Born in Blood

“Back off.” Fane lifted a warning hand before turning to study her with a searching gaze. “Callie?”



“A man appeared. I think it was the same man who killed Leah.”



Fane hissed, turning her so he could run an assessing gaze over her. “Did he hurt you?” he rasped. “Is that why you were having a seizure?”



She lifted an unconscious hand to her head. It was beginning to throb with an uncomfortable persistence. “It must have been, but I didn’t feel his attack while we were speaking.”



“You need to see a healer.”



“Later.” She placed a hand on his wide neck. It was a gesture of intimacy without being sexual. Trust between partners. “I promise.”



“How is this possible?” Duncan sharply intruded, his voice filled with annoyance. “Was he a necro?”



She turned back to meet his narrowed gaze, inanely noticing the bruises beneath the hazel eyes and the unusual pallor of his tanned face. Sick? Or just a late night?



Not that either was her business.



“He must have some powers of necromancy, but he was more than that,” she said, wrapping her arms around her waist as she returned her attention to Fane. “Much more,” she emphasized. “I must speak with the Mave. She may know who, or at least what, he might be.”



Fane didn’t hesitate, moving toward the door. On the point of following him, Callie was halted as Duncan moved to stand in her way.



“I’m going with you,” he said, stubbornly holding his ground, although he was smart enough not to touch her.



Fane was on edge. One wrong move and he would explode.



She shook her head. “It’s not possible.”



He leaned forward, wrapping her in the scent of warm male and ... was that whiskey?



Ah. So not sick, but hungover.



“Then make it possible.”



In the blink of an eye Fane’s huge body was between them, his muscles primed for violence. “A man with a death wish,” he drawled.



“What I am is a cop with a victim who’s missing her heart with no visible wounds,” Duncan countered.



Callie gave a soft gasp, stepping around Fane to regard the cop in horror. She never asked how a victim died. It might influence her when she was reliving their memories.



“She’s missing her heart?”



“Gone, just like magic.” He held her gaze, his expression grim. “That means the killer is a freak. I’m not letting you out of my sight until I know what’s going on.”



It took a minute for her to realize she’d just been insulted. Odd considering it happened with tedious regularity.



“Are you implying I would try and hide the identity of a murderer?”



He ignored the bristling Fane as he moved to stand directly in front of her.



“I’m implying that you’re stuck with me, Callie Brown.”



Fane growled, but before he could give in to his desire to smash his fist into Duncan’s face, Callie turned to distract his attention.



“Would you contact the Mave and tell her we’ll be bringing a visitor?”



Fane’s lips tightened, but he gave a ready nod of his head.



When it came to her safety, Fane was in charge. But when she was making decisions as a diviner, she was boss.



Pulling the phone from his pocket, he moved toward the door. Calls to Valhalla were always made in private.



Of course, the Sentinel couldn’t leave without halting long enough to offer Duncan a warning. “You’re going to be on my territory, cop,” he murmured.



“Can’t wait,” Duncan assured him, turning to watch the dangerous warrior exit the room.



“Is that really necessary?” Callie demanded in exasperation.



Duncan turned his head back with a snap. “Is he your lover?”



She blinked at the abrupt question. “That’s none of your business.”



He boldly reached to grasp her chin in his hand. “Since you’re going to be sharing my bed, I’d say it’s very much my business.”



She scowled, pretending that her stomach wasn’t fluttering with excitement. “Fane was right.”



His gaze lowered to her lips, the heat smoldering in the hazel eyes promising all sorts of wicked pleasure.



“Right about what?”



“You are a menace.”



Duncan paced the long room that was painted in soothing shades of blue and filled with sleek furniture built of steel and upholstered with black leather.



It looked more like a reception room for an upscale plastic surgeon than the Funny Farm. No, not the Funny Farm. Valhalla, he grimly corrected himself.



He doubted the residents would appreciate the nickname the norms used to reference the strange compound hidden beneath the shimmering dome. And since more than a few of them could read his thoughts, he would be an idiot to deliberately provoke them.



His lips twisted as he came to the end of the room where images were being projected onto the smooth wall. It looked like the local news program, although he didn’t bother to try and read the lips of the pretty anchorwoman. Instead he turned on his heels and continued his pacing.



