Born in Blood (The Sentinels) (15 page)

“You lost me.”

He lifted his head to meet his companion’s puzzled gaze. “If we find out where Calso got the coin and what makes it worth killing for, we might be able to use the information to discover who else was interested in the coin,” he explained, his mind already shifting through his various contacts. “There can’t be that many numismatists willing to dabble in black markets. This vessel can hopefully lead me to a specific dealer.”

Molinari gave a slow nod. “Clever, but we don’t know for sure that the vessel and the coin are actually connected.”

“It’s a place to start.”

The chief abruptly tossed the file back on the desk, her expression tight with frustration.

“Shit, I hate this.”

Duncan grimaced. “I think we’re going to hate what’s coming even more.”

The journey from Kansas City to Saint Petersburg might have been made in the blink of an eye, but it was as disconcerting as hell. It seemed no matter how great the power, you couldn’t jerk a body halfway around the world and nine hours into the future without it making a girl feel dizzy.

Moving to lean against the wall that was covered in delicately painted hieroglyphs, Callie sucked in a deep breath, waiting for her head to stop spinning.

Across the small room Fane stood in silence, unaffected by the teleportation.

Not that he was entirely happy.

Callie grimaced as her gaze skimmed over his large tattooed body, which was covered by a pair of casual khakis, heavy black boots, and a tight muscle shirt. There was no missing the rigid tension of his shoulders and the tightness of his starkly male features.

For all his stoic calm, Fane was royally pissed.

At her.

“Why don’t you spit out what you have to say before your head explodes?” she murmured.

He turned to study her with a steady gaze. “Would it do any good?”

She briefly considered the pleasure she’d found in Duncan’s arms. Had it been a mistake? Maybe. Did she give a damn? No.

“Doubtful,” she admitted with a rueful smile.

“Then there’s no point.”

“It might make you less grumpy.”

“Doubtful.”

She rolled her eyes as he turned on his heels and headed out of the portal room. Fane had never tried to interfere in her intimate affairs. Usually because she had no affairs, intimate or otherwise.

But they both understood that Duncan O’Conner threatened to become more than a passing distraction.

They entered the main section of the monastery, and Callie forced herself to ignore Fane’s foul mood as a heavily cloaked monk moved toward her.

Her guardian was like an older brother. No matter how much they might fuss and fight, nothing could break their bond of trust.

She would never, ever doubt he had her back.

“Welcome to our humble abbey.” The monk offered a bow before he straightened and pulled back his hood to reveal a long, deeply wrinkled face that was made beautiful by his kind blue eyes and sweet smile. “I am Brandon.”

Beside her, Fane returned the bow, his hand pressed over his heart in a gesture of respect.

“We are honored to be your guests. I’m Fane and this is Callie Brown.”

“Fane. Ms. Brown.” He sent them both a piercing glance. “A pleasure.”

“Please call me Callie.”

“Thank you.” Another sweet smile before Brandon waved a hand toward a nearby archway. “We have prepared for your arrival. If you’ll follow me.”

They traveled through the reception room, which was built of stark gray stones with narrow slits that offered a mere glimpse of the fading sunlight. She didn’t allow herself to think that it was still late morning at Valhalla. Her stomach was just settling from the journey.

There was a long, narrow hallway that ended in a heavy wooden door with an old-fashioned iron lock. Brandon pulled an equally old-fashioned key from the pocket of his robe and used it to tumble the lock. Then, with a strange air of ceremony he pushed open the door and stepped aside so Callie could enter first.

She wasn’t sure what to expect.

Although she’d been surrounded by Sentinels all her life, not to mention traveled by portal with Fane from one monastery to another, she’d never been beyond the public rooms that were always stark and uninviting. The monks were OCD when it came to the privacy of the students and their training.

Now she sucked in a startled breath as she glanced around the vast library.

The place was . . . stunning.

Unlike the sleek, high-tech library at Valhalla, this room spoke of Russia’s past, with an onion-domed ceiling that was richly painted with Orthodox icons and edged with gilt. The floor was a white marble inset with pieces of jade and gold that shimmered in the light from the candelabras. The walls were lined with towering bookshelves that were ornately carved and separated by fluted columns. The rosewood furniture was clearly the work of master craftsmen and so highly polished it seemed to glow.

