The necromancer.
A red haze filled Duncan’s mind.
It was the same haze that had risen when he’d been fourteen and he’d seen the high-school quarterback slap his sister when she wouldn’t let him stick his hand down her shirt.
At the time Duncan had barely been over five-foot-five and weighed less than a buck thirty, but he’d launched himself on the quarterback and managed to break the bastard’s nose and knocked out three teeth before he was pulled off.
Now he was impervious to the biting chill in the air, or the fact that Fane was turning a dangerous shade of blue as the necromancer’s eyes flared with a blinding light.
All he knew was that he at last had the chance to kill the man who’d taken away the woman he loved.
Charging forward, he was mere steps away when his rage was shaken by a faint scent of blood.
Shit.
Jerking to the side, he frantically searched the darkness. Callie was near.
And injured.
Any male need to personally get his hands on the necromancer was forgotten as he circled a tree to discover Callie curled on the ground, a golden chalice lying at her side.
Oh... Christ.
The entire world halted as he took in her pale, pale face and the blood dripping down her arms.
She looked like a broken, exotic flower that had been tossed aside by a careless hand.
Then, her lips parted on a soft sigh and Duncan’s heart remembered how to beat.
“Callie,” he groaned, preparing to drop to his knees at her side.
It was only the shout of warning from Wolfe that allowed him to jump to the side in enough time to avoid the nasty bolt of magic that slammed into the tree with enough force to split it in two.
Whirling around, he spotted the crimson-haired woman who was stalking toward him with obvious intent.
The witch.
And not just a witch, he realized, seeing her aura was a black swirl of death.
But a zombie witch.
Just fucking perfect.
The female raised her hand again, preparing to launch yet another offensive spell, but even as Duncan braced himself for the attack, Wolfe was stepping behind her, shoving his large sword through her back and out through her chest.
Duncan grimaced.
He’d seen some gory things in his time, but watching Wolfe lift the skewered witch off the ground made his stomach heave. It didn’t help when the Sentinel walked forward and then, with a mighty thrust of his arm, had the woman pinned to a nearby tree.
The witch struggled, but for the moment she was effectively trapped.
Moving back to Callie, Duncan lowered himself to his knees, carefully slipping his arms beneath her limp body to pull her onto his lap.
He needed to feel her against him.
The beat of her heart against his chest, the brush of her breath against his cheek.
Then, wrapping his arms carefully around her fragile form, he lifted his head to watch Fane in action.
Oddly, he hadn’t doubted for a second that the warrior would be able to kill the necromancer.
It didn’t matter that Lord Zakhar had managed to live for centuries. Or that he had the skill to screw with the dead. Or even that his power was filling the air with a chill that would soon become unbearable.
Fane had prepared for this moment since he’d become Callie’s guardian. And nothing, not even the hordes from the underworld, were going to stop him.
“Callie, stay with me, sweetheart,” he murmured, stroking a hand down her back as he watched Fane slowly, ruthlessly squeeze the life from the necromancer. “Stay with me.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
It was supposed to be over.
The bad guy was dead.
Not only dead, but hacked into itty bitty pieces and set on fire, just in case he tried to come back.
But after Fane spread the bastard’s ashes, Callie didn’t so much as stir in Duncan’s arms.
Whatever was wrong with her hadn’t been solved by the necromancer’s death.
Instead she continued to grow weaker.
Rushing her back to Valhalla, they were now in the high-tech wing that served as a hospital for high-bloods with a dozen healers doing their frantic best to keep her alive.
Duncan sat on the edge of the bed where Callie was lying beneath a thin sheet, her arms heavily bandaged and an IV attached to the back of her arm, replacing the blood that she continued to lose.
Fane paced the floor, his skin still faintly blue and his hands marred by frostbite.
Wolfe had come and gone, telling them that the zombie warriors remained in their statuelike state and that the witch had been locked in the crypts to keep her contained.
At least for a few hours.
Duncan barely heard the reassurances.
Who the hell cared about zombie warriors?
His entire focus was on the woman who clung to life by the thinnest thread.
Bowing his head, Duncan was busy praying to whatever god would listen when Fane came to an abrupt halt, his brows snapping together.
“Goddammit,” he growled.
Duncan lifted his head. “What is it?”
The answer came when the beautiful Serra pushed open the door and entered the room.
Fane stepped forward, his face grim. “I thought the psychics were told to leave,” he growled.
The female didn’t bother to glance in his direction as she headed for the bed, her gaze locked on Callie.
“I make my own decisions.”
“No shit,” Fane muttered, but his expression eased as Serra stepped into the muted light near the head of the bed.
As usual, she was wearing a pair of leather pants and thigh-high boots with a tiny halter top that could stop traffic, but her face was pale and damp with tears, and the green eyes shimmering with a gut-deep fear.
“Oh, Callie, you idiot,” she whispered in shaky tones, her hand gently brushing her friend’s cold cheek. “What did the healers say?”
“She continues to lose blood no matter what they do to close the wounds,” Duncan said, his voice a harsh croak.