He had to keep moving. If he stopped then he might remember being taken to a small monastery on the outskirts of Kansas City where he’d stepped into a hidden chamber with Callie and her guard dog, Fane. At first he’d assumed he was going to have to endure a few prayers to whatever gods the freaks worshipped. After all, Sentinels were raised by monks and while they never seemed overly pious, it had to have some effect on them.



But there’d been no praying when Fane demanded they all touch the strange copper post set in the middle of the barren room.



In fact there’d been nothing but silence before the world abruptly melted.



There were no other words to explain what’d happened.



One minute Duncan was standing close to Callie, breathing in her delicate scent and thinking thoughts that could get him arrested, and the next there was ... nothing.



A vast emptiness that made his stomach fall to his feet and his mouth dry.



For a frantic few minutes he feared that he’d been tossed into an endless oblivion. Which was strange. His ma had always assured him that he was destined for the fiery pits of hell.



But the blackness lasted only seconds before the world flickered back into focus and he found himself in a room so similar to the one that they’d just left that he wondered if it’d been no more than an elaborate joke to scare the stupid human.



Then he’d been led out of the room and through a labyrinth of hallways that could only mean they were at the infamous Valhalla. A knowledge that had done nothing to soothe his raw nerves.



Neither had Fane’s gruff command to stay in the room and not touch anything before he’d left with Callie to speak with the elusive Mave.



“Walk here, O’Conner. Wait there, O’Conner,” Duncan mocked beneath his breath. “Lie down and play dead like a good doggie, O’Conner.”



“And you call us freaks?” a female voice drawled from behind him. “At least we don’t talk to ourselves.”



Pulling his gun, he whirled to watch a stranger stroll into the room from a hidden door, his fingers instinctively tightening on the trigger.



Not that she looked like someone who needed to be shot. Hell, she looked like she’d been created to fulfill a man’s deepest fantasy.



Statuesque, with lush curves that were shown to jaw-dropping perfection by a pair of black leather pants and red bustier, she had a long mane of raven hair that contrasted with her pale skin.



But there was a dangerous glint in the light green eyes that warned that this was no harmless sex kitten. This woman had claws she wouldn’t hesitate to use.



Especially on him, if her slow smile of anticipation was any indication.



“Who are you?” he demanded.



She halted in the center of the room, her legs spread wide and looking impossibly long in her knee-high boots with three-inch heels.



“Serra,” she offered, a hint of a Russian accent edging her voice.



He studied her. Not as a male interested in a woman. He’d already chosen his next lover, even if Callie hadn’t accepted the inevitable.



But as a cop assessing a loaded weapon.



“You’re not a necro.”



“No, my power isn’t necromancy. And no”—her lips curled in a taunting smile—“I’m not a witch.”



He hissed. That hadn’t been a lucky guess.



“A reader.”



“Ding, ding. Give the dog a Milk-Bone.”



He didn’t try to hide his unease. Why bother? A reader was capable of rummaging around in people’s minds. Or at least, that was the word on the streets.



But that didn’t mean he was going to roll over and let the bitch intimidate him.



“Let me go out on a limb and guess you don’t like me,” he said, his smile designed for maximum annoyance. “Is it because I’m not a—”



“Watch it,” she murmured, her eyes crystallizing with a dangerous power.



“High-blood?” he finished.



She sashayed forward, her every move a wicked invitation. “You upset my friend.”



He frowned. Okay. That wasn’t what he was expecting. “You mean Callie?”



“That would be the one.”



“Obviously you didn’t get the memo.” He shoved the gun back in his holster. No sense asking for trouble. He couldn’t shoot the female just because she pissed him off. Besides, it was more likely she would force him to put a bullet in his own head before he could squeeze off a round in her direction. “I wasn’t the one who upset her.”



“You aren’t the one who scared the hell out of her, but you upset her every time she’s forced to work with you.”



Upset her? How the hell could he ... ah. This time his smile was genuine.



So the lovely, frustratingly aloof diviner wasn’t completely indifferent to him.



Thank god.



“Because I remind her that she’s a woman?” He shrugged. “How can that be a bad thing?”