Some Like It Sinful by Alexandra Ivy (22)

Valhalla had always been shrouded in mystery.

The leaders of the sprawling compound, named for the home of the Norse gods, claimed that it was a safe house for those people too unique to live among normal society.

Of course, everyone knew that was just a polite way of saying that it was a home for freaks.

Witches, psychics, necromancers, Sentinels, and god only knew what else roamed the grounds protected by a layer of powerful spells.

For the past century, Valhalla had been a source of fear and fascination throughout the entire world, but most especially for the citizens of the small Midwest town who could see the shimmer of blue reflecting off the protective dome that hid the buildings from view.

Not surprisingly, there were citizens who called for the entire place to be nuked. The freaks were dangerous, they insisted, with powers that none of them truly understood. Who knew what the monsters would do if someone pissed them off?

Then there were others who said they should be locked away and studied like lab rats. Perhaps their mutations could be used to help normal people.

Most, however, preferred to ignore Valhalla and the high-bloods . . . as they preferred to be called . . . living behind the dome.

Until, of course, they needed them.

 

Sergeant Duncan O’Conner was late to the party.

Nursing a hangover from hell, he took two painkillers with a gallon of hot coffee and steered his POS cop car through the light Sunday traffic and entered the gated community in the South-west suburbs.

The call had hit his cell phone at three in the afternoon. An hour before, he’d hauled his sorry ass out of bed. It’d taken another half hour under the shower to peel his throbbing eyes open and get rid of the stench of cheap whiskey and even cheaper cigars.

His first thought had been to call in and tell them to find someone else. Wasn’t it supposed to be his damned weekend off rotation? Let Caleb deal with the latest stiff.

Then the thought that the entire station would suspect he’d spent the night of his ex-wife’s latest wedding getting shit-faced drunk sent him stumbling to his car. Yeah, like his bloodshot eyes and old man shuffle weren’t going to give the game away, he acknowledged wryly. But while he could take the razzing, he couldn’t take the thought of them feeling sorry for him.

Never that.

He might be a pathetic loser, but he was a pathetic loser who was damned good at his job.

Entering the cul-de-sac, Duncan parked his car and headed into the brick house. He ignored the speculative glances from the neighbors who had gathered in a little clutch across the street. He was accustomed to females checking out his spare, well-honed body shown to advantage in a pair of faded jeans and black tee. Even with his short, pale blond hair damp from the shower and his stubborn jaw shadowed with a golden stubble, he had the look of a man who knew what to do with a woman. Match that with a pair of hazel eyes that sparkled with wicked charm and they were like putty in his hands.

The men tended to be more interested in the gun holstered at his side and the hard expression on his lean face that warned he only needed an excuse to kick someone’s ass.

His own attention was focused on the house as he stepped into the small but elegant foyer. Not the sort of house a young woman could afford without some help. From daddy. Or more likely, from sugar daddy.

Not that he was being sexist. He couldn’t afford a damned toolshed in this frou-frou neighborhood. Even if his old da chipped in every penny he made driving a cab.

He continued to size up the bold black and white furnishings as a uniformed officer handed him a file with the pertinent details of the case. A beat later another officer arrived to lead him to the back of the house and a sunny kitchen with a perfect view of the pool.

He grimaced as the late spring sunlight sent a stab of agony through his throbbing brain, then lowered his gaze to the female who was lying naked in the middle of the tiled floor.

He wasn’t surprised that she was beautiful. Stunningly beautiful with long hair that glistened with chestnut highlights, pretty features, and a slender body that was tight with the muscles of an athlete.

What did surprise him was the lack of any sort of violence. She looked like she’d simply lain down in the middle of the floor and quietly passed away.

In his experience, lovely young women who were killed on Sunday morning were beaten to death by a jealous boyfriend or raped and killed by a passing psycho.

Not . . . what?

His brows jerked together as he took a swift inventory of the kitchen, noting everything was in pristine place, not so much as a coffee mug left in the sink. It could be the female never used the kitchen, preferring to eat out, or at her lover’s place. It could be she was OCD and her kitchen was always spotless.

But his gut was telling him that she hadn’t lived here long enough to stop caring if the place was a mess.

“Hola, O’Conner. Looking a little rough around the edges,” the silver-haired coroner drawled, unfolding a white sheet to drape it over the body. “Heard that Susan found herself a decent man to make an honest woman of her.”

Yeah, so decent he was banging her in Duncan’s own bed.

Flipping off his companion, Duncan opened the file and glanced through the meager info that had been gathered on the female.

“Who found the body?”

“A silent alarm was tripped.”

“Cause of death?”

“She’s missing her heart.”

Duncan froze, his gaze searching the victim’s unmarred skin and the obvious lack of blood.

“How the hell could she be missing her heart?”

