Born in Blood (The Sentinels) (22 page)

Unfortunately, Duncan couldn’t laugh off the possibility that the man was speaking the truth.

“What does the coin do?”

Hektor grimaced. “It shields the chalice.”

“Chalice?” Duncan rolled his eyes. “What chalice?”

“The one that opens a pathway to the underworld.”

Duncan scowled. He hated mystic mumbo jumbo. “Does underworld mean hell?”

“Call it whatever you want.”

“And this chalice . . . What?” He gave a wave of his hand. “It’s a key to hell?”

Hektor nodded. “It allows the dead to walk.”

The simple words made Duncan shudder with horror. Christ. Even having seen Leah walking around . . . Wait. He took a step forward, leaning down to place his palms flat on the table in front of Hektor.

“What game are you playing? The necromancer was raising the dead before he got his hands on the coin.”

The stranger shook his head. “They were bokors.”

“Meaning?”

“They’re merely animated corpses that are able to be controlled for a short period of time by a necromancer.”

Duncan grimaced. When did his life become filled with words like “animated corpses” and “pathways to the underworld”?

“So what do you mean when you say that the coin allows them to raise the dead?” he demanded. “Will they actually be alive?”

The narrow face hardened. “Not the coin. It was created to close the mouth of the underworld. It’s the chalice that poses the true danger.”

Duncan made a sound of impatience. “Will they be alive or not?”

“In a manner of speaking. The chalice allows the necromancer to fill the corpses with an evil that will give them the ability to walk among us as if they live.” He leaned forward, clenching his hands on the table as his eyes filled with a hectic light. “They could infiltrate our society for days or weeks without us knowing. Or more likely—”

“What?”

“The necromancer will raise an army to destroy us all.”

Duncan muttered a savage curse. Holy hell. This just got better and better.

“How do we find this . . . chalice before the necromancer can get his hands on it?”

“No one can enter the inner temple without the coin,” he grudgingly confessed.

Duncan abruptly straightened. Of course the bastard would be filled with dire predictions with no genuine plan to avoid the looming disaster.

Pacing across the narrow room, he struggled to think clearly.

He was a cop.

And this was a case.

Okay, it was filled with creepy necromancers and a weirdo brotherhood, but preventing a potential crime was what he did.

And for that, he needed to be able to locate the coin or the necromancer before he could unleash hell.

Literally.

“Was Calso a part of your Brotherhood?” he abruptly demanded.

“Certainly not.”

He turned to study Hektor’s outraged expression. “Then why did he have the coin?”

“For centuries we kept the coin protected, then we began to realize it was being hunted.”

“By who?”

The man shrugged. “The name is easily changed, but there was no doubt it was a necromancer. One who was dangerously powerful.”

It would be easy to leap to the conclusion that it was Lord Zakhar. But he preferred to have real proof before he dismissed any other possibility.

“How could you be so certain it was a necromancer and not some crazy person who thought the coin was worth money?”

“Our brothers and sisters—”

“You allow females into your Brotherhood?” Duncan asked in surprise. Usually fanatics liked to keep their bizarre cults exclusive.

“If they’re worthy,” Hektor explained in a lofty voice. “Many are called, but few are chosen.”

Duncan rolled his eyes. Yeesh. He’d walked right into that one.

“Yeah, whatever,” he muttered. “Go on.”

Hektor stiffened, as if insulted by Duncan’s lack of respect at his grand achievement in being chosen for the Brotherhood.

Arrogant ass.

“Our brothers and sisters were being slaughtered and then returned from the grave,” he at last explained.

“They had the coin?”

Hektor shook his head. “No, but they each knew the location of the coin. They were killed and their corpses used to try and slip past our defenses.”

“Just like Leah,” Duncan growled, shuddering at the memory of the young female being jerked around Kansas City as if she was a gruesome marionette.

“Who?”

Duncan ignored the question. He wasn’t about to discuss poor Leah or how she’d been abused.

