“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.
So were he and Serge working together? She’d had the thought a necromancer could help a man rise in his career. Made sense, again. Supernatural sense.
But it didn’t seem as though Ben and Serge were on the same page now. Both wanted the skull. Yet Serge had seemed bitter about Ben. Could the skull be a means to retaliate against Ben? For what?
Turning down the street, Annja stretched her gaze across the building fronts. Half the area was active business, the other derelict industrialism. Sunset Park had done a great job of prettying up the area, but there was yet a lot of work to do.
At this pace, she’d beat Bart. And did he really think she’d wait for backup?
It bothered her that, of all the people she would expect to produce results upon holding the skull, one of those people was not her. She wielded a magical sword. Why wouldn’t a magical skull work in her hands?
Or was it she was only allowed one magical weapon to her arsenal in this crazy world of legend become reality?
Annja had no idea how the sword actually worked for her—coming to her grip when needed, and sometimes not appearing when it wasn’t needed, though she called for it. It worked, that was what mattered.
So did the skull only work in one specific set of hands? Why Garin’s? It was hard to tie Garin to a necrophilic skull that gave all good things. He wasn’t some chosen warrior set to change the world. Heck, warriors weren’t even in vogue anymore.
Or maybe he was. She had no right to judge. There were greater forces operating in her life, and in the lives of those orbiting about her. Roux and Garin were two of those orbiting planets.
Annja slowed. Her hair stood up on the back of her neck.
The warehouse was compact, yet six stories high. A bright light beamed out from the multipaned windows tracking the first floor. It was older, probably built in the industrial age, and likely marked for demolition. There were lots of buildings in the city that should have been demolitioned ages ago due to safety hazards.
Feeling as though she was the only one in the yard before the building, but sensing that couldn’t possibly be true, Annja instinctively held out her arms, putting up her hands in show of surrender. Her backpack with the skull inside hugged her shoulder.
Behind her, water slapped the decaying pier. She was in no mood for another swim in November waters.
As she approached the door she heard footsteps move up behind her, sloshing through the slush of snow. She stopped. Intuitive prickles tightened across her scalp.
A man called for her to stop. A little late, but she never did rate thugs too highly on the smarts scale.
“Hands behind your neck,” he ordered.
She complied, hating the vulnerable position. Wide male hands moved over her arms, patting her down in search of weapons. They groped down her torso and thighs.
A tug at the backpack prompted her to tug in return. “I only hand it over to Benjamin Ravenscroft,” she said. “Or the deal’s off.”
It was a lousy argument. They could shoot her, take the backpack and be done with the entire thing.
“Let her hang on to it. She’s clean,” someone said.
The door before her was shoved open by a man clad head to combat boots in jungle camouflage. He hugged an AK-47 to his ribs. The dark glasses were utterly inane this late at night.
Given a wide berth, Annja passed through the doors and into a vast empty room. She couldn’t determine what kind of factory it may have once been. There was no equipment or large industrial machines. The concrete floor was cracked and littered with building debris and bits of twig from overhead birds’ nests.
Ahead, light beamed over a man tied to a chair, his arms wrenched around behind the back of it. Blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth and down his chin.
Annja felt the need to hold the solid hilt of her sword. But she cautioned quick action.
Behind her, four thugs loomed. One stood close enough she could hear his labored breathing.
“Miss Creed, once again it is a pleasure.”
A man in black suit and silver tie stepped into the light beside the seated man.
“Your pleasure is my headache, Ben.”
“Yes, you can use my first name, if you desire. Most call me Mr. Ravenscroft.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Ben.Is this Maxfield Wisdom?”
The man on the chair, his mouth gagged, looked to her with pleading eyes and nodded profusely. He couldn’t be much over forty. He had a narrow face and was dressed in safari khakis.
“I’m sorry, Maxfield. I hadn’t intended for things to go this way,” she said to him. Then to Ben she said, “Why don’t you extend the olive branch and let him go? I’m here. I have what you want. There’s no need to further involve Mr. Wisdom.”
“You’re an impatient woman, Annja. That surprises me, knowing you spend your days digging fruitlessly about in the dirt in hopes of now and then snagging a bit of bone or pottery.”
“When I’m not pothunting—” she used the derogatory term loosely “—I seem to be negotiating with one or another type of bad guy. I’ve become very good at it.”
“Really? I knew something remarkable had attracted me to you. For a woman, you’ve got balls.”
She shook her head. “Can we quit the dance and get to the showdown?”
“Yes. Time is, as they say, of the essence.”
With a nod of his head, Ben laid out a silent command. Annja was gripped from behind, her left arm twisted across her back. The backpack strap, hooked over her right shoulder, slipped to her elbow.