Born in Blood (The Sentinels #1)(5)

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.

Chapter Two

Callie opened her eyes, puzzled to discover she was sprawled on the hard floor, her head cradled in Fane’s lap.

As always the Sentinel looked like he’d been carved from granite. At six-foot-three he had the chiseled muscles of a warrior and the strength of an ox. Not surprising considering he’d been honed from the cradle to become a weapon.

He was also covered from the top of his shaved head to the tips of his toes in intricate tattoos that protected him from all magic.

There were two sects of Sentinels.

The first sect contained warriors who were born with superior senses and reflexes as well as innate strength but no magic. They were made into hunters since they were easily able to “pass” as human and were often used by the Mave to track down renegade high-bloods who had committed a crime or were a danger to themselves or others.

Those few born with superior physical abilities as well as a claim to magic were taken by the monks and trained to become guardian Sentinels. They were Sentinels that guarded high-bloods who were incapable of protecting themselves.

The monks did everything in their power to make them the most proficient, most feared killers ever to walk the earth.

And they surpassed all expectations with Fane.

He was death walking to his enemies.

And his enemies included anyone who threatened Callie.

She frowned, focusing on the bleak face of her guardian. The dark eyes were harder than usual and the stark features that were savagely beautiful beneath the swirls of black tattoos were set in a fierce expression.

“Fane, what are you doing?” she demanded, startled when her voice came out as a croak.

“The cop came for me,” the Sentinel said, his voice a low rumble. “He said you were in trouble.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Duncan’s lean, annoyingly handsome face swam into focus as he moved to stand over her, the hazel eyes snapping with a combination of combustible emotions. “Are you f**king kidding me? You fell backward and started flopping like a damned fish out of water. I thought you were having a seizure.”

Abruptly she recalled what had happened during her last seconds inside Leah’s mind. “Oh,” she breathed.

The hazel eyes narrowed. “You can say thank you now.”

“Thank you,” she forced herself to mutter as she sat upright.

A part of her was furious at having been pulled away from the stranger before she could determine what the hell he was. But a larger part realized that she’d been in grave danger. Perhaps more danger than she wanted to imagine, if her throbbing head was anything to go by.

Duncan snorted. “Your gratitude overwhelms me.”

She reached to slide her glasses on. Usually, they were her personal armor against a world that considered her a freak.

Now, she used them to conceal the raw fear pulsing through her.

“I need to speak to Fane.”

Duncan’s features sharpened to his cop face. Hard. Unyielding. Pain-in-the-ass. “No one’s stopping you.”

“In private.”

“No.”

She met his glare with a lift of her brow, allowing Fane to help her to her feet. Her knees briefly protested, threatening to crumble, but with a ruthless resolve she willed them to hold steady. She’d survived being tossed in a Dumpster when she was less than a week old. She’d survived thirty years of being hated, feared, and even hunted by crazy-ass norms.