There were two books Serge’s rampage had damaged beyond repair. The spine had been ripped clean away from the signature pages on The Three Musketeers,published in 1894 with illustrations by Maurice Leloir. It was still readable, but her heart sank to her stomach at the destruction. This was one of her favorite volumes.

Now she sat on the couch and sipped a can of Diet Coke. She should hear from Maxfield Wisdom soon. His flight had landed half an hour earlier.

The skull sat on the coffee table, now bare of her collection of manuscripts. She’d tucked those in a neat pile on a bookshelf. A little cleaning never hurt anyone.

“You’ve caused a lot of trouble, you,” she said to the cranium. “I wish I could decipher the markings inside.”

Following that spark of curiosity, Annja went to her desk and spread the printouts Professor Danzinger had worked on beside the laptop. The design had a very Celtic look to it. There were interweaving ribbons and it was all very symmetrical. The Celts had invaded France a long time before this skull had been born.

“Fourth century,” she muttered. “The Templars weren’t established until the twelfth century.”

So while the design could be Celtic, she decided it probably wasn’t. It wasn’t her field of interest, though she had read a few papers about them in college. With the professor gone, she had no idea who to contact who might be able to help her.

But did it matter? Returning the skull to its owner was imminent. End of story. She’d go on to the next adventure. What would knowing what the markings were meant to say prove?

“Maybe they invoke some dark spirits?” She chuckled. “Annja, you’ve been chasing too many monsters.”

But she had found some real monsters during those chases. It meant there were many things on this earth that must be believed, if only one could open their mind wide enough.

“Maybe I should consider this as a segment for the show?” She pondered the carvings until her eyes unfocused and the dark squiggly lines blurred. “Necrophilia might be too extreme even for Doug. Ha.”

The phone rang and she nearly toppled from the chair. Dashing to the coffee table, she grabbed her phone. “Hello?”

“Miss Creed. I’ve got something you want.” The voice was familiar.

“Really?” Couldn’t be Wisdom. She had something he wanted. “Who is this?”

“Benjamin Ravenscroft.”

Right. She should have detected the sense of entitlement in his tone.

“Can we arrange to meet?” he asked.

“That depends. What is it you’ve got you believe would interest me?”

“Maxfield Wisdom.”

Annja exhaled. “You picked him up from the airport?”

“Yes, I told him you sent me. He was very agreeable until he decided I wasn’t going to take him to you. We’ve had to restrain him, poor fellow. The sooner you can get here with the Skull of Sidon the quicker the man can be undone and set to wander free. What do you say?”

“Why is the skull so important to you?”

“Does it matter when a man’s life is at stake?”

“You’d kill Maxfield?”

“I’m losing patience, Annja. I need that skull!”

“Why? Someone die?”

“You bitch!”

“Whoa.” She’d touched a nerve.

“Let’s meet in an hour. Why not somewhere in your neighborhood? Sunset Park. It’s private and out of the way, but that’s for the best, don’t you think?”

“Where’s Serge?”

“You haven’t stumbled across him? The fellow does have a manner of chasing in circles. Don’t worry, he won’t bother us.”

That meant Ravenscroft must have no idea where the necromancer was. Annja wasn’t sure she needed a bald bone conjurer thrown into the mix right now.

“An hour?” she said.

“At the Bush Terminal Piers,” he said. “Shall I send a driver to pick you up?”

“No, I’ll find you. Don’t hurt Maxfield, because if you do, I’ll hurt you.”

“You make me tremble, Annja. I must admit it is a thrill to feel threatened by a woman. I like your spark.”

“Yeah? Remember that when I’m forced to beat you bloody.” She hung up and put her head to her knees. “I can be so rash sometimes. I have no idea who this Ben guy really is or what I’m dealing with. And he’s holding an innocent man hostage.”

With Serge out searching for her, and Ravenscroft gunning for her, this night could prove interesting.

She reached to switch off the laptop but startled. The image of the interior skull map showed…

“Words? In…Latin.”

She tapped the screen and read, “Non nobis Domine, no nobis, sed nomini to da glorium.”

“‘Not unto us, O Lord,’” she interpreted. “‘Not unto us, but unto Thee give the glory.’”

“I know that quote. It’s…Templar.”

36

Annja wondered what she’d be up against. She’d have her sword, but that meant she had to get close to anyone who wished to harm her. And those anyones would likely have guns that didn’t require theyget close.

She was certain Ben would have muscle, with weapons, waiting for her arrival. She had no backup. She should have backup. But Roux was gone, and she was determined not to go running to Garin with a pitiful plea for protection.

She could do this. Exchange the skull for Maxfield, and pray Ben had no reason to kill them. But to be safe…

To his credit, Bart didn’t bemoan her call as giving him a heart attack. Instead, he listened carefully as Annja summarized her adventures and the showdown she expected to come.

“What warehouse?” he asked. Annja heard the scribble of his pencil as he took notes. “Along the pier? There’s a lot of old warehouses out in Sunset Park. Some are destined for demolition. Others they’ve recently fixed up.”

“I’m not sure. I’m guessing one of the empty ones.”

“That seems obvious. Don’t go in until I get there, Annja.”

“Are you going to be my backup?”

“Do I have a choice?”

She touched the cool skull bone nestled in her open backpack. “In the wrong hands, this skull could do some serious damage, Bart. I can go so far as to say it’s evil.”

“Then I’m in. But remember, wait for me.”

“Thanks. I owe you Cuban—”

“And another one of those hugs next time.”

ZIPPING UP HER down-filled jacket against the chill, Annja tugged her cap lower and walked onward. A long stretch of warehouses paralleled the Upper New York Bay.

The cranky bark of a car horn forced her onto the sidewalk. Resisting the unnatural urge to turn and give the finger to the driver, Annja checked her emotional gauge. She was angry. That would never serve when entering a dangerous situation.

“Chill,” she coached herself. “He’s on the Forbeslist. He won’t risk damaging his reputation any more than I will risk Maxfield’s life. We’re on a level playing field. So Ravenscroft gets the skull for a bit. I’ll get it back.”

That was her focus. She’d have to hand the skull over to save Maxfield, but then she had to plot a way to get it back. It didn’t belong in the hands of anyone who intended to use it nefariously.

If he even could.

Maxfield had said the skull had done nothing for him, or any of his family members. It hadn’t shimmered with ineffable vibrations or granted any good while in her possession. Nor had it helped the professor.

Yet why had it worked for Garin?

“Something about whomever is holding it.” Garin had seen the skull once before. Touched it. He’d said it had whispered to him. “The holder must have a connection to the skull. Maybe. A Templar connection?”

Did Ben Ravenscroft have the same connection? As far as Annja could figure, he hadn’t ever had it in his hands except for the one time he’d held it at Wisdom’s home. Ravenscroft must have been the one who sent the sniper after Marcus, and was ultimately the man who hired Marcus. It made weird sense. Perhaps the sniper had been acting beyond orders. Ben would have never ordered the man killed if he knew he held the one thing he wanted.