Born in Blood

She paled, her spine so stiff it was a wonder it didn’t snap beneath the strain. “It’s impossible to answer your question,” Victoria at last managed to respond, her teeth clenched. “Each Your Sung piece is individually designed. No two are alike.”

Without hesitation, he pulled up yet another image on his phone. If she wanted to play rough, he would play rough. “What about this one?” he demanded, showing her the picture of Leah lying on the bank of the Missouri River.

For the first time the woman’s icy composure cracked, her hand lifting to press against her lips.

“Oh my god. Is she—”

“Dead,” Duncan supplied.

“I need a . . .” She bit off her hasty words, looking with obvious longing toward the counter at the back of the store. No doubt she had a stash of prescription feel-good-pills hidden in her purse. “Water.”

“You can pop your Prozac after you’ve told me who bought this particular outfit, Victoria,” he informed her, his flat tone revealing he didn’t give a shit about her rattled nerves.

Her fingers fluttered to toy with the pearls hung around her neck. “I don’t know.”

That was it. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

“Lady, I’ve tried to be polite, but you’ve pissed on my last nerve,” he snarled. “Tell me what you know or I’ll haul you out of here in handcuffs.”

“Please.” She took a hasty step backward. “I truly can’t”

“Maybe you should just tell us what you know,” Callie suggested in soothing tones, sending him a chiding glare as she moved to stand at his side.

“I . . .” The woman licked her lips. “She started coming in six months ago. Maybe a little longer.”

She.

Duncan wasn’t entirely shocked. It would have been too much to hope that the mysterious necromancer had waltzed into the shop and used his credit card to buy clothing for his macabre marionette.

And Callie had mentioned that she’d discovered rumors of a witch who’d been his accomplice.

Ignoring Callie’s disapproval, he allowed her to take the role of the good cop. He always sucked at it anyway. Bad cop? That was easy.

“Her name?” he barked out.

“She never told me.”

“It had to be on her credit card.”

Victoria shook her head until the starched silver-hair threatened to move. “She always paid in cash.”

Cash? Who carried around the sort of cash necessary for designer clothes?

“You didn’t think that was strange?”

“It’s not unheard of.” The woman shrugged. “There are occasions when a woman needs to keep her liaison ... discreet.”

Ah.

Callie looked confused. Duncan, however, instantly understood.

Unfortunately, he had friends who enjoyed the benefits of marriage while pursuing other women. The first rule of cheating was never, ever to leave a paper trail.

“A mistress to a married man?” he asked.

Victoria continued to tug at her pearls, discomfort etched into every line of her thin body. “I don’t ask uncomfortable questions.”

Duncan believed her. A woman who peddled overpriced clothes to the lovers of the rich and powerful would learn to turn a blind eye to a lot of things.

“Did she come in alone?”

“Always.” The woman paused, and Duncan assumed she was frowning. Or would be if the Botox hadn’t frozen her brow. “Of course, she had a driver who waited for her outside.”

“Make and model of the car?” he pounced.

“It was silver, I think.” She shrugged. “I really didn’t pay attention.”

Duncan glanced toward the ceiling. “Surveillance tapes?”

“They aren’t saved unless there’s a reason to keep them.” She doused Duncan’s last hope. “As I said, this boutique promises discretion.”

He swallowed his opinion about people who needed to hide their dirty laundry. He had a few secrets of his own.

“What about the woman?” he instead demanded. “Can you describe her?”

Another wave of her hand, another blinding flash of diamonds. “She was average height, a size four, with an autumn skin tone.”

Duncan blinked. “Autumn?”

“Pale skin. Green eyes.”

Duncan made the notes on his phone. “Her hair?”

“She always wore it hidden beneath a hat.”

“Of course she did.” He grimaced. “Not that it matters. Women change hair color more often than most men change their underwear.” The older woman looked shocked while Callie rolled her eyes.

“Anything else?” he continued.

“No ...” Victoria appeared to be struck by a sudden thought. “Wait.”

“What?”

“She wore a strange bracelet.”

“Describe it.”

“It had a collection of small metal disks with strange symbols scratched on them.” Victoria gave a curl of her lip. “Not at all the sort of thing a true lady would wear.”

