Born in Blood (The Sentinels)

by Alexandra Ivy

  “Russia,” Fane announced from the corner.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Zak had time to shower and return to the main part of the house when Tony returned with Leah’s body and the coin.

  Not surprising, the henchman was barely functioning, his human brain unable to process what he’d witnessed. That, of course, didn’t keep Zak from sending him off to dispose of Leah’s body. What did it matter where he took the corpse, just so long as it was far enough that it couldn’t be traced back to this house?

  Now he sat in his office and studied the tiny object that he’d waited three hundred years to hold in his hand.

  It didn’t look like it could offer him the power he’d been promised. Less than two inches in diameter, it was paper thin and tarnished to a blue green. It might have been mistaken for a piece of trash if not for the odd, winged bird etched into the metal.

  Rubbing his finger over the ancient artifact, Zak felt the gnawing sensation in the dark pit of his heart.

  It was a familiar ache.

  It had started when he was barely five and he’d realized that his brothers were destined to become his father’s heirs while he was doomed to a suffocating existence in the middle of fucking nowhere, surrounded by superstitious serfs who’d taken one glance at his peculiar eyes and claimed his mother had slept with a demon.

  Ignorant peasants.

  Boris and Viktor had been easy enough to get rid of. The two had been ruthless bullies to Zak, but they’d also been as dumb as a box of rocks. And once Zak had started to come into his powers, it’d only been a matter of time before he could put them in their graves.

  Boris had been disposed of by the simple process of having his dead lover make an appearance in the woods. The fool had tumbled from his horse in shock and broke his own neck. Viktor had been a little more difficult, but eventually Zak had stumbled across the body of a recently shot poacher whom he used to pull Viktor from the stables and snap his neck.

  It had never occurred to him that his father would refuse to make him his heir. He was, after all, the only remaining son.

  But the bastard had coldly informed Zak that he’d never allow a deformed brat to claim his title.

  This time Zak had taken matters into his own hands, quite literally, strangling his father and hiding his body. Hours later he’d used his powers to ensure his father appeared long enough to formally proclaim Zak as his heir before he allowed his father’s dead body to tumble to the floor.

  From there he’d traveled to Saint Petersburg, confident he’d at last satisfy that sense of emptiness.

  Instead he’d been consumed with fury as the nobles had treated him with the same contempt as his father. He’d managed to forge a place for himself at court with sheer cunning, but it hadn’t been enough.

  And then he’d met Anya, who’d revealed to him the power to make certain he’d never again be treated as anything less than a king.

  As if the thought of Anya had conjured the witch, she stepped into the office and crossed to where he sat behind his desk. “You have the coin?”

  “At last,” he confirmed, his fingers continuing to stroke over the copper coin.

  Anya leaned against the edge of the desk, her slender form barely covered by the microdress that was a brilliant shade of yellow.

  Why she bothered to play the role of sex kitten defied logic. He never wasted his time or energy on a project unless it promised reward.

  And any reward he’d gain by taking the witch to his bed had already been reaped.

  “The female?” she demanded, placing her hand flat on the desk and leaning sideways to study the artifact in his fingers.

  Zak shrugged. “Tony’s disposing the body.”

  Anya wrinkled her nose. “The servant has seen more than is good for him.”

  “He still has his uses.”

  She reached a hand toward the coin. “May I?”

  Zak smoothly rose to his feet and stepped away. “No.”

  Her face flushed at his uncompromising rejection. “You can’t be afraid that I might try to steal it?” She gave a short, humorless laugh. “We need one another.”

  “Certainly you need me.”

  She muttered something beneath her breath as she pushed away from the desk and headed for the door. “Fine.”

  “Where are you going?”

  She halted, glancing over her shoulder. “It’s time for my pedicure.”

  “It will have to wait.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “I want you to take me to the temple.”

  The witch froze, her expression wary. “Now?”

  “Yes.”

  “But . . .” She shook her head, licking her dry lips. “I haven’t prepared the sacrifice.”

