Blood Cursed (Rogue Angel) (9 page)

“Spain? You don’t normally travel for the show, Doug. At least, you’re always complaining that the budget won’t allow it. What’s up?”

“Call it a working vacation.” He skimmed his fingers through his hair and flipped it out of his eyes. “And I wanted to take in a few bullfights after hearing about your adventures in Cádiz. It’s warm here!”

“That it is.”

“And the women are gorgeous. Dark hair and eyes and the skirts that swirl when they dance.”

“I never would have pegged you for a fan of flamenco, Doug.”

“Is that what you call it?”

Annja smirked. Of course, the man only had eyes for the women in their swirling skirts. He always saved the technical details for the small research staff the show employed.

His face moved awkwardly close to the screen as if he were trying to peer through the monitor glass. Not a flattering view of his nostrils, at all. “Where in the world are you, Annja?”

“Why? I don’t have an assignment for
Chasing History’s Monsters
I’ve forgotten, do I?”

“No. Can’t a guy call and check in on his favorite TV host now and then?”

“Sure, Doug. I hear your other favorite TV host is in the Bahamas filming about Lusca, the half shark, half octopus.”

“A tiny bikini opportunity, if there ever was one. Why can I never talk you into a bikini for a segment?”

“That’s Kristie’s job. I’m sure it’s even in her contract. I, on the other hand, prefer to leave something to be desired.”

She caught Luke’s quirked eyebrow from over the unwrapped skull, and shrugged.

“But seriously.” Doug’s face filled the screen again, and she never realized how bushy his eyebrows were until now. “What are you up to? On a dig?”

“Yep. Just toted a skull with a brick in its mouth back to the hotel and I’m going to have a look over it.”

“A skull. With a brick?” Doug’s eyes widened and his jaw worked furiously at what Annja guessed was a piece of gum. “You mean you dug up one of the chewing dead?” His triumphant fist pump filled the screen. “Yes!”

“What the—how do you—? Oh, right, you are a big fan of vampires,” she said innocently. “I almost forgot about the little club you are in that dresses up like vampires and plays.” She rolled her eyes.

“Play? We don’t play, Annja, we reenact. And you bet I’m a vamp fan. I’m heading to Club Dread next month for the annual Halloween ball. I’ve got my Dracula cape and had the dentist make a new set of custom fangs for me. Annja, you’ve dug up one of the chewing dead? Why aren’t we filming this for the show?”

“It’s not a vampire, Doug.”

Why wasn’t she filming it for the show? It was exactly the kind of sensational fiction they produced. Annja knew the answer. Because right now she wasn’t too sure how the angry townsfolk would react to a film crew.

“It’s just a skull with a brick in its mouth. In medieval times the people were superstitious and—”

“And that’s what
Chasing History’s Monsters
is all about, Annja! Chasing. History’s. Monsters! Seriously? Are you trying to keep this one from me?”

Yes, well, she had hoped to. Why had she opened her big mouth now?

“I need to fly out there and get a good look at the thing. Film it. You have a video camera with you, don’t you?”

“Just the one on my digital. Nothing good enough for television filming— Doug, don’t come out here. It’s a dangerous situation right now.”

“Dangerous? Oh, Annja, you are only stirring the fires. How can a dirty old skull be dangerous? Unless—have people been bitten?”

“No, no one has been bitten. Please, calm yourself. It’s not the skull, it’s the locals, or rather Gypsies, who are upset that the skull might belong to a real vampire that might rise from the grave to torment them.”

“Really? Rampaging villagers? Oh, dude! And you’re not filming? Annja, you’re killing me. Right here.” He pounded his chest. “Like a stake through the heart. Footage of torch-toting villagers is exactly what the show needs.”

“No torches.” Yet. “And
Chasing History’s Monsters
has done vampires to death, Doug.”

“And yet, the suckers keep rising for another bite. Ha! I have to book a flight right now. You’re in the Czech Republic, right?” He bowed his head, and Annja heard the clatter of keyboard keys. “Yes, I have you on my Find a Friend app. Ah, Chrastava. Where the heck is that?”

She could’ve kicked herself. A television crew was the last thing she needed on-site when they had no idea what to expect day to day from the Romani. On the other hand, when had she balked at taking a film crew through treacherous situations?

When said crew consisted of one vampire-crazy producer. She felt sure if Doug didn’t find what he was looking for some supersonic Photoshop skills would kick in.

