Born in Blood (The Sentinels) (9 page)

“As the Mave said ... he’s eccentric.”

He shook his head. There was no use speculating what might be waiting for him.

They walked through the narrow hallways of the abbey, the occasional flicker of candlelight the only thing to hold back the thick gloom.

Although for him it was seven or eight in the evening (he never wore a watch), the abbey was shrouded in sleep with only an occasional glimpse of robed figures who were unfortunate enough to have the night shift.

They passed through an empty workroom filled with wooden tables piled high with rolls of parchment and bottles filled with a dark liquid he assumed was ink. There were even feathered quills piled on a far bench.

Scribes? In this day and age?

That seemed ... redundant.

Fane kept his pace brisk as they left the abbey and crossed a paved courtyard to stand next to a large building that looked like it had once been the stables. Within minutes a black SUV with tinted windows appeared from around the corner of the building and Fane pulled open the back door to help Callie into the backseat.

Duncan was quick to slide in after her, sinking into the buttery leather seat so that the Sentinel was forced to climb into the front seat with the hooded monk.

Childish?

Hell, yeah.

But it was common knowledge that most men stopped maturing about the age of five.

Closing the door, he’d barely managed to click his seat belt in place when the monk shoved his foot down on the accelerator and they were hurtling away from the abbey at a speed that had to be illegal.

Silence filled the interior of the expensive vehicle as Callie retreated inside her thoughts. Fane appeared to be in some Zen-like zone. The monk presumably had made some sort of vow of silence, or maybe he was just enjoying his pretense they were racing the Grand Prix.

And Duncan ... well, his jaws were clenched too tight to utter more than a squeak.

Duncan caught a glimpse of a wide river that he assumed was the Rhine following the narrow road that wound through a dense forest. They raced through a tiny village so fast he barely made out the quaint shops with their wooden signs and polished front windows that were filled with hand-carved cuckoo clocks, squishy teddy bears, and the inevitable beer steins.

His ma would be enchanted, he acknowledged, making a mental note to have his siblings chip in to send his parents on a well-deserved vacation. His da would insist on visiting Ireland, but would make sure his ma had a say in the plans.

They’d been traveling less than a quarter of an hour when the SUV made a sharp turn onto an overgrown path. He instinctively reached to tuck Callie against him as they jolted over the uneven path, wondering who taught the damned monk how to drive.

Thankfully the bone-jarring journey at last came to an end at the top of a hill, and with a low groan, Duncan shoved open the door and climbed out of the vehicle. He turned to help Callie out, not surprised that she’d barely stepped onto the path when Fane was smoothly taking his place at her side.

Duncan clenched his teeth and concentrated on his surroundings. Now wasn’t the time to play caveman. The only thing that mattered was getting the answers they needed without putting Callie at risk.

It took a moment of peering through the gloom to realize that the mound that was rising from the trees wasn’t another hill, but a stone structure that was being slowly consumed by the forest.

“He lives in a castle?” he muttered in surprise.

“I doubt he has an actual home,” Fane said, pulling a clear crystal that was hung on a leather strap from his pocket. “He’s more of a squatter.”

Duncan grimaced, taking in the crumbling curtain wall that had once surrounded the grounds. “He couldn’t have squatted at the Ritz?”

Fane spoke a soft word and the crystal began to glow. “Be on guard, cop,” he warned, urging Callie toward the bridge that crossed the long-forgotten moat.

Bringing up the rear, Duncan pulled his gun and searched the shadows for something to shoot. “You expect trouble?”

Fane passed beneath the barbican and entered what must have been the lower bailey. Now it was just a rough patch of weeds and bramble. “Don’t you?” he growled.

“Yeah.” Duncan felt a chill trickle over his skin, as if he was being watched by unseen eyes.

They crossed the open ground, Fane neatly leading them past the gaping hole where there’d once been a drinking well and around the nearly hidden cannon.

