Born in Blood (The Sentinels #1)(54)

It wasn’t bad enough that there was a necromancer out there who could raise the dead? Now they had to worry about a psycho witch who was willing to sacrifice children?

Callie shuddered in horror.

Fane glanced back at the scribe. “Was Lord Zakhar condemned along with her?”

“Yes, but they managed to escape from Saint Petersburg.” Myst turned the page of the book, skimming her finger down to the bottom of the text. “Eventually they were tracked to his family estate. The records become fuzzy but it seems that Lord Zakhar was handed over to the villagers who were eager to burn their lord and master at the stake.”

“The woman?” Callie pressed. If the witch was still alive they had to stop her.

“There’s no mention of her except in a footnote that claims she disappeared along with Lord Zakhar’s charred body.”

Fane abruptly moved forward, halting at the edge of the table as if sensing Myst wasn’t entirely comfortable having him so close.

Of course, Fane tended to make a lot of people uncomfortable.

“Was there any mention of a coin?” he demanded.

“Coin?” Myst frowned at the unexpected question. “What kind of coin?”

Fane pulled out his phone, turning the screen to show the image of the coin that had been taken from Calso’s security tape.

The IT wizards hadn’t had time to clean up the grainy image, but astonishingly Myst widened her eyes in surprise.

“Come with me.” She was darting to the back of the room, pulling open a door that led to another vault. This one was lined with wide wooden drawers from floor to ceiling.

Callie and Fane stood near the door watching the scribe scanning the small plaques on the front of the drawers, her lips moving as she muttered beneath her breath.

“Etruscan . . . no.” She moved to another drawer. “Minoan. Byzantine. Oh.” She pulled open a drawer and removed a small stone tablet that was etched with faded hieroglyphs. “This is it.”

She moved back to Callie and Fane, her finger brushing over the strange symbol of a bird that matched the one on the coin.

Callie lifted her brows, impressed by the young woman’s ability to recall the symbol among all the endless information stored in the vaults.

Did she have an eidetic memory?

Or was it a high-blood power?

Fane leaned to study the tablet, his finger lightly tracing the bird that was carved in the upper left corner. “What is it?” he muttered.

“It comes from a secret sect of ancient Sumerians,” Myst answered, her expression troubled.

Callie felt a chill inch down her spine. “What was it intended to do?”

Myst lifted her head, genuine fear shimmering in her eyes. “It opens a doorway to forbidden knowledge.”

Fane frowned. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know.”

Chapter Sixteen

While Duncan was growing up his da had a no-frills routine. During the week he worked his ass off driving a taxi to support his family. The weekends were spent mowing their small patch of grass or working in the attached garage on the latest POS car they were driving that month.

Duncan occasionally hung out in the garage. It was the one certain place to avoid the constant squabbling of his sisters. And while he’d never developed his da’s talent for tinkering with engines, he did learn that the best way to get a job done was by using the proper tool.

You want to catch a drug dealer? Hang out in a crack house.

You want to find a car thief? Set up a bait car in a high theft neighborhood.

You want to find a dealer in black-market art, you go to a pawnshop.

A very exclusive one.

Stepping out of his car, he studied the building, made entirely of glass and steel.

It didn’t look like a pawnshop.

In fact, the main building was used as a perfectly legit art gallery that provided a much needed connection between local artists and the public.

The basement, however, was notorious for hosting “private” auctions to move artwork and antiques that didn’t always have the paperwork necessary for a legal sale.

Duncan didn’t bother trying to shut down the auctions. What was the point? They would pack up and move to a new location before he could get a warrant.

Besides, having an inside informant who understood that Duncan could disrupt his very profitable business meant that he could get the facts he needed with the minimum of fuss.

Entering the building, he ignored the beautiful brunette who sashayed toward him in a silver dress that cost more than his car. Instead he weaved his way past the artwork hung from the open girders that passed as a ceiling, not bothering to glance at the bold spatters of paint on the canvases.

Unlike many, he appreciated modern art, but today he was focused on getting in and out.

The quicker the better.

Shoving open the small door at the back of the main showroom, Duncan stepped into the office and shut it behind him.

At his entrance Jacques Girard rose to his feet. A small, slender man, he was wearing a black designer suit and red silk tie, his black hair peppered with silver brushed away from his severely handsome face.

He flashed a smooth smile to reveal his perfectly capped teeth. “Sergeant O’Conner, what a delightful surprise.” The accent was French, but Duncan would bet his right nut the man had never stepped foot outside Kansas City. “Have a seat, s’il vous plaît.”