Born in Blood

Page 32

Callie sighed at his immediate rejection of a perfectly sound proposal. As if that would stop her if she was truly determined to visit the strip joint.
“Yeah, that’s the same answer I got from Duncan.” She rolled her eyes. “Men.”
He studied her for a long, silent minute. Intimidation at its finest.
“You could wait for my return so I could go with you.”
It was her turn to nip the suggestion in the bud. She might be used to the Sentinel, but to most people he was a scary-ass MOFO.
“Fane, I love you, but you terrify the norms,” she pointed out gently. “There’s no way they would talk if they caught a glimpse of you.”
A dangerous smile curled his lips. “I could make them talk.”
She snorted. Fane had made hardened warriors weep in fear. “I don’t doubt that for a minute, but I think we should try it Duncan’s way first,” she said, reaching in to place her fingers against the side of his throat. “If that doesn’t work we’ll call in the big guns.”
His dark eyes remained flat, unrelenting. “He can’t protect you from the witch. Or any other high-blood.”
Callie couldn’t argue. Duncan might be a hell of a cop, but he wasn’t a Sentinel.
Although, with his special powers he could always . . . She squashed the unexpected thought.
Duncan loved being a cop. Being human. And wishing for him to join her world was the sort of thing that could break a woman’s heart.
Or maybe just break her.
“I won’t take any risks,” she assured her companion. “I swear.”
As if sensing her growing vulnerability, Fane narrowed his dark gaze. “This is bigger than you, Callie.”
She flinched at the unwelcomed reminder of Boggs’s warning. “We don’t know I’m actually involved.”
“You’re no longer a child,” he chided. “You can’t stick your head in the sand and pretend that you don’t sense the growing danger.”
“You’re right,” she abruptly admitted. “I’m sorry.”
He gave an exaggerated blink. “Do you have a fever?”
She shook her head, not about to admit the nightmares that plagued her or the looming sense of doom. She’d be locked in her apartment before she could say “Jack Robinson.” Whatever the hell that meant.
“I can’t ignore the warnings,” she said, keeping it vague. “If there’s a darkness that threatens us then we have to stop it. The sooner, the better.” She lowered her hand to poke Fane in the center of his steel-hard chest. “Which means accepting whatever assistance we can get.”
He arched a brow. “And this isn’t just about being alone with the cop?”
She hesitated. She might not always fully confess to her guardian, but she never deliberately lied.
Their relationship was built on having complete faith in one another and she would never do anything to jeopardize it.
“Maybe a small part, but I won’t be distracted. Trust me.”
“You, I trust.” He sent a burning glare toward Duncan. “Him—never.”
Only a few feet away Duncan stiffened, his hands curling at his sides as he met Fane glare for glare.
“I’ll call you with any information we get,” she said, giving him another poke to distract him from his silent stare-off with Duncan.
Christ. Testosterone was a pain in the ass.
Grudgingly Fane turned back to meet her annoyed gaze. “I’m going to see if I can find information on the coin.”
His words caught Callie off guard. “You’re going back to see Myst?” she demanded, recalling the fragile beauty of the scribe.
Was it possible that the stoic Sentinel had been smitten?
She wouldn’t begrudge him an opportunity for a bit of happiness. He’d sacrificed far too much for her. But she couldn’t deny a sense of disappointment for Serra.
The beautiful psychic would be devastated if Fane chose another.
“No.” He tapped her nose—a silent warning to keep it out of his personal business. “I know a monk who has studied the Sumerians.”
Ah. She grinned in relief. “He isn’t Sumerian, is he?” she demanded. Monks were rumored to live as long as any high-blood.
Another tap. “It’s not polite to ask”
She stepped back, her smile fading. “Be careful, Fane. You’re not as invincible as you think.”
“Yes, I am” He held her gaze. “I’ll come for you first thing in the morning.”
“But—”
“Don’t push me.”
He took off, moving with a fluid grace as he led the medics up the bluff and away from the humans who gaped at him like he was a wild animal who might very well ravage them if he slipped his leash.
They weren’t wrong.
Zak was seated at his desk in his private library when the scent of blood had him lifting his head to watch as Anya stepped into the room.