“How did you manage to recognize that they were . . . what’s the word . . . bokors?”

The man shrugged, trying too hard to look casual. “We are trained to spot the walking dead.”

Yeah, right.

“You want to know what I’m trained to do?” Duncan leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. “Smell bullshit a mile away.”

Hektor muttered something beneath his breath, but he wasn’t stupid enough to insult an armed cop to his face.

“All right. We received word from an anonymous source that the coin holder had been identified so we were able to move the coin before it could be stolen.”

Duncan snorted. He’d worked with anonymous sources for years. Ninety-nine percent of the info he got from them was worth jack-squat, the other one percent was usually little better than a random guess that accidentally turned out to be right.

He wouldn’t depend on an anonymous source to tell him the time of day, let alone to entrust the protection of the very reason for his existence.

“How did you know you could trust this source?” he demanded.

“They’d always been right before. Unfortunately—”

Hektor bit off his words, a flush of embarrassment crawling beneath his skin.

“Unfortunately?” Duncan prompted.

“When we were warned that Calso’s name had been discovered it was decided it was too risky to move the coin until we’d found some place that couldn’t be traced.” The man’s lips thinned with anger. “We put out word that the coin had been transferred to a new host, hoping the necromancer would be fooled long enough for us to find a more permanent solution.”

A risky decision.

One that might destroy them all.

“How did Calso get the coin in the first place?”

“It was decided that the necromancer hunting the coin had found a way to recognize members of the Brotherhood.” Hektor absently lifted his hand to trace a small tattoo that looked like a stylized arrow on the side of his neck. “It was imperative we find someone who had no formal connection to our group to hide the coin”

It made sense, but Duncan couldn’t imagine how a group of self-righteous nut-bars had chosen a financial whiz who had a weakness for pretty strippers to harbor their most precious treasure.

“Why him?”

Hektor thinned his lips, as if he hadn’t been entirely pleased with the choice.

“Calso was a trusted friend of our leader and since he was already a collector of art, it wouldn’t be suspicious for him to invest in high-tech security measures.”

Duncan resumed his pacing, making mental notes to check the various ways someone could have discovered Calso had the coin.

It could be done.

He didn’t doubt that for a minute.

But tracking down leads took time.

Sometimes days, sometimes weeks.

Time he didn’t have.

There had to be a faster way to find Lord Zakhar, or whoever the hell was using a dead woman as their personal puppet.

“Can you—” He gave a vague wave of his hand.

“Can I what?”

“Sense the coin?” he asked.

The man scowled. “I’m a human, not a high-blood. I have no unholy magics running through my veins.”

Duncan narrowed his eyes. “And yet you seemed to know that Callie was a high-blood from the minute she entered the room.”

“The ability to sniff out the enemy is a gift from my god,” Hektor said with a sneer.

Duncan curled his lips. Hypocrite. Any powers he and his so-called Brotherhood had came from the same place as high-bloods, not from some mysterious god.

Now, however, wasn’t the time for a philosophical debate.

Actually, as far as he was concerned, there was never a good time for a philosophical debate.

Instead he concentrated on the only thing that mattered.

“Fine. Can you use that god-given gift to track down the necromancer?”

The dark eyes flashed at the edge of mockery that Duncan didn’t try to hide.

“If we had that power then we would have eliminated him years ago.”

“Really?” Duncan asked dryly. He would bet good money the Brotherhood was very good at hiding in the shadows and very bad at actually getting off their asses and taking care of business. “Do you often eliminate people?”

The man hastily glanced toward the camera in the ceiling. “Certainly not.”

Duncan was abruptly done.

He’d hoped the man could offer a way to capture the necromancer.

Instead he’d gotten fairy tales and vague threats.

“So you don’t know where the coin is or how we can find the necro who stole it,” he snapped. “Why the hell are you here?”

“To warn you of the danger if the coin isn’t immediately returned to our protection.”

“Worthless,” he muttered, heading toward the door. “Feel free to show yourself out.”