He’d never understood the meaning of true torture until now. Nothing could be worse than feeling helpless while someone he loved slipped away.
Serra continued to stroke Callie’s cheek. “Do you know why?”
Duncan pointed toward the blood-filled goblet on a nearby table. “We think it has something to do with the chalice.”
The psychic glanced up, her expression hard with determination. “I can try to find
out.”
Duncan’s heart gave a sudden leap even as Fane shook his head.
“No,” he snapped. “She’s too weak”
Serra sent him a challenging glance. “And if we do nothing?”
“What’s she talking about?” Duncan demanded of the Sentinel.
It was Serra who answered. “I can speak directly into Callie’s mind.”
Duncan frowned. “Even though she’s unconscious?”
“Yes.”
He glanced toward Fane, who continued to scowl, before returning his attention to the psychic.
“What’s the danger?”
“Because she’s unconscious I’ll have to go deeper to read her thoughts. It can be jolting for anyone who’s not used to the intrusion. But Callie ...” She sucked in a shaky breath, blinking back the tears. “I’ve been slamming into her mind since we were both kids.”
He clenched his jaw, turning his attention to the woman lying unconscious on the bed.
She was dying.
He could feel it with every beat of his heart.
He had to do something.
Anything.
Even if it was dangerous.
Squaring his shoulders, he gave a short nod. “Do it.”
Fane stepped toward the bed, his expression stark with fear. “Serra—”
The psychic sent him a sad smile. The sort of smile that sliced through a man’s heart and left him bleeding.
“You know I’d die before I would hurt her,” she said in soft, chiding tones.
He grimaced, dipping his head in regret. “Yes.”
“I’ll be careful,” she gently promised. Turning back to Callie, Serra leaned down, staring intently at her unconscious friend for what seemed to be an eternity. At last she released a deep sigh. “I’m in.”
Duncan swallowed the lump in his throat, his thumb stroking the inside of Callie’s wrist to assure himself that her heart continued to beat.
“Does she know we’re here?” he demanded.
“Yes.” A smile touched her lips. “She can feel you holding her hand.”
Duncan lifted her hand to press the tips of her fingers to his lips.
Fane shifted to stand beside Serra, his jaw clenched. “Does she know what the necromancer did to her?”
There was a long silence as Serra spoke directly into Callie’s mind.
“He... oh my god.”
Duncan stiffened, his free hand automatically reaching for the gun that was once again holstered at his side.
It didn’t matter his gun had been worthless against the zombies. Or that bullets wouldn’t stop anything capable of breaking through the spells guarding the room.
Rational or not, it was going to be a long, long time before he went anywhere unarmed.
“What’s wrong?” he barked.
“The necromancer ... he was her father,” she said with a shudder. “And the witch was her mother.”
The surge of disgusted shock was swiftly replaced by a startling sense of acceptance.
“Of course,” he muttered, sharing a glance with Fane. “It actually makes perfect sense.”
Fane shrugged, clearly not interested. “What did the necromancer do to her?”
Serra closed her eyes, silently communicating with Callie.
“He used her blood to bind her to the magic of the chalice,” she at last said.
Fane leaned forward. “What magic?”
“It opens the pathway to the underworld.”
Duncan squeezed Callie’s fingers. She was connected to the underworld? Shit, shit, shit.
“How do we close it?”
Serra opened her eyes to meet Duncan’s worried gaze. “She doesn’t know, but she’s afraid.”
Afraid? Afraid of what?
“Tell her that Lord Zakhar is dead.”
She shook her head. “That’s not what’s bothering her.”
“Then what is?”
“If she dies, the Sentinels that are bound to her will be released.”
Duncan parted his lips—about to snarl that there was no way Callie was going to die—only to be interrupted by Fane.
“Back to their graves?” the Sentinel demanded.
“No.” Serra’s expression was troubled. “They’ll kill anything in their path and nothing will be able to stop them.”
“God dammit,” Fane snarled.
Duncan made a sound of impatience. “Look, I don’t want a crazed band of indestructible zombies rampaging through Valhalla—”
Fane glared at him. “It won’t stop at Valhalla.”
“I get it,” Duncan snapped, refusing to consider the damage the zombie warriors could cause. “But right now all I care about is Callie.” He glanced back at Serra. “How do we destroy the chalice?”
She did her psychic thing, her face managing to lose even more color.
“It can’t be destroyed,” she whispered.
“No.” Duncan was abruptly on his feet. “I don’t accept that.”
Fane folded his arms over his bare chest, equally determined.
“If the chalice can’t be destroyed then the doorway must be closed some other way,” he announced, his flat tone shaking Duncan out of his brief flare of panic. “The monk mentioned a ritual. I’ll return to Russia. There has to be some mention of the chalice in the texts.”
Duncan forced himself to take a deep, calming breath. Becoming hysterical wasn’t going to do Callie any good. He had to think clearly. Starting with how they could close the doorway.
Pacing toward the window that offered a view of the still dark countryside, he shuffled through his memories.