For once she’d put aside her designer clothing and was covered from neck to toe in a black satin robe with her hair pulled into a tight braid that fell down her back. Zak was similarly attired, although his robe was made of a silver silk that would be disposed of once they were done.
Blood and death were a messy business.
“You have prepared the spell?”
She shrugged. “The blood has opened a pathway to our destination.”
He rose to his feet, unconcerned by the knowledge she’d had to sacrifice a young child to create the magic necessary to create a gateway.
It was, after all, the reason he’d first been attracted to Anya.
There were any number of witches and mystics among the Russian court, some of them even real. But Anya was special. Long before high-bloods had become known by the norms, she’d trained with a clandestine coven that had taught her magic that was long since banned. Including the ability to travel that was similar to a Sentinel, although she was drawn to objects with magical power instead of using well-established portals from monastery to monastery.
Which was how she first stumbled across the ancient ziggurat covered in hieroglyphics that was nearly buried in the deserts of Iran.
“Good,” he said, grim satisfaction edging his voice. “Then let’s go before my destiny can be once again snatched away.”
“Snatched away?” Her eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”
“A traitor.”
“A traitor?”
He arched a brow. “Did I stutter?”
“No, but—” Anya frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“Really? I should think it was obvious. Someone has betrayed me.” A chill swirled through the air. “Someone very close to me.”
“You can’t possibly suspect me? It would be ridiculous.”
“Don’t pretend moral outrage, Anya,” he warned in cold tones. “It doesn’t suit you.”
The witch clenched her bloodstained hands. “I have as much invested as you, Zak. Why would I devote my life to you only to become a traitor?”
He was far from impressed by her fierce response. Only an idiot would trust a woman who would willingly sell her soul to the highest bidder.
“And what do you have invested?” he drawled.
She sucked in an outraged breath. “I saved your life.”
“Maybe.”
“What do you mean? I pulled you from the flames.” Temper abruptly snapped in her emerald eyes. “It was my magic that kept your heart beating while your body healed.”
His own expression remained glacial. “You also promised a dozen times we were about to get your hands on the coin, only to discover that it had once again slipped from our grasp.”
She muttered a foul curse. “It was your bokors that failed, not my magic.”
His fingers stroked over the coin hidden in the pocket of his robe. Over the years he’d meticulously reviewed his failures to acquire the coin. He’d wasted enormous resources and risked exposure each time he raised the dead. The fact that they’d missed carrying out their mission by mere hours, sometimes minutes, had been enough to stir his suspicions.
“Hmm.”
Anya narrowed her gaze. “What?”
“The more simple explanation was that someone was warning the owners of the coin that I was on their trail.”
She appeared genuinely outraged by his words. “If you suspected I was a traitor then why did you allow me to stay with you?”
He shrugged. “I’ve always believed in the theory that it’s best to keep your enemies close.”
“This is insanity,” she hissed. “If it was me, then why wouldn’t I have warned Calso?”
“Perhaps you’re actually innocent. Or perhaps this is a cleverly constructed trap.” He shrugged. “Until I know which it is, I can assure you I will be on constant guard.” He offered a cold smile. “Now, are we traveling to the temple or not?”
“Fine.” With a swirl of satin robes, the witch was heading out the door. “Follow me.”
In silence they made their way to Anya’s private rooms on the upper floor. The stench of blood became almost overwhelming as she pushed open the door to reveal her sitting room, which had been converted into a basic chapel.
With a grimace, Zak glanced over the scrolled chairs with pretty pastel cushions that were arranged in a semicircle around the rough wooden altar. The expensive artwork that had once hung on the ivory walls had been piled in one corner and replaced with shelves of murky bottles that held an assortment of nasty ingredients used by Anya when she was cooking up her potions or casting her spells.
The curtains had been pulled across the window, shrouding the room in shadows. The only light was a lone candle that sat on the altar next to the wooden bowl filled with blood.
The blood of an innocent.
Moving forward, Anya waved a hand toward the altar. “Stand beside me,” she commanded.
Zak joined her, reaching to grasp her wrist in a grip tight enough to hurt.