Born in Blood (The Sentinels)

by Alexandra Ivy

  “People can be shitty.”

  “True.”

  “I suppose I shouldn’t feel sorry for your parents, but I do.”

  She frowned, wondering if she’d heard him right. Few among the high-bloods felt sympathy for the families who abandoned their own children. No matter how hard it might be to accept a freak.

  “Feel sorry for them?”

  His thumb stroked her cheek, as if fascinated by the texture of her skin.

  “They have a beautiful, intelligent, outrageously sexy daughter who uses her gifts to make the world a better place.” He lowered his head to speak directly into her ear. “But they’ll never know you and that’s their very great loss.”

  Desire, along with a far more dangerous sensation, spread through her until she feared she might melt into a puddle of need at his feet. Instinctively she lifted her arms to wrap them around his neck.

  “Maybe you do have a small smidgeon of charm,” she grudgingly admitted.

  The hazel eyes smoldered with pure sin. “There’s nothing small about me, Callie.” He tilted his hips forward, as if she’d somehow missed the rigid length of his arousal pressing against her lower stomach. “Let me prove it.”

  She breathed in his warm, sexy scent. She’d never noticed the smell of a man before.

  Of course, there were a lot of things about Duncan she noticed. The way his ass perfectly filled out his jeans. The stubborn line of his jaw that was usually shadowed by a hint of golden beard. The utter focus on his goal. Whether it was finding the bad guy, or making her tremble in anticipation.

  “A friend warned me that if a man has to brag about his size it’s because he knows it’s going to be a disappointment,” she murmured, her fingers teasing the hair at his nape.

  “Let me take a stab in the dark,” he said wryly. “Was this friend named Serra?”

  Callie made a sound of astonishment. “You know her?”

  “Our paths have crossed.” His lips found an exquisitely tender spot just below her ear. “Unfortunately.”

  She arched against the welcome hardness of his body, strangely pleased he didn’t have the usual male reaction to her dearest friend.

  “Most men find her irresistible.”

  He kissed down the curve of her throat, the rasp of his whiskers making her tremble in pleasure.

  “She’s a man-eater.”

  It was growing difficult to think. “What does that mean?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he assured her, his hand gripping the back of her neck, his tongue doing wicked things as it traced the bodice of her stretchy top. “The only opinion I care about is yours.”

  Her head fell back, offering Duncan greater access. He seemed to know what he was doing. Why interfere?

  “Hmm.”

  “I’ve never touched such soft skin,” he rasped, his lips lingering on the gentle swell of her breast. “It’s like heated satin.”

  Her nipples tightened, the tingles of excitement becoming a sharp-edged hunger that made her hesitate.

  Okay. This was spiraling out of control way too fast.

  And one of the first things all high-bloods learned was that bad things happened when they let themselves be out of control.

  “What do you want from me?” she abruptly demanded.

  “A kiss. That’s all.” He shifted to nibble her bottom lip. “Just a kiss.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Trust me, Callie. I won’t ever ask for more than you’re willing to give.”

  Trust? Fane would tell her that she was crazy. That she couldn’t trust anyone.

  Especially not a norm who all but accused the Mave of being willing to harbor a murderer.

  But just for a few minutes she didn’t want to be a necromancer who was feared and even hated by others. Or the shy woman who often faded into the shadows.

  And more importantly, she wanted to kiss this man.

  “Okay.”

  The word had barely formed before he covered her lips in a kiss that seared her to the tips of her toes.

  Oh ... baby.

  Serra’s three-inch heels clicked against the floor of the hallway as she walked past the wide doors to the dining hall and then the art center.

  As always the two floors directly beneath the main structure were crowded with high-bloods. The shared area was a place to relax and mingle. Or, for those who were of a more solitary nature, there was a vast library and a Japanese rock garden.

  And for the elusive Sentinels, there was a fully equipped gym and attached firing range that allowed them to hone their skills to a lethal edge, while releasing the aggression that was so much a part of their nature.