A glance to Luke found him leaning against the table where he’d set up the microscope, arms crossed over his chest, shaking his head.

“Eavesdropper.”

Luke shrugged. “I don’t see what’s wrong with having a film crew to record our information. It might prove beneficial. I haven’t yet mastered the camera with the iPad, or rather, I haven’t taken the time to learn. I’d love to have another means of documenting my work.”

“That’s why you wondered where my film crew was when I first arrived.” She figured out his misplaced enthusiasm just now.

Luke had the decency to look guilty.

“Yes, but you don’t know Doug Morrell—”

“Got it!” Doug made the thumbs-up gesture on the computer screen. “My flight leaves in four hours. I should be there by midnight. Where are you staying?”

Reluctantly, Annja gave Doug the address for her hotel, and warned him not to wake her when he arrived after midnight. By morning, she’d be prepared for his macabre enthusiasm for the undead. She hoped.

“See you later, Doug.” She closed the laptop and apologized to Luke, though she suspected it wasn’t necessary. “He’s my producer. Always looking for an interesting idea. I suppose you’re right. Any chance to document the research on film shouldn’t be overlooked. I just worry about the crew’s safety.”

“This skull will prove sensational. Much like the Venetian and Bulgarian finds did. I could get a paper, or an article, out of this, maybe
National Geographic
’s interest. Though the link to vampires is slightly off. The word
vampire
didn’t exist in the time period I suspect this was laid in the ground. Of course, no matter what you label it, it all meant about the same in terms of revenants and horror.”

“Right. But
blutsauger
has been in use a while. And
mullo
. I should look that up.” She reopened her laptop, and made sure Skype was off. She didn’t need a play-by-play of Doug’s flight to the Czech Republic. “
Revenant
would be the best word for a dead being that rises from the grave.”

“I vant to suck your blood.”

She glowered over the edge of her laptop at Luke’s horrible impression of Dracula, and quirked a brow. “Just what I need, two grown men wearing capes and fangs.”

Annja focused back on the Google search. Not all links led to vampires. She’d forgotten
mullo
was also the name of a Celtic god associated with the planet Mars.

“If we’re going to film,” Luke said, “do you want to hold off on cleaning the skull?”

Annja thought about it. “I suppose. Action shots of me dusting bones are no money shot, but they do serve to show archaeological process. Necessary to balance the sensationalism on the show. Doug will bring a video camera with him. But let’s figure out the time period, if we can.”

“Without radio carbon dating, we can merely guess. I’m no anthropologist, but I’d place it mid–nineteenth century, only because I have a suspicion about the brick.”

“Much more recent than originally suspected.” Annja considered the skull. “Were they still placing bricks in mouths in the 1800s?”

“By then I believe they’d graduated to running pipes down through the ground and into the coffin. By affixing a cord or twine to a bell, if the dead were suddenly to come to life, the ringing bell would alert everyone.”

“I thought that was to get help in the event of being buried alive―” she rolled her eyes “―not a vampire alarm.”

“True. And by then, embalming had grown popular for the very purpose of keeping the dead, well, dead.”

“And look where it’s taken us. To hundreds of thousands of graveyards filled with chemicals contaminating our planet.”

“How can an archaeologist like yourself possibly prefer cremation?”

“Let’s just say that when I die, I hope it’s fighting for my last breath as the lava flows over me. Or gasping for air five hundred meters underwater.”

“You want to go out in a blaze of glory.”

“Nothing wrong with that.”

“Indeed.” Luke stared at her a moment. Suddenly, he suggested, “Well, then, how about wild roses and thorns to keep the blokes down?”

“Why
do
you know your vampire mythology, Luke? I hadn’t taken you for a vampirologist.”

“A man glances over all sorts of esoteric information in the process of research. And I have read up on the Romanis. So many delicious beliefs and social customs with the Gypsies. It’s difficult not to run into the undead while reading up on the people.”

She clicked on
mullo
and read details they already knew about the legend of rising from the dead to seek vengeance.

“Do you know how to get rid of a
mullo?
” she asked Luke, who now tapped the brick with a dental pick he’d pulled from his geek badge. “You hire a
dhampir
—”

“The son of a vampire and his mortal bride,” Luke filled in. “I believe the Marvel comic book hero Blade was a
dhampir
.”

She looked up quickly. “Please don’t mention comic books to Doug.” He seemed confused by that, but she ignored him and went back to her research. “Hmm...there’s no mention of bricks in mouths in the
mullo
legend. The Gypsies would drive steel or iron into a corpse’s heart at the time of burial to keep it down.”

