Текст книги "The Bone Conjurer"
Автор книги: Алекс Арчер
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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 18 страниц)
25
CNN played on the plasma television mounted on the meeting room wall. Well after midnight, Ben wasn’t close to leaving the office for the day. It wasn’t his turn to tuck in Rachel, so he wasn’t bothered by the late hour.
A burgeoning migraine gave no regard to the time, either. He should take his medication. Already he was beginning to see spots before him, gray holes in his vision. Though the TV was on, the sound was off. He couldn’t see the news-caster’s face unless he blinked. That granted momentary relief from the visual spots.
The crawl across the bottom of the CNN broadcast flashed a breaking news story. Ben squinted to read it. A professor at Columbia University had been found dead. He had taught in the Sociology and Anthropology department and was the rock star of the campus. He had been garroted with a guitar string.
Ben pressed two fingers to his temple and rubbed at the sting pulsing in his head. Was there no end to the ineptitude of those he had chosen to work for him?
“I should have taken care of this myself from the start,” he muttered.
But he’d always believed leaving the dirty work to others best. Benjamin Ravenscroft was a known public entity. He couldn’t afford a slipup, or to be connected to anything immoral or just plain dirty. Not that he didn’t positively drool to get his hands on the inept and smash their faces into a brick wall.
He slammed a fist on the conference table. The force toppled the empty paper cups left behind from his afternoon meeting. Anger bled through his veins, pulsing with each squeezing grip at his temple.
Shoving aside the pile of mail he’d been going through, Ben picked up the letter opener.
The headache gripped more fiercely. He squeezed the thin staff of steel. If he was home, Linda would touch him, ease away the pain.
No longer. Once Linda had nursed his headaches, leading him into the dark bedroom and pressing a cool cloth over his pulsing brow. Gentle touches reassured, made him know that, even though he could not speak for the pain, she was there.
But Linda hadn’t touched him since Rachel’s diagnosis.
Why couldn’t she speak to him in anything less than a scream? She blamed him for all their troubles. For Rachel’s sickness. For his headaches. For the maid quitting after the dog bit her. She would blame him for the housing crisis if she could.
He was just trying to take care of his family in the only manner he knew—by hard work, and by investigating all means to curing his daughter.
Ben had to prove to Linda he was not the man she thought he was. He would win back her love, her welcoming smile and gentle touch.
A twinge of red pain struck his temple. Ben cringed, leaning over the table. Gripping the letter opener as if to break it, he was about to stab the stack of officious charity requests when a knock at the door stopped him.
Like a guilty child trying to hide the evidence Ben swung the letter opener behind his back.
He’d never escape the guilt of his own ineptitude. His inability to make the world right for those he loved the most. He could sell air,for Christ’s sake. But save his own flesh and blood?
“What is it?” he snapped.
Harris stepped inside, pushing the door with a careful hand. “Sorry to bother you so late, boss. There’s no one here, so I let myself in. You okay, boss?”
No, he wanted to tear out his brain and slam it against the wall. “Just a headache,” Ben said. “Your man finish the job?”
“Er…”
“Apparently he did. I saw the news. So where is it?”
Harris rubbed a palm over his knuckles. A bruise near his left temple looked fresh. “There was a snafu,” he said.
“Snafu?”
Ben didn’t want to hear this. Yet if the operation was going to fall apart around him, he needed to stop it before it bled out. Had to contain the damage. Like his pulsing migraine, it threatened to explode.
His knuckles tightened about the letter opener.
“The police were called,” Harris said. “Jones was arrested.”
“You kept my name out of the deal, I expect?”
“Of course, Mr. Ravenscroft. I never use names with my men. But the skull…”
“Let me guess. No skull,” Ben snapped sarcastically. “But why should I expect success from you?”
“Jones hadthe skull,” Harris began, as always tracking the floor with his gaze. “He called me for pickup, said he was being chased.”
“By the police?”
“No, by some woman. Then he was cut off. I didn’t get there until the police had arrived. I stayed out of sight while they made the arrest.”
Ben stabbed the table with the letter opener. The high-gloss mahogany cracked. Damn his frustrations. “A woman?”
One guess who that might be.
Clinging to the shaft of steel, Ben pressed his free palm to the table’s slick surface.
“Would that be Annja Creed?” He could not look at Harris. The gray spots had multiplied. “That same slender bit of a woman who managed to fall from a bridge and notdie, as you would have me believe. Wonder how she managed to rise from the dead? And then to chase a big fellow like Jones? Andslip away with the skull?”
