Born in Blood (The Sentinels) (16 page)

He had an accomplice?

Callie was somehow surprised.

Surely a crazy necromancer should work alone?

“What do you know about the mystic?”

“Very little.” The scribe reached to flip open one of the leather-bound diaries. On one page was a charcoal etching of a narrow female face. It was too faded to make out more than a slender nose and high cheekbones with sensually lush lips, but Callie detected an arrogance in her faintly slanted eyes and tilted chin. “There’s no record of her until she arrives in Saint Petersburg to act as an advisor.”

“A high-blood?” Fane asked.

Myst nodded. “Yes.”

So it was possible she was still alive.

Callie shifted her gaze back to the scribe. “Can you tell what her talent was?”

“There’s no proof—”

“Your best guess,” Callie urged. Myst hesitated. No doubt she was trained to offer facts, not theories. Callie, however, trusted the young woman’s instincts. “Please.”

“A witch,” the young woman at last muttered.

Callie nodded. That would be her guess as well.

“Do you say that because she claimed to be a mystic?”

“That and the fact that there are mentions of the strange jewelry she wore on a bracelet.”

“Amulets,” Fane said.

Witches used amulets to hold spells, curses, and charms. Unlike Sentinels, who occasionally used crystals to focus their magic.

“There were also rumors that she had the ability to heal,” Myst added.

Callie frowned. Healers had abilities that had nothing to do with magic.

“Really?”

“She would foresee outbreaks of illness.”

Fane again made a sound of disgust. “Illness that she no doubt caused.”

“Yes, and then she would cure the sick.” Myst snapped the diary shut, something in her eyes speaking of wounds that hadn’t yet healed. “Or at least those who could afford her exorbitant prices.”

“A clever racket,” Fane muttered.

Callie studied her companion’s pale face. She wondered what pain was keeping the young woman hidden down in these vaults, but it wasn’t the time or place to pry.

Once she was back at Valhalla she would mention Myst to the Mave. The powerful witch had the ability to get answers far more discreetly than Callie could.

“So what happened to the mystic?” she asked instead.

As if sensing she’d revealed more than she intended, Myst lowered her head and carefully opened yet another book. This one had neat columns of handwritten script, as if it were an official record book.

“She, along with Lord Zakhar, was discovered in her private rooms with the missing child of a servant. His throat was slit and he was lying on a wooden altar.”

“Human sacrifice?” Fane’s voice was edged with shock.

Murder of innocents was as rare among high-bloods as among norms.

Myst nodded. “So it would seem.”

“Why?” Callie gave a puzzled shake of her head. “Witches have no need for blood.”

“There are forbidden spells that demand the blood of innocents,” Myst revealed with a grimace.

There was a short silence as Callie and Fane shared a startled glance.

It wasn’t bad enough that there was a necromancer out there who could raise the dead? Now they had to worry about a psycho witch who was willing to sacrifice children?

Callie shuddered in horror.

Fane glanced back at the scribe. “Was Lord Zakhar condemned along with her?”

“Yes, but they managed to escape from Saint Petersburg.” Myst turned the page of the book, skimming her finger down to the bottom of the text. “Eventually they were tracked to his family estate. The records become fuzzy but it seems that Lord Zakhar was handed over to the villagers who were eager to burn their lord and master at the stake.”

“The woman?” Callie pressed. If the witch was still alive they had to stop her.

“There’s no mention of her except in a footnote that claims she disappeared along with Lord Zakhar’s charred body.”

Fane abruptly moved forward, halting at the edge of the table as if sensing Myst wasn’t entirely comfortable having him so close.

Of course, Fane tended to make a lot of people uncomfortable.

“Was there any mention of a coin?” he demanded.

“Coin?” Myst frowned at the unexpected question. “What kind of coin?”

Fane pulled out his phone, turning the screen to show the image of the coin that had been taken from Calso’s security tape.

The IT wizards hadn’t had time to clean up the grainy image, but astonishingly Myst widened her eyes in surprise.

“Come with me.” She was darting to the back of the room, pulling open a door that led to another vault. This one was lined with wide wooden drawers from floor to ceiling.

Callie and Fane stood near the door watching the scribe scanning the small plaques on the front of the drawers, her lips moving as she muttered beneath her breath.