Duncan turned his head to meet Callie’s wide gaze. “Witch,” he mouthed.

“Anya,” she breathed.

He squashed the urge to jump to conclusions. It, along with day old calamari, was dangerous.

“Perhaps.” He reached into his back pocket to pull out a small business card. “This has the numbers of the station as well as my cell phone. Call me if she returns.”

From a distance the ziggurat was nothing more than a crumbling ruin that had been left to the ravages of the desert. Constructed of sunbaked bricks, it had once been a part of a temple complex for the Sumerians. Now, there was nothing left but a brittle shell of four receding tiers with two sharply angled stone staircases. Even the shrine that had once been a magnificent crown on top of the temple had been swept away by the relentless blast of sand.

It was a place of shattered dreams.

Not even a ghost remained to speak for those long departed.

Standing in the shifting landscape less than a mile from the temple, Zak sought to regain his balance. The witch’s trip to the Middle East hadn’t been nearly as pleasant as traveling with a Sentinel.

In truth, it had been more like being jerked inside out by a raging vortex than a smooth transition from one place to another.

Which was why he so rarely consented to enter a witch’s spell. It was almost always more trouble than it was worth.

At last confident that he’d regained his equilibrium, Zak smoothed his hands down his robe, covertly ensuring the coin, along with a small pistol, was still in his pocket.

In the other pocket was a tiny amulet that held a lethal spell.

If this was a trap, he wouldn’t go down easily.

Glancing toward the witch at his side, he waved a hand toward the ruin. “Get rid of the illusion, Anya.”

Anya was on her knees, her pale face tight with exhaustion in the pool of moonlight. Unlike the Sentinels who used the established pathways that were held open by the monks, Anya was forced to use her own magic to travel. It left her on the brink of collapse.

“I have to be closer,” she panted.

Zak made a sound of impatience. He had no sympathy for his companion. Not when a thick layer of magic concealed the true temple, and anyone who might be hiding inside.

“I’m not taking a step closer until the illusion is gone,” he warned, the chilled breeze tugging at his silver hair and stirring the sand beneath his feet.

Anya cursed, but lifting an unsteady hand, she spoke the words that would temporarily lower the illusion.

“There,” she croaked.

There was a rippling shimmer, like a passing mirage, then the full splendor of the temple was revealed.

The tiers were no longer crumbling shells, but complete walls made of blue glazed bricks that once had been the pride of the surrounding city. The windows were covered with delicate bronze lattices and at the top was an oval shrine that had been reserved for the priests who’d offered sacrifices to the gods.

“Remain here,” he commanded, his eyes searching the shadows as he began walking toward the nearest staircase.

“You’re just going to leave me?” Anya protested.

“So it would seem.”

Ignoring her demand for him to wait, Zak continued forward, the darkness that lived inside him pulsing with an intoxicating recognition.

He’d been here once before. It had been shortly after Anya had appeared in Saint Petersburg and she’d convinced him that she’d seen his future etched on a wall in the middle of a desert.

Naturally he’d demanded to see for himself.

A grim smile touched his lips as he climbed the stairs and entered the narrow door that led into the first chamber of the temple. He crossed directly to the wall bathed in moonlight, his fingers reaching to trace the hieroglyphs that spoke of a man with eyes of diamonds who whispered to the dead. There was even a carved figurine on a nearby pedestal that possessed an eerie resemblance to him.

He moved to the next wall, once again stroking his fingers over the hieroglyphics. These were centered on the same diamond-eyed man; this time he held a coin in his hand. The same coin that was now tucked in his pocket.

The odd symbols continued over the smooth stone, displaying the man placing the coin in a shallow notch that had been carved at the base of the wall. From there the meaning became less clear.

From his hours of studying the glyphs he’d concluded that the coin opened a doorway. Maybe a physical doorway, maybe a metaphysical doorway. It didn’t matter. What was important was the next image revealed the man holding a chalice over his head with an army of the dead walking behind him.

His army.

To rule the world.

His gaze briefly rested on the marks that were etched onto the arms of the man. Long gouges with what appeared to be blood dripping from his elbows to pool at his feet.

He understood that blood would be demanded.

Power was never without cost.

But, that didn’t mean he intended to die for a few brief moments of glory. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">