He couldn’t disguise his shudder of horror. “I’m the wrong person to ask.”
“You’re the wrong person for a lot of things,” Fane mocked as he came to a halt beside their table.
Duncan was instantly bristling with an overdose of male aggression. “You know I still have my gun?”
“I could kill you before you ever got it out of the holster,” the guardian promised, laying his hands flat on the table as he smiled with lethal promise.
Callie heaved a sigh as the entire room went eerily silent. Just like a Wild West movie when there was a looming gunfight.
Idiots.
She pulled her hand away from Duncan. No need to throw gasoline on a smoldering fire.
“Did you need something, Fane?”
“The Mave contacted me. We leave in an hour.” His dark gaze shifted to study her pale face. “You should rest.”
“I will.” She offered a reassuring smile. “I promise.”
“We’ll meet at the chapel.”
“Okay.” She held his gaze, allowing him to see that she was strong enough to face the upcoming ordeal. “It’s going to be okay.”
“I intend to make sure of that,” he swore, shooting a scowl toward Duncan. “Watch yourself.”
With his warning delivered, Fane turned to stroll out of the dining hall, impervious to the avid gazes that followed his exit.
Fane really and truly didn’t give a shit what people thought.
Knowing the attention was bound to shift back to them the minute the Sentinel disappeared from view, Callie surged to her feet.
“Let’s get out of here.”
Duncan breathed a sigh of relief as they left the dining hall by a side door and entered the moon-drenched gardens.
He’d always assumed that he knew how the freaks must feel when they were out and about in the world. The covert (and not so covert) stares. The bristling fear of those around them. The active dislike that could fill the atmosphere with a dark threat.
Now he had to accept that he hadn’t had a clue. Logically understanding the basic concept of bigotry and actually enduring it in action were two separate things.
For several minutes they walked in silence, Duncan trying to shake off the lingering feel of suspicious gazes, and Callie clearly worrying over the upcoming encounter with Boggs.
At last he sucked in a deep breath and glanced around the rose beds that were already in full bloom despite the fact that it was only April. Velvet petals from deep burgundy to purest white perfumed the air while a marble fountain sent water dancing in a sparkling display. There were beautifully carved benches and birdbaths, and along the edge of the gardens were low hedges so perfectly trimmed they didn’t seem real.
His lips twitched as he recalled his enthusiastic attempts to trim the hedges when he’d owned a house. They’d not only ended up as barren stumps, but he’d accidentally taken out a few of the neighbors’. Needless to say he hadn’t been invited to the block party.
One upside to living in a shitty apartment building ... no yard work.
“I didn’t realize it would be so beautiful,” he murmured, allowing his hand to brush hers as they walked along the flagstone path.
A strained smile curved her lips. “Mother Nature is always spectacular, but it doesn’t hurt to have a witch as a gardener.”
“True.” He studied her upturned face, his cock twitching at the sight of her in the moonlight. She looked lovely. As always. But she didn’t belong in this garden. She wasn’t a hothouse rose. She was too rare, too exotic. Like a flower plucked from a distant, tropical island. “Were you happy growing up here?”
“I was.” Her smile lost its tension, pleasant memories replacing her looming fear. “Children who are brought to Valhalla are given to foster families, but everyone is involved in raising them. I had a dozen mothers fussing over me.”
“You never considered tracking down your birth parents?”
“They stopped being my parents when they dumped me in the trash,” she said with blunt dismissal. “I’ve never had any urge to know anything about them.”
He nodded. She had obviously been given all the love and protection she needed. Why would she want to know the bastards who’d tossed her away like garbage? “Fair enough.”
She tilted her head to the side. “What about your childhood?”
He instinctively slowed his pace as they neared a shadowed corner of the garden conveniently hidden by a trellis covered in climbing roses.
“Loud, messy.” He shot her a grin. “Occasionally painful.”
She came to a startled halt. “Painful?”
“I had two older brothers who threw me out our bedroom window, hog-tied me and left me in the back shed until my da found me. They also dared me to kiss my fourth-grade teacher, who promptly kicked me out of school for a week.”
She arched a brow, not a hint of sympathy to be found.
“Any sisters?”
“Three.”
“Older?”
“Yep.”
“That explains it.”
He pressed his lips together to hide his smile. He was about to be insulted. Amusement would only ruin her fun.
“Explains what?” he dutifully demanded.
“Your assumption that women should adore you.”
“Of course they should. I’m adorable.”
She snorted. “What you are is spoiled.”
He couldn’t deny the accusation. Along with being a true pain in his ass, his sisters had shamelessly indulged him.
“There might have been a little spoiling,” he agreed.
She reached to pluck a rose bloom from the trellis, her fingers caressing the peach petals.
“Does your family live in Kansas City?”
“Yes.” He cleared his throat. Damn, but the sight of those delicate fingers brushing over the flower made him hard. He wanted her hands on him. Stroking, exploring, maybe doing a little squeezing. “My ma would be devastated if any of her chicks flew too far from the nest.”
She smiled. “You were fortunate.”