“Etruscan . . . no.” She moved to another drawer. “Minoan. Byzantine. Oh.” She pulled open a drawer and removed a small stone tablet that was etched with faded hieroglyphs. “This is it.”

She moved back to Callie and Fane, her finger brushing over the strange symbol of a bird that matched the one on the coin.

Callie lifted her brows, impressed by the young woman’s ability to recall the symbol among all the endless information stored in the vaults.

Did she have an eidetic memory?

Or was it a high-blood power?

Fane leaned to study the tablet, his finger lightly tracing the bird that was carved in the upper left corner. “What is it?” he muttered.

“It comes from a secret sect of ancient Sumerians,” Myst answered, her expression troubled.

Callie felt a chill inch down her spine. “What was it intended to do?”

Myst lifted her head, genuine fear shimmering in her eyes. “It opens a doorway to forbidden knowledge.”

Fane frowned. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know.”

While Duncan was growing up his da had a no-frills routine. During the week he worked his ass off driving a taxi to support his family. The weekends were spent mowing their small patch of grass or working in the attached garage on the latest POS car they were driving that month.

Duncan occasionally hung out in the garage. It was the one certain place to avoid the constant squabbling of his sisters. And while he’d never developed his da’s talent for tinkering with engines, he did learn that the best way to get a job done was by using the proper tool.

You want to catch a drug dealer? Hang out in a crack house.

You want to find a car thief? Set up a bait car in a high theft neighborhood.

You want to find a dealer in black-market art, you go to a pawnshop.

A very exclusive one.

Stepping out of his car, he studied the building, made entirely of glass and steel.

It didn’t look like a pawnshop.

In fact, the main building was used as a perfectly legit art gallery that provided a much needed connection between local artists and the public.

The basement, however, was notorious for hosting “private” auctions to move artwork and antiques that didn’t always have the paperwork necessary for a legal sale.

Duncan didn’t bother trying to shut down the auctions. What was the point? They would pack up and move to a new location before he could get a warrant.

Besides, having an inside informant who understood that Duncan could disrupt his very profitable business meant that he could get the facts he needed with the minimum of fuss.

Entering the building, he ignored the beautiful brunette who sashayed toward him in a silver dress that cost more than his car. Instead he weaved his way past the artwork hung from the open girders that passed as a ceiling, not bothering to glance at the bold spatters of paint on the canvases.

Unlike many, he appreciated modern art, but today he was focused on getting in and out.

The quicker the better.

Shoving open the small door at the back of the main showroom, Duncan stepped into the office and shut it behind him.

At his entrance Jacques Girard rose to his feet. A small, slender man, he was wearing a black designer suit and red silk tie, his black hair peppered with silver brushed away from his severely handsome face.

He flashed a smooth smile to reveal his perfectly capped teeth. “Sergeant O’Conner, what a delightful surprise.” The accent was French, but Duncan would bet his right nut the man had never stepped foot outside Kansas City. “Have a seat,
s’il vous plaît.”

Duncan waved aside the invitation, crossing the sparse office that was the same mixture of glass and steel as the gallery. Reaching the desk, he placed the stone vessel wrapped in plastic directly in front of the man.

“I need your expertise.”

Jacques leaned down, studying the object with sudden interest. He might be a fraud as a sophisticated Frenchman, but he knew his shit when it came to art.

“Nice,” he murmured. “Where did you get this?”

“Not your concern,” Duncan said. Jacques was too smart not to eventually realize the vessel was a part of Calso’s murder investigation, but Duncan wasn’t about to share confidential police info. “Do you recognize the symbol?”

The dealer continued to study the vessel, his expression oddly tense. “I’m not an expert on antiquities, but my guess would be Sumerian.”

Sumerian?

That seemed . . . random.

“Who deals with this sort of item?”

The man straightened. “None locally.”

Duncan frowned. “Don’t jerk me around, Girard.”

“I’m not.” Jacques held up his hands. “This is museum quality. Very rare.”

“So give me a name.”

The man shrugged. “I’m going to have to do some digging.”

Duncan tossed the picture he’d grabbed at the station onto the desk. “What about this?”

