Born in Blood (The Sentinels)

by Alexandra Ivy

  “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’C
onner 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.

  Duncan was proving how wrong she’d been.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Hektor said something about the coin being needed to unlock the door to the underworld where there’s a mysterious chalice,” he explained. “Whatever the hell that means. Unless the door to the underworld is hidden in Kansas City . . . god forbid . . . the necromancer will have to travel to get to it.”

  Ah. So not just arrogance.

  She sucked in a deep breath, trying to ease her seething anxiety. “I suppose you’re right,” she said, wrinkling her nose at the persistent sense of danger. “Fane made sure to warn the monks to keep an eye open for a diviner with diamond eyes. If he tries to travel with a Sentinel he’ll be easily spotted.”

  “Clever Fane,” her companion muttered.

  Callie blinked at the unmistakable edge in Duncan’s voice. “Would you be happier if he was stupid?”

  With a swift move, he rolled on top of her, his expression hard with a jealousy he made no effort to hide. “I would be happier if I was your guardian.”

  Her legs instinctively parted to allow him to settle against her. She swallowed a small sigh of satisfaction. It felt so right to have his heavy weight pressing against her, the scent of his maleness teasing at her nose and the feel of his warm skin branding her with pleasure.

  Here, in this bed, she felt protected. Safe.

  Loved . . .

  Her heart slammed against her ribs as the perilous word whispered through her mind.

  Oh, gods.

  A part of her knew that this wasn’t the time to add yet another layer of complication to their relationship. It was already a minefield of disaster that threatened to blow up in her face when she least expected it.

  Hadn’t her afternoon at the police station proved that?

  But the L word wasn’t as easy to dismiss.

  Not when Duncan’s hand was running an intimate path down the line of her collarbone and his hazel eyes were shimmering with flecks of molten gold.

  “Only a Sentinel can be a guardian,” she reminded him, not surprised when her voice came out a breathy whisper instead of the stern warning it should have been.

  “Says who?”

  Hmm. Good question.

  “Tradition,” she at last suggested.

  “Screw tradition,” he growled, lowering his head to stroke his lips down the line of her jaw. “We can make new ones.”

  She shivered, her hands reaching up to thread through the short strands of his hair.

  “I doubt the Sentinels would agree.”

  He slowly pulled back, studying her flushed face with an expression that was impossible to read.

  “And what about you?”

  “Me?”

  “Would you trust me to be your guardian?”

  She hesitated. This was important.

  She didn’t need the sudden tension in Duncan’s shoulders or the way he didn’t quite meet her gaze to warn her just how much her answer meant.

  But she also understood that she couldn’t put any pressure on him to make a commitment he might end up regretting. Duncan O’Conner was far too much like Fane. A man with his own moral code.

  He would stand by his word, even if it put him through hell. Hadn’t he stayed in a loveless marriage until he’d caught his wife cheating on him?

  The trick was to soothe his male pride without making any demands.

  Yeah, no problem.

  And next she would solve cold fusion.

  “That depends,” she murmured, forcing a teasing smile to her lips.

  His brows drew together. “On what?”

  She lifted her head to give his chin a small nip. “You have to apply for the position.”

  His tension eased as a wicked glow chased the shadows from his eyes.

  “Is that right?”

  She licked his bottom lip, forgetting this was supposed to be a distraction.

  Hell, she was the one distracted.

  In the best possible way.

  “Mmm.”

  He groaned deep in his throat, his swelling cock pressing against her inner thigh.

  “And how would I go about that?”

  “Oh, it’s a very rigorous process,” she breathed.

  “I can be rigorous.”

  She chuckled, remembering the sound of the headboard slamming against the wall less than an hour ago.

  “You most ce
rtainly can,” she agreed, a husky edge of lingering pleasure in her voice.

  It had taken a while to convince the stubborn man that she was far stronger than most women he’d known, and that she fully approved of his . . . rigorous . . . lovemaking.

  He captured her lips in a deep, drugging kiss. “Or I can be slow and thorough.”

  The shudder of anticipation started at the tip of her toes and rippled all the way through her.

  “That works.”

  “But first.”

  Lost in the sensual spell he could cast all too easily, Callie was puzzled when Duncan pulled back to study her with a narrowed gaze.

  “What?”

  “I want you to tell me the truth.”

  Was this a game? If it was, she hoped it included more of those slow, thorough kisses.

  “The truth about what?” she asked, willing to play along.

  “You’ve been quiet since we left the station. What happened?”

  Oh . . . crap.

  She’d convinced herself that she’d managed to hide her distress at Frank’s unwelcomed confrontation. The last thing she’d wanted was to cause trouble with Duncan’s friend.

  But she should have known she hadn’t fooled him for a second. Sergeant Duncan O’Conner missed nothing.

  “If I tell you—”

  “Callie?” he prompted.

  “I don’t want you to overreact.”

  His jaw instantly clenched and Callie heaved a resigned sigh. What the hell was wrong with her?

  Just warning him not to overreact was a sure way to make him overreact.

  “What makes you think I’ll overreact?” he snarled on cue.

  “You’re male.”

  He blinked at her blunt accusation, then his lips twisted into a rueful smile. “Fair enough,” he muttered, his fingers lightly stroking her cheek. “Tell me.”

  Despite his gentle touch, he was wearing his cop face.

  He wasn’t going to let this go.

  “Your friend Frank was concerned that you weren’t thinking clearly,” she grudgingly confessed.

  His fingers tightened on her cheek, but there was no surprise that Frank had been the one to approach her. The coroner had never been particularly discreet in his dislike for high-bloods.