She, huh? Annja Creed’s image popped into his mind. Could he be so lucky to be pulled back into the search for the skull with a simple phone call?

But he wasn’t willing to shell out the amount of money Braden was asking for. Five hundred thousand wasn’t chump change. And Ben felt sure he could get the thing for nothing now he knew that Annja Creed held it.

“I’m interested,” he said.

“Great. I’ve got another bidder who wishes opportunity to match bids.”

“I’ll go as high as is necessary,” Ben offered. It wasn’t true, but Braden didn’t have to know that.

“I’ll be in contact soon, Mr. Ravenscroft.” The phone clicked off.

Ben hit a speed-dial number.

SERGE RETURNED to the warehouse where Annja Creed and the man he did not know had been with the Skull of Sidon. The police had arrested the man. He’d been working for Harris, which meant he was one of Ravenscroft’s employees. He had to track the skull before Ben got to it.

He hadn’t been able to track Creed from the warehouse, and she hadn’t returned to her loft. He’d headed home to obtain his supplies. This setback was not acceptable.

To be safe, he’d left his cell phone in the car. The frequency of Ben’s calls of late did not bode well for Serge’s concentration. The man suspected something but Ben could not possibly know why Serge sought the skull.

Yet he hadn’t anticipated Annja Creed. An archaeologist? What stakes did she have in obtaining the skull? Unless she also sold artifacts to finance— what,Serge did not know. Her loft had been nice enough, but far from richly furnished. The woman must make money from her television appearances. Why would she need to sell artifacts?

Unless she had a drug habit or an expensive vice Serge could not know about. The woman appeared in control of her faculties.

“No, not drugs,” he muttered as he walked inside the warehouse.

The extreme scent of cut wood overwhelmed the latent tendrils of arsenic likely used to preserve the wood. There were many footprints in the lumber dust on the floor. Difficult to determine a specific track, or if one might be a woman’s footprint.

Serge wandered about until he found an upset tangle of two-by-fours, and what looked like signs of struggle. Attuned to the world and the energies left behind by its inhabitants, he sensed the lingering whisper of…

Power.

The skull had been in this warehouse. He knew it.

He knelt and emptied his pockets onto one of the boards. He didn’t have the proper substance to mark a circle, but in a pinch, anything would do. Shuffling up a pile of sawdust, he then leaned over the small dune and blew it out evenly over the concrete floor. With his forefinger, he drew a circle large enough to sit inside.

He tapped the vial of bone powder remaining from the sample he’d taken from Annja Creed out onto the board, spreading it into a fine circle with a fingertip.

Picking up a lighter from the contents of his pocket he waved the flame over the crushed bone fragments until the bits began to smolder. They would not light to flame—bone required high heat to burn—but would instead simmer to a hard black coal.

Leaning over the smoking bone, Serge drew in the scent. Humming deep in his throat he began the low droning that would center him and push away the world. He must focus to connect. The souls he could contact would read the bone and tell him all he required to track Creed.

An icy trickle scurried down his forearm. Touched by the otherworld. A presence had arrived.

Communicating was achieved through a high keening he altered in tones. He was about to ask after the Creed woman when he choked on the smoke—and rocked onto the heels of his hands. His mind fuzzed over with the scent of burned bone and the clatter of cars rushing by outside.

This wasn’t right. What had brought him out from the trance?

He winced as another twinge attacked his temple. Was it the souls? Had he asked too much?

“Damn it.” He fought to lean over the smoking bone, to concentrate on drawing in the essence, but the summons would only increase until it became unbearable.

The spirits no longer wished to communicate about Annja Creed. Interesting. It was as if they held back information about her. Or did not deem him worthy of knowing.

Serge returned to his car and slid inside, but didn’t start the engine. The phone rang.

He picked it up, and didn’t say a word.

“We need to talk,” Ben said.

32

Serge stood in the center of Ben’s office.

Ravenscroft strode before him. He’d removed the pinstriped suit coat and rolled up his crisp white shirtsleeves to reveal tanned forearms. The diamond Rolex must have put him out tens of thousands of dollars. Likely thanks to Serge’s conjuring.

“It’s not working, Serge. We’re both going after something the other wants, and neither is having much luck in nabbing it. We really do need to join forces.”

“Why do you want the skull when you can have all that you wish through my summonings?”

Ben smirked. “Serge, you surprise me. You’ve refused me the only desire that means anything to me.”

“I’ve told you I do not have the power to give or take life!”

“She’s already alive,” Ben hissed. Curling his fingers into fists, he said, “You simply need to ensure that remains the case.”

If he could, Serge would move worlds to save the little girl’s life. Ben had told him about his daughter’s disease months earlier. She was dying from the bone cancer that had invaded her skull. Ben wanted Serge to make her new again, not sick, but free from the disease.

Serge had gone home that day and attempted to channel the spirits to ask for the girl’s life. It wasn’t so simple as that. The disease had come from the chemicals man put into this world. The spirit world could no more stop her death than medical science could.

And though he could speak to the dead, summon them to his bidding and learn about the future from them, the dead did not bring others to their realm, nor did they refuse those destined there.

If some had suffered due to the summonings Serge had performed for Ben it was because Ben had tainted the information Serge provided and caused it to happen. Serge’s hands were clean.

Yet he could not erase the blackness association with Ben had seared upon his soul.

He would do nothing for this man he was not forced to do.

“Ask me for anything but life and death,” Serge said quietly. “I am yours to command, as you have seen to exact the bonds about me.”

“So dramatic, Serge. Dance about your fancy words but avoid my daughter’s dying soul? When she’s dead will you then offer to summon her for me? What am I do to with my dead daughter’s soul? You bastard!”

Ben lunged and punched him in the chest. Serge allowed the man to beat upon him. His punches were ineffectual, and hurt his pride more than his flesh and bone. He could not move away. He would not. The dark demons inside Benjamin Ravenscroft needed an outlet. They needed to push fists into another man’s flesh and pound at his bones. A small justice for his dying daughter.

A wicked backhand across his jaw snapped Serge’s head smartly.

“Fight, you idiot!” Ben stalked off, rubbing his bruised fists. “Have you no mettle?” He leaned over the desk, snatching the burning cigarette and taking a drag from it. The scent of cloves infused the air.

“I merely wish my freedom, Mr. Ravenscroft.”

“Freedom?” He gasped on his inhale like an addict fighting to hold in the smoke. “Is that what you believe the skull will give you? You don’t like working for me, Serge?”