Jacques picked up the twelve-by-twelve glossy picture of the coin that had been taken from the security tape. It had been blown up as large as possible without turning it into a fuzzy blob, but with a sharp motion, Jacques reached for a magnifying glass lying on his desk to study it in grim silence.

“Did it come with the vessel?” he at last demanded.

“Yes.”

“Hmm.” Another long silence. “Not currency. Maybe a symbol of authority.”

“How much would it be worth?”

“I can’t say for certain.”

Jacques made a sound of shock as Duncan smoothly pulled his gun and aimed it at his head. “
Mon Dieu.
I truly don’t know. Were they found together?”

Duncan kept his gun pointed at his companion. He didn’t intend to shoot the con man. But he sensed Jacques knew more about the coin than he was willing to admit. Obviously, he needed . . . inspiration to share his full range of knowledge.

“How did you know they were found together?”

Jacques licked his lips, using the magnifying glass to point toward the vessel on his desk. “The symbols along the top of the vase.”

“What about them?”

“I’m no expert, but I suspect that they describe the purpose of the coin.”

Duncan furrowed his brow, considering his words. “Like an instruction manual?”

“Exactly. And here ...” The magnifying glass lowered to point toward the odd bird sketched into the stone. “It matches the hieroglyph etched on the coin. It can’t be a coincidence. Together the pair would be almost priceless.”

Duncan stiffened, abruptly realizing what had been nagging at him since he’d walked into Calso’s office and caught sight of the ancient vessel.

“A pair,” he breathed softly.

Jacques shrugged. “That’s what I just said.”

“So why would somebody take the coin and leave behind the vessel it came in?”

“No collector would,” Jacques instantly denied. “Apart they’re extremely valuable. Together ...” He set the picture next to the vase, emphasizing their matching symbols. “As I said. Priceless.”

Duncan had already ruled out robbery as a reason for the murder. A thief didn’t leave behind millions in artwork, let alone a stack of untraceable bills.

Now he had to rule out an obsessed antiquities collector.

Which left . . .

More goddamn questions than answers.

The realization had just struck when he felt the vibration of his phone in his pocket. Stepping back, he holstered his gun before pulling out the phone and pressing it to his ear.

It would be a pity to shoot one of his best informants just because he didn’t like the latest news.

And he didn’t doubt for a minute he wasn’t going to like it.

“O’Conner,” he snapped, stiffening as he heard the dispatcher’s unsteady voice telling him that Leah’s body had been found. Again. “Where?” He made a mental note of the directions. “I’ll be there. Contact Valhalla.”

Replacing the phone in his pocket, Duncan reached to grasp the vessel and picture from the desk.

Jacques had turned a peculiar shade of ash, his suave French facade shattered by a surge of genuine fear.

“What the hell? You didn’t tell me that this has something to do with the freaks.”

Duncan turned and headed for the door. “I need the names of dealers who could move these items and I need them fast.”

“I don’t want to get involved with high-bloods,” the con man protested, his voice approaching a screech. “They’re nothing but trouble.”

Duncan spared a glance over his shoulder. “Not nearly as much trouble as disappointing me.”

Confident the man understood the cost of failure, Duncan headed across the showroom, his expression dark enough to keep the hovering assistant at a safe distance.

Then, getting into his car, he raced out of town at a speed that would make his ma faint.

He had to do something to vent his simmering frustration.

Okay, maybe the morning hadn’t been a complete waste. He’d discovered the vessel and coin were unmistakably connected and that they had been crafted by the ancient Sumerians.

But the information didn’t give him a direct path to Zakhar, which he needed if he was going to help Callie.

And now he was headed to collect the body of a young female who should have been protected by the police, if not while she was alive, then most certainly after she was dead.

Was it any wonder his foot was a little heavy on the accelerator?

Arriving at the remote location east of town, he parked his car on the bluff and made his way cautiously down to the muddy bank of the Missouri River.

He was immediately hit by the stench of brackish water and green slime that had collected in a small pool that was blocked from the river by a pile of rotting logs. His grimace, however, was for the young woman who was stretched on the mud. She’d clearly been dumped in the river in the hopes her body would float far enough away that she wouldn’t be connected to Kansas City.

Instead she’d gotten caught on the logs.