Anxious to track down Callie and make sure she wasn’t being hassled by his supposed friends, he hissed in frustration when Hektor was demanding his attention.

“Sergeant?”

He glared over his shoulder. “What?”

The man rose to his feet, his expression hard with warning.

“High-bloods once tried to make themselves into gods,” he said in fierce tones. “Don’t for a minute doubt that they won’t try again.”

Zak opened his eyes, briefly confused by the realization he was lying face first on a stone floor with blood dripping down his neck.

Since being burned at the stake by his rabid serfs, he’d learned to take excessive precautions not to put himself in a position where he might wake up in strange places with oozing wounds.

It wasn’t just paranoia.

Not when he knew he was surrounded by enemies.

Both those who openly worked against him, and those who hid in the shadows ...

Ignoring the pain that pounded through his skull, Zak turned his head, a grim satisfaction replacing his momentary confusion.

Even in the shadows he could make out the unmistakable glint of gold.

The chalice.

Grasping his trophy, Zak awkwardly forced himself to his feet.

It hadn’t been a dream. Or a trap.

He’d spoken to the ghosts of his ancestors. And he’d been found worthy.

More than worthy, he silently gloated, forcing his heavy feet to carry him out of the temple.

Unlike the previous necromancer, he had no intention of jeopardizing his life to acquire the power necessary to raise an army. The martyr routine had never appealed to him. Not when he’d been clever enough to prepare a proper sacrifice.

What was the point of power if you couldn’t use it to rule the world?

Making his way down the long staircase, he paused at the bottom, gathering his strength before he walked the short distance to the waiting witch.

His head might be throbbing and his knees threatening to collapse, but he would never show weakness.

He was too close to his ultimate success to risk a knife in the back.

Halting in front of Anya, who was still on her knees, her head bent in weariness, he reached down to grasp her arm. Yanking her to her feet, he slipped the chalice into the deep pocket of his robe.

“Is the pathway still open?” he growled.

Anya blinked, her eyes unfocused as if she’d been asleep. “Yes, but—”

“Let’s go.”

“What happened?” she demanded, glancing around the barren desert. “Did the coin work?”

He offered a tight-lipped smile. “I have what I need.”

She studied him in the fading moonlight, her brows drawn together. “Are you bleeding?”

“How very astute of you, Anya,” he drawled, refusing to speak of what had happened in the temple. “Do you intend to continue this inquest? Or perhaps we can finish it when we aren’t standing knee deep in sand?”

“Fine.” Her chin tilted as she held out her hand. “Let’s go.”

His hesitation lasted less than a heartbeat before he grasped her fingers and braced himself for the journey. He was weary, but not helpless.

And besides, being on constant guard meant that he was prepared for any trap.

Keeping the chalice hidden in his pocket, Zak clenched his teeth as the world dissolved and he was shrouded in a choking blackness.

He hated making himself vulnerable to Anya’s magic, even when it was necessary.

There was a sickening lurch as they traveled through the strange fold in space, then the world abruptly reappeared and they were standing in his private study.

With a groan, Anya dropped to her knees, her brilliant curtain of hair tumbling over her shoulders to brush the Persian carpet.

Taking a step back, Zak regarded his companion with impatience.

“Go to bed, Anya. You will be of no use until you’ve regained your strength,” he said with a brutal lack of sympathy for her fatigue.

With an obvious effort, the witch rose to her feet, her face pale with the strain to remain upright.

“I want to know what happened in the temple.”

Zak paused before giving a shrug. There was no point in hiding his success.

Not when he intended to begin the final stages of his plan within the next few days.

Perhaps even hours.

“I was given what I need to take my place as the ruler of the high-bloods,” he admitted, removing the chalice from his pocket and moving to place it on the desk.

Anya sucked in a sharp breath, no doubt sensing the magic that pulsed around the golden artifact.

“What does it do?”

He ran a loving finger along the rim of the chalice. “With this I can raise armies to fight my battles.”

Anya swayed, her face more pale than usual as she grasped the back of a nearby chair.