“I don’t know,” Frank Sanchez admitted, the bite in his raspy voice expressing his opinion of “I don’t know.” “But I ran the portable MRI over her three times to be sure.”

The older man could be a pain in the ass to work with, but he knew his shit. Nothing got past his eagle gaze. If he said the female was missing her heart, then she was missing her heart.

Crap. Duncan hated mysteries.

“No DNA?”

“It’s clean.” Another growl as Frank gathered the tools of his trade to pack them in a black leather bag. “Too clean.”

“So a freak?”

“That would be my guess.”

Confused, Duncan read through the file.

Leah Meadows.

Twenty-six.

Single, originally from Little Rock.

Current occupation, dancer at the Rabbit Hutch.

That would explain her location, he cynically concluded. Her salary as a dancer wouldn’t cover the rent, but the clients who frequented the high-end strip club would easily be able to afford this place to keep a current mistress.

It didn’t, however, explain why she was lying naked in her kitchen without her heart.

Lifting his head, he met Frank’s troubled gaze. “You made the call?”

The older man grimaced, not needing any further explanation.

When there was a murder that didn’t have an eyewitness or a legitimate suspect, it was protocol to call in one of the mutants. And when it might involve another mutant, they were called ASAP.

“Yep. She should be—”

On cue one of the uniforms stepped into the kitchen. “The necro is here.”

“Perfect timing,” Duncan muttered. “Show her in.” For whatever reason, necros were almost always females.

The young man nodded, disappearing back down the hallway while Frank snapped shut his black bag.

“That’s my cue for a quick exit.”

Duncan grinned. “Scared?”

“Damned straight,” the older man said without apology. “Freaks give me the heebie-jeebies. I don’t know how you can be in the same room with one.”

A bitter smile touched Duncan’s lips. Like draws to like . . .

No. He grimly crushed the mocking words in the back of his aching head. He wasn’t like those mutants from Valhalla.

He swallowed his grim urge to laugh, tilting his head toward the sheet on the floor. “You can be in the same room with a corpse, but not a necro?”

Frank shrugged. “I respect the dead. No one should be screwing around with their heads.”

“Even if it takes a murderer off the streets?”

“I like getting my criminals the old-fashioned way. Necros should be abolished along with the rest of the—”

“I prefer the term ‘diviner’ if you don’t mind,” a soft, compelling voice whispered through the room, turning both men toward the door like a magnet.

Even prepared, Duncan felt the air being jerked from his lungs at the sight of Callie Brown.

It wasn’t just that she was a stunning beauty with her short, spiky hair that was so dark red it shimmered like fire in the sunlight. Her pale features were perfectly carved with a sensual invitation for a mouth and a proud nose.

And her body . . . hell, it was slender with just enough curves to make a man think of black silk sheets and long weekends. Today it was displayed to perfection in a pair of black spandex pants and a white stretchy top.

But for Duncan it was the white aura that flickered around her diminutive body that made his blood burn.

So pure. So completely and utterly innocent.

And like any bastard, he ached to be the one who debauched that wholesomeness even as he savored the rare beauty of her soul.

“Shit,” Frank muttered, heading for the door leading to the back patio. “Adios, amigo.”

His entire body vibrating with an awareness that went way beyond sexual attraction, Duncan barely noticed the hasty departure of the coroner. Not that he wouldn’t have Callie flat on her back and her legs wrapped around his waist with the least hint of encouragement.

It was a sensation that should have scared the hell out of him. Instead a wicked smile curved his lips.

“Hello, Callie.”

She turned her head, regarding him through the reflective sunglasses that hid her eyes, her expression unreadable.

On the half dozen occasions Duncan had worked with Callie, he’d never seen her be anything but serene. Which, of course, only encouraged him to try and provoke a response from her. Anything to know there was a flesh and blood woman beneath that image of calm.

Why it was so important to find that woman was another one of those things he put on the list of “don’t fucking care.”

“Sergeant O’Conner,” she said, moving with an unearthly grace to stand beside the sheet.

“Duncan,” he insisted, shifting to stand across the body, his gaze never leaving Callie’s pale face.

“Has the body been processed?”

“As much as can be done in the field. You’re free to do your thing.”

“Time of death?”

“At least an hour ago.”

“Then I should have time.” She knelt down, reaching for the edge of the sheet. “The spark—”

“Yeah, no need explain.” He held up a restraining hand. He might not share the prejudices of most of society against the freaks, but that didn’t mean he wanted an insider’s guide to necromancy. Christ. The mere thought made his stomach clench. “Just see what you can do.”

“Fine.” Cool, indifferent. Then her body tensed. “So young,” she murmured softly.

“Twenty-six.” He crouched down, studying her silken skin unmarred by wrinkles. “Older than you?”

“A woman never shares that information.”

“You share nothing.”

