Born in Blood (The Sentinels #1)(61)

“Fine.” With a swirl of satin robes, the witch was heading out the door. “Follow me.”

In silence they made their way to Anya’s private rooms on the upper floor. The stench of blood became almost overwhelming as she pushed open the door to reveal her sitting room, which had been converted into a basic chapel.

With a grimace, Zak glanced over the scrolled chairs with pretty pastel cushions that were arranged in a semicircle around the rough wooden altar. The expensive artwork that had once hung on the ivory walls had been piled in one corner and replaced with shelves of murky bottles that held an assortment of nasty ingredients used by Anya when she was cooking up her potions or casting her spells.

The curtains had been pulled across the window, shrouding the room in shadows. The only light was a lone candle that sat on the altar next to the wooden bowl filled with blood.

The blood of an innocent.

Moving forward, Anya waved a hand toward the altar. “Stand beside me,” she commanded.

Zak joined her, reaching to grasp her wrist in a grip tight enough to hurt.

“Anya,” he murmured in silken tones, “make very certain there are no mistakes.”

Duncan was damned proud of himself.

He hadn’t pulled his gun when Fane had stood protectively close to Callie, his expression hard as he clearly tried to convince the young diviner to return to Valhalla with him.

Or when Callie had lifted her hand to touch the Sentinel with an intimacy that made him growl like a f**king dog.

Or even when Fane had sent Duncan a glare that warned all sorts of bad, bad repercussions if Callie was hurt on his watch.

Yeah, so kudos to him.

Still, he couldn’t resist wrapping a possessive arm around her shoulders when she at last returned to his side and the hulking guardian jogged up the steep path, pausing at the top to send Duncan one last glare.

And if that made him a caveman ... then so be it.

“He doesn’t look happy,” he muttered, tugging her even closer to his side.

At least he hadn’t pounded his chest, right?

“He’s not.” She heaved a faint sigh before turning to study him with a determined expression. “Where do we go first?”

His gaze slid over her pale, perfect features, barely resisting the urge to pluck off her reflective glasses so he could drown in the sapphire beauty of her eyes.

“I know where I’d like to go,” he murmured softly.

She lifted a brow. “Should I ask?”

His hands lightly skimmed up and down the back of her arms. “My apartment is only a few miles away.”

He felt her revealing shiver of pleasure, but she shook her head in warning.

“I thought you genuinely wanted me to help in your investigation.”

He grinned. “I do, but I’m a man.”

“And?”

With a chuckle he stepped back, reaching in his front pocket to remove his cell phone.

As much as he preferred the idea of luring her to his apartment, he understood that their relationship had become physical at supersonic speed. Not that he was complaining. Hell, no. But the lack of traditional wooing meant Callie couldn’t be certain that he valued her as much for her swift intelligence and quiet courage as he did for her beauty.

Something he intended to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt.

“And I’m about to call the station so we can get on with the investigation,” he assured her.

She smirked at his overly innocent smile, but reached out to grab his arm. “Why do you have to call the station? I thought we were going to investigate the designer shops?”

“We are, but I’m hoping to narrow down the search by finding out which salons carry a local designer.” He struggled to remember what Frank had told him. “Sung something or other.”

“Let me.” She pulled out her own phone and scrolled through her contacts.

“Who are you calling?”

“Serra.” She lifted the phone to her ear. “She’s intimately familiar with every store in a hundred-mile radius.”

Duncan had a searing memory of Serra’s skin-tight clothing and kick-ass boots. He didn’t have his coroner’s personal experience with female attire, but he did have a butt-load of sisters. He’d learned to recognize a fashionista.

His da had nearly strangled his youngest sister when he discovered she’d used his credit card to buy a six-hundred-dollar designer purse. He shuddered to think what the psychic had spent on her boots.

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”

She pretended she didn’t hear his muttered words as she spoke into the phone. “Serra, do you know a designer named Sung? Great, where can you buy the label?” She listened, nodding her head. “Thanks, you’re a doll.” She paused, a faint smile curling her lips. “Fane? Actually he’s on his way back to Valhalla, although it’s going to be a touch and go landing, so if you want to catch him you need to be prepared. Good pluck.”

She returned her phone to her pocket, then sent him a curious smile as she felt his lingering gaze. “What?”

“I thought you liked your guardian?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then why would you leave him at the mercy of that man-eater?”

“Hey.” She punched him in the shoulder, the blow surprisingly strong despite her lack of bulk. Were all high-bloods more powerful than norms? It would explain why his bench press record at the police academy was still unbeaten. And deflate a small piece of his ego. “Serra’s my dearest friend.”