“Oh.” Callie twirled in a circle, absorbing the sheer beauty of the room. “This is exquisite.”

The monk chuckled. “I will share your appreciation with our students.”

Callie widened her eyes. “Sentinels did this?”

“We train all our Sentinels with some craft.”

Callie shot a glance toward the silent Fane. “So that’s how you learned to carve such beautiful figurines.”

Fane shrugged, but his features eased as he studied her dazzled expression. He would have his tongue cut out before he admitted he took pride in his small carvings that filled the nurseries at Valhalla.

Tiny ballerinas, trees with squirrels perched on leafy branches, intricate castles, and mind-twisting puzzles. Bewitching creations that the children adored.

“It teaches that anything worthy comes from patience and dedication to detail,” Brandon explained.

Callie smiled. “We should all learn that particular lesson.”

Brandon moved to a fireplace set behind a large desk, brushing his hand over a jade vase. Without warning a panel beside the fireplace slid open to reveal a hidden staircase.

“This way,” the monk urged, leading them down the dark stairs.

Callie followed behind him with Fane bringing up the rear.

“Where are we going?” she asked in confusion, skimming her hand down the cement wall as the darkness thickened to the point she was nearly blind. Her own skills didn’t include seeing in the dark.

“This is where we keep items that are too fragile to be put on display,” Brandon answered, opening the door at the bottom of the stairs to reveal a brilliantly lit room that was built in the shape of an octagon and lined with steel. Eight doors were set in the steel. “These vaults are specially designed to maintain the proper temperature and humidity.” Brandon headed to the nearest door, pressing his thumb against a digital scanner. If the library upstairs had been a vision of old-world elegance, this was a glimpse into the future. “And, of course, the scribes are trained to handle even the most ancient artifacts.”

Callie frowned, wondering if there had been a miscommunication. “The information we seek isn’t particularly ancient.”

Brandon nodded toward the door that silently slid open. “This particular vault contains various books and journals and even letters that refer to ...” He paused to consider his words. “Let us say sensitive issues dealing with our people.”

“Secret histories?” Callie asked.

“Not secret.” Brandon smiled his sweet, sweet smile. “Regulated on a need-to-know basis.”

Ah. Callie got it.

No need to creep out the norms with doppelgangers that could change shape or necromancers who could control the dead.

They entered a long room that was lined with glass cases. The ceiling was curved and crisscrossed with bright lights, the floor was grated metal that allowed a cool breeze to flow through the air.

Callie managed to catch a glimpse of books and rolled parchments and pretty feminine diaries that were wrapped with ribbons.

There were also strange objects that she’d never seen before and never wanted to see again. She grimaced at the sight of a large crystal ball with what looked like a human eye staring directly at her and the strange hammer that violently smashed into the glass as they passed by.

Yeesh.

At the end of the room was an open space with a large metal table that was cluttered with several leather-bound books, maps, as well as a pile of letters that were yellowed from age.

As they approached the table, a slender girl rose to her feet, brushing her hands down the long black robe she wore. “Brandon,” the girl murmured, giving a low bow before glancing toward Callie and Fane.

The overhead light revealed she wasn’t as young as Callie had first thought. Maybe midtwenties instead of early teens, but there remained an air of fragility about her pale, perfect face that was dominated by a large pair of velvet brown eyes. Her hair was pulled into a long braid that fell to her waist, the silvery-blond color so pale it didn’t look real.

She looked like a fairy princess.

Until the brown gaze turned in Callie’s direction. There was an age-old wisdom in those eyes. As if she’d seen more in her twenty or so years of life than most people did in their entire existence.

“This is Myst,” Brandon introduced the girl. Myst. It suited her. “She’ll be here to assist you.”

“Thank you,” Fane murmured, moving to stand guard at the door as the monk left.

Callie moved forward, joining the scribe at the table.

Myst pulled a pair of white, protective gloves from a box and held them toward Callie. “I believe I have all the relative material gathered here.”

Callie wrinkled her nose at the daunting stack of books, letters, and what looked to be official reports.