“It didn’t always feel like it. A big family can smother a young man trying to spread his wings.” Nothing like two parents and five older siblings prying into his business. Privacy was more precious than gold when he was an oversexed, hormone-charged teenager. “Now I’ve learned to appreciate the O’Conner clan.” He paused, struck by a sudden inspiration. “Maybe I’ll take you to Sunday dinner.”
She blinked. Then blinked again. “Me?”
“Why not you?”
“I think that’s obvious.”
“Clearly it’s not.”
“Fine.” She tilted her chin to a defensive angle. “I doubt I would be welcome.”
Duncan sucked in a sharp breath. It was frighteningly easy to picture Callie in his childhood home. The O’Conners were loud and boisterous and rough around the edges, but they all possessed the same overriding urge to be protectors. One look at this fragile beauty with her jewel eyes and they’d be tripping over each other to play mother hen.
“You’re wrong. My ma is a remarkable woman. She would never turn anyone away from her table,” he assured her. Then he gave a short laugh as he thought of his da’s reaction to Callie Brown. “Of course, it might be dangerous.”
“Why? She might stick me with a carving knife?”
“Worse, she might start sizing you up for a wedding gown.”
More blinking. “You can’t be serious?”
“My ma is old school.” He shrugged. “She believes a man is incapable of happiness unless he’s under the rule of a wife.”
Her expression was wary, as if she feared he might be playing a cruel game. “I can’t imagine she would ever be desperate enough to think of me as a potential daughter-in-law.”
He reached to sweep his hand over her spiky hair, his touch gentle despite the violent anger that surged through him. Man, he wanted to punch every ignorant jackass who’d made this remarkable female feel she was an
ything but extraordinary.
Or maybe he’d just shoot them.
Yeah. Shooting them sounded much more satisfying.
“Why wouldn’t she want you?” he demanded. “You’re young, beautiful, and I presume you’re capable of producing the mandatory grandchildren?”
She licked her lips, sending another jolt of heat through his body. Okay. No more thinking of kids. Or how a man went about acquiring them.
“I’m a freak who can see into the minds of the dead,” she said.
He tugged a fiery strand of her hair. “Darling, it’s not exactly a secret. I’ve seen you in action.”
“Mothers don’t invite people like me to Sunday dinner.”
“So you’re special,” he said. “All the better.”
She studied him in puzzlement for a long minute. Then abruptly she narrowed her eyes. “Ah. I know what you’re doing.”
She did?
“I’m glad one of us does,” he muttered.
“You’re trying to distract me from our upcoming meeting with Boggs.”
True. He’d certainly started out trying to tease a smile to those full, delectable lips, but somehow he’d lost track of his goal.
And worse, he knew he wasn’t going to easily dismiss the image of Callie surrounded by his family at his mother’s kitchen table.
A dangerous fantasy.
Far better to concentrate on the simple lust that hummed through his body like a live current.
That was the kind of danger he could handle.
Skimming his fingers over the curve of her ear, he shifted to make sure he was blocking her from sight of anyone entering the garden.
“I have better ways to distract you,” he murmured, lowering his head to nip her bottom lip.
“Really?” she breathed, her hands lifting to grasp his shoulders.
He shuddered at her ready response. “Oh yeah.”
Cupping her face in his hands, he tilted her head to the exact angle for him to claim her mouth in a kiss that was a blatant sexual demand.
They had mere minutes before they would be forced to leave Valhalla. Not nearly long enough to do what he wanted to do with this woman.
But he intended to take advantage of every second.
Slipping his tongue into the silken heat of her mouth, he lost himself in the sweet addiction of Callie Brown.
Chapter Eight
Below the sweeping mansion the rooms weren’t elegantly furnished or designed to impress.
In fact, it looked exactly like a morgue.
Probably because that’s what it was.
The long, open room had white tiled floors and built-in stainless steel freezers along the walls, which filled the air with a soft hum. Overhead the rows of lights blazed as bright as the sun.
And in the very center of the room was a steel gurney where a young female was laid out, her skin as white as the blanket that covered her naked body and her chestnut hair spilling over the edges.
Zak crossed to the gurney, the hem of his gray robe brushing the floor. He peered down at her delicate features, clinically comprehending why a man would make a fool of himself over such a creature although his passions had been purged in the flames of his enemies.
“Ah.” He tilted her face to the side, examining for any defects. “She’s exquisite.”
The man standing beside him shifted in unease.
Tony was exactly what Anya had called him.
A genuine thug.
Short, with a barrel-chest, he was as strong as an ox and about as smart as one. His dark hair was slicked from a square face that had a crooked nose and small, beady eyes.
His personality was as pleasant as a pit bull, but he did have several relatives who always knew someone who knew someone who knew someone—which meant he had a cousin who worked in the police station who was willing to switch off the surveillance tapes long enough for Tony to get in and out without setting off the alarms.
“Whatever you say,” the thug muttered, unconsciously wiping his beefy hands on his jeans.
Not everyone was as comfortable as Zak with the dead.