Before them the inner keep loomed three stories high with empty windows and the appearance of a hollow shell. No doubt it was a treasure trove for the local historians, but it was making Duncan twitch.

He was a cop who’d mastered the urban landscape.

He could spot a suspicious perp in the middle of a crowd. He could tail a car for days without being noticed. He could enter a room and instantly tell you the number of exits, the placement of obstructions if he needed to move in a hurry, and if anyone in the room was carrying a concealed weapon.

But suddenly surrounded by the untamed wildness of nature, he felt like a fish out of water.

It wasn’t the thick foliage that was a constant threat to trip him, or the clinging shadows that could hide anything. Or even the silence that made it impossible to sneak up without giving away his position.

It was the strange pulse of power that brushed the very edge of his awareness.

He’d heard rumors of norms who could
feel
magic. As if it was a tangible force. He suspected they were recruited by the government to keep track of the high-bloods.

Until now, he’d never thought it was a talent he possessed. He still didn’t. No. If he had to guess he would say that everyone had some ability to sense when there was a disturbance in the air. It was simply the degree of sensitivity to that disturbance. And when it was as strong as it was in the lower bailey even the most oblivious person could feel it.

Fane led them up the steps of the keep, kicking open the heavy wooden door and continuing forward without missing a step.

“No knocking?” Duncan mocked, glancing up at the open-beamed ceiling that was swathed in cobwebs.

Fane held his crystal over his head, bathing the open space in a soft light.

There wasn’t much to see.

Stone walls. Stone floor. Stone fireplace.

At one time the room was no doubt made homey by a blazing fire that danced light over the ornate tapestries that had been draped on the walls and the air had been filled with the scent of fresh straw spread over the floor.

Now it was just ... stone.

And dust.

A damned tidal wave of dust.

“If he didn’t want us to enter he would have put up wards,” Fane was saying, his pace cautious as he walked toward the steps that led to the floor above. “Of course, that doesn’t mean he didn’t create a few traps for the unwary. Hermits have an odd sense of humor.”

Duncan rolled his eyes. Of course they did.

They climbed the stairs, finding yet another empty room that matched the one below. Except the floor was rotting wood, not stone.

Fane halted, his body coiled for attack. “He’s above us.”

Duncan clicked off the safety on his gun. “You can sense him?”

The Sentinel flashed Duncan a mocking smile. “I don’t have the same talent as a hunter Sentinel, but I can sense a high-blood when they have Boggs’s level of power.”

Duncan grimaced. Just fucking perfect. Another freak who obviously suspected that he wasn’t entirely normal.

Not that this was the time to worry about his little secret.

“Do you sense anything else?”

“No. He’s alone.” Fane stepped to the side, his gaze in constant movement. “I’ll keep guard here.”

The dark gaze briefly rested on Duncan, silently warning him that the Sentinel was trusting him to keep Callie safe. And that if he failed there would be hell to pay.

Duncan resisted the urge to flip him off as he wrapped his arm around Callie and started up the next flight of stairs. He might logically appreciate Fane’s fierce loyalty to Callie, but he didn’t need the bastard telling him to keep this woman safe.

Reaching the top floor, he forgot the aggravating Sentinel and even the constant pulse of magic that was wearing on his nerves.

A lone candle was set in the center of the grimy floor, casting flickers of light over the piles of rubbish that consumed half the room.

And it was rubbish.

Broken chairs, tarnished silver teapots, a mound of clothing, ice skates, a framed mirror, ratty books, and hundreds of other items that he didn’t recognize.

It was like
Hoarders
on steroids.

“Good ... god,” he muttered. “What is all this crap?”

“History, Duncan O’Conner.” A hooded form stepped from behind the piles, his voice oddly melodic. “As well as a promise of the future.”

Just for a second Duncan thought it was one of the monks who’d followed them from the monastery. Then the candlelight caught in the folds of the robe and he realized it was black, not the brown of the monks.

