.

And no skull.

“Where is it?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I already told you I don’t have it. Can’t give you what I don’t have. Wouldn’t give it to you if I didhave it.”

Clenching his leather-gloved fists, then releasing them, Serge calmed his anger. Nothing was ever accomplished out of anger. Or violence, for that matter. Yet, more often than not, violence was the only weapon capable of opening some minds to reality.

A reality Benjamin Ravenscroft had introduced to his life, damn that man.

“I thought my warning was clear,” he stated, jaw tight, more from the cold than tension.

“Crystal. But I can’t give you what I don’t have. Get that into your thick skull,” the woman said.

Obstinate and gorgeous. The combination tormented his need to remain stoic and alert.

“Speaking of skulls…” He paced to the grave head, hands crossed before him. He should have worn a hat. He didn’t like the feel of snowflakes dropping on his shaved scalp. But the snow had ceased melting and dripping down his face. The world was cold—like Benjamin Ravenscroft. “Have you learned more about what you claim not to have?”

“If I had, I wouldn’t tell you,” she said.

“So why did you come today, Annja?” He liked the feel of her name when he spoke it. It had Russian origins, he felt certain.

Stupid man, concentrate.

“To talk to you,” she replied. “To figure you out.”

She hooked her hands at her hips, matching him with a pacing stride. She was aware of his every movement, her body ready to dash, either into the fray or away from it.

He sensed she was more than a mere researcher who spent her days digging in the dirt. Yet he couldn’t figure out what experience on television could have taught her about self-defense or the fighting skills she’d used against him yesterday.

She was a well-rounded woman. Smart and capable of protecting herself. Unlike his family. They would never see it coming when the reality of Benjamin Ravenscroft came for them.

That was why he had to settle this matter and get the skull before Ben did.

“Is figuring me out so important?” he called through the crisp air.

“I’m a curious kind of girl, Serge. A guy breaks into my loft, then stabs me with some funky tool and it makes me wonder, you know?”

“How is the wrist?”

She stopped pacing. He saw the tiny wince she made at mention of the wound. It satisfied him. He was still in control.

“What the hell kind of weapon was that? You punched a hole right through me.”

“A specialty item. Necessary to my trade.”

He marveled inside as she wondered over that morsel of noninformation. She wasn’t a high-heels-and-lipstick kind of female. Not easily breakable. At least, not yet. He’d give it a go, if need be.

“Let’s quit with the banter,” she said. Flicking her gloveless fingers over her cheek, she swiped away a few snowflakes. “Why do you want the skull? And what is it, exactly?”

“So you have no clue. Good. It’s not information you require, Annja.”

Always be familiar with your enemy; it put them off guard. But was she really the enemy? he wondered.

Anyone who would keep from him what he most desired was definitely on the opposition.

“As for why I want it? Will you accept it means more to me than it ever could to you?”

“I’m an archaeologist. Old bones are like gold to us. And puzzling out their origins are the platinum sprinkles on top. If you’re not going to help me, then I can’t help you.”

He bit off the retort, But you would help if I did?

That was weak. He wasn’t about to cower to get what he needed. And this was more than a want; it was a need.

“Did you have anything to do with Marcus Cooke getting shot?” she tried.

The thief Ben had hired to obtain the skull. Serge had tracked him from the moment he’d landed in New York.

If a man thought to control him by threatening his family, then Serge made sure to keep a keen eye on that man. There wasn’t a move Ben made without Serge knowing about it. Mostly, he knew things like where Ravenscroft took his secretary for an after-work rendezvous, or at what clubs he entertained high-roller clients. Material bullshit.

But when Ben had returned from a trip to Venice and had gone to the Cloisters, a medieval museum in Manhattan, Serge had followed. He’d overheard Ben asking a curator about Sidon and a mythical skull rumored to be giver of all good things.

Could Ben possibly know what it would mean to Serge to possess the skull?

“I can honestly say I don’t know the man,” Serge offered. “The thief, that is.”

“But you knew the sniper?”

“Again, no. That surprised me, I must say. If someone was after the skull, why shoot the man carrying it and risk losing it?”

“That’s what I can’t figure out, either. So why were you there? How did you know Marcus had the skull, and who else is after it?”

“I thought I was the one asking the questions?”

She shrugged. “My bad. Looks like you hauled your ass all the way out here for nothing.” She scratched her head and looked at the grave markers. Puffs of breath condensed before her face. “Any family members you need to say hello to?”

“You do remember my threat, don’t you, Annja?”

“I’m not much for threats. They’re mostly hot air. Besides, if you’ve heard one threat, you’ve heard them all. And trust me, I get them a lot.”

“I sense that you do. Not the most agreeable woman, are you?”

She didn’t want to cooperate? Time to see how breakable she really was.

Serge kept a bowie knife tucked inside his coat, in a leather sheath right next to the bone biopsy tool. He did not draw it out.

This time, he wanted to see what she could do without weapons. She hadn’t brought a sword. It would be fist to fist. Or rather, fist to air, as his first strike was parried by a dodge from his opponent.