Strange. The man had reputedly killed over a dozen people, including women and children. How could you be squeamish about death when you were so good at dealing it?
Besides, corpses were far better company than the living.
“You may go,” Zak dismissed.
“Thank god.” The man bolted toward the door.
“Tony,” Zak halted his retreat.
He glanced over his shoulder. “Yes?”
“I don’t need to remind you that it would be extremely unhealthy to discuss anything connected to your job.”
His voice was a gentle whisper, but Tony was suddenly as pale as the dead female. “I swear, my lips are sealed.”
“Go.”
Tony didn’t need to be told twice. Moving with a surprising speed considering his bulk, he disappeared out of the lab and up the stairs.
Dismissing the servant from his mind, Zak continued his inspection of the female. It wasn’t for pleasure. He had to be certain that the coroner hadn’t started his autopsy.
“Are you satisfied?” Anya purred as she entered the lab attired in yet another dress, this one a deep shade of green to contrast with her rich curtain of hair.
Unimpressed, Zak returned his attention to the pretty corpse.
“We retrieved her before any damage could be done.”
“Then you can complete the ritual?”
Assured that the female was still viable to complete her part of his plan, he straightened the blanket and moved to a counter that ran between two of the freezers.
“Are you in a hurry now?” he demanded, washing his slender hands in a sink before drying them on a towel. “Before you were urging me to wait.”
“I haven’t seen any news of her death, but it’s only a matter of time,” Anya snapped. “The risk you took to get the female won’t do us any good if Calso learns that she’s dead.”
He reached beneath the counter to pull out two candles and a shallow bowl made of ivory. From a drawer, he pulled out a large ceremonial knife.
“Some things can’t be hurried.”
“Fine.”
A blessed silence filled the lab (yet another reason to prefer the dead over the living) as he sliced a razor-thin cut in his palm and allowed several drops of blood to fill the bottom of the bowl.
Then, wrapping a linen cloth around his hand to halt the bleeding, he lit the candles and softly chanted the familiar incantation.
Over and over, he repeated the chant, his hands passing over the pool of blood in the bowl.
It wasn’t the words or the candles that mattered.
They were merely the focus to call upon his latent talents.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, a cold wind began to swirl through the lab, bringing with it the moist scent of earth and something else.
Something foreign.
He opened himself to the encroaching chill, allowing it to fill his body with a power greater than his own.
He didn’t know when he’d discovered the ability to go beyond glimpsing into the minds of the dead. He’d been too young to be frightened when the power had risen to consume him and yet old enough to realize that he needed to keep it a secret.
Living on a remote estate in Russia, it had been a simple matter to practice his growing skills away from prying eyes. And if he’d been caught once or twice by a serf, well they were easy enough to dispose of.
In time his powers had become more than a source of fascination.
He’d used them to climb his way from a minor nobleman to a favorite among the czar’s court, surrounded by the wealth and luxury his weak, feebleminded father could never have imagined.
Of course, he was no longer a man who would be satisfied by such shallow desires.
His blessings weren’t given to him for pleasure.
They were given to him to rule.
And that’s exactly what he intende
d to do.
“Bring me the urn,” he said, his body numb from the cold power thundering through him.
“As you command,” the witch grumbled, moving to pull the ceramic urn from the nearest freezer.
“If you wish to act like a child, you may leave.”
She muttered beneath her breath, but she was wise enough to handle the urn with care as she set it on the counter next to him. “Here.”
Zak ignored his petulant companion, reaching into the urn to pull out a frozen heart. He returned to his chanting as he set the delicate organ in the bowl and covered it with his hands.
He ignored the witch, who fidgeted with growing impatience, and even the heavy tread of Tony walking upstairs, no doubt heading to the kitchen to raid the fridge. The man ate on a continuous basis.
Nothing was allowed to distract him from the biting power. Not when it was hammering through him with a growingly painful force.
The ability to wrench a person from the jaws of death wasn’t a gift for the weak. Not like those ridiculous diviners who hid behind the walls of Valhalla and barely scratched the surface of what was possible.
With every second he risked being consumed by the icy darkness that pulsed through him.
He battled with the grim reaper, never certain he would win.
At last the force that churned inside him burst through his hands and arrowed into the heart beneath his palms.
The heart shuddered, the ice abruptly melting as it was filled with a magic as old as time.
Sucking in a deep breath, Zak turned to make his way back to the gurney. He kept his steps steady despite the weariness seeping through his body.
He never revealed weakness.
Especially not in front of Anya.
The witch might have pledged her loyalty, but she was a treacherous bitch who’d turn on him in the blink of an eye.
Halting next to the gurney, Zak placed his hand on the female’s forehead. “Leah, wake,” he commanded, watching as her lashes fluttered upward.
The light brown eyes were devoid of emotion, but they held an awareness that was all he needed.
Duncan squeezed his eyes shut, desperately clinging to the copper post while trying not to scream like a wussy.
Had it only been a quarter of an hour ago that he’d been in the rose-scented darkness with Callie in his arms?
Born in Blood (The Sentinels) Page 8