He pointed his gun at the center of the deep hood. “That’s close enough.”

“I have no intention of harming the diviner,” the stranger assured him. “No more than you would.”

With a flamboyant motion, the man whipped off the robe and tossed it aside.

Even braced to expect the unexpected, Duncan nearly went to his knees in shock.

“Son of a bitch,” he breathed, struggling to comprehend the fact that he was looking at an exact replica of himself. No, not exact, his stunned mind accepted. The pale hair and lean face with a shadow of golden whiskers might be a mirror image. As well as his lean form dressed in jeans and casual shirt. But the eyes were all wrong. They were a pure, unnerving white. Not pale, not clear. Just ... white.

“What’s going on?”

Callie lightly touched his arm, urging him to lower his gun. Smart female. His nerves were on a hair trigger.

He didn’t want any accidents.

“Boggs is a doppelganger.”

Duncan frowned. “A what?”

The ... creature smiled. “I can take the appearance of those who are close to me.”

Holy shit.

A cop to his bones, Duncan was instantly on high alert. A creature who could alter its appearance to look like anyone?

The possibilities for disaster were endless.

He could become a guard and rob a bank. He could go on a murder spree and create a new persona for each killing. Hell, he could turn into the president and start a war.

And worse, his aura flickered with a hint of darkness that revealed he had more than once dipped his toes in the evil pool.

“Why haven’t I ever heard of doppelgangers?”

Boggs laughed with creepy delight, throwing his arms wide. “‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Duncan O’Conner, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’”

“Stop that,” Duncan commanded.

The white eyes were lit with a sudden inner glow. “Perhaps you prefer this form?”

In the blink of an eye the doppelganger had become Callie, with spiky crimson hair and a slender body displayed in spandex pants and stretchy top.

“No, I damned well ... wait.” His furious words were bit off as he recalled Callie’s words. “I thought you said he was blind.”

Callie shivered. Even knowing what was coming, she still found it impossible not to be flipped out.

“He is,” she said, trying to keep the distaste out of her voice.

She was a high-blood. She understood exactly what it meant to be treated as if she were an outcast. Still ... Boggs took strange to a whole new level.

“Then how does he know what we look like?” Duncan rasped.

“I sense your essence,” Boggs admitted, releasing his magic to reveal his true form. Duncan hissed at the sight of the pale, hairless creature that looked disturbingly like a larva. His features were indistinct and his eyes glowed with power. The robe had returned, but it was open to reveal a body that was lacking genitalia. “And before your policeman’s imagination begins to run wild, let me assure you that I have to be standing within a few feet of those I duplicate and that I can only hold the image for a few minutes. I’m no danger to society.”

Callie felt Duncan stiffen, as if Boggs had managed to strike a nerve, but as usual the cop tilted his chin and held his ground.

Foolish courage.

It was going to get him killed.

“Can you read minds?” he growled.

“I don’t need to be a psychic to know what you’re thinking. I’m tediously familiar with the prejudices of men with badges. They instantly assume that freaks have no morals.”

“The Mave sent us to ask you questions,” Callie interrupted. Men. Did they always have to have a pissing match? “Are you willing to answer them?”

A cunning expression flickered over Boggs’s alien features as he subtly shifted closer, closing the robe to hide his body. “I suppose it depends on the questions.”

Duncan moved to make sure he could step between her and Boggs if he sensed a threat, his gun still in his hand.

“There have been bodies found without their hearts.” Duncan took the lead. Of course. He was such a cop. “But there are no wounds. It’s as if the heart just disappeared from their bodies.”

Boggs made a sound deep in his throat. Not shock. But ... resignation?

“A bokor,” he muttered.

Duncan frowned. “A what?”

“One of the living dead.”

Not surprising, the cop paled at the blunt explanation. “Like a zombie?”

Callie wasn’t quite as stunned as Duncan. Since she’d left the cradle she’d heard stories of the walking dead and the necromancers who could raise them.

