The sound of bone slapping against flesh signaled Garin had the skull, and tossed it once in his hand. “This is mine.”

Intuition had been horrifically on the mark.

She spun, sweeping the sword around. “You’re not going anywhere, Garin.”

Her head snapped up as a heavy weight squeezed her throat. The murderer garroted an arm about her neck. Even swinging the sword backward, she couldn’t connect with the bastard. To attempt a slice at his leg would first cut her own.

“I’ll break her neck!” he threatened.

Garin held the skull before him to look it over. His long fingers stroked the cranium and traced along the gold. “Hmm, let me think about that one. The girl for the Skull of Sidon?”

“That’s your choice, buddy.” The man tightened his hold, compressing her carotid artery. “She’s a fine piece of work.”

Annja’s vision blurred. Her fingers loosened around the sword grip and it slipped away. Whether or not the murderer noticed, he didn’t give clue. She clasped her fingers, trying to fit them around a solid hilt.

Strangulation occurred within ten to fifteen seconds. Garin wouldn’t actually…

“You’re not very smart, are you?” Garin tossed the skull and it landed in his palm with a smack. “If you’d had a better grip on your sniper, you’d have had this prize days ago.”

“What sniper?” The man lifted Annja’s body a few inches but loosened his grip somewhat. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, man.”

But Annja did. The sniper who had killed Marcus Cooke. How did Garin know about him?

“I got to him just as he pulled the trigger,” Garin said. “He was going to take out my girl after the first guy.”

Annja’s eyelids fluttered. Garin had been withthe sniper? Had it been because of him the bullet hadn’t gone through her skull? What a swell guy. Seriously. He’d saved her life.

“If she’s your girl, then you’ll be wanting her breathing. Hand it over!”

If her guess was correct, Garin wouldn’t play into this bastard’s hands.

His girl? Yeah—no. Not going there.

“You should have offered to trade for her sword,” Garin said. He turned the skull so the eye sockets faced Annja and her attacker. “That would have got you this thing in an instant.”

“The sword? Where’d it go?”

“Exactly.” Garin held the skull from his outstretched arm. “Too bad. You lose.”

A forceful wave of somethingplunged through Annja’s system. It was as if she’d been hit by a sound wave, yet it physically coursed through her body and pushed her shoulders into the thug’s hard frame.

He released his hold on her neck. She gasped, breathing in deeply.

A gust of wind blew her from her feet. And she didn’t stop moving.

The man behind her cried out hoarsely. The next thing Annja felt was the brunt force of her body slamming into his, as he collided with the stack of lumber behind them.

The hollow clatter of boards pummeled their heads. Annja recalled Garin’s story of the skull killing his enemies. Did he consider her the enemy?

Annja blacked out.

23

Garin raced across the snowy tarmac to the Escalade. The tires spun on thin ice as he drove away. One hand on the wheel, and navigating the tight street, he held the skull in the other.

“Ha!” He tossed it up and down on his palm. “Maybe the second time will be the charm.”

As soon as he’d turned the skull face toward Annja, he’d felt the bone vibrate upon his palm, and then— whack!Two bodies hit the lumber.

He’d heard groans as he’d run out the warehouse door. Still alive, then. This time the skull hadn’t murdered. It had been a risk to hold it before Annja, knowing it could bring her death, but Garin had felt deep down it wouldn’t harm her.

She was not his enemy, no matter how she felt about that.

Did he regret leaving Annja behind to fend on her own?

“She’s got the sword. She’ll be fine.”

And if not? That wasn’t his problem, was it?

SERGE GOT OUT of the cab at the curb in front of Schermerhorn Hall. He wouldn’t attempt to stride up the sidewalk. Half a dozen squad cars flashed blue and red lights across the darkening winter sky.

The cab pulled away, leaving oily fumes in its wake.

Clenching his fist, Serge swore. He felt a lingering sense of power close by. Not active, but remnants, as if a great force had been utilized. Not on this campus, though.

The sensation made him scan north. Perhaps less than a mile from here?

The intuitive feeling meant someone had beaten him to the skull. And they’d used it already.

Across the street he spied a familiar figure standing outside a dark-windowed BMW. His attention was on the commotion, as well.

Serge sped across the street.

He grabbed Harris by the collar and slammed him against the car. “Where is it?”

“I know you. And I know I don’t work for you, you freaky thing, so let go of me.”

He didn’t need this obstinacy. Swinging the man around, Serge slapped his palm to the back of his scalp and slammed him down. Harris’s face dented the top of the car. He sputtered blood and, to his credit, didn’t yell or draw attention to them.

“You’re insane,” Harris whined. Hands gripping the edge of the car, he strained as Serge attempted to force his face again into the metal. He was strong. “If you’re looking for the skull, I don’t have it!”

“Where is it?”

“In the hands of the NYPD now. Look! The cops are everywhere. My guy is still inside. Getting cuffed, I’m sure. Ouch!”

A dribble of blood pooled on the dented hood.

Serge sensed Harris was telling the truth. If he had the skull why would he remain on the scene when the cops were swarming?

“You going after him?” Serge asked.

“Are you nuts? Oh, right, you are. Ravenscroft says you talk to spirits. What a freakin’ nut case.”

Another slam shut up the man. Serge cautioned his anger. If he knocked Harris unconscious he wouldn’t be able to tell him anything else.

“You intend to bail him out?”

“That’s not my call,” Harris said and spat blood.

“Ravenscroft?”

“Yeah, but I’m sure he’ll play it cool. Why are you after this thing? Ravenscroft won’t like hearing I had this unpleasant conversation with you.”

“Tell him what you want.” Serge reached inside his coat and palmed the bone biopsy tool. “The skull is mine.”

“Not according to Ravenscroft—ah!”

The tool passed neatly through flesh and the scaphoid bone at the base of Harris’s right thumb.

The man’s shout was loud enough to draw attention. Serge tugged him down against the car door and withdrew the tool as he did so. He dropped Harris near the rear tire. He had passed out.

Inside his pocket he carried a small plastic bag. He placed the tool inside and pocketed it.

He decided to track the skull’s latent spirit trail. If it was possible, he might be able to trace it to whoever held it. But he had to work quickly. Already the chill air dulled his sensory awareness of the skull.

PUSHING A BOARD OFF her shoulder, Annja winced. Pain seared through her hip. A good number of two-by-fours had landed her shoulders, but she hadn’t felt the impact completely because the murderer’s body had blocked the initial blows, and then she’d blacked out.

Now, various parts on her hurt like a mother.

Dragging herself from the Jenga scatter of lumber, she pushed with her toe against something with give. Then she remembered she wasn’t alone.

Clearing the boards, she gripped her hip and stood at a forward-leaning angle to counteract the pain.