“She must be working for Marcus.”
“The thief? I don’t think so. I tracked their e-mails online. She had no clue who he was or what artifact he had before they met. Despite his duality to me, Cooke was careful not to reveal his identity.”
“Maybe Serge…”
“Serge?” Ben swung upright, the letter opener tearing slivers of wood.
“H-he gave me this.” Harris tapped his jaw. “He was on the scene, trying to find Creed.”
Ben hadn’t considered the connection, but it was possible. It would surprise him, though, if Serge had made a friend, and one so gorgeous and famous as Annja Creed.
On the other hand Serge was positively clandestine. All the time. The man could have a harem for all Ben knew.
“So Creed took off with the skull?”
Harris exhaled. “No, some man got it.”
“Some man? Not Serge? Not Creed? But some person you don’t even have a name for?” He hissed madly. “How many people know about this skull?”
“Sorry, Mr. Ravenscroft.” Harris tugged at his tie. “Jones texted me from the warehouse just before the police nabbed him. Said a strange man took off with the skull. He said the skull did something to him.”
Tapping the tip of the letter opener against his chin, Ben slid a leg along the table. Tightening his jaw, he closed his eyes. “Did something?”
“It was like a hurricane, but inside the warehouse. The other man held it up, and it blew Jones and the Creed woman from their feet.”
This was incredible to learn. So the Skull of Sidon did possess powers. But to give all good things? What good was blowing two people away? And not killing them? Unless it was a good thing to the man who now possessed the skull.
Ben wasn’t sure how the skull worked. Perhaps the individual bearer determined exactly what goodness could be reaped from the skull.
“Were they together, do you think? Creed and the other man? Did you get his name?”
“No name, but yes, they were initially together. But I think he left her behind.”
“You think?” He looked up at Harris, but his vision was littered by blurry gray spots. Nauseous, Ben winced at the command the migraine had over him.
“I wasn’t going to get too close to the warehouse. Cops, remember?”
“And you…lost her?”
“Are you sure you’re okay, boss?”
“Yes!” Struggling for breath, Ben spoke rapidly. “You didn’t follow the woman?”
“There were cops all over like ants to peanut butter.”
“Perhaps she left with the police? Did they take her into custody?”
“Couldn’t tell. I was busy getting the hell out of there. Whoa—hey now, boss.” Harris flinched as Ben tossed the letter opener in the air, and caught it, wielding it like a blade before him.
The migraine threatened to fell Ben to his knees. Going fetal was always a last resort. And not the image he wished to convey to his man.
“Harris…you’re fired.”
“But, sir—”
He could not see the man’s face at all now. But he didn’t need to. Controlled by pain, Ben flinched his tightened muscles.
Thrusting, the letter opener slid neatly into Harris’s skull through his nasal cavity. Ben barely had to push.
In his fury, he intended to scramble gray matter. Hadn’t the ancient Egyptians done something similar before mummifying their dead?
He slapped a hand over Harris’s mouth to silence the scream. Shoving the stuttering man against the wall, Ben pushed hard. Pushing away his own pain. Murdering it.
The letter opener stopped, obviously hitting bone. He twisted and was able to cut the blade through the interior. His entire body pressed along Harris’s body; Ben felt the man’s muscles contract.
Harris dropped, dragging jelly fingers down the front of Ben’s shirt. There was very little blood from the hemorrhaging brain.
Dropping the letter opener on the stack of discarded envelopes, Ben stepped away from the damage. His hip jolted against the meeting table. He let out the breath he’d squeezed back since the weapon had entered the man’s nose.
His neck flushed with warmth. He lifted his hands to study them. He saw clearly. No blood, yet his fingers shook. Heartbeats pounded with unrelenting vehemence. He hadn’t noticed his heartbeat at all while committing the violence. Now he could not hear beyond it.
What had he done? The headache…it had taken control. He did not—
“I…didn’t…”
But he had. He’d killed a man.
It had been so easy. Natural. The pain had transferred from his skull, through his fingers and away from his body.
He tugged his foot from under Harris’s leg. Thick fluid oozed out the nose and over the man’s parted mouth. The head, tilted forward onto his chest, would keep the blood from dripping onto the floor.