It would take her hours, if not days, to search through the pile. Always assuming she happened to read Russian, French, and what she could only guess was Latin.

Which she could not.

“Have you read them all?” she asked the scribe.

“Of course.”

“Then maybe you can give us the Cliffs Notes.”

Myst blinked. “Cliffs Notes?”

“A condensed version,” Fane explained from the door.

“Oh, I see. Very well.” The girl gave a nod, her accent light, but definitely not Russian. Scandinavian? Perhaps. “The church records reveal that Lord Zakhar was born the youngest son of a minor nobleman in Kokorino. It was a small, remote village in what is now Siberia. He had two older brothers who both died before they reached the age of eighteen.”

“Cause?” Fane demanded.

“Both were found in the woods with their necks broken.” Myst absently put on the gloves in her hands, pulling one of the books toward her. “It was assumed that they were thrown from their horses.”

“At the same time?” Callie asked.

Myst checked her book. “No, five years apart.”

Callie lifted her brows. Okay, there might not have been a CSI team back then, but they weren’t stupid.

“And no one was suspicious?”

“Very suspicious, especially when there were claims of seeing the dead walking just before they took their falls.” Myst shrugged. “Of course, no one paid any attention to the gossip of mere serfs, not even the Shaman.”

Callie shivered. Zakhar had been able to raise the dead when he’d been so young?

She’d somehow thought that it was a power he’d honed over the centuries.

Which begged the question ... If he could raise the dead when he was a mere teenager, what could he do now?

The possibilities were terrifying.

“What about the parents?” she at last asked.

“The mother is never mentioned. The father, however, was found dead of what was called ‘a failure of the heart’ only minutes after he officially named Lord Zakhar his heir.”

Fane snorted. “Convenient.”

Myst turned to another book. “After a few months of mourning he traveled to Saint Petersburg to become a member of the royal court”

“He wasn’t married?” Callie abruptly asked, struck by the sudden horror the necromancer had created offspring.

One necromancer raising the dead was bad enough, thank you very much.

“No.” Myst pointed toward the stack of papers. “In fact the letters I’ve found mention several times he was loathed and feared by society.”

Callie resisted the urge to touch the crumbling letters. “Do they say why?”

“His eyes, for one thing.”

“What about them?”

“They were described as diamonds.”

Callie shot a glance toward Fane, her heart missing a beat at the memory of those cold, ruthless eyes.

“That’s him,” she breathed.

He gave a slow nod. “It seems so, but I don’t think we should jump to conclusions.”

Not nearly as cautious as her guardian, Callie turned back toward the scribe. “Were there any paintings or photos of him?”

Myst shook her head. “Not that I could find.”

Callie sighed. Of course not.

Before revealing themselves to the norms the high-bloods had learned to avoid having their images captured.

“What happened to him?”

“He gained power over the years.”

“How?”

Myst ran her fingers lightly over the gold-edged page of the book in front of her, seeming to take comfort in the feel of the aged paper.

It had to be a scribe thing.

“It’s not clear,” she admitted. “But I would guess that he gathered information for the czar.”

“A spy?” Callie asked.

“Yes.” Myst nodded. “He knew things that made people believe he could read their minds.”

Callie blinked in confusion. “A psychic?”

Myst glanced down, suddenly looking uncomfortable. “Actually—”

“What is it?” Callie prodded.

“One powerful aristocrat swore that his valet had helped him dress for dinner only to learn when he arrived downstairs that the man had been found dead in the stables with a knife in his heart that afternoon”

Fane gave a grunt of disgust. “He was using the dead to uncover secrets.”

“Oh.” Callie grimaced. The scribe’s discomfort was a sharp warning of what would happen if it became common knowledge there was a necromancer who could raise the dead. Diviners were already feared. Even by other high-bloods. Dealing with the dead, no matter how respectfully done, tended to creep people out. If they thought that diviners were secretly abusing the corpses of their loved ones . . . it truly was going to be a nightmare. “Did they realize that Lord Zakhar was responsible?”

“There were rumors, but it wasn’t until he formed an alliance with the czarina’s mystic that the whispers became open accusations of sorcery,” Myst said.