“You’ve read about the Bulgarian vampire finds?”

“Yes. But refresh my memory.”

“Excavating a monastery near the Black Sea town of Sozopol, archaeologists uncovered close to one hundred corpses with stakes driven through their chests.”

“I didn’t hear there were a hundred of them. Really?”

“You do seem to resist the whole vampire legend. The discovery has boosted tourism in the area. One of the skeletons is currently displayed at the National History Museum. It’s dated to be over seven hundred years old. I believe the man was Krivich.”

Annja searched her memory of medieval who’s who. “The Crooked?”

“Yes, a notorious pirate and aristocrat, possibly a master of witchcraft, as well. Which was a good reason for the iron stake.”

“I just read about this―isn’t the National History Museum also the place where some of John the Baptist’s bones are on display?”

Luke smirked. “Quite the variety of history they have on view there.”

“So, an iron stake through the chest... That’s similar to Dracula’s wooden stake through the heart,” Annja said.

“Iron used to keep back mythical creatures. Faeries most often. And, of course, iron swords were the weapon of choice for decapitating suspected
mullo
corpses.”

“Well.” Annja looked at the skull sitting on the table. “The decapitation part has already been taken care of, so if the Romas protest again we can use that in our defense. Decapitation means the dead can’t rise.”

“Good. So we’ve got our story straight.”

They both chuckled.

Luke tapped the brick with the dental pick again. “Did bricks have holes in them by the mid–nineteenth century?”

“The holes first appeared when the extrusion process was developed to make clay bricks. Why?”

“I think this one has a hole in it. It could either be original or created by time and erosion. We’ll have to remove some more soil to be sure, but I’ll save it for filming,” he suggested eagerly.

Annja glanced up into the man’s gleaming eyes. “You’re excited about the arrival of my producer, aren’t you?”

He shrugged. “Isn’t every day a man has the opportunity to work with a film crew.”

“It’s a crew of one.”

“And you. That makes three of us. I’d call that a crew.”

She smiled. “All right. We’ll reconvene in the morning at the dig site. I have to head back to the hotel and wash...and prepare to meet Doug in the morning.”

“I’ll pick you both up at seven?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Chapter 6

Santos eyed the lanky young American man who got out of the taxicab in front of a grocery store. He knew it was an American from the flashy gestures. The man had apparently wanted the cab to wait, but as the taxi drove off, leaving him waving frantically, he settled down and kicked the street pole beside him. He had a load of gear strapped to his back and carried a long black duffel.

Tourists always made their way through the town, but this one was unusual in that he wasn’t with a friend and didn’t wield a map or GPS on his phone to find his way about without bothering to lift his head to take in the sights.

Taking note of the hawker who was setting up his stand, Santos could only shake his head when the American man started picking up stakes and a garlic necklace. He handed over American cash to the hawker, who gladly took the currency.

With a spring to his step now that he’d claimed the ridiculous items, the American walked into the small grocery store.

And Santos waited to observe his exit five minutes later, beef jerky stick in one hand and a bottle of soda in the other. His hand itched for his katana. No wonder the media claimed Americans were all obese. Did they never eat real food that came directly from the ground or tree? This man, though, was skinny. It was a wonder he could heft what appeared to be some weighty baggage.

Santos decided to help him with that. He dialed up his buddies and made sure they found out exactly what this American was doing in the city. After his experience with the two archaeologists out at the dig site, he couldn’t risk more eyes on this operation. And the last thing he wanted to report to his supervisor was a fouled plan. A media frenzy was not going to go down well.

* * *

“N
O
PRODUCER
?” L
UKE
asked as they headed out of Annja’s room the next morning. “I thought he was arriving at midnight?”

“I got an email that his flight was delayed a few hours. He’s not answering his phone.”

“You worried?”

“Yes and no. Doug’s a big boy. He may have decided to do some sightseeing, maybe even film scenery for a segment.”

Grabbing one of the complimentary sweet rolls from the dinette area as she followed Luke out of the hotel, Annja choked down the dried-out pastry.

“I’ve got coffee brewed and packed in the Range Rover,” Luke said as he pushed open the swinging doors and they strode into the parking lot that was vacant except for a few vehicles. Not a lot of tourists in this area, and it wasn’t peak season. “What the hell?”

A black van had parked beside the Range Rover, the side doors open to reveal a man sitting cross-legged, his arms wrenched around behind his back, and a burlap sack over his head. Annja recognized the Vans sneakers immediately.

