The Bone Conjurer. Alex Archer

posted photos—and said postings had resulted in cluing the bad guys to finding her—she would never learn. And yet…

      “How did you find me? I cover my tracks well online. My Internet profile is secure. You couldn’t have traced me.”

      “I have my ways.”

      She chuffed, then thought better of angering the guy who had turned over her heavy leather couch. His ways may simply include following her cab home last night. She only took it eight blocks. And she had been out of her head, not thinking clearly.

      On the other hand, she’d left him flat on his back. He couldn’t possibly have followed her.

      “So you knew the man I spoke to last night before you shot him?”

      “I fired no weapons last evening.”

      That supported her theory on the existence of both the sniper and her attacker.

      “So, you and the sniper work together?”

      The man looked aside, breaking eye contact, but he didn’t drop his dead calm. He reconnected with her gaze immediately. “No,” he said quietly.

      Interesting. So if this one had been tracking the thief for the skull, then what stake had the sniper in the whole thing? How many parties were involved? She counted three so far—the thief, the sniper and this lunk.

      “I’ve spent an hour going through your things,” he said. “It’s not here.”

      “I could have told you that, if you’d been polite enough to simply ask.”

      Her things? That implied something so personal. Things that were meant for her eyes only. The idea of this creepy bald guy shuffling through her underwear sent a shiver up Annja’s spine. He didn’t look the sort who would linger over silky things.

      Then again, crazy never did look crazy until it was too late.

      “News of the skull’s emergence pleased me.” The slow calm of his speech made her wonder if he thought out his words before releasing them into the ether. “It is quite the prize. I thought to have it in hand last night. But then the contact you know as Sneak switched things. I was unaware of your clandestine meeting on the bridge.”

      That meant Serge had been tracking the thief. Or the sniper, Annja thought.

      Emergence? That might rule out the possibility of it being taken from a dig sight.

      “I still cannot understand why he would give it to you,” Serge said.

      Well, he didn’t have to make it sound as if she were a distasteful tangle of octopus sitting on a plate of greens, she thought. She said nothing in response.

      “I have studied you, Annja. On your own computer.”

      That explained the laptop on the desk, powered up and open to Google. Nice of him to spare that expensive piece of equipment. The green screen and camera, on the other hand, were definitely a loss.

      “You’re a television personality.” His grimace was accompanied by strange wonder. “As well, an archaeologist. But you’re no one special, Miss Creed. You are common. Your schooling is common. Your expertise not equal to the world’s foremost in your field. Why would he give the skull to you?”

      She shrugged. “I’m cuter than you are?”

      The man tilted a malevolent frown at her.

      What did he expect after that berating put-down? Common? She’d show him common. And he wouldn’t see it coming.

      He stood in one smooth motion. The dark navy suit was tailored to his body. It revealed thick biceps and a broad chest. She couldn’t detect any sign of a shoulder holster for a gun bulging under the arm.

      He didn’t approach her. Annja maintained her ready position by the door. Knees slightly bent, hips aligned with her shoulders. Fluttering her fingers, she thought of the sword. It was right at her grasp with a beckon—but she didn’t call it.

      If he was willing to talk, she’d get what information from him she was able. Then she’d show him how very uncommon she could be.

      “It’s not here,” she offered.

      She wasn’t about to give directions to Danzinger or Columbia, because she could guess how that would end. One body last night was enough for her.

      “I believe you,” Serge said. “You don’t have it on your person, either, because you entered with nothing but that empty backpack.”

      She’d dropped it inside the doorway.

      “Do you work for Benjamin?” he asked.

      “Benjamin?” Annja cursed silently. If she’d played that one right, she could have danced around, tried to finagle exactly who Benjamin was. The name meant nothing to her.

      Serge nodded, picking up on her lacking knowledge.

      He toed a thin steel lock pick that had scattered during his melee. “You don’t know what you’ve been given, do you, Miss Creed?”

      Held by his pale gray gaze, she stared at him as if to dig the answer out from his expression. Phrenology was the science of determining character and personality from skull shape. She wondered what a big, rugged cranium meant.

      The longer she looked into his eyes, the more she felt creepy crawlies skitter up her spine.

      “No, I have no idea what it is.” She looked aside at the mess, then caught movement in her peripheral vision.

      Serge reached inside his suit coat and drew out a blade.

      Any previous reluctance to calling out her sword fled.

      With a lunge to her right, Annja dipped low. She summoned the battle sword. It emerged from the otherwhere in an instant. It fit into her palm with a sure grip. She hoped she’d made it seem as though she were plucking the sword from the floor behind the couch. With a bend of her knee she thrust toward Serge.

      With minimum movement, he flicked his wrist, blocking her stab with the edge of his bowie knife. A nod acknowledged her challenge. His dark eyes narrowed.

      Annja swung low, seeing if she could get a rise out of the guy. He had only to step back, then forward, as the sword swept past his thigh.

      He retaliated with swift grace. The knife passed near her cheek, but didn’t cut flesh. His reach was long and surprisingly agile for one so large and bulky.

      “I don’t know how you think fighting me is going to help you find the skull,” she said. A twist of shoulder and a double step backward put her out of reach from his next swipe. Annja slashed her sword across Serge’s shoulder, opening the seam of his suit coat. “I don’t have it,” she said.

      “But you had it. Which means, you know where it is now.”

      She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. A knife to the thigh sliced out a painful chirp from her. It cut through her jeans and a couple of layers of skin. Score one for the bald guy.

      Annja countered by spinning and putting her shoulder to his. She twisted and gripped his knife wrist. Releasing the sword she grabbed his sleeve. A twist moved Serge into a spin and he wobbled and fell. The force of landing popped the bowie from his grip. The knife flipped in the air and hit the wall with a clank, dropping onto a stray couch cushion.

      He slapped a hand over her throat and shoved her off him. Annja’s hips connected with the desk. Turning and rolling across the desk she came to her feet with sword again in hand.

      Serge stood, hands near his shoulders. He was not surrendering by any means, just making nice. “Proficient sword work. I didn’t notice the weapon earlier.”

      “Because you were so busy throwing things about.”

      He blocked her thrust with a jerk of his elbow, the flat of Annja’s blade sliding along the suit fabric. Serge gripped her left wrist, twisting it. Annja had