Born in Blood (The Sentinels #1)(65)

“Oh my god. Is she—”

“Dead,” Duncan supplied.

“I need a . . .” She bit off her hasty words, looking with obvious longing toward the counter at the back of the store. No doubt she had a stash of prescription feel-good-pills hidden in her purse. “Water.”

“You can pop your Prozac after you’ve told me who bought this particular outfit, Victoria,” he informed her, his flat tone revealing he didn’t give a shit about her rattled nerves.

Her fingers fluttered to toy with the pearls hung around her neck. “I don’t know.”

That was it. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

“Lady, I’ve tried to be polite, but you’ve pissed on my last nerve,” he snarled. “Tell me what you know or I’ll haul you out of here in handcuffs.”

“Please.” She took a hasty step backward. “I truly can’t”

“Maybe you should just tell us what you know,” Callie suggested in soothing tones, sending him a chiding glare as she moved to stand at his side.

“I . . .” The woman licked her lips. “She started coming in six months ago. Maybe a little longer.”

She.

Duncan wasn’t entirely shocked. It would have been too much to hope that the mysterious necromancer had waltzed into the shop and used his credit card to buy clothing for his macabre marionette.

And Callie had mentioned that she’d discovered rumors of a witch who’d been his accomplice.

Ignoring Callie’s disapproval, he allowed her to take the role of the good cop. He always sucked at it anyway. Bad cop? That was easy.

“Her name?” he barked out.

“She never told me.”

“It had to be on her credit card.”

Victoria shook her head until the starched silver-hair threatened to move. “She always paid in cash.”

Cash? Who carried around the sort of cash necessary for designer clothes?

“You didn’t think that was strange?”

“It’s not unheard of.” The woman shrugged. “There are occasions when a woman needs to keep her liaison ... discreet.”

Ah.

Callie looked confused. Duncan, however, instantly understood.

Unfortunately, he had friends who enjoyed the benefits of marriage while pursuing other women. The first rule of cheating was never, ever to leave a paper trail.

“A mistress to a married man?” he asked.

Victoria continued to tug at her pearls, discomfort etched into every line of her thin body. “I don’t ask uncomfortable questions.”

Duncan believed her. A woman who peddled overpriced clothes to the lovers of the rich and powerful would learn to turn a blind eye to a lot of things.

“Did she come in alone?”

“Always.” The woman paused, and Duncan assumed she was frowning. Or would be if the Botox hadn’t frozen her brow. “Of course, she had a driver who waited for her outside.”

“Make and model of the car?” he pounced.

“It was silver, I think.” She shrugged. “I really didn’t pay attention.”

Duncan glanced toward the ceiling. “Surveillance tapes?”

“They aren’t saved unless there’s a reason to keep them.” She doused Duncan’s last hope. “As I said, this boutique promises discretion.”

He swallowed his opinion about people who needed to hide their dirty laundry. He had a few secrets of his own.

“What about the woman?” he instead demanded. “Can you describe her?”

Another wave of her hand, another blinding flash of diamonds. “She was average height, a size four, with an autumn skin tone.”

Duncan blinked. “Autumn?”

“Pale skin. Green eyes.”

Duncan made the notes on his phone. “Her hair?”

“She always wore it hidden beneath a hat.”

“Of course she did.” He grimaced. “Not that it matters. Women change hair color more often than most men change their underwear.” The older woman looked shocked while Callie rolled her eyes.

“Anything else?” he continued.

“No ...” Victoria appeared to be struck by a sudden thought. “Wait.”

“What?”

“She wore a strange bracelet.”

“Describe it.”

“It had a collection of small metal disks with strange symbols scratched on them.” Victoria gave a curl of her lip. “Not at all the sort of thing a true lady would wear.”

Duncan turned his head to meet Callie’s wide gaze. “Witch,” he mouthed.

“Anya,” she breathed.

He squashed the urge to jump to conclusions. It, along with day old calamari, was dangerous.

“Perhaps.” He reached into his back pocket to pull out a small business card. “This has the numbers of the station as well as my cell phone. Call me if she returns.”

From a distance the ziggurat was nothing more than a crumbling ruin that had been left to the ravages of the desert. Constructed of sunbaked bricks, it had once been a part of a temple complex for the Sumerians. Now, there was nothing left but a brittle shell of four receding tiers with two sharply angled stone staircases. Even the shrine that had once been a magnificent crown on top of the temple had been swept away by the relentless blast of sand.