The Thirteenth Skull (Alfred Kropp #3)(22)

He leaned the sword against the table and picked up the black satchel.

“You have lost many close to you,” he said. “Your father. Your uncle. The knight called Bennacio. But none so close as he who was lost to me. He was my mentor, my constant companion, my best friend. When news came of his death, I wept like a young child. He was all I had in the world, and though he was taken from me, I keep him with me, always. Would you like to meet him, the one who was so cruelly stolen from me?”

I wasn’t looking at him. I was looking at the hilt of the black sword. It wasn’t my sword; my sword didn’t have the dragon emblem, but it was a knight’s sword. All the Knights of the Sacred Order carried the black sword.

Dragon. Garmot.

He unsnapped the first clasp.

“I cannot bear for us to be parted, you see ...”

My thoughts started to spin in a panicky whirl.

Gar-Ger, Gera-gar, Gra-mot, Gram-ot, Gra-gri-mot-motger-grot, gram-to, mar-gro, mar-gor, mar-got, mog-art . . .

Mogart . . . !

“It’s a ...” I whispered. “It’s a—I don’t know what it’s called, but I think it’s like ana-something—Garmot for Mogart ...”

“The word you are looking for is ‘anagram,’ ” Jordain said.

He flipped open the second clasp. “And as you say in America ... speak of the devil.”

Then Jourdain Garmot reached into the bag and pulled out a human head. It was the head of the man I killed in Merlin’s Cave. It was Mogart’s head.

“Say hello to my father, Alfred Kropp.”

05:03:48:21

“I didn’t have a choice,” I choked out. My stomach rolled and I looked away from Mogart’s mummified head. The skin had turned a deli mustard yellowish brown, tightening against the shape of the skull beneath. The lips had pulled back, revealing the teeth and giving the illusion of a snarl. The eyes had long since rotted away, leaving two empty black-filled holes. “He was going to kill me—he did kill me ...”

He ignored me. “ ‘The last knight.’ I understand the one called Bennacio tried to take that title for himself, but in reality my father was the last knight—the last to fall as a result of your treachery.”

“My treachery? I don’t think you know the whole story. Nothing against your dad, but he turned on the other knights—”

“Enough.”

“He betrayed them—”

“I said enough!”

He dropped the head back into the satchel, thank God, and slung it onto the table. He pressed the tip of the black sword against my throat. That’s it, I thought. I’m dead. If you’re nutty enough to carry around your father’s mummified head, there’s not much that will keep you from chopping off the head of the guy who killed him.

“The knights are no more, thanks to you,” he cried. “The Sword has departed, thanks to you! My father is dead, again thanks to you! His blood and the blood of all the knights cry to heaven for justice!”

His cheeks were flushed and he was breathing so heavily I could see his nostrils flaring. He nodded to someone behind me.

It was Vosch. He yanked me up and kicked away the chair.

I had a pretty good idea what was going to happen next, and my mouth went dry.

“The knights are departed, their time on earth brought to an end by you, Alfred Kropp,” Jourdain said. “And so, like the knights of old, after I assumed my father’s place, I embarked upon a—what is the word?—a quest. A quest, yes! To finish what was begun. To complete the circle. The last knightly quest ... for the Thirteenth Skull.”

Two men appeared on either side of me, the guy who clubbed me in the car and the big driver. Each grabbed an arm while Vosch stayed behind me, hands on my shoulders.

“Jordain, listen to me,” I said. “I don’t know about any Thirteenth Skull. I don’t know about any skulls, period. All I know is all this crap has to stop somewhere and maybe we could agree it stops now, with me and you.”

Jordain nodded to Vosch, who forced me down to my knees.

“It won’t work, Jordain—why do you think your goons couldn’t kill me before? He won’t let it happen ...”

He was standing over me, the black sword shining in his hand, as I knelt at his feet.

“Who? Who will not let it happen?” he asked. He seemed genuinely puzzled that anyone would care.

I almost didn’t answer. Did I believe it myself? Did I really believe it the way Bennacio and Samuel believed it?

“Michael,” I whispered. “The Archangel.”

He stared down at my upturned face without expression.

“I’m—um—I’m his beloved.”

They burst out laughing, even Mr. Flat-Face, who didn’t strike me as someone with a finely developed sense of humor. Except Jourdain. Jourdain wasn’t laughing.

“Yes, the Angel,” he whispered. “It is almost time for Michael’s return—and the return of the gift. She has promised me and I believe her. The gift shall be given again to the true heir of Camelot, but not before the Thirteenth Skull is borne home.” He nodded to Vosch, who shoved his knee into the middle of my back, forcing me down. My right cheek smacked against the hardwood.

“I don’t understand!” I hollered. Maybe if I kept him talking I could postpone the inevitable. “Who promised you what? What gift? What true heir of Camelot?”