Born in Blood (The Sentinels #1)(53)

Not nearly as cautious as her guardian, Callie turned back toward the scribe. “Were there any paintings or photos of him?”

Myst shook her head. “Not that I could find.”

Callie sighed. Of course not.

Before revealing themselves to the norms the high-bloods had learned to avoid having their images captured.

“What happened to him?”

“He gained power over the years.”

“How?”

Myst ran her fingers lightly over the gold-edged page of the book in front of her, seeming to take comfort in the feel of the aged paper.

It had to be a scribe thing.

“It’s not clear,” she admitted. “But I would guess that he gathered information for the czar.”

“A spy?” Callie asked.

“Yes.” Myst nodded. “He knew things that made people believe he could read their minds.”

Callie blinked in confusion. “A psychic?”

Myst glanced down, suddenly looking uncomfortable. “Actually—”

“What is it?” Callie prodded.

“One powerful aristocrat swore that his valet had helped him dress for dinner only to learn when he arrived downstairs that the man had been found dead in the stables with a knife in his heart that afternoon”

Fane gave a grunt of disgust. “He was using the dead to uncover secrets.”

“Oh.” Callie grimaced. The scribe’s discomfort was a sharp warning of what would happen if it became common knowledge there was a necromancer who could raise the dead. Diviners were already feared. Even by other high-bloods. Dealing with the dead, no matter how respectfully done, tended to creep people out. If they thought that diviners were secretly abusing the corpses of their loved ones . . . it truly was going to be a nightmare. “Did they realize that Lord Zakhar was responsible?”

“There were rumors, but it wasn’t until he formed an alliance with the czarina’s mystic that the whispers became open accusations of sorcery,” Myst said.

He had an accomplice?

Callie was somehow surprised.

Surely a crazy necromancer should work alone?

“What do you know about the mystic?”

“Very little.” The scribe reached to flip open one of the leather-bound diaries. On one page was a charcoal etching of a narrow female face. It was too faded to make out more than a slender nose and high cheekbones with sensually lush lips, but Callie detected an arrogance in her faintly slanted eyes and tilted chin. “There’s no record of her until she arrives in Saint Petersburg to act as an advisor.”

“A high-blood?” Fane asked.

Myst nodded. “Yes.”

So it was possible she was still alive.

Callie shifted her gaze back to the scribe. “Can you tell what her talent was?”

“There’s no proof—”

“Your best guess,” Callie urged. Myst hesitated. No doubt she was trained to offer facts, not theories. Callie, however, trusted the young woman’s instincts. “Please.”

“A witch,” the young woman at last muttered.

Callie nodded. That would be her guess as well.

“Do you say that because she claimed to be a mystic?”

“That and the fact that there are mentions of the strange jewelry she wore on a bracelet.”

“Amulets,” Fane said.

Witches used amulets to hold spells, curses, and charms. Unlike Sentinels, who occasionally used crystals to focus their magic.

“There were also rumors that she had the ability to heal,” Myst added.

Callie frowned. Healers had abilities that had nothing to do with magic.

“Really?”

“She would foresee outbreaks of illness.”

Fane again made a sound of disgust. “Illness that she no doubt caused.”

“Yes, and then she would cure the sick.” Myst snapped the diary shut, something in her eyes speaking of wounds that hadn’t yet healed. “Or at least those who could afford her exorbitant prices.”

“A clever racket,” Fane muttered.

Callie studied her companion’s pale face. She wondered what pain was keeping the young woman hidden down in these vaults, but it wasn’t the time or place to pry.

Once she was back at Valhalla she would mention Myst to the Mave. The powerful witch had the ability to get answers far more discreetly than Callie could.

“So what happened to the mystic?” she asked instead.

As if sensing she’d revealed more than she intended, Myst lowered her head and carefully opened yet another book. This one had neat columns of handwritten script, as if it were an official record book.

“She, along with Lord Zakhar, was discovered in her private rooms with the missing child of a servant. His throat was slit and he was lying on a wooden altar.”

“Human sacrifice?” Fane’s voice was edged with shock.

Murder of innocents was as rare among high-bloods as among norms.

Myst nodded. “So it would seem.”

“Why?” Callie gave a puzzled shake of her head. “Witches have no need for blood.”

“There are forbidden spells that demand the blood of innocents,” Myst revealed with a grimace.

There was a short silence as Callie and Fane shared a startled glance.