“So what can I do for you?” he asked.

“I’m here at Garin’s Manhattan apartment.” She paused to catch his reaction. He didn’t disappoint.

“Did you call to joke with me, Annja? You shouldn’t do that with an old man.”

“You may be old, but you’ve the attitude and physique of a fifty-year-old.”

“Fifty? Annja, you wound me.”

Well, she wasn’t going any lower. He looked a nice healthy fifty, if truth were told. An attractive, healthy fifty. Man, she did need to start dating if the two oldest men in the world turned her head so easily.

“Garin pulled me out of a grave this morning as I was breathing my last breath.”

“Sporting of him. Why the sleep with the worms?”

She flinched at the mention of worms. Garin had plucked one from her hair, she was sure of it.

“I’ve found a new friend who wants to kill me if I don’t hand over a fancy skull given to me by an anonymous—and now dead—thief.”

“Ah, adventure again. I do love to live vicariously through you, Annja. You may think I’ve lived a dangerous life, but you, you do defy even my best adventures. What’s the skull about? I’m assuming Garin wants to get his hands on it?”

“That’s my guess, but he’s playing Mr. Nice Guy right now. Claims he wants to protect me from a necromancer. He called it the Skull of Sidon. I’m just sitting down to research it right now.”

At that, she typed it in at Google. Roux’s sudden intake of breath caught her attention. “You’ve heard of it?” she asked.

Google brought up ten pages of matches. The first flashed Knights Templar in the blurb, along with mention of the Lady of Maraclea.

“Annja, Garin’s right. I don’t want you going near the necromancer. Those bastards are bad news.”

“Yeah? What about the skull?”

There was a long pause, and then, “It’s as bad news as is the necromancer.”

“So you believe in a skull born from a necrophilic liaison?” Just saying it made her want to spit, as if her mouth were still full of dirt.

“I do. But more so, I believe in the necromancer’s power. And if you’ve got something he wants, he’ll kill to get it. I take it he’s the one who put you in the grave?”

“Yes. But I don’t think he was trying to kill me. Just give me a scare. He has to keep me alive. I don’t have the skull at the moment, and I am the only one who knows where it is.”

“He’ll find it.”

“I don’t know how he can. I was very careful not to be followed.”

“If he’s got something of yours, he can track you. A strand of hair, a piece of clothing.”

She turned her wrist up and the bandage sneaked below the sleeve hem. Annja swallowed. “What about a bone sample?”

“What? You’re not serious!” he shouted.

Annja flinched at his vehemence. “We had a scuffle, and he had this sharp instrument that took a chunk out of my wrist like a core sample from a tree.”

“Goddamn it! Annja, bone is the necromancer’s primary weapon. He can summon ghosts and all sorts of dark and twisted things with it.”

It was rare Roux used foul language with her. Annja pushed the laptop aside. Garin stood in the doorway, listening. He filled the whole doorway with his wide shoulders and a stare so intense it could burn out her irises.

“Did you tell Garin?”

“No.” She tried to look away from the man’s gaze, but he had her locked in the crosshairs. She hadn’t noticed him approach. He could have been listening to the whole conversation. “I don’t think I told him.”

“Tell him. Curse the gods, let me talk to him.”

Now that was an interesting request. Roux and Garin were to odds more often than allies. While she tried to put the two as a father and son pair, they constantly proved to her they were more enemies than relatives. Certainly no common blood ran in their veins.

Annja handed her cell phone toward the man occupying the doorway. “It’s Roux.”

Garin took the phone and, before speaking, narrowed his eyes at her. Nope, not going to give him a clue. She’d leave the verbal combat to the big boys.

“Roux?”

While the men spoke Annja tapped the keyboard, bringing up the first site that featured a photo of a skeleton laying repose in situ at a dig sight. The leg bones were crossed, and a smaller skull sat at the hip bones. It was not an actual photo of the Maraclean woman’s remains, it warned, just a reenactment of the legend.

That was the thing. Annja didn’t know how to believe something so wild until she could trace it to the original dig. Where was the skull discovered? How had it made its way to the fifteenth-century alchemist Garin had told her about? Had it everbeen buried, or had it always been tucked away somewhere, like in an alchemist’s lab?

Garin had said something about the alchemist nothaving it after they left. What was that about?

If Marcus Cooke was still alive he would have the answer to where the skull had last been.

Why did the skull and necromancer freak out Roux so much? That man was cooler than cool. He’d stood against bullets, RPGs, grenades, swords and so much more, Annja felt sure, than to let one man scare him.

A necromancer? She’d come against greater opponents in the past few months. Ninjas, bio-pirates, mad scientists, tomb raiders and just plain nasty killers.

Sure, Serge was big, strong and powerful. While he didn’t seem to exercise any particular martial skills, he could no doubt snap her like a twig if he got her in the right hold. He might even give Garin a challenge physically, but she would lay wagers on that match. They were about the same height and build. And she knew Garin would not hesitate before exacting punishment in his own defense.

Serge, on the other hand, had not proven murderous. Yet.

And if he did possess some supernatural power, wouldn’t he have used it on her by now?

Maybe his power wasn’t like zapping lightning bolts out from his fingers. It had to be conjured. Focused through the spirits Roux had said necromancers use.

He did have a piece of her bone. He could be working some mojo on her as she sat here. But ghosts? Didn’t she have to bea ghost for him to discover something about her?

Typing in necromancy,Annja waited as Google searched. The trouble with the Internet is you couldn’t tell it you only wanted to search scholarly articles about any given request. The search brought up Web page after Web page about necromancers—all gaming sites.

“Not what I want,” she muttered.

Garin snapped the phone shut and set it on the glass desktop. He pressed his knuckles to it and hissed sharply, “He has your bone sample?”

It wasn’t a friendly question. In fact, the accusation admonished with a slice.

“I thought it was a freaky kind of weapon.” She tugged up her sleeve to reveal the bandage. “It’s healing fine, thank you very much. Though it still hurts like a mother.”

Garin gripped a fist before him, then released it. “This is not good, Annja. With a piece of your bone the conjurer can—”

“Can what?”

“I don’t know specifics. Necromancers can do nasty, macabre stuff. It’s not pretty. But I do know you’re up shit creek. We’ve got to get the skull.”

“It’s at the university with Professor Danzinger. I left it for him to authenticate. What time is it?”

“Nine.”

“I’m sure he’s left for the day.”

“We can’t take the chance the skull will be left unattended. Let’s go.”

“But Roux thinks I should stay out of this.”

He swung to face her in the doorway. A lift of dark brow challenged sardonically. “You always do what Roux asks of you?”

“No.” But neither did she want Garin to lead her around. “How will having the skull in hand protect me from Serge? Won’t it just draw him right to me?”

“It’ll keep him back. It is the giver of all good things. Trust me on this one, Annja.”

He touched her chin with a finger and held her gaze. His eyes were intense. A lot of history lived there. History she was hungry to learn.