“What the hell?” Ben scrubbed fingers through his hair and tugged hard. It alleviated some muscle tightness. The headache had moved to the back of his scalp, just a dull pulse now. “I…have to get rid of this.”
Yes. Think clearly. Beyond the migraine. Now was no time to panic. It was too late for regret.
He must know someone who could take this away. Move the body without anyone noticing. What did they call people like that?
“Cleaners,” Ben muttered, shocking himself with the knowledge. He stumbled, tripping over Harris’s hand. He caught himself against the boardroom table and pressed his face to it.
Ben exhaled and slumped onto the chair. He collapsed forward, arms folding in and head bowing. A glance over his shoulder checked Harris’s face. Still no excess blood. When had his blurred vision dissipated?
There was a man he knew who would know the right people. And it was not Serge.
Ten minutes later Ben had been promised a cleaner would arrive within the hour. Stepping over Harris’s body, he dragged the door closed behind him. He had to tug. The body had slumped and blocked the door. Harris’s ear bent awkwardly. The door dragged flesh, but finally it closed.
He phoned his secretary at home. “I was thinking,” he spoke carefully, molding his words before letting them out, “we’d head for the Jumeirah. I want to relax tonight on some luxurious sheets with room service. How does that sound to you?”
“You spoil me, Ben. Shall I give the hotel a call?”
“Yes. I’ll meet you in the lobby in an hour. I’ve got some tidying up to do here and a last-minute phone call with a client on Tokyo time.”
“Shall I order champagne?” Rebecca asked.
Champagne to celebrate his first murder?
“Why the hell not?”
26
Garin strode to the front door and, gripping the handle, for a moment wondered if it would be Annja on the other side. It should be.
Unless she hadn’t gotten away from the murderer in the warehouse.
Did the possibility of her injury, or even death, bother him? He allowed regret no more than a flash. Regret was best reserved for opportunities not taken and love. Both things he avoided like the black plague.
“Garin!”
Hand still clutching the doorknob, Garin grimaced at the male voice on the other side. Not Annja, but a man he hadn’t seen for months. And he never regretted his absence.
He opened the door and Roux charged through. Looking like a silver-screen star with white hair that clashed with his tan skin and sunglasses perched on his head, Roux marched into the living room where Garin had left the skull on the coffee table.
A rush of anger, trepidation and misplaced admiration battled within Garin. He hated that he could never sort out his feelings about the man. Usually anger won.
Nothing wrong with that.
Roux snatched the skull with a swift hand. He turned on Garin furiously.
“So this is what you’re after now?” the Frenchman said. “I thought I’d seen the last of this thing five centuries ago.”
“I’ll take that, old man.” Garin slapped the bottom of Roux’s hand, popping the skull into the air. He snatched the small cranium like a basketball and tucked it against his chest. “What brings you to New York? The European women growing stale for you?”
“I could ask the same of you. You never went in for American women.”
“I’ve always enjoyed women. Any nationality will suit.”
“So that’s why you’ve bought this place?” The old man’s eyes scanned the room. His expression indicated he was not impressed. “New hunting grounds to stalk?”
“It’s a rental. But you didn’t come here to inspect the decor or marvel over the great deal I got for it.”
“I don’t care what you spend your money on. Unless it swipes a sweet deal out from under me. How didyou manage to win that auction in Brussels? I had two buyers to ensure the Fabergé egg would be mine.”
“That was you at the Brussels auction?” Garin chuckled. “I had no idea I was bidding against you. But thanks for telling me. Makes the win all the sweeter.”
Roux bristled and cast a glance out the window, down toward the park. He was not here for a pleasant chat. His entire frame was stiff, strung tightly. “Where’s Annja?”
In an involuntary attempt not to mirror the man, Garin’s shoulders relaxed. He swung out an arm.
“You expect to find her here, in my home? I know you distrust me, Roux, but to suspect that Annja and I—”
“You used her to find that damned necromancer’s nightmare, then ditched her, didn’t you?”
Garin gave the skull a spinning toss. The slap of it against his palm satisfied. When he’d wielded the skull toward his opponents, it had given him good things—the defeat of the opposition and an ability to escape cleanly.
“It is a sweet little thing.” He kissed the skull’s overlarge cranium.
“You forget your lessons so easily, Garin.”
“And you think everything that happens to a man is a lesson. Some things happen for no other reason than that’s what was supposed to be. No lesson. No greater meaning. That’s it, Roux. I’ve got the prize and you don’t. So I’ll be seeing you.”