“Do you blame me?”

His lips twisted at the smooth thrust. Most people went out of their way to avoid freaks, but there were others who thought the only good freak was a dead freak. There were even a handful of cults where people trained to kill them. Mostly simpleminded idiots who needed someone to tell them what to think and angry outcasts who had nowhere else to go, but that didn’t make them any less dangerous.

“No, not really.”

“What was her name?”

His jaw tightened. Okay, he was vain. He’d spent most of his life knowing women found him irresistible. The fact he wasn’t certain if Callie had even noticed he was a male annoyed the hell out of him.

Then with a silent curse he shoved aside his ego and concentrated on the only thing important at the moment. Finding the son of a bitch who’d killed this woman.

“Leah Meadows.”

“Is that her real name?”

He shrugged. “That’s all I got for now.”

She paused before giving a slow nod. “It should do.”

“Why do you need her name?” He asked the question that he’d wondered about more than once.

By law they couldn’t give details of the death in the fear that the necro might be swayed into naming a murderer even if the victim couldn’t reveal the truth.

But a necro always asked for a name.

“It helps me to connect with her mind.”

He shuddered. “Christ.”

“You asked,” she reminded him in a low voice.

“Do you need any other details?”

“I need to touch her.”

“There.” He pointed toward the forearm where Frank would have prepped the victim. “It’s been sanitized.”

She at last lifted her head. “Would you make sure—”

“That no one enters?” he finished for her.

“Yes.”

He abruptly frowned. “Where’s your Sentinel?”

A necro never left the compound without a guardian Sentinel. Not only were they capable of opening portals to travel from place to place (a mysterious talent that was never discussed among the mundane mortals), but they were also trained warriors who were covered in intricate tattoos. From what little Duncan had been able to learn, the ceremonial markings protected the warriors from magic as well as any attempt at mind control.

And, oh yeah, they were capable of killing with their bare hands.

There were also rumors that there were other Sentinels—hunters who weren’t marked and could travel among the humans unnoticed. But info on them was kept top secret.

“I asked him to wait outside.”

He lifted a brow. “Why?”

“Because you take such pleasure in tormenting him and he’s too well trained to fight back.”

“Are you saying I’m not well trained?”

She ignored the open invitation to point out that he was barely civilized and instead returned her attention to the victim.

“The door, please.”

He slowly straightened, swallowing his groan as his head gave another protesting throb. Whiskey was the devil’s brew, just as his ma had always claimed.

“No one’s coming in,” he muttered, “but I’ll keep guard at the door if it makes you feel better.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.”

“Duncan.” His headache forgotten, he flashed a smile of pure challenge. “One day you’ll say it. Hell, one day you might even scream it.”

No response. With a low growl, Duncan made his way to the door, leaning on the doorjamb to make sure no one could enter, while keeping his attention on the woman kneeling beside the corpse.

She ignored his unwavering attention, lifting a hand to remove her sunglasses and setting them aside. At the same time the slanting sunlight spilled over her, catching in the sapphire blue of her eyes.

Duncan’s heart forgot how to beat.

He’d seen them before. At a distance. At the time he’d thought they looked like expensive gems, perfectly faceted and shimmering with an inner light. Up close they were even more magnificent.

Christ.

The beauty of those eyes was hypnotizing.

Priceless jewels that revealed this was no ordinary woman.

 

 

Duncan would be pleased to know that it was only her years of training that allowed Callie to ignore his raw sexual magnetism.

He was the sort of primitive male that should have infuriated her, not tantalized her deepest fantasies.

Of course, the Mave would tell her that fantasies were meant to be filled with unsuitable desires. Why not lust after a bad boy cop? It wasn’t as if she was going to do anything about it. She didn’t know if his flirtations were a way to taunt her or if he was one of those groupies who got off on sleeping with “freaks,” but either way, it had nothing to do with her as a person.

Still, it was only with an effort that she managed to crush the tiny tingles of excitement fluttering in the pit of her stomach and the dampness of her palms.

Now wasn’t the time or place.

Tonight in her dreams . . . well, that was a different story.

Clearing her thoughts, she laid her hands on the victim’s arm and closed her eyes.

It took a second to slip from her own mind and into the female stretched on the floor. There was always a strange sense of . . . floating. As if her consciousness was hovering between one body and the next. Then, focusing on the feel of the female’s arm beneath her fingers, she murmured her name.

“Leah.”

The soft word was enough.

With a hair-raising jolt, she was sucked from her body and into Leah’s mind.

She could easily sense the female soul, just as she could sense she was fading.

Fast.

Despite the ridiculous myths, a necromancer couldn’t control or raise the dead. Her only ability was to tap into the mind of the murdered victim to see the last few minutes of their life.

And only within a very short time frame.