Of course, she’d never believed them.

Not until now.

“I thought they were a myth,” she said.

Boggs stroked a too-thin finger down the line of his jaw. “There has been only one necromancer capable of controlling the dead.”

“Who?” she asked.

“He’s been known by many names.”

Duncan snorted. “I don’t suppose you know his current one?”

Boggs shook his head. “No, but he was once Lord Zakhar.”

Callie licked her dry lips. A true necromancer. It didn’t seem possible. Like discovering Santa Claus was real.

Only scarier.

“What can you tell us about him?”

“Very little. He was a nobleman in the Russian court. From what I could learn he was growing in power when he was accused of being a sorcerer.”

“Not uncommon,” Duncan surprisingly answered. “Russian politics were always dangerous and social climbers often accused their rivals of foul deeds.”

Boggs tapped the tip of his finger on his chin. “True or not, he was burned at the stake three hundred years ago.”

“Christ,” Duncan growled. “Necromancers can raise themselves from the dead?”

He took the words straight from Callie’s mouth.

“I didn’t say he died,” Boggs pointed out in sly tones.

Callie arched a brow. Many high-bloods had extended lives. Something not commonly known among norms. But not many could survive being burned at the stake.

“Then what happened to him?”

“No one knows.” There was an edge in his voice that spoke of his annoyance at the lack of information. Boggs clearly understood that knowledge was power. “The locals assumed he died in the flames, but there were rumors a dark power swooped in to rescue him. Some say the devil rose up to claim him.”

Callie wrapped her arms around her waist, suddenly chilled to the bone.

Could it be him?

Was it possible that the man she’d encountered in Leah’s mind was a three-hundred-year-old necromancer with the ability to raise the dead?

“Do you know what he looked like?”

“The stories claimed that he had eyes of diamond.”

“Shit,” Duncan muttered as he watched the color drain from her face.

Boggs released his breath with a low hiss. “You’ve seen him?”

“Not in the flesh.” Callie shuddered. “He was in the mind of a dead woman.”

“What did he say?”

“Aren’t you the one who’s supposed to be answering the questions?” Duncan snapped.

Boggs waved a thin hand. “It’s an exchange of information.”

“He said that the question is—” She was forced to halt and clear her throat. “The question is ...
Who are you?”

The white eyes widened. “Interesting.”

Callie frowned. It wasn’t interesting. It was ominous. And threatening. And spooky as hell.

“What did you see when you demanded that we meet the first time?” she abruptly demanded.

The doppelganger froze, as if caught off guard by her question. Then, with a twitch of his robe, he was turning to head toward his pile of junk.

“A minute,” he murmured, delicately shifting through the strange collection. Duncan muttered something about lunatics, but she remained focused on Boggs as he made a sound of satisfaction. “Ah, here it is.”

He returned to stand in front of her, holding up a tangled mound of pink yarn.

“A baby blanket?” she guessed.

Boggs held it to his face, his features becoming even more indistinct as he rubbed the material over his cheek.

“It speaks of you.”

Eek.

She ignored the way he seemed to savor the tactile feel of the cashmere against his skin. Or maybe it was the silent communication between him and the blanket.

“Why would a blanket speak of me?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps it was once yours.”

Highly doubtful, but she was willing to play along. “What does it say?”

“You’re walking through a graveyard.”

“That’s it?”

“The dead are stirring beneath your feet.”

A far too vivid image of hands reaching from the grave to touch her seared through her mind. It was a dream she’d been having all too frequently.

“Are they trying to warn me?”

“No, Callie Brown.”

A cold ball of premonition formed in the pit of her stomach.

“Then what?”

“They’re trying to follow you.”

The words hit Callie with the force of a tsunami, the stunned tidal wave of horror sweeping her under before she knew what was happening.

Falling forward, she was vaguely aware of Duncan racing to catch her in his arms before the darkness swallowed her whole.