Two men carrying pistols, scarves concealing most of their faces, approached Annja and Luke. Khaki pants and jackets made them indistinguishable from each other, except for the different colored scarves. Could these be the same men who’d held guns on them yesterday afternoon?

Quelling the urge to call the sword to hand, Annja erred on the side of caution and waited to see what would happen. They heard a sudden shout from inside the van.

“Doug?”

The man in the burlap hood struggled with another khaki-clad gunman.

“This is your friend, Annja Creed?” one of the men asked. She didn’t recognize the speaker. And she didn’t see Katana Man, either.

“Depends. I can’t see his face.”

“He says he’s arrived to see you and talk about vampires.” The guy with the gun tilted his head. “A strange man, if you ask me.”

“Yes, he has his moments.”

From behind the hood, she heard Doug whine. “Annja, please!”

“What’s with the hood and the guns?”

“We’ve come to invite you and Mr. Spencer to meet our boss.”

“An invitation?” She exchanged looks with Luke, who betrayed none of the nervous energy in his face that she could feel wavering off him. It was never good when the bad guys knew your name. “What’s your boss’s name? He is the guy with the katana sword?”

The men exchanged looks. “You’ll know his name when you are introduced.”

“What if we’ve already got plans?”

“Then the strange man in the van will be shot.” The blue scarved man grinned widely and swung the barrel of his gun toward Doug’s head.

Annja’s instincts charged to the fore and she struggled not to move. Sometimes it was best to follow the trail and hope it led to answers.

“When you put it that way, perhaps we’ve got a few hours to spare, eh, Luke?”

“I imagine so.”

“Where exactly is your boss?” she asked.

“Step inside the back of the van, Mr. Spencer. We’ll have to put a hood on you, as well, for precaution. And you, Miss Creed, you’ll run back inside the hotel and fetch the skull you removed from the site. My boss is particularly interested in getting a look at it.”

“It’s too delicate to transfer,” she tried. The machine gun nudged her bicep. “It would be better if your boss came here to view it.”

“We’ll drive carefully. As you can see, we’ve already got precious cargo. Now move!”

* * *

G
ARIN
B
RADEN
TOOK
an MI-17 helicopter to Liberec, a private chopper he’d had retrofitted from a gunship to a personal carrier. A car rental waited at the small airstrip near the train station, and Garin now sat outside the Chrastava hotel where Annja was staying.

Hadn’t been his first guess. He’d checked another hotel first, asking after Annja at the reception desk, explaining he’d wanted to surprise an old friend. The fact that the receptionist had been young and blushed when he’d given her a charming smile had helped his cause. Good thing the town was small and only boasted a few hotels. He would have never pegged Annja as someone who’d choose the only family-oriented hotel in the city. It offered miniature golf and free in-room family movies.

He did like that woman’s surprises.

Now, he sat in the parking lot, observing the commotion. He’d been considering going in to knock on Annja’s door until the black van had driven up. Strange sights like men carrying pistols and tugging along hooded hostages usually indicted Annja Creed was in the vicinity. And sure enough, she walked out of the hotel, toting something wrapped in blue tarp. One of the men gestured with a gun for her to move quickly.

“Creed, how do you always manage to get muddled in all the wrong situations?” he muttered. “I thought you were here for a job? Who would have thought archaeology could be so dangerous.”

Was Annja’s situation related to his difficulties in the area? Such a coincidence tested the odds. Bracks couldn’t have learned that he and Annja were friends. It didn’t feel as if this was another ploy to show him up. Hadn’t the stolen ship been enough, anyway?

By rights, it was Garin’s turn to retaliate against Bracks.

Until Garin knew exactly why she was being forced inside the back of the black van, carefully cradling a plastic bag the size of her head against her gut, he’d sit back and see what he could learn. He would follow the van, and move when it felt right.

* * *

W
HILE
A
NNJA
COULDN
’
T
see where they were going, it only took ten minutes to arrive. She assumed they had driven southeast to the larger town of Liberec, six miles from Chrastava. The hotel room was small as far as hotel rooms went, and Annja, Luke, three armed guards and the still-hooded Doug had to cram themselves in. In the chair by the window a man wearing a fedora sat, cigar smoke curling up around his chin.

Cherry tobacco, she assessed. Loved the smell. Hated that she loved it right now, she thought.

