The Bone Conjurer (21 page)

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?”

“I do not like the results of our association. Your heart is black.”

“My heart?” He rapped his chest with a fist. “My heart? You! You are the necromancer. You dally with dead souls every day.”

“It is not a black magic unless the conjurer makes it so.”

“Ah? So it is me who has twisted you?” Ben sucked in another long drag, his back to Serge. A flick of the thin brown cigarette sent ash particles to the marble floor. “Always someone else’s fault. It’s my fault Rachel’s sick, you know.” He glanced over a shoulder at Serge. “My wife blames me. Me? How is that possible? I only lost sight of her a few minutes that day in the park. Getting lost does not induce cancer. It’s not fair. It’s just…not fair.”

Serge sensed exhaustion purl from the man in waves.

Lauded by his peers, Ben had achieved much in the past year of their alliance. Serge had read the headlines at the newsstands. Benjamin Ravenscroft was a futurist and a philanthropist of the highest order, they claimed.

But in the time of their association, Ben’s family had suffered from his misdirected greed. While Serge knew the girl’s disease was not caused by her father’s neglect, he was aware of Ben’s affair with the secretary. No man should treat his wife so cruelly.

Karma had a way of slapping the most deserving.

Serge had compassion for the Ravenscroft family. But not so much for Ben.

“Very well.” Ben approached, his hands at his hips. “I’ve got a bargain for you.”

Serge let out a breath. A devil’s bargain, surely. He did not wager in evil. At least, he tried to avoid it.

“Your freedom for my daughter’s life.”

All he wanted was freedom. But the man did not understand!

Serge shook his head. “That is impossible, I have already explained…”

“Listen, necromancer,” Ben said sharply. The sweet spice waved before Serge as the man slashed the cigarette through the air. “The skull is yours after I’ve had my go at it. I get my daughter’s life, then you can have your freedom. You just need to put the skull into my hands.”

The man’s logic was fractured. If Serge got to the point where he could put the skull into Ben’s hands, there was no way in hell it would happen. He’d be long gone from New York City before then.

“You double-cross me,” Ben added with a dagger glare, “your family dies.”

Serge had no doubt a phone call is all it would take for them to die. Cruelly. Likely gunned down in front of one another.

Damned, he was bound to serve this man!

But could he trust when the skull was obtained, and handed over to Ben, his wicked employer would then hand it over to him?

Erratic heartbeats pleaded with him to rationalize, not jump, into any traps. Once he’d trusted this man, and look where that had got him.

“I must have more than your word,” Serge said.

“But you do. You, Serge, have my truths.” Ben looked up at him through a fringe of dark bangs. “If I try to swindle the prize from you, then you can go to the media and tell them all about Ben Ravenscroft’s dealings with the spirit world to get to where he is today.”

How stupid did the man think him? He may have come from an impoverished country, but he wasn’t naive. Go to the media? That would go over like a lead balloon. Serge could see himself being wrangled into a straitjacket and carted off while Ben stood atop his marble empire laughing all the way to hell.

And with the skull in hand, who was to say Ben wouldn’t be able to kill Serge with it? No one knew the skull’s true power. It gave all good things. That covered quite a lot of ground. And he felt sure the Skull of Sidon—unlike him—had the power to give and take life.

“You’re thinking too much, Serge,” Ben said slyly. “Take the deal. I only want that one thing. You’ve already put me on the top. Where else have I to go?” Spreading his arms like a deity, Ben mastered his empire. “I’m here. The hottest young CEO in New York City on a meteoric rise to the top. No one can touch me. I’ve got the world at my fingertips.”

“At the sacrifice of your family.”

Ben slapped a hand on Serge’s shoulder. “Worry about your own family, man.”

Serge tried to move away. He could not. It stunned him. Ben’s grip, not so tight, but more a heavy weight warning of his future, did not relent.

If he had known a year earlier that Benjamin Ravenscroft had more in mind than taking a simple man to America and helping him start a new life, Serge never would have followed. But the carrot Ben had offered—money to support his family—had been impossible to resist.

Just a few conjurings, Ben had promised. He’d wanted to improve his life, perhaps start a few charity foundations. All good, he’d said encouragingly.

He’d asked Serge to summon the best means to funnel research dollars to hospitals and medical organizations. The spirit world had eagerly complied. While Serge did not understand the stock market, he received stock tips that had tripled Ben’s charitable investments.

Soon after, Ben had started calling Serge in weekly to look at the stock market. To enhance his business. One couldn’t front a huge philanthropic movement without the business success to back it up. The spirits had complied, and Ben’s knowledge for what intangibles were going to bring in the biggest returns grew.

Within months Serge began taking the subway to Ravens-Tech daily. Ben kept him busy. The spirits gleefully obeyed. And Serge realized instead of garnering a good life and business contacts, he was journeying farther away from his pursuits and into evil.