  He held up the coin. “Then get prepared.”

  She slowly turned back to face him, her movements wary, as if she feared his response.

  Smart witch.

  “And what about you? Are you fully prepared?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You have convinced yourself that you’re destined to succeed, but have you considered the consequences of failure?” she muttered in defensive tones. “We can’t be sure that using a surrogate will protect you.”

  He smiled with a cold arrogance. “Don’t worry about me, witch. Take me to the temple and I’ll become nothing less than a god.”

  Her eyes flashed with fear. “You should at least consider the danger.”

  “I would be flattered if I truly thought you cared, Anya,” he mocked. “But we both know your only concern is losing your luxurious lifestyle.” He carefully plucked a bit of lint off the sleeve of his white satin shirt before lifting his gaze to stab her with a lethal glare. “Or at least that had better be the only reason you hesitate.”

  Anya wrapped her arms around her waist. “Sometimes you frightened me.”

  He arched a brow. “Only sometimes?”

  After being returned to Kansas City by Fane and his magical portal, Duncan made a brief stop by his apartment for clean clothes before heading to the station house to speak with the techy who was dissecting Calso’s security tapes. He forced the poor bastard to go frame by tedious frame until Duncan had the information he needed.

  Only then did he head south of town to the mansion that was now a crime scene.

  Parking a block away, Duncan blatantly trespassed through private yards to enter through the back terrace doors. A death in this neighborhood would bring out the vultures in hordes. He didn’t want to have to shoot paparazzi. No matter how satisfying it might be.

  Entering the kitchen, he was met by a rookie who looked impossibly young with his face flushed and his pale eyes shimmering with excitement.

  Christ. Had he ever been that wide eyed and fresh faced?

  Probably not. By the time he was four his special little talent had revealed just how often a face of an angel could disguise a soul as black as the pits of hell.

  “You had the entire neighborhood canvassed?”

  The young man squared his shoulders, his uniform perfectly pressed and his shoes shining.

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing was seen except a silver Taurus parked a block south of here,” a female voice answered as Molinari stepped into the kitchen.

  A small woman in her early fifties, the chief of police didn’t have the muscles or the bluster to intimidate others, but there wasn’t a cop in the city who didn’t quake beneath the dark gaze.

  There was something in that glare that reminded him of the day he was busted by his ma for hiding a stash of Playboys beneath his mattress.

  “Any one jot down the plates?”

  Molinari shook her head, the dark hair that was dyed, sprayed, and pinned into a bun at her nape not moving an inch. Her tailored jacket and matching skirt were equally rigid as she stood in the doorway. “No.”

  “Of course not.” Duncan rolled his eyes. “I can’t sneeze in my apartmen
t without old lady Rogers asking if I’m coming down with a cold. Where are the nosy neighbors when you need them?”

  “Nosy neighbors aren’t allowed in the communities where power brokers live,” the chief said, her dark gaze flicking toward the backyard, which was as large as a football field. “They have too many secrets.”

  “So what were Mr. Calso’s secrets?”

  Molinari lifted a slender hand. “Follow me, O’Conner.” She glanced toward the silent rookie. “Blackwell.”

  The cop audibly swallowed the lump in his throat. “Chief?”

  “Make sure we’re not interrupted.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Duncan followed Molinari through the house to the office where Calso had died. He smiled as he caught a glimpse through the windows at the dozen cops who surrounded the house, keeping the gathering jackals at bay.

  “Trying to keep a lid on things?”

  The woman moved toward the desk, making a wide path around the spot where Calso had . . . disintegrated.

  Duncan didn’t blame her. The memory of watching the body turn to ash was something that was going to haunt him for a long time.

  “When it gets out that one of the richest men in Kansas City was killed by magic all hell’s going to break loose,” Molinari muttered, reaching to pluck a manila file off the desk.

  “You left out the fact that the person casting the spell was a zombie who escaped from our own morgue.”