  And that’s where she was headed.

  Indifferent to the male, and a few female, gazes that followed her elegant body, shown to lush advantage in the black leather pants and red bustier, she gave a toss of her long, raven hair.

  She was far more interested in the tall, lean man storming away from the gym with a thunderous scowl.

  Even at a distance, Wolfe, the current Tagos and leader of all Sentinels, looked like a dangerous predator.

  He was a hunter rather than a guardian like Fane, which meant he had no magic and no tattoos, but anyone stupid enough to think he’d earned his position by being a slick politician was quickly taught the error of their ways.

  He was faster, stronger, and more ruthless than any other warrior. He was also a cunning bastard who could charm the birds from the trees when it suited his purpose. And of course, he wasn’t above using his potent sexual appeal to manipulate others.

  With copper skin and eyes that were as black as ebony, he resembled an ancient Egyptian deity. He had a proud, hawkish nose and prominent cheekbones. His dark brows were heavy and his lips carved along generous lines. It was a striking face rather than handsome and so fiercely masculine that some women found it intimidating.

  Just as striking was the glossy dark hair that brushed his shoulders with a startling streak of silver that started at his right temple. It was rumored that he’d been touched by the devil when he was in the cradle. Something he never bothered to deny.

  Hanging back until he’d continued his ill-tempered stomping in the opposite direction, Serra headed into the gym. She might be fearless, but no one crossed paths with a rabid Wolfe.

  Bypassing the mats and the boxing ring, she entered the weight room, honing in on her prey with practiced skill.

  Too practiced, she wryly conceded, catching sight of Fane bench-pressing enough weight to crush most men.

  How long had she been stalking this stoic, aloof Sentinel?

  It seemed like an eternity.

  Halting next to the stack of weights, she admired the ripple of muscle as Fane seamlessly lifted the massive weights in a smooth rhythm.

  God Almighty. He was a masterpiece.

  From the top of his bald head to the tip of his bare toes he was hard, chiseled perfection. As if he’d been created by the hand of Michelangelo. Was it any wonder he’d managed to capture her jaded interest?

  And there was the added bonus of his sacred tattooing. The powerful spells made it impossible for her to read his mind, even by accident.

  A necessary barrier for any psychic. Nothing like being in the moment and realizing your partner was fantasizing about another woman.

  Yeah ... real turn-off.

  Of course, the whole lack of high-def peekaboos into his mind wasn’t all good.

  The man kept his emotions locked down as if they were some precious commodity that could only be doled out in sparse measure.

  His conversations were just as meager. A yes. A no. And an occasional grunt if she was lucky.

  There’d been times when she would have given her favorite Fendi boots just for a glimpse of what was going on behind the grim visage.

  “I just saw Wolfe stomping off,” she said as Fane continued with his self-imposed task, ignoring her arrival despite the fact he would have sensed her presence the minute she entered the gym.
/>
  Aggravating asshole.

  Good thing he was so edible.

  “He’s not happy that I’ve been forbidden to answer his questions,” Fane said, at least speaking to her.

  Sometimes he went into a deep trance that allowed him to block out everything but what he wanted to concentrate on.

  A trick he was taught by the monks. As well as how to kill a man in three seconds flat.

  “I’m hoping he doesn’t plan on confronting the Mave in his current mood,” she murmured. The only person not afraid of Wolfe when he was on the warpath was the Mave.

  She might turn him into a toad if he went charging into her office half cocked.

  “Wolfe doesn’t always choose the path of wisdom,” Fane pointed out.

  She grimaced. “Few of us do.” No answer. Okay, new subject. “How’s Callie?”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to ask her that question?”

  “I went by her apartment but she wasn’t there.”

  Clank. The weights were slammed onto the rack behind his head. Flowing to his feet, Fane grabbed a towel to wipe his bare chest, clearly determined to go in search of his missing chick. “Dammit.”

