Born in Blood (The Sentinels #1)(102)

“A dead body has no aura. No ... spark of life,” he muttered, shuddering as he studied the men who moved with the same grace they must have possessed when they were alive. It was just wrong. On so many levels. “But these are surrounded by a darkness.”

Fane made a tortured sound deep in his throat. “He’s trapped their souls.”

Duncan shuddered again. Poor Frank. Was he aware that he was being abused by the necromancer? It had to be torture to be trapped in his own body while it was being controlled by a psychotic megalomaniac.

“The son of a bitch,” he rasped.

Wolfe gripped the top of the wall, the granite crumbling beneath his fingers. “A clever son of a bitch,” he snarled, studying the warriors with a bleak expression.

Duncan glanced toward the Tagos. “Why do you say that?”

“Bokors are empty shells; these”—Wolfe struggled for a suitable label—“creatures have their former powers.”

“Fuck,” Fane swore. “That’s why he chose guardian Sentinels.”

Duncan wasn’t as quick to follow. “Why?”

Wolfe grimaced. “They’re the only ones capable of destroying the layers of magic that protect Valhalla.”

Oh... shit.

There was a faint prickle of power before the tall, dark-haired Mave stepped onto the ledge, standing proud and strong as she met Wolfe’s fierce gaze.

A dangerous warrior in her own right, Duncan inanely realized.

“Tell me what you need,” she commanded, her pale face calm, although her dark hair was escaping from the once neat bun and there were shadows beneath her magnificent eyes.

In the moonlight her emerald birthmark seemed to shimmer even brighter than usual.

“I’ll need the witches,” he answered, his voice decisive. “If nothing else, they can slow down the warriors with new barriers.”

The Mave nodded. “What about the diviners?”

“Shit.” Wolfe scowled, clearly just realizing the potential disaster of the necromancer getting his hands on the diviners. They might not have the power of Callie, but they still had a connection to the dead. Who knew what he might be able to do with them. “Until we discover if they can be controlled by the necromancer we need to get them far away. Use the helicopters.”

“The psychics?”

Wolfe considered a minute before shaking his head. “They might as well leave through the tunnels along with any humans. The healers—”

“Won’t go,” the Mave interrupted, her gaze straying toward the dead Sentinels who had managed to break through yet another layer of magic. “Not if they think there will be injuries.”

Wolfe didn’t argue. Instead he unfastened the AK-47 he’d strapped to his back on his way through the tunnel.

“I’ll let you sort out the others,” he said, no doubt referring to the numerous high-bloods who didn’t fall into specific groups. Mutations didn’t always follow a pattern. “You need to evacuate as many as possible.”

There was a strange pause as the two powerful leaders exchanged a silent, emotion-charged glance that made Duncan glance away in embarrassment.

What the hell was going on between the two of them?

He heard the Mave speak softly to her Tagos. “Be careful.”

“You as well,” Wolfe answered, his voice thick.

Then, the tension snapped and with a brisk step the Mave was returning down the steep steps and Wolfe was barking into the com in his ear.

“Niko, take ten of your best trackers and start patrolling the perimeter. Send the rest to me.”

“Weapons?” Niko’s voice floated through the air.

Wolfe cast a grim glance toward the approaching Sentinels.

“Everything we have.”

Callie knelt on the hard ground, her head lowered.

It wasn’t a gesture of respect to the man who towered over her, his bronzed features set in an expression of icy anticipation.

Hell, no.

She’d swallow broken glass before she’d kneel before her psycho dad.

But after arriving at the entrance to the underground crypts, the necromancer hadn’t wasted any time in dragging her from the car and producing a dagger to slice long wounds the length of her inner forearms.

The cuts hadn’t been that deep, but they’d stung like a bitch. Then, before she could catch her breath, the bastard had called on some dark power that had slammed through Callie with the force of a freight train.

Black flecks had danced in front of her eyes as the frigid energy crashed through her, threatening to suck her down into some murky, endless hell. Desperately she’d fought against the relentless waves, knowing that one slip and she’d be consumed by the darkness.

She had no idea how long the battle lasted.

It could have been seconds or hours, but when her head cleared she’d found herself on her knees with the golden goblet perched against her thigh.

Even worse, she could feel a strange tug deep inside her. As if she were connected to something—or rather many things—just beyond her sight.

The sensations only intensified as a dozen warriors slowly stepped from the crypts, still wrapped in their funeral shrouds with their weapons in hand.

Callie cried out in horror, but her strength was being drained with every drip of blood that slid down her arms and vanished into the goblet. There was nothing she could do as they silently moved past her, the once proud warriors now under the compulsion of Lord Zakhar.