Once the . . . spark, for lack of a better word . . . was extinguished and the soul moved on, the memories were lost.

A meaningless talent for the most part. But on rare occasion it could mean the opportunity for justice.

With a well-honed skill, Callie touched on the female’s memory center. Just being born a diviner didn’t automatically mean that a person would be capable of reading memories. There were many necromancers who were never able to do more than enter the body and hopefully catch a stray thought.

Callie, however, was one of the most talented.

Which was why she was always sent when there was a suspicion the death might have been caused by a high-blood, as the freaks preferred to call themselves.

Finding the spot she was searching for, she delicately slipped into the fading memories and allowed them to flow through her.

Suddenly she was no longer kneeling on the hard floor. Instead she was in the attached garage, stepping out of her sleek black Jag. She sensed a pleasant weariness in her limbs, as if she’d just finished a vigorous workout at the gym, a suspicion confirmed when she glanced down to see she was wearing a pair of stretchy pants and a matching sports bra.

Rounding the car, she moved to unlock the door that led to the house. She stepped into the small laundry room and stripped off her sweaty clothes to toss them in the washing machine. Now naked, she moved into the sun-drenched kitchen.

As she headed for the stainless steel refrigerator to pull out a bottle of water there was an ease in her steps that hinted this was a routine morning for her, and a comfort with her surroundings that said she had lived in the house for at least a few weeks.

Callie, however, could sense a faint surge of pride as she turned to study the large kitchen that looked like a picture out of a fancy magazine.

Leah had recently moved up in the world.

And she was fully enjoying her elevation.

Callie had barely managed to grasp the knowledge when Leah was stiffening, her head turning toward the French doors.

Was there a shadow lurking by the trimmed hedges that lined the patio?

She gave a strained laugh, lifting the bottle to drink the last of the water before tossing it into the recycle bin next to the fridge.

The neighborhood was the safest in the city. Besides, the house was guarded by a security system.

If there was a creep out there trying to sneak a peek through the windows, then he’d set off a hundred bells and whistles the minute he stepped on the patio.

Brave thoughts, but a tiny shiver inched down the female’s spine as the shadow moved, stepping away from the hedges to reveal—

Without warning the image was snatched away.

Just like that.

Callie blinked, expecting to have been returned to her body. When the spark left, it destroyed any connection that Callie had to the dead.

But instead she found she remained in Leah’s body, standing in the center of the kitchen as if she were still in the memory . . . without Leah.

What the hell?

“I’m afraid I can’t allow you to see any more,” an unexpected male voice drawled.

Callie turned in shock to watch the tall man with silver hair pulled from his lean, darkly bronzed face stroll through the door leading into the dining room.

She pressed a hand to her racing heart.

No one should be here.

No one but her and the soul she’d connected to in the physical world.

Unfortunately, no one had given the stranger the handbook on necromancy. Instead of disappearing, he continued forward, the muted light revealing his painfully beautiful features. His brow was high and intelligent, his nose a thin blade, and his lips carved along full lines. And his eyes . . .

They were gemstone like hers, only instead of blue they were perfectly clear, like diamonds glittering with a cold light.

A male necromancer? Of the few she’d met, none had those color eyes. And certainly they didn’t have the sort of bone-chilling strength she could feel swirling through the air around him.

His muscular body was covered by a thick gray robe that covered him from neck to feet, although she caught a glimpse of slender fingers the same bronze shade as his face.

More terrified than she’d ever been in her life, Callie struggled to speak. “Are you the one who killed Leah?”

He halted a mere foot from her, studying her as if she were a rare bug beneath a microscope.

“A diviner,” he at last said, his words edged with a faint accent. “And one of astonishing power.”

“How is this possible? Are you in Leah’s mind?”

He seemed to pause, his eyes widening before he suddenly tilted back his head to laugh with a cold amusement.

“Callie Brown. How very ironic.” The diamond eyes glittered with a blinding light. “It must be fate that brought us here together.”

He knew who she was? The thought disturbed her on a cellular level.

“Who are you?” she rasped.

A slow, mysterious smile curved his sensuous lips. “That’s not the right question.”

Did he think this was a game?

“Okay.” She forced herself to hold the diamond gaze. “What are you?”

“That’s not right, either,” he warned, lifting a hand toward her face.

Callie leaped backward, her heart slamming against her ribs with the force of a steam hammer.

“Don’t touch me.”

His low chuckle seemed to wrap around her like sinful magic. “The question, my beautiful Callie, is”—he deliberately paused—“who are you?”

Her pulsing fear was disturbed by the unexpected sensation of Fane tugging her back to reality.

“No.” She tried to fight against her Sentinel’s ruthless pull, knowing that there was more at risk than the death of one young female. “Wait. Damn you.”

Her last sight was of the stranger blowing her a taunting kiss.