One of the guards pulled the hood off Doug’s head, and her producer blinked and looked around. His eyes landed on her and pleaded for an explanation.

“I told you,” she muttered, “the situation is dangerous.”

“Nice,” he managed to say. “They broke the video camera. That’s a huge red mark on my expense account.”

The guard who’d removed his hood slapped the burlap sack across Doug’s face.
“Drz hubu.”

“That means—” Annja started.

“I know. ‘Be quiet,’” Doug finished.

Correctly translated it meant “shut up,” but she’d allow Doug the gentler admonishment.

Annja’s eyes went straight to the small arsenal on the bed. One assault rifle, a few Glocks, half a dozen blades and two military-issue grenades. The grenades worried her―she didn’t want the hotel going up in an explosion should someone feel the urge to exert control over them.

Luke, his left shoulder against her right, remained silent. He wouldn’t get in the way if she took action. It was Doug she couldn’t rely on to not get his head blown off.

“Three?” the cigar-smoking man said, not lifting his head to acknowledge them. “I expected two. Who is responsible for making this a ménage à trois?”

“We found this man on the way to the site in Chrastava. Your contact alerted us to him. He looked suspicious, and when we questioned him, he gave us the woman’s name.”

Contact? This just got a lot more interesting.

The man in the fedora, his face still shadowed by his hat, turned to them. After a long moment, he stood, tugging at the lapels of his pinstripe suit and shaking out his arms so the sleeves fell properly. In wingtip leather shoes, he seemed to have stepped out of a gangster movie. His complexion was pale, not the olive tones of the Romas. His accent sounded distinctly British.

“Annja Creed. Archaeologist and television personality.” He strolled his gaze from her head to her dirt-dusted boots, and back up her legs and torso in a manner that should have made her squirm, but only fired her anger. “And you are Luke Spencer, the supervisor on the dig site. A part-time professor of Sociology at the London University.”

“You’ve done your homework,” Annja said.

“Information is power, Miss Creed. But I don’t like it when someone tosses a wrench into my events calendar.” He stabbed his cigar in Doug’s direction. “Who is this sorry-looking man?”

The guard kicked Doug’s tennis shoe, and he blurted out, “Doug Morrell. Producer of
Chasing History’s Monsters
and media celebrity. If I go missing, there will be people looking for me.”

Annja contained the urge to roll her eyes. On the other hand,
Go, Doug.

“And why would you go missing?” the man asked in an accent Annja thought had a touch of Cockney to it. “Do you expect to tumble into a dig pit and break your neck?”

Doug delivered the man a moaning wince. “We don’t know anything!”

“What is there to know?”

“Who you are and why you kidnapped us?”

“Doug,” Annja cautioned. “My producer has only just arrived in the city this morning to film a segment for our show,” she explained to the Brit. “He has no idea what’s going on. I could claim the same. What is your interest in us, Mr....?”

“Weston Bracks. International business opportunist.”

Which, in Annja speak, meant a criminal with an inflated assessment of his freedom.

He smoothed a finger along the brim of the fedora, and Annja wondered if he’d watched too many gangster movies.

“It seems you’ve riled my townspeople, Miss Creed. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing for my line of work. Just...annoying. The balance between too much and just the right amount of media coverage is a difficult tightrope, eh?”

“Your townspeople?”

“Yes, well, I claim a certain concern for their well-being.”

And she believed that one as much as the holy water in the hawker’s cart was actually blessed. “What are you doing here?”

“I moved operations to the area after I’d learned about that fascinating skull. Where is it, by the by?” He eyed the wrapped package Annja held. “I might take a look at it. Always on the lookout for valuable artifacts.”

“As I would expect from a business opportunist.”

He winked at her. “I like you, Miss Creed. Feisty. Now hand it over.”

“It’s delicate.”

Annja held out the wrapped skull. All instincts screamed for her to draw the sword and lay them flat, taking names later. “Let me unwrap it, please.”

“Of course.” He gestured to the bed arrayed with weapons. “Be careful of my pretties.”

Annja laid the plastic bag next to the grenades and went through the motions of carefully extracting the skull.

Doug gave a low whistle, his eyes wide.

It had held together nicely, though a sifting of fine soil had been scoured off and scattered onto the bed as the tarp was carefully folded down.

“There was only the head?” Bracks said from over her shoulder.

“No, the full skeleton remains in situ,” Annja said. “But we decided to remove the skull for fear someone might desecrate the site. They’re superstitious in this neck of the woods.”