LITMIR.BIZ

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      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 think someone followed you?” she asked. “Why?”

      “I can’t be sure, but better safe than not.” He wore a black ski cap tugged down to his dark eyebrows. A black turtleneck peeked from his jacket and climbed up under his narrow jaw. “I’m glad you came, Annja. I wasn’t sure you would. I didn’t want to give any information over the Internet.”

      “Except that you found a skull?”

      She glanced around as a silver Honda crept slowly past—obviously not wanting to risk the hardship of the five-dollar fine—but still marking her to the ankle with muddy water.

      “You’re not going to pull it out right here?” she cautioned. “There’s a café a couple of blocks from the west end of the bridge.”

      His eyes scanned their periphery. Sneak’s fingers clutched at his backpack straps nervously.

      Annja didn’t like the vibes he was giving off. At once she sensed a strange tingle to the air. More so than the toxic fumes rising from the canal. It was the man’s weird anxiety, she told herself. It was bleeding off him and onto her.

      Just be cool. Who could be watching?

      Unless he was a thief, as suspected, and really had stolen this from a dig.

      “Tell me how you obtained the thing,” she prompted. Putting her back to the street, she paralleled him, and looked out over the water.

      “That’s not important. But I can tell you this.”

      He leaned forward. Annja stepped closer because she couldn’t hear well with the water slapping against the canal walls. They stood shoulder to shoulder. His cologne was strong but not offensive.

      “I was hired to pass this along to a specific individual. It is what I do.”

      Thieves passed things along to others. Annja coiled her fingers, imagining the sword in her grip, but did not call it forth.

      “But I have a terrible feeling about this job,” the man said. “Something isn’t right. That’s why I wanted your opinion. Maybe you can identify—”

      His head shot up from their close stance. Annja followed his gaze as it soared through the iron bridge girders and traced the line of buildings edging the river.

      She didn’t see anything to cause alarm. Darkness softened the edges of buildings and parking lots. Moonlight glinted on a few windows high along the perimeter. All seemed calm. Strange, but not for this part of Brooklyn. It was a quiet, old neighborhood.

      The man’s sudden exhalation startled her. He grunted, as if punched. His shoulder jerked against hers. He gripped blindly, his fingers slapping across her shoulder.

      He stumbled backward. Annja spied the hole in his forehead. Blood trickled from the small circle. Sniper shot. It could be nothing else.

      Instincts igniting, she knew when there was one shot, there could be another. Grabbing him by the shoulder, she directed his staggering movement to swing around her body and stand before her as a defensive wall.

      Ice burned along Annja’s neck. She knew the distinct slice of metal to flesh well enough. She’d been hit. But it didn’t slow her down.

      Leaning backward over the railing, she slapped both arms about the man’s shoulders. Eyes closed, his head lolled. The dead weight of him toppled her. For a moment, she felt

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