“Zak, this is too dangerous.”

He sent her a frown. “What?”

“The last time we tried—”

“I have no need to be reminded of my previous failures,” he snapped.

“I just want you to take this slow.” Anya licked her lips. “You may mock the Mave and Valhalla, but they aren’t helpless.”

His cold smile hid his stab of fury.

Over the centuries he’d watched from the shadows as the high-bloods had started to ban together in small, secretive groups. He understood the philosophy that it was safer to surround yourself with people who were like you. Especially when the humans began to realize that the myths and legends they’d always thought were nothing more than fairy tales were actually true.

There were monsters in the dark.

But he’d seen the hieroglyphs on the temple wall and he understood what happened when high-bloods lived in communities, their powers revealed for the world to see.

He had no intention of becoming a visible enemy for the violent humans who were always eager to destroy what they feared.

Still, it had been a constant source of annoyance to watch the Maves come and go at Valhalla, each one commanding more power than the one before.

He
was the destined leader of the high-bloods.

“They’ve grown complacent over the years.” His lips curled into a sneer. “I must strike before they can prepare for an attack.”

Anya’s grip on the chair tightened until her knuckles turned white.

Fear? Desperation? Some combination of the two?

“You have no guarantee that the chalice will even work.”

He shrugged. “I will soon discover one way or another.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think we should have a small test.”

“Zak—”

“Go to your room, Anya,” he interrupted.

Soon he would have to deal with the witch.

But not tonight.

Sensing the dismissal in his tone, Anya grudgingly crossed the floor and with a last wary glance, left him alone in the study.

Zak waited until he could hear her footsteps on the stairs before running his fingers beneath the edge of the desk. There was a faint click, then a secret panel on the side slid open. With a stab of satisfaction he reached to grab the chalice, tucking it into the empty compartment before sliding the secret panel shut.

It wasn’t the most secure hiding place, but the chalice pulsed with a magic that was unique to diviners. The magic of death.

No one but a powerful necromancer could use it.

To anyone else it was just a battered goblet.

With his prize tucked away for the night, Zak sank into the chair behind the desk and absently reached for the remote to turn on the plasma TV over the fireplace.

He always devoted an hour or so before bed to watch the news, both global and local. He might consider humans beneath him, but he never underestimated them as an enemy. It was imperative that he study their strengths and weaknesses.

Fast-forwarding through the tedious fascination with glamorous actors behaving badly and the unpredictable stock market, Zak abruptly rose to his feet as the image of a dead girl lying on the bank of a river was flashed on the screen.

It wasn’t the sight of Leah that captured his attention. He’d known her body would eventually show up. After all, Tony had disposed of her. Which meant he’d driven to the river and tossed her in at the nearest spot, not even bothering to consider she would get snagged on the bank just a few miles away if he didn’t weight her down.

Idiot.

But instead, it was when the camera panned to the side to catch the image of a lean, hard-faced man who broke away from a group of cops to speak with a young woman. A woman with hair the color of fire and eyes covered by reflective glasses.

He surged to his feet, his mind racing with possibilities.

Callie Brown.

Just the woman he wanted.

Reaching down, he stabbed a button that connected him to the intercom system.

Within seconds the groggy voice of Tony floated through the air. “Yes, sir?”

“In my study.”

There was a momentary pause. “Now?”

Zak hissed with impatience. “Yes, now.”

Lifting the remote control, he replayed the news clip, his narrowed gaze missing nothing as he considered the various ways to take advantage of this unexpected stroke of fortune.

He was on his fourth time through the clip when Tony at last lumbered into the room, his girth covered by a too-short robe and his hair rumpled.

“You need something?” he asked, his voice gruff.

Zak pointed toward the image on the television screen. He’d paused it at the point where the blond-haired man was speaking with the female diviner.

“Do you recognize the man?”

Tony grimaced. “O’Conner. Sergeant O’Conner of the Kansas City Police Department,” he said. “He busted me about six years ago. Bastard.” Tony stepped toward the television, giving a low whistle. “Who’s the babe?”

