“I would call that good,” Roux said. He slapped a hand on the skull’s top. “This marvel just killed all our enemies.”

“It is evil,” Garin gasped. Blood rushed through his veins. The old man was surely the wizard rumors claimed him to be.

“Evil it may be, but it saved our sorry asses.”

Roux strode past the bodies toward his Andalusian. He did not seem to take measure of the startling event that had just occurred. Mounting and tucking the skull at his hip, he nodded to a warrior’s horse that had not been stripped of flesh or fled.

“You’ve been wanting a new mount, boy.”

A guttural sound warbled from Garin’s mouth. Numbly, he grabbed the reins of a Moor’s mount.

“Good things?” he muttered. “God in heaven, forgive and watch over me.”

THEY MADE MEDINA Sidonia by sunrise. Garin could not think of sleep, for the itchy dust crowded his eyes, nostrils and the back of his throat. He’d yet to take his gaze from the skull Roux held as if a child. Nestled at his hip, the white bone taunted.

It had power. A power that frightened Garin. He’d seen wonders since Roux had taken him as an apprentice. Babies birthed and giants of men fallen. Dying men cured with magic potions, and there was the man in London whose heart was exposed for all to see. Garin had seen a live heart beating.

Last night had put all those wonders to shame.

They cantered toward the village, which was just waking to the new day. Ahead were women busy at a stone well with their wash.

Forget about the battle in the grove.They would find food and rest and be on to France with no more discussion of the skull.

The truth was, he wanted Roux to be rid of the thing. The occult scared him.

A young boy, no higher than a grown man’s hip, rushed out from a stone home and toward Roux. Arms wide and eyes bright, he could not know the approaching rider. Such childish innocence. It gave Garin a smile.

The boy was lifted from his feet and flung through the air. His frail body collided with the red tile roof and slid. The tiles clattered sickly. The body dropped to the ground with a thud.

Dead.

Garin heeled his mount to parallel his master. “What have you done? It is that damned thing!”

“I did not—” Shaken, Roux inspected the skull. “It was not my doing!”

“The boy is dead! By supernatural means. Be rid of the thing!”

Roux turned the eye sockets away and lifted it high.

The women gathered around the well stood and screamed.

“Put it away!” Garin cried. “Destroy it!”

Blood streamed across white fabric, spilling from ears and eyes. The women clutched at their hair and stumbled. Wash buckets overturned, washing the flowing blood into runnels of dirt.

“Turn it away from them!” Garin shouted.

But the old man was too shocked to understand what was happening. The skull was destroying more than their enemies. It was taking away life in an attempt to clear their paths.

ANNJA BREATHED OUT. The room, very still, felt heavy with an ineffable pain. Garin’s regret. His fear of the skull. Roux’s naïveté of its power.

“It murders?” she asked.

“It does not seem to discern murder as wrong. It gives the holder what it believes to be good. Putting back our enemies. Clearing a path through the village for us to pass.”

“What did you do with the skull? How did you stop it?”

“Roux tried to crush it under his boot. It was as if forged from steel. Finally, I had him throw it down the well. It was too late for the laundresses. And half a dozen strong men who rushed to stop us.”

“What did the villagers do to you?”

“We didn’t stick around for the fireworks. While the village frenzied and wondered at what had happened, we fled.”

Garin stroked his goatee, his gaze lost somewhere out the window on the dreary New York skyline.

It occurred to Annja that a man who lived five centuries must pay a price no mortal man could conceive. Sure, there were riches and supernatural healing and all the travel and parties. But a darkness she had but glimpsed accompanied both Roux and Garin.

It softened her to his hardened exterior. A man like Garin had to wear some kind of protection against the world. But she wondered if he wore the same protection around his heart and mind? It would be impossible not to.

“I’m no saint, Annja.”

That she knew.

“So in the hands of a necromancer,” she said, “the skull could do some wicked damage.”

“I don’t want to begin to imagine. We need to get that skull.”

“I’ll give Professor Danzinger a call.”

21

Eric Danzinger liked spending late hours at the university. The desk lamp tossed gold light across the granite lab tables as if splashed out from a miner’s pan. Hundreds of skulls observed from shelves. The tick-tickof the radiator kept a syncopated beat that reminded of a slow jazz tune. A man just didn’t get atmosphere like this in his stuffy little Bronx apartment. It was also neater than his home, which was covered wall-to-wall with rock-and-roll memorabilia.

Humming a Rolling Stones tune, he sorted through the guitar strings coiled upon the granite lab table for the high E string. Threading the clear nylon string through the baseboard, he formed a nifty twist to keep it secure, then stretched it along the neck to poke through the tuning peg. He twisted it tight, then leaned aside to tap the computer keyboard.

Freaky Tuner was a shareware program that played notes to tune virtually any instrument. One tap of the return key played a steady acoustic guitar E note. He twisted the tuning peg, and plucked the string until the vibrations wavered to nothing and the notes matched.

The B string was next. He went through the same motions, smiling bemusedly at the skull upon the stuffing in the little box Annja had delivered it in. It seemed to approve of the musical break he’d decided to indulge.

“Wonder what kind of music you listened to. I bet if you had ears, you’d bow in worship to Keith Richards, too.”

On the other hand, it was an infant’s skull. Best save the rock and roll a few more years.

The professor had taken dozens of photographs of the skull’s interior. The computer was cobbling them all together as he waited. The program amazed him as to how it could piece photos together without overlapping. The interior map was about fifty percent complete.

The gold lining the skull sutures sparkled after a soft polishing with a little water, some ammonia and dishwashing soap.

Though he couldn’t guess at the original date without proper dating equipment, he did have a good idea that the gold had been added later. Certainly the thing hadn’t been born that way. It was very common to find altered artifacts, especially those of unknown origin.

Skull modification wasn’t his thing. Though he was aware it had been prevalent in early Mayan cultures. He should give Sharon in Anthropology a jingle and see what she could make of the skull. The woman got more turned on by bones than sex. Not that he hadn’t tried to alter her perceptions regarding a night well spent. Man, had he tried.

He tightened the B string, wondering if it was too late to call Annja to come take a look at the interior map. A woman like her probably had an insane schedule. Darting from dig to dig, hosting a television show, writing books and appearing on Letterman.

Yeah, he’d like it if she could find a place for him to at least guest as a researcher on the show. He didn’t mind the spotlight at all. And if it meant he could meet Kristie Chatham, well, then.