  That dark glare swiveled in his direction. “I’ve already named my first ulcer Mayor Stanford. Do you want me to name the next one O’Conner?”

  “I’ll pass.”

  “This whole damned thing is a nightmare just waiting to happen.”

  Just waiting to happen?

  Duncan was fairly certain they were knee-deep in the nightmare.

  “You can’t keep this from the press for long,” he said, waving a hand toward the window that revealed the line of news vans already blocking the street. “Not with such a high profile victim.”

  “Instead of stating the obvious, why don’t you make yourself useful and assure me the freaks know who’s doing this.”

  Duncan moved, studying the open safe, effectively hiding his expression. He was loyal to his job and to his chief, but he’d go to the grave protecting Callie and her connection to the case.

  “Like us, they’re following leads,” he said, absently noting the stack of crisp thousand-dollar bills just begging to be taken.

  Whatever the reason for Calso’s death, it had nothing to do with money.

  “And?” Molinari prompted.

  “And that’s all I know.”

  “You wouldn’t be keeping anything from me, would you, O’Conner?”

  He turned to meet her suspicious frown. “The Mave has her people trying to track down info on a necromancer capable of truly raising the dead. I assume they’ll contact us when they discover anything.”

  The suspicion remained. “Hmm.”

  “Tell me about Calso.”

  The chief’s lips parted to cross-examine him, then clearly deciding it wasn’t worth the battle, she instead turned her attention to the file folder in her hand. Flicking it open, she read from the top page.

  “Sixty-two-year-old Caucasian male, in decent health, who made a fortune in the financial world.”

  “Anyone want him dead?”

  “Two ex-wives who were stupid enough to sign prenups and a dozen employees with pending lawsuits that accuse him of everything from sexual harassment to insider trading.”

  Typical. What was it with rich guys having to be dickheads?

  “So not the most popular guy.”

  “I have Caleb running down the more obvious suspects. But—”

  “But this murder was anything but obvious,” Duncan finished for her.

  “Exactly.”

  He strolled toward the desk, allowing his gaze to wander aimlessly over the room. He’d discovered over the years that clues rarely came attached with labels or blinking neon lights. Instead it was almost always something subtle.

  A chair moved for no apparent reason.

  A drawer not fully closed.

  A recently repaired window.

  Anything out of place that was inexplicably easier to notice with a casual glance instead of a focused search.

  “Do you know anything about the coin that was stolen?”

  Molinari shrugged. “I have the research department enlarging a picture of it. They haven’t found anything yet.”

  “Yeah. I picked up a copy.” Not that it helped. Even with the details of the coin brought into focus it meant nothing to Duncan. He needed an expert. “Was it listed on his homeowners policy?”

  “Not.”

  “So, black market.”

  “That would be my guess.”

  “What about the other artwork?”

  Molinari shuffled through the papers in her file. “It looks like most of the pieces have legitimate paperwork, but I’ll have it double checked.”

  Duncan grimaced. No one would be stupid enough to display such famous pieces if they were off the black market. Unless they were forgeries.

  His hand reached to pick up the stone vase that was safely wrapped in an evidence bag.

  “What about the container?”

  “What about it?”

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t have a damned clue. It looks old.”

  It looked older than old. It looked ancient.

  Holding it to the light, he studied the strange symbols etched into the stone.

  “Can I keep it?”

  Molinari frowned at the unexpected request. “It’s evidence.”

  “I won’t let anything happen to it.”

  There was a long silence as the chief weighed the need for information against protocol.

  At last the shouts from the growing crowd of gawkers across the street made her heave a sigh of resignation.

  “I suppose it couldn’t hurt. It’s already been dusted for prints,” she muttered. “What do you want it for?”

  “Callie and her pet Sentinel are searching for the history of the necromancer in an effort to locate him. I want to start at the other end.” He glanced toward the black mark on the carpet where Calso had died. “The present.”

  “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.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  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 ca
lm, 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.