ah.” The alchemist leaned in and snatched the skull from its perch and gave it a smart toss, catching it on his palm. “Not yet, boy, not yet.”
“But—”
There was nothing more to say. His master shuffled him toward the stringed wooden beads marking the entrance. “Take yourself out to the serrallo, apprentice. I’ll follow directly.”
Casting the skull a desirous glance, Garin licked his lips. He met the alchemist’s eyes and thought sure he’d seen a star blink in the center of each dark orb.
“Someday, perhaps?” the alchemist said with a slippery grin. “Someday, all good things.”
Garin rushed outside. The open-air serrallo beamed brilliant white sun upon his face, altering his mood for the better. Moments later he was joined by his master. Roux laid out plans to ride to the city and find a meal. Fine and well. Yet all the day, Garin’s thoughts tried to form sense of the mysterious whispers from the skull.
All good things, he finally decided. Someday.
1
Desperation had prompted him to contact a stranger. Annja didn’t know him. Had never met him, save through a couple e-mails.
So why agree to meet him?
Others had helped her out of desperate situations. And this is what she did. She didn’t sit at home lazing before the television. She seized what the day offered.
And today’s offering was too good to resist.
The season’s first snow smacked Annja’s cheek with a sharp bite. It melted on her warm skin. Glad she’d the fore-thought to tug on a ski cap and warm jacket, she stalked onto the Carroll Street Bridge. One of the oldest retractile bridges in the country, this sweet little bridge was about one hundred and twenty years old.
The traffic was sparse. Few cars crossed the Gowanus Canal at this bridge. Annja glanced up and read the antique sign hanging overhead on the steel girders.
Ordinance of the City: Any Person Driving Over this Bridge Faster than a Walk Will Be Subject to a Penalty of Five Dollars per Offense.
You gotta love New York, she thought.
Peering over the bridge railing, recently painted a fresh coat of bold green, she decided the water in the Gowanus Canal wasn’t so lavender as rumors claimed. The city had gone to remarkable efforts to clean the grungy, putrid stretch of water. A flushing tunnel was also supposed to clean out the raw sewage more often.
The effect of snow falling around her as she looked over the water produced an eerie hyperspace vibe.
“It ain’t like dustin’ crops, boy,” she said in her best Han Solo imitation.
So she could geek out with the best of them.
“Not interested in a swim tonight,” she muttered. “Not without my hazmat bikini.”
Turning her hips against the bridge railing, and shoving her hands in her pockets, she switched her gaze skyward. There weren’t a lot of stars to be seen with the ambient light from buildings and street lamps blasting the heavens. At least there was a sky to see. One of many advantages of living in Brooklyn was the lack of skyscrapers. The Cuban cuisine wasn’t too shabby, either.
Somewhere, she gauged maybe half a mile off, a siren shrilled. Horns honked, announcing the bar crowd as they scattered to various haunts. The snow was heavy, but not enough to make the road slippery.
Annja had walked from her loft. Passing cars had lodged muddy spittle onto her hiking boots. A quick walk in brisk weather always lifted her spirits. Until the chill set in. And it was nippy tonight.
Staying home with a cup of hot chocolate in hand, and watching her latest favorite TV show on DVD, sounded a much warmer plan. But she was not one to resist a mystery when it involved an artifact.
Only that afternoon Annja had received a desperate e-mail from Sneak. She didn’t know the person, just suspected he was a he. He’d followed her conversations at alt.archaeology.esoterica, and felt she could give him some answers about something he’d found—a skull.
Skulls were more common than gold coins in the archaeological world. There was a skull in every myth, every legend, every thrilling adventure tale told. Skulls granting wishes, skulls promising fortune, skulls bringing about the end of the world.
Plain old skull skulls that could be anything from some peasant who’d died of a heart attack working the fields to some deranged serial killer’s leftovers.
What was so special about this one?
Sneak hadn’t sent a picture, claiming his digital camera had been broken in a recent fall. But his mention of a dig in Spain grabbed Annja’s attention. He claimed to have apprenticed during the summers, though he’d abandoned his desire to dig for bones two years earlier.
Annja related to a fellow archaeologist, even if he wasn’t official.
He thought he held an important artifact, yet also feared people wanted to take it from him. Why? Had he stolen it from a dig? He couldn’t possibly know its value enough to cause worry.
Annja held no favor for those who raided archeological digs. She’d had run-ins with more than her share of pothunters. They were unscrupulous and weren’t beyond putting a bullet in the back of someone’s head to clear their escape with a valuable artifact.
Sneak claimed he was a fan of Chasing History’s Monsters, and quoted a lot of Annja’s schtick from the show in his e-mail.
Proved nothing. He could have watched the DVDs, researching her. If she’d learned anything over the past few years it was to trust no one. Everyone played the game; the goal was to win.
But she had a gut feeling about this guy. He wasn’t trying to pull something on her. She sensed no malice. And she was really curious about the artifact, which he’d only said was rumored to be twelfth century and mystical.
A nine-hundred-year-old skull? Cool. No way was Annja going to let this one slip out of her hands.
“Miss Creed?”
Taken off guard, Annja twisted at the waist. She hated being caught out unawares.
A tall, slender man strode down the plank sidewalk hugging the bridge, which served only eastbound traffic. Dressed in close-fitted black, the straps and buckles about his upper thighs and ankles gave his attire a militant look. She didn’t see any weapons.
Just because she couldn’t see any didn’t mean he wasn’t carrying.
Hands loose at her sides—but ready to call her sword to hand—Annja waited for him to approach her. They’d agreed to meet here, a quiet spot easily accessed by both parties.
“Thank you for meeting me.” His voice was whispery low, yet he gasped as if he’d been running. “We must be quick.”
She put up a hand as he approached. Stay out of my personal zone. You wouldn’t like the result if you put me to guard, she thought.
“You