  Serra felt the familiar irritation scour through her body. She adored Callie. They were, in fact, as close as sisters.

  But the knowledge that this man was bound to the beautiful diviner on a level so deep it could never be broken was a constant source of frustration.

  “You aren’t her babysitter, Fane,” she said in sour tones. “She’s allowed to travel around Valhalla without asking your permission.”

  The dark eyes held an unspoken censor. “She’s mine to protect.”

  “Yours to protect or just yours?”

  “Now isn’t the time for this conversation.”

  She shouldn’t press. She didn’t need to be a psychic to know something was going on. Something bad. And that Fane would be hypercrazy—well, even more hypercrazy than usual—with his need to keep Callie safe.

  But she was a female. Which meant she was allowed to be completely illogical when it came to the man she wanted.

  Hell, it was her duty.

  “When will be the time?”

  His forbidding expression never altered. “I don’t know.”

  “And if I decide not to wait?”

  “I’ve never lied to you, Serra.”

  The soft, unyielding response stole her thunder.

  Dammit. Why couldn’t he at least get mad like any normal man? A good shouting match was just what she needed to release the resentment that had reached a boiling level.

  Instead she ran face first into a wall of truth. Never fun.

  “No, you’ve always been brutally honest,” she admitted, her lips twisting in a self-derisive smile.

  He frowned, tossing aside the towel. “You can have any man you desire.”

  Her gaze compulsively slid over the broad chest, then down to the six-pack that begged to be licked.

  “Obviously not any man,” she muttered.

  “Serra—”

  “Don’t.” She held up a pleading hand. “It’s so ... fucking tragic.” Taking a step back, she folded her arms over her stomach in an unconsciously defensive gesture. “At least tell me that Callie is okay.”

  Fane hesitated, as if wrestling with some inner demon. Then, at last, he gave a dip of his head. “For now.”

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “No.”

  She shrugged. She didn’t expect him to share. Even routine duties the Sentinels performed were kept top secret. But her curiosity was making her nuts. She was desperate to know what was going on.

  “It must have something to do with Callie’s trip into the memories of the dead woman,” she reasoned out loud. “Otherwise the cop would never have been allowed into Valhalla.”

  With a speed that was always unnerving, Fane was standing directly in front of her, the sudden heat in the air warning that she was at last provoking a reaction.

  Even if it wasn’t the one she wanted.

  “This isn’t a game, Serra. The Mave has taken personal command of the ... situation,” he growled. “She won’t be forgiving if she discovers you’re poking your nose into her business.”

  She shrugged. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d pissed off the higher powers.

  “But it’s such a cute nose.”

  “Not cute,” he denied in gruff tones, his finger lightly tracing the line of her nose. “Forceful. Proud. Unique. I wouldn’t want to see it hurt.”

  Silence. And shock. And a whole lot of what-the-hell as Fane belatedly jerked his hand back.

  It was a toss-up which of them was more astonished by his display of affection, but it was Serra who spoke first.

  “Don’t tell me you care?” she tried to tease, although the words came out as a croak.

  “I’ve always cared,” he said, crawling back behind his emotional no-go zone as he reached to pull on a cammo tee. “Which is why I’ve told you to find a man who can offer you the relationship that you deserve.”

  Fury burned through her. “Damn you, Fane, you’re not my guardian,” she hissed.

  He didn’t meet her glare. “I’m aware of that.”

  “Then stop trying to protect me.”

  Afraid she might do something like punch him—or worse ... kiss him—Serra turned on her heel and stomped away.

  She was going to find out what Callie had gotten herself into.

  One way or another.

  Chapter Five

  Rocking a Hogwarts vibe, the lakefront house on the outskirts of Kansas City had over twenty rooms built among the sprawling wings and towering turrets.

  Most people assumed that a reclusive rock star lived behind the high gates and armed security that patrolled the massive grounds. That or a gunrunner.