The old man raised a brow. Over the years they’d developed a balance of power between them neither could ever be satisfied with, but which both tolerated.
Roux sat opposite where Garin stood. He would not be shooed from the premises so easily.
There was no love lost between the two of them. Roux had taken Garin on as an apprentice when he was a teenager. More like slave. Though he’d not been beaten, overmuch. Roux had certainly held the teenage Garin in fear for his life should he disobey a command. His master had been rumored to be a wizard, and that frightened Garin into compliance for a good many years.
Garin had taken escape from Roux at first opportunity.
Fortunately for him, he’d gained immortality beforethat escape.
“Did you take a look at the sword while you were with Annja?” Roux asked.
“I did as it was sweeping threateningly before my eyes. The woman owns the thing, you know? It’s like an extension of her now. It is a wonder to witness.”
Shewas a wonder. Garin had not in his endless lifetime met a woman who intrigued him so thoroughly. She may not be the strongest or even close to devious, but she did embrace every situation the sword led her into with a marvelous gusto.
“And when you could not get her to hand it over to you, you took the skull instead,” Roux deduced. “Didn’t you learn a lesson the first time we wielded that monstrous thing?”
“That was your mistake, old man.”
“There is no wise means to handling that abomination. Unless it’s now got an instruction manual?”
“Get over it. I won this fair and square. There was a three-way battle, and I emerged the successor.”
“Three?” Roux leaned forward. “Don’t tell me the bone conjurer was in the mix.”
Garin glanced out the window. He didn’t want Roux in on this one. The man would be better to walk away and leave the dangerous bit of cranium to him.
“Well?”
“You asked me not to tell you. Make up your mind, old man.”
“You are as old as I, so do not toss about the unremarkable moniker. What did Serge do to Annja?”
“It was not the conjurer but a thug who worked for an unknown entity. Annja didn’t have a clue who he was.”
But Garin did. He’d yet to meet Benjamin Ravenscroft, but he might before he left New York. Opportunity was rattling at his door, and he was just too curious not to crack it open for a peek. As for his original client, well, a little bidding war always sweetened any deal.
Garin sat and leaned forward. “You make me wonder about your attachment to the woman, Roux. Just when I’ve begun to think you’ve a sort of father-daughter thing going on, you surprise me with intense concern for Annja’s well-being. Do you love her?”
“You are an idiot, Garin.” Roux lunged.
Garin saw the punch coming. He kicked high. His foot connected with Roux’s gut. The old man grunted. It was a mere tap.
The skull toppled to the floor as Garin swung a fist. Roux blocked the punch with a forearm to his wrist. It was like an iron bar, his arm. For some reason their immortality kept them strong. It was as if each year hardened them—their muscle, their mien, their minds.
They could go at it like this all day and neither would emerge the successor. Hell, why not? Garin had decades—nay, centuries—of anger to get off his chest against this man.
Barreling his head into Roux’s chest, Garin and his nemesis crashed upon the coffee table. The glass cracked, dropping them to the floor in a spray of safety glass.
Garin felt the hard metal shape of a gun against Roux’s chest. He dug in and palmed the pistol. Trigger finger curling, he knelt over the man, aiming at his head.
“Go ahead,” Roux challenged. “The blood will spatter your white carpeting.”
“I care nothing about the decor.”
The old man glanced aside. The skull sat out of reach, on its side, just behind a leather chair. The eye sockets faced them. Garin winced. It had to be held to work. He hoped.
“The good things that skull gives,” Roux said, “are born of evil.”
“Listen to you.” Garin stood, his aim still on the man’s head. “Aren’t you the one who recently obtained the Devil’s Jade? That thing is evil incarnate.”
“I don’t use it, I just admire it,” Roux said frankly.
“Yeah? Well I’ve got some admiring to do with the skull.”
“You think it’ll get you the sword.”
Jaw pulsing, Garin didn’t answer. It wasn’t right the old man knew so much about him. Of course, you know someone for five hundred years, eventually you’re going to learn all there is to know about them.
But this time he was wrong.
“You think I need a magical skull to get the sword? You know nothing. If I wanted it, I could take it from her.”
“No, you can’t. The sword belongs to Annja. If she doesn’t want you to have it, it’s gone. Like that!”
“I have my means.”
“Seduction will only get you so far with Annja. She’s not your average female. If you don’t want the sword, then what?”