Another surge of frustration flared through him. Dammit. Leah should be shopping with her friends. Or attending college. Or hell, dancing at the Rabbit Hutch, making old men pop little blue pills in the hope they might get lucky.

Anything but lying in the mud with her eyes staring blindly at the cloudless sky.

Turning his attention from the body, Duncan frowned at the sight of Frank with a crowd of uniformed police standing several feet away. Why the hell wasn’t the silver-haired coroner processing the body? Were they waiting on something? Or someone?

At his approach Frank stepped away from the other cops, his expression hard. “O’Conner. About damned time you got here.”

Duncan sighed. Knowing the older man as well as he did, he had no doubt Frank took the theft and abuse of Leah’s body personally.

“Who found her?”

Frank jerked a thumb toward the large man standing at the top of the bluff, his beefy face flushed with adrenaline.

“A local farmer. He was searching for a missing cow.”

“He’s been warned not to speak to anyone?” Duncan demanded.

“Yeah.” Frank rolled his eyes. “For all the good it will do.”

Duncan shrugged. It wasn’t like the farmer found a dead girl every day. Thank god. Who could blame him if he made the most of the rare event?

“Have you been able to examine her?”

Frank muttered a curse. “I just started when I was told to stop.”

“By who?”

“The chief.”

Duncan frowned. “Did she say why?”

The coroner’s expression went from hard to bleak. “The freaks are coming to collect her.”

If Frank had said those words just yesterday, Duncan would have gone ballistic. This was his case and he’d be damned if any freak was going to interfere.

Now, he squashed his territorial urges. Whatever was happening was way beyond his comfort zone. The more help the better. And speaking of help ...

“Did you learn anything?” he asked his companion.

Frank scowled. “Are you deaf? I just said I was told not to touch her.”

“I’m not deaf and I’m not stupid,” Duncan drawled. “The day you do what you’re told is the day I sprout wings and a halo.”

A rueful smile replaced the scowl. “Fine,” Frank muttered. “Her heart is still missing.”

“No surprise. What else?”

Frank stepped closer, pitching his voice so it wouldn’t carry. Word would eventually leak through the police department that their missing corpse had been caught on video surveillance killing one of Kansas City’s most powerful citizens. But the longer they could keep it quiet, the longer they could avoid outright panic.

“Her body’s not in bad shape considering she’s been walking around the city,” Frank admitted, his voice edged with a soul-deep anger.

Duncan glanced toward the slender female who lay like a broken flower in the mud. He understood his companion’s fury.

It was wrong. Obscene.

“No obvious wounds?”

“Nada.”

“Anything to indicate where she’s been?”

Frank hesitated before giving a small shrug. “One thing.”

Hah. Duncan knew he could count on Frank. The man might be a norm, but nothing got past his eagle eye. “What?”

“The tags in her clothing.”

Duncan glanced back to Leah, skimming a puzzled gaze over the stretchy pants and top.

“What about them?”

“The clothes we found in her house were all from the local mall.”

Duncan whipped his gaze back to his companion. “How do you know?”

Frank flashed a droll smile. “Are you fucking kidding me? I have three teenage daughters. There’s not a store in that mall I haven’t been dragged through a thousand times.”

“I guess that would do it,” Duncan admitted, startled by the tiny pang of envy. He’d always known he wanted children. It was imprinted into the O’Conner DNA. So why was he suddenly feeling that he wanted those children now? Christ. Did men have biological clocks? Shaking his head at his moronic thoughts, he returned his attention to what Frank was trying to explain. “Is there something different about the clothes she’s wearing now?”

“Your Sung.”

“My Sung?”

“Your Sung. A local designer,” Frank said. “Very high end.”

Weird. Why would the necro go to the expense of designer clothes for a corpse he was going to toss in the river?

“Thanks, amigo,” he said, making a mental note to check with the more exclusive salons.

Frank stiffened, his glance shooting over Duncan’s shoulder. “The cavalry has arrived.”

Duncan turned, prepared for the uniformed medics who were swiftly moving to wrap Leah in a protective bag that would hide her from prying eyes as well as preserve any evidence on her body.

What he wasn’t prepared for was the sight of Callie and Fane, who followed closely behind the medics.