  The last thing they would have expected was a professor.

  Well, at least he called himself a professor.

  Dr. Zakary had appeared in Kansas City eight months before, moving into the secluded mansion in the middle of the night. No one in the neighborhood had seen him, although if they’d been looking they might have caught sight of the stretch limo that pulled between the heavy gates before disappearing into the five-car garage.

  Which meant, of course, they were eaten up with curiosity.

  Not that Zak gave a shit. The nosy neighbors were the least of his concern.

  Sitting in the library that was surrounded by shelves that towered two stories beneath the alcove ceiling, he studied the ancient scroll that was carefully stretched on the cherry-wood desk.

  Light from the overhead chandelier spilled over his silver hair, which he’d left loose to frame his lean, darkly bronzed face, and shimmered in his diamond eyes.

  Eyes that marked him as different despite his deliberate choice of a black turtleneck sweater and silk slacks.

  Of course, even if he kept his eyes covered he would never pass as a norm.

  Not when his powers filled the air with a constant chill.

  Few people could remain in the same room with him without being battered by the urge to flee. Not if they had a functioning brain.

  In the middle of trying to decipher a particularly difficult passage, Zak reached for the Baccarat crystal glass that was filled with a priceless cognac.

  He basked in the warm glow that slid down his throat, setting it aside as a knock on the door interrupted his blessed silence.

  “Enter,” he called, resting back in his leather chair as the young, burly man hesitantly stepped into the room.

  Stanley York had been released from jail less than a year before and anxious for a quick influx of cash. Which meant he was willing to do anything with no questions asked.

  Wearing faded jeans and a sleeveless tee, his features were blunt with dark, cunning eyes and his hair buzzed to his skull. He had several tattoos, but none of them were magical. A ridiculous waste of ink.

  Always edgy in Zak’s presence, the ex-con lingered near the
open door, his gaze darting around the room as if sensing unseen eyes. “Forgive me.”

  “You have news?” Zak asked in a soft, accented voice.

  “Yes.” The henchman glanced toward Zak without meeting his gaze. For all his tough-guy attitude, he was as spineless as everyone else beneath Zak’s diamond stare. “Tony retrieved the ... bundle.”

  Zak tapped a slender finger on the edge of the desk, his flawless features impossible to read. “He packed it precisely as I told him to?”

  The man grimaced. “I promise he followed your directions as if his life depended on it.”

  “A wise choice,” Zak murmured.

  It was amazing how eager his servants were to please him after witnessing him remove the heart of a fellow servant who was unfortunate enough to have returned to the house without their latest package.

  “Yeah.” Stanley cleared his throat. “He should be here in two hours. Maybe less, depending on the traffic.”

  “Make sure he doesn’t do anything that would attract the attention of the authorities.” His voice remained soft. Only a bully needed to shout and bluster. Zak led with pure, unrelenting fear. Far more efficient. “I will be excessively displeased if my name appears in a police report.”

  “He’s a pro at avoiding the authorities. Everything’s under control.”

  “You’d better pray that’s true.”

  Stanley paled to an interesting shade of gray. “Yes, professor.” His hands twitched, as if he didn’t know quite what to do with them. “Will there be anything else?”

  “I want to know the minute Tony arrives.”

  “Of course.”

  Shuffling backward, Stanley shut the door before beating a hasty retreat back to the servants’ quarters.

  Zak reached for his glass, draining the cognac as he waited for the shadow to detach from the far bookshelf, revealing a female form.

  He’d sensed Anya’s presence for the past half hour, but he’d been in no mood to deal with her.

  Now he accepted that she wasn’t going to leave him in peace until she’d had her say.

  “Thugs,” she muttered in disgust.

  He set aside his glass, his gaze indifferently flicking over the tight black dress that revealed more than it concealed. With her long red hair flowing down her back in a shimmering river of fire, the witch was a fantasy come to life.