“That’s my business, old man.”
“Don’t hurt her,” Roux warned. “Not for your benefit.”
Garin tilted his head. The accusation he would harm Annja cut to his bones.
Roux kicked his ankle, swiping Garin’s balance away and toppling him. Garin’s back hit the couch arm. The gun fired.
Blood spattered Garin’s face.
27
Serge entered Ben’s office. An immediate wash of agony chilled over his flesh. He felt as if worms were crawling across his skin. He’d felt this way once before. The man who had given him the feeling was now in jail, serving life for murder.
“Serge.”
He craned his neck left and right to snap away the awful sensation, but it would not leave. Ben sat on the leather chair behind the desk, feet propped up and fingers crossed before his narrow dark eyes.
“You summoned me?”
“Yes, but not for the usual business.”
He’d been called in at nine in the morning for this? “I am not indebted to you beyond summoning for your business, Mr. Ravenscroft.”
“Yes, yes. Come closer. I simply want to chat with you, my protégé. See how the world is treating you. It’s been, what? More than a year since you’ve come to America. You like the apartment?”
“We had this conversation.”
Gritting his teeth against the foul aura spilling off the man, Serge cautioned himself against looking about the room. Always he wanted to remain calm and centered when in Benjamin Ravenscroft’s presence.
“True. But we didn’t finish it. How is your family getting along?”
The word familystabbed Serge in the heart. It was harder to hide that hit. And Benjamin wielded it as expertly as a prizefighter’s fist.
“I spoke to my father two weeks ago. He is healthy, as are the rest of my family members. My father sends his thanks to my patron.”
“Ah. Well, then, do return my best wishes to them next time you speak. I’m all for keeping the family ties strong. A man isn’t whole without family, yes?”
Serge nodded. Since leaving his family he had indeed felt broken. Not whole. But he was making a life of his own. Slowly. Tediously. His father was proud of him. Living in the big city, working for a prestigious client. Serge sent money every other week. It put food on his family’s table and clothes on their backs, and allowed his father a little extra to save for the new tractor required to till the land.
He would never allow his family to know the sacrilege he made against the ancient craft he’d been born into. Necromancy was an esteemed art, innate in the practitioner. Once his mother decided Serge’s tendency to talk to “the others” was a manifestation of that art, she had him tutored alongside the best necromancer in Odessa.
“And you?” Serge blurted. “How is your family?”
Ben’s eyelid twitched. Serge knew family was the man’s Achilles’ heel. So they shared the same weakness. He needed to show he could deliver the blow as well as Ben. This match would not be won with a knockout, but rather with finesse.
“My family isn’t your concern, Serge.”
“Just trying to be polite, Mr. Ravenscroft. You don’t require my services today, then? Just a friendly chat?”
“Let’s shove the bull out the window, shall we?”
Ravenscroft stood. His dark shirt was unbuttoned at the wrists and the cuffs were rolled back. He flipped his medium-length hair from one eye and pressed forward onto his fingers over the desk. “I have become aware of what you want, Serge. And I believe you know what I want, too.”
A loaded statement. Serge would be foolish to convince himself Ben was unaware he’d been tracking the skull. Hell, he’d accosted his man last evening. The news probably made it to Ravenscroft before Harris returned to the nest.
He’d been less than careful. Frustrated.
The cards had been laid out. There was still a risk in revealing himself, but he didn’t have the skull in hand, and was losing options quickly.
“Why did you arrange to have it brought here?” Serge asked his most desperate questions. “How did you learn of it?”
“That’s better. Finally, we’re talking.”
Ben strolled around and perched on the edge of the desk, crossing his arms over his chest. He lifted the end of a letter opener on the desk, twirled it back and forth, then set it down carefully. “I met the man who owns the artifact a few weeks ago. He showed it to me and explained its legend. Fascinating.”
“And you believed in the legend?” Serge asked.
“How could I not? I believe in a man who can commune with the dead, bring great riches to my accounts and annihilate my competition with a mere suggestion. A magical skull? An easy leap. What I want to know is how youknew I was having it brought here?”
That he kept tabs on Ben through the spirits was not information he wished to divulge.
Ben nodded. “I suspect you have your ways, yes? It’s not prudent to wield control over the man who puts coin in your pocket, Serge. In essence, you’ve been spying on me.”
“Not spying. I am simply…alert to entities that accompany my profession.”