With a nonchalant motion, Zak backhanded his servant, sending him crashing against the far wall.

“Never speak of her again, is that clear?”

Tony climbed slowly to his feet, wiping the blood from his split lip. “Yeah, painfully clear.”

“Good.”

Zak pressed Play, carefully watching the possessive manner O’Conner behaved toward Callie. They were lovers. It was obvious in the way she leaned in to his intimate touch and his protective glares whenever anyone strayed too close to them.

They were emotionally entangled, which meant that they wouldn’t be able to stay away from one another.

All he had to do was keep a careful watch on the cop. Eventually Callie would leave Valhalla to spend time with him. Hopefully without the constant protection of her Sentinel.

The trick would, of course, be taking them alive.

His specialty was death.

Rewinding the tape, he watched as O’Conner spoke with his fellow police officers, taking note of the private conversation he shared with a gray-haired cop who stood apart from the others.

“What about the man?” he demanded.

“Frank,” Tony muttered, scratching at his unshaved cheek.

“You know him?”

Tony shrugged. “His wife is my second cousin on my mother’s side.”

“Of course she is,” Zak said wryly. This was precisely the reason he’d hired the bumbling idiot, and why he hadn’t yet disposed of him. He was connected to every family in Kansas City. “I need you to arrange a meeting.”

“Me?” Tony looked horrified. “Frank hates my guts. Calls me a blight on the family.”

“Understandable,” Zak drawled, tossing the remote onto his desk so he could turn to frown at his companion. “Tell him that you have information regarding Leah. Information that you’re willing to sell.”

“I suppose that might work,” Tony said slowly, reluctance etched on his pudgy face.

“Have him meet you here tomorrow morning.” Zak frowned, abruptly realizing that having a cop car on the property might not be the best idea. Didn’t they have some sort of . . . GPS system? “Actually, it would be better if you pick him up.”

The reluctance became more pronounced as Tony began to sweat. “You want me to bring him here?”

“Isn’t that what I just said?”

“But he’ll be able to tell the cops where you live,” Tony blurted out.

“He won’t tell anyone.”

Tony grimaced. “I know Frank, and trust me, you can’t bribe or intimidate the man. He’s a real prick about the rules.”

Zak shrugged. “He won’t tell anyone, because he’ll be dead.”

“Dead?”

“Is there a problem?”

“I . . . no.” The henchman managed a sickly smile, backing toward the door. “No problem. I’ll go to my rooms and give him a call first thing in the morning.”

Zak let him creep away like a mouse trying to evade a stalking cat. Tony might be a bully, but he was a coward at heart.

He wouldn’t have the courage to try and escape.

“Tomorrow,” he whispered softly, the power that swirled deep inside him vibrating with an awareness of the chalice that was hidden only a few inches away. “It begins.”

 

 

Callie was exactly where she wanted to be ... snuggled on Duncan’s bed with his arms wrapped around her and her head resting above the steady beat of his heart.

Unfortunately, while her body was sated from the passion that had exploded the minute they entered the apartment, her mind churned with a restless frustration.

She felt tense. Jumpy.

As if she was hurtling toward a car crash she couldn’t avoid.

“You’re quiet.”

She tilted back her head to meet Duncan’s steady gaze, easily reading the concern that shimmered in the hazel depths.

“I’m worried,” she admitted in low tones.

“I promise, I don’t snore,” he teased, clearly hoping to distract her.

Her finger brushed an absent pattern on his chest, savoring the feel of his warm satin skin even as her thoughts remained dark.

“If the necromancer has the coin, we might already be too late.” She spoke her fears aloud, hoping it might lessen the knot of dread lodged in the pit of her stomach.

It didn’t.

Duncan brushed his lips over her furrowed brow. “We’re not too late.”

She smiled wryly at his confident tone. Somehow she’d assumed that no one could match a Sentinel for arrogance.