 

 

Duncan muttered a string of curses, shifting Callie’s limp body against his side, and pointed his gun at the bastard who was surging forward.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

Duncan fired a warning shot close enough to the doppelganger’s head to make him duck in fear. “Stay back,” he warned.

“Duncan, I’m fine,” Callie murmured, managing to regain her balance although he kept a stubborn arm wrapped around her waist.

He turned to study her too-pale face with a scowl. “People who are fine don’t faint.”

“I didn’t faint,” she ridiculously protested. “I was just ... surprised.”

“Yeah, that’s one way of putting it.”

She turned toward Boggs, her expression defiant despite the tiny tremors that Duncan could feel still racing through her body.

“I don’t know what you saw, Boggs, but I can’t raise the dead.”

He lifted his thin hands in a pretense of innocence. “I’m just the messenger.”

Yeah, right. Duncan’s finger twitched as he tried to leash the urge to fire off another round. A bullet or two in Boggs’s spongy flesh might teach him that not everyone enjoyed his mysterious mumbo jumbo.

“Did you see anything else?” Callie asked, her voice unsteady.

“Yes.”

“Are you going to share?” Duncan snapped.

Boggs gave another lift of his hands. “I did.”

Callie shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“He spoke to me,” Fane said, his voice coming from directly behind them.

Duncan didn’t allow his attention to stray from the doppelganger as the Sentinel moved to stand beside a puzzled Callie.

“Fane?” she muttered in disbelief.

Duncan made a sound of disgust. “I presume there was a reason you didn’t offer a full disclosure.”

“After our first visit to Boggs I took Callie back to Valhalla before returning to the cave.”

“Why?”

Boggs answered. “He threatened to kill me.”

“I don’t like men who give little girls nightmares,” Fane growled, earning Duncan’s complete approval.

Boggs, however, gave a click of his tongue. “The whispers were driving me nuts. Besides, I waited until she turned eighteen.”

Duncan shot a brief glance toward Fane, but it was Callie who asked the burning question.

“What did he say to you?”

“He warned me that a shadow was growing,” the Sentinel said, his gaze trained on the doppelganger. “And that if I failed in my duty to you, I would fail all high-bloods.”

He heard Callie’s breath catch at the reluctant confession. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Fane shrugged. “You had enough to worry about.”

“It’s no wonder you’ve been uberprotective,” Callie muttered.

Duncan frowned. The warning might be vague, but unless the creature was a complete fraud then they were in some deep shit.

Corpses without hearts who disappeared from the morgue.

A crazy necro who could actually raise the dead.

And now some ominous shadow.

“So what is this shadow?” he asked Boggs, not at all surprised when the thing shook his head.

“I don’t know. All I see is a darkness creeping over the high-bloods with Callie standing in the center.” A genuine fear glowed in the white eyes. “If the darkness covers her then all is lost.”

Duncan’s fingers tightened on the gun. The thought that Callie was at the center of the brewing danger made him want to shoot something.

“You’re a master of melodrama with very few actual details that would help,” he snapped, glaring at the doppelganger.

Boggs stiffened, clearly offended by Duncan’s sharp accusation. “I have offered all I have to give.”

Callie sent him a chiding glance before stepping toward the creature. “Can you tell us anything more about the necromancer?” she asked, her voice pleading. “How do we find him?”

A dense power filled the air as Boggs seemed to swell in size, his presence an overwhelming force.

“Sometimes to see into the future you must look into the past,” he said in a voice that echoed through the room.

Duncan flinched. Oh man. He’d been treating Boggs as if he were some harmless whack-job, not a magical high-blood that could quite possibly squash him like a bug.

It was a wonder he was still standing.

Then just to emphasize the point, Boggs spread his arms wide and with a shock wave of energy, he abruptly disappeared.

Poof.

Gone.

“Fuck,” Duncan rasped in shock.

Fane snorted. “That just about sums it up, cop.”