“Entities. That’s an interesting way of putting it. Spirits spying for you? Have they been following me about? Don’t answer. I don’t even want to know. It’s weird enough when you conjure in the next room. I feel so unclean after you leave.”
“Really? More so than now? The skull can mean little to you,” Serge offered, containing his tight desperation. “It is not a tool to be used by inexperienced hands. It can bring great calamity as opposed to the goodness it promises. What does it mean to you?”
“Do you know what power that thing possesses, Serge?”
“I do.”
Ben leaned forward, giving Serge a look he wagered the man volleyed across the boardroom at his competition. “Then you tell me what you think it can do for me. Let’s see if we’re on the same page.”
No, he wasn’t going to give up the goods so easily.
“I’d prefer hearing your rendition of its legendary powers,” Serge said carefully. “If you don’t mind.”
Ben smirked. Leaning backward over the desk, he pulled out the top drawer. Sliding aside the contents, which Serge was unable to see, he then pulled out a single photograph. He waved it before him. “Nice-looking family, Serge.”
That damned picture. Taken on the eve Serge had said goodbye to his mother, father and two sisters. Written on the back were their address, the location of his sisters’ schools and the hours his father worked. No doubt, Ben kept copies on encrypted computer files, as well.
That night, in a limo, he’d left with Ben Ravenscroft’s valet, who had escorted him to the airport and paid for his flight to the States. To begin a new life. To start a journey that would see him financially sound, and able to support his parents and siblings.
He had been naive and open to Ben’s wide-eyed visions for Serge’s future. New York was a city that welcomed one and all. Serge would love it. He would have his own apartment, a car, fine things, whatever he desired. Ben would make it happen.
And in return, Serge would pledge his summoning skills completely to Ben. He would help Ben do good things, finance charities, build his business and create jobs for many.
Or so he had been promised.
The smell of wrongful death gushing from Ben’s body renewed Serge’s determination. He would have that skull, and his liberty from this bastard. His family must be free from Ravenscroft’s vicious threats once and for all.
There was a taunting flick of the photo with a finger. “Serge?”
“It is said to be the giver of all good things,” he said.
Ben replaced the photo in the desk drawer and closed it with a twist of his wrist.
“ Allgood things,” Ben recited. “That covers quite a lot, wouldn’t you say? A man could do remarkable things with such an object.”
“Aren’t your charitable contributions satisfying enough?”
Ben stabbed him with a look. “You are in no position to question my motives. Remember your place, boy. I made you. I can break you.”
And he could, thanks to the team of watchers Ben had placed close to his family’s home. He’d taken an afternoon not long after his arrival in the States to show Serge the satellite photos, some positioned but half a mile from his family’s home, others posted in town where his mother shopped and his sisters went to school.
“So we both want the thing. You,” Ben said, “I can only imagine for some kind of ritual that would serve your usual conjuring.”
Serge nodded. It was a guess he could live with.
“Or not.” A tilt of Ben’s head focused his devious gaze on Serge. “What does a man who conjures ghosts and demons, a man who can manipulate the wills of normal humans through the concentration of the otherworld, want with the Skull of Sidon?”
“I’ve no desire for riches.”
“Nor do I.” At Serge’s lift of brow, Ben elaborated, “I have riches already. But you—is it power you desire?”
“No more than I already possess.” And yet he never felt more lacking in power than when in Ben’s presence.
“Then I am baffled as to your desire for the thing. Yet I know you will not tell me. That is acceptable. But must we battle against each other to finally hold the prize? Why not join forces and share the rewards?”
“The rewards the Skull of Sidon offer would be twisted and vile in your hands, Mr. Ravenscroft. I will not be part of that.”
“You don’t know me at all, Serge. It saddens me. After all I have done for you and your family.” One hand thrust out in a slashing dismissal, Ben sighed. “Just so. To opposite ends of the lists, then, we two. You do realize your victory will see your family destroyed?”
Lifting his head to look upon the wicked piece of human flesh, Serge merely nodded. Then he turned and walked out.
He expected to receive a call from Ravenscroft very soon to occupy him, perhaps keep him from pursuing the skull. But he did not.
If he had the money, he’d fly to the Ukraine to protect his family. As it was, Ben kept a very tight rein on his bank account. He could no more afford to buy a new suit. So he’d find the skull, which meant finding that Creed woman.
And he’d beat Benjamin Ravenscroft to the prize.