“We work together, then.” Serge finally surrendered.

“Good! So where’s the woman? Annja Creed. She’s our target. You have a fix on her?”

“I know where she lives.”

“Excellent. We’ll search her place—”

“I’ve already done so. She doesn’t have the skull. There’s another man who has obtained it. I don’t know who he is.”

“But he knows Creed?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Then that’s where we start. Take me to her.”

“Very well, Mr. Ravenscroft.”

“Just so you know—” Ben eyed Serge’s fist “—I’ve got a contact who checks in with me on the hour. If I do not respond your family is dead.”

A
NNJA WALKED THROUGH
her open front door. This time she was not surprised it was open. Summoning the sword to hand, she called out.

A dark-haired man popped his head out from the kitchen. He set the open box of cereal on the table behind him and offered her a smile.

“Your housekeeping skills leave much to be desired, Miss Creed,” he commented. Stepping carefully over a toppled pile of research books, he waved dismissively at the sword. “You won’t need that. I come in peace.”

“I’ve heard that line before.”

A fashionable five-o’clock shadow stubbled his jaw. His dark complexion was probably a tan. Gold and diamonds flickered at his cuffs and fingers. He wasn’t ugly or villainous. Rather attractive, moreso than his pictures online. She could sense he wielded charm as a means to get what he wanted.

“Why has my home become the revolving meeting place for Thugs of America?” she asked.

“Oh, that’s rich. You been having trouble with security? There are protection systems you can get for that. And really, I must protest. I’m not a thug. Serge showed me here.”

“The guy is giving tours of my home? I gotta get a new profession.”

“I’m Benjamin Ravenscroft.”

“I know,” she said.

Serge had lured the most elusive member of her gang of skull chasers right to her. Ravenscroft didn’t appear too threatening. The business suit he wore must have set him back a few Gs. And she’d bet that was a manicure. He smelled…expensive, and looked as though he’d just stepped off the cover of a business magazine.

But Annja wouldn’t let down her guard.

“We need to talk,” Ben said.

“Let me guess. You and Serge are working together?”

“In essence.”

“Didn’t sound like he was on your side when I last spoke to him.”

“We work together on various levels. We’ve recently joined forces on a pressing matter. Do sit down. And please set the sword aside. Nice. Don’t often see women wielding swords in New York unless it’s in the theater district. Hey, I caught your show the other night. It was the Transylvania one. I sure as hell hope they pay you for those nonsense forays.”

“I don’t like the feeling I’m getting about you.”

“Huh. I like you,” he offered with a shrug. “You fascinate me, Miss Creed.”

“Can we cut the small talk? What do you want?”

“You know what I want.”

What everyone else wanted.

“Haven’t got it,” she said.

“But you know who has it. I spoke to him earlier. A friend named Braden has been in touch with me.”

That information didn’t surprise Annja as much as she thought it should. It was further proof Garin was in this one for the money. And obviously tracking the highest bidder. So he had the skull, after all.

Ridding the world of it? Yeah, right.

“Whatever he says he has,” Annja said, “he doesn’t.”

“For some reason I believe you. This disappoints, then. I had thought the man was at least telling the truth about his associate having the skull. That associate, I assumed, being you.”

She was Garin’s associate now? Man, did she need to put that guy’s head straight.

“Why do you want the skull?” Annja asked.

Ben spread his arms and stated plainly, “It has the power of God, yes?”

“I haven’t heard it termed in quite that manner, but I suppose one could go there. I’ve come to learn most villains won’t waste their time for anything less than godlike power.”

“Villain? Annja, you hardly know me, and yet you label me so viciously.”

“Yeah, well, if the shoe fits.” She glanced to his leather loafers. She couldn’t even make a guess how much they’d cost.

“Such power could come in handy,” Ben casually tossed out. “Haven’t you ever wondered what you would want if granted all good things?”

“Nope. Not going there, either. Seems like your life is going well enough to judge from the magazine articles touting your riches and philanthropy. As well, you employ a necromancer to see you get anything you desire. So I don’t get it. Why do you want more power?”

“You have family, Annja?”

Sighing heavily, Annja maintained her grip on the sword, but fought against rolling her eyes. And why was that? Why did the family question prick at her like that? She had a great family—of friends.

“No,” she said.

“Some don’t.” Ben shrugged. “It’s the way of the world. But it also leads me to believe you’d never understand my motives. I’m not going to get into the greater meaning behind my quest with you. It’s not worth the effort, especially when I’m not particularly pleased staring at your weapon.”

“Girl’s gotta protect herself.”

“I’ll grant you that. Perhaps I need to stick around while you wait to meet with Maxfield Wisdom?”

The man knew far too much. And Annja was tired of having her private property trespassed on. She swung the sword. Drawing the blade tip along the buttons punctuating Ben’s suit coat, she tapped him roughly under the chin with the flat side of the steel.