There had been something nagging at him since he’d had his meeting with Hektor from the Brotherhood.
Something...
It hit him with enough force to make him gasp.
Fane sent him a searching glance. “You okay, cop?”
“I think we can find someone who knows the ritual much closer,” he said.
“Who?”
“The Brotherhood.”
Fane frowned. “You know how to contact them?”
“No, but I’m betting I know someone who does.” Duncan turned his attention to Serra. “Can you stay with Callie?”
She settled on the edge of the bed, her chin jutted to a dangerous angle. Only a fool would try to pry her away from her friend.
“I won’t leave her side.”
Moving back to the bed, Duncan leaned down to press a lingering kiss to Callie’s forehead, breathing deeply of her apple scent.
“Hang on, baby,” he whispered, willing her to stay strong. “I’m coming back with the cavalry.” Straightening, he snatched the chalice off the table and met Fane’s steady gaze. “Can you take me to Kansas City?”
“Let’s go.”
They made their way through Valhalla and into the small chapel where they stood before the familiar copper post. Fane was never chatty. Tonight he was downright mute as he gathered his powers and sent them spinning through... well, whatever they spun through to get to Kansas City in the blink of an eye.
It was only as they left the monastery and climbed into the waiting Hummer that he at last spoke.
“How are you going to contact the Brotherhood?” he asked, driving out of the garage and onto the nearby path. “Any personal info they gave will be bogus.”
“No shit,” Duncan snorted. He was a trained cop. He didn’t need help smelling bullshit.
“Then how?”
“It bothered me that Hektor asked for me when he came to the station,” he said.
“Why?”
Duncan shrugged, pointing for Fane to turn onto the road that led to the nearest interstate.
“No one in the public should have known the coin was missing, let alone that I was looking for it”
Fane arched a brow. “True.”
“So there was either a leak at Valhalla—”
“No way,” the Sentinel snapped.
“Or the police station.” Duncan ignored the interruption. “Or, more likely, from the one civilian I asked to identify the vessel that held the coin.”
Fane hissed out a breath. “Where is he?”
Duncan leaned forward to punch the directions into the GPS. “Drive fast.”
The words had barely left his lips when Fane had stomped on the gas pedal and they were hurtling along the road at a teeth-rattling speed.
Holy hell.
Duncan hastily buckled his seat belt, tucking the chalice into the glove compartment so he could brace himself.
Inwardly he made a mental note never to tell a Sentinel to drive fast unless he was prepared to risk his life, and the lives of every citizen in Kansas City.
Thankfully the late hour meant there was little traffic and they managed to reach the south side of town without ramming cars off the road or taking out a hapless pedestrian.
Screeching to a halt in front of the steel and glass building, Fane had barely put the vehicle in park when Duncan was jumping out and heading to the back alley.
Girard lived in a small apartment at the rear of the art gallery. Not surprising. When you stored illegal art that could be worth over a million dollars in your basement, you wanted to keep a personal eye on it.
Lifting his arm, Duncan slammed his fist against the heavy door, bellowing at the top of his lungs. “Girard.”
There was a long pause before the door was at last cracked open, and a bleary eyed Girard peered into the alley.
“You had better be a fucking naked woman or I’ll—”
His words were bit off as Duncan leaned forward. “Sorry to disappoint.”
“O’Conner?” The con man frowned, his peppered gray hair tousled around his face and his slender body covered by a terry cloth robe. “Do you know what time it is?”
In answer, Duncan shoved the door wider, stepping into the narrow foyer and flipping on the overhead light.
“We need to talk and you can skip the faux French accent,” he warned.
Girard stumbled backward, tugging at the belt of his robe as he glared at Duncan. He didn’t even bother trying to summon his image of a sophisticated art dealer.
Why bother? It was four in the morning and they both knew he’d started as a common street thug.
“This is private property, you know,” he groused. “Unless you have a warrant you can get your ass out of here.”
Duncan jerked his thumb toward the silent Sentinel standing at his side. “This is my warrant.”
Anger tightened Girard’s narrow face, but he wasn’t stupid enough to argue.
“If you’re here about the vessel—”
“That’s exactly why I’m here,” Duncan interrupted. He wasn’t going to play games. Not tonight. “I need to contact the Brotherhood.”
“Brotherhood?” Girard gave a faux frown, his hand lifting to covertly tug the edge of his robe higher on his neck. “Is that some sort of code?”
“Shit.”
Duncan lunged forward, ripping aside the robe to reveal the arrow-shaped tattoo the man had been trying to hide. He’d never spotted it before because Girard always wore a collared shirt and tie.
Fane frowned in confusion. “What?”
“Hektor had that same tattoo on his neck,” Duncan said.
Without warning the Sentinel had reached out, grabbed Girard by the throat and lifted him three inches off the ground.
“We don’t have time to screw around, so let me make this simple,” Fane growled, squeezing until the man’s eyes bulged. “Tell me how to contact the Brotherhood or I’ll snap your neck.”