Born in Blood (The Sentinels)

by Alexandra Ivy

  She wasn’t sure what to expect.

  Although she’d been surrounded by Sentinels all her life, not to mention traveled by portal with Fane from one monastery to another, she’d never been beyond the public rooms that were always stark and uninviting. The monks were OCD when it came to the privacy of the students and their training.

  Now she sucked in a startled breath as she glanced around the vast library.

  The place was . . . stunning.

  Unlike the sleek, high-tech library at Valhalla, this room spoke of Russia’s past, with an onion-domed ceiling that was richly painted with Orthodox icons and edged with gilt. The floor was a white marble inset with pieces of jade and gold that shimmered in the light from the candelabras. The walls were lined with towering bookshelves that were ornately carved and separated by fluted columns. The rosewood furniture was clearly the work of master craftsmen and so highly polished it seemed to glow.

  “Oh.” Callie twirled in a circle, absorbing the sheer beauty of the room. “This is exquisite.”

  The monk chuckled. “I will share your appreciation with our students.”

  Callie widened her eyes. “Sentinels did this?”

  “We train all our Sentinels with some craft.”

  Callie shot a glance toward the silent Fane. “So that’s how you learned to carve such beautiful figurines.”

  Fane shrugged, but his features eased as he studied her dazzled expression. He would have his tongue cut out before he admitted he took pride in his small carvings that filled the nurseries at Valhalla.

  Tiny ballerinas, trees with squirrels perched on leafy branches, intricate castles, and mind-twisting puzzles. Bewitching creations that the children adored.

  “It teaches that anything worthy comes from patience and dedication to detail,” Brandon explained.

  Callie smiled. “We should all learn that particular lesson.”

  Brandon moved to a fireplace set behind a large desk, brushing his hand over a jade vase. Without warning a panel beside the fireplace slid open to reveal a hidden staircase.

  “This way,” the monk urged, leading them down the dark stairs.

  Callie followed behind him with Fane bringing up the rear.

  “Where are we going?” she asked in confusion, skimming her hand down the cement wall as the darkness thickened to the point she was nearly blind. Her own skills didn’t include seeing in the dark.

  “This is where we keep items that are too fragile to be put on display,” Brandon answered, opening the door at the bottom of the stairs to reveal a brilliantly lit room that was built in the shape of an octagon and lined with steel. Eight doors were set in the steel. “These vaults are specially designed to maintain the proper temperature and humidity.” Brandon headed to the nearest door, pressing his thumb against a digital scanner. If the library upstairs had been a vision of old-world elegance, this was a glimpse into the future. “And, of course, the scribes are trained to handle even the most ancient artifacts.”

  Callie frowned, wondering if there had been a miscommunication. “The information we seek isn’t particularly ancient.”

  Brandon nodded toward the door that silently slid open. “This particular vault contains various books and journals and even letters that refer to ...” He paused to consider his words. “Let us say sensitive issues dealing with our people.”

  “Secret histories?” Callie asked.

  “Not secret.” Brandon smiled his sweet, sweet smile. “Regulated on a need-to-know basis.”

  Ah. Callie got it.

  No need to creep out the norms with doppelgangers that could change shape or necromancers who could control the dead.

  They entered a long room that was lined with glass cases. The ceiling was curved and crisscrossed with bright lights, the floor was grated metal that allowed a cool breeze to flow through the air.

  Callie managed to catch a glimpse of books and rolled parchments and pretty feminine diaries that were wrapped with ribbons.

  There were also strange objects that she’d never seen before and never wanted to see again. She grimaced at the sight of a large crystal ball with what looked like a human eye staring directly at her and the strange hammer that violently smashed into the glass as they passed by.

  Yeesh.

  At the end of the room was an open space with a large metal table that was cluttered with several leather-bound books, maps, as well as a pile of letters that were yellowed from age.

  As they approached the table, a slender girl rose to her feet, brushing her hands down the long black robe she wore. “Brandon,” the girl murmured, giving a low bow before glancing toward Callie and Fane.

  The overhead light revealed she wasn’t as young as Callie had first thought. Maybe midtwenties instead of early teens, but there remained an air of fragility about her pale, perfect face that was dominated by a large pair of velvet brown eyes. Her hair was pulled into a long braid that fell to her waist, the silvery-blond color so pale it didn’t look real.

  She looked like a fairy princess.

  Until the brown gaze turned in Callie’s direction. There was an age-old wisdom in those eyes. As if she’d seen more in her twenty or so years of life than most people did in their entire existence.

  “This is Myst,” Brandon introduced the girl. Myst. It suited her. “She’ll be here to assist you.”

  “Thank you,” Fane murmured, moving to stand guard at the door as the monk left.

  Callie moved forward, joining the scribe at the table.

  Myst pulled a pair of white, protective gloves from a box and held them toward Callie. “I believe I have all the relative material gathered here.”

  Callie wrinkled her nose at the daunting stack of books, letters, and what looked to be official reports.

  It would take her hours, if not days, to search through the pile. Always assuming she happened to read Russian, French, and what she could only guess was Latin.

  Which she could not.

  “Have you read them all?” she asked the scribe.

  “Of course.”

  “Then maybe you can give us the Cliffs Notes.”

  Myst blinked. “Cliffs Notes?”

  “A condensed version,” Fane explained from the door.

  “Oh, I see. Very well.” The girl gave a nod, her accent light, but definitely not Russian. Scandinavian? Perhaps. “The church records reveal that Lord Zakhar was born the youngest son of a minor nobleman in Kokorino. It was a small, remote village in what is now Siberia. He had two older brothers who both died before they reached the age of eighteen.”

  “Cause?” Fane demanded.

  “Both were found in the woods with their necks broken.” Myst absently put on the gloves in her hands, pulling one of the books toward her. “It was assumed that they were thrown from their horses.”

  “At the same time?” Callie asked.

  Myst checked her book. “No, five years apart.”

  Callie lifted her brows. Okay, there might not have been a CSI team back then, but they weren’t stupid.

  “And no one was suspicious?”

  “Very suspicious, especially when there were claims of seeing the dead walking just before they took their falls.” Myst shrugged. “Of course, no one paid any attention to the gossip of mere serfs, not even the Shaman.”

  Callie shivered. Zakhar had been able to raise the dead when he’d been so young?

  She’d somehow thought that it was a power he’d honed over the centuries.

  Which begged the question ... If he could raise the dead when he was a mere teenager, what could he do now?

  The possibilities were terrifying.

  “What about the parents?” she at last asked.

  “The mother is never mentioned. The father, however, was found dead of what was called ‘a failure of the heart’ only minutes after he officially named Lord Zakhar his heir.”

  Fane snorted. “Convenient.”

  Myst turned to another book. “After a few months of mourn
ing he traveled to Saint Petersburg to become a member of the royal court”

  “He wasn’t married?” Callie abruptly asked, struck by the sudden horror the necromancer had created offspring.

  One necromancer raising the dead was bad enough, thank you very much.

  “No.” Myst pointed toward the stack of papers. “In fact the letters I’ve found mention several times he was loathed and feared by society.”

  Callie resisted the urge to touch the crumbling letters. “Do they say why?”

  “His eyes, for one thing.”

  “What about them?”

  “They were described as diamonds.”

  Callie shot a glance toward Fane, her heart missing a beat at the memory of those cold, ruthless eyes.

  “That’s him,” she breathed.

  He gave a slow nod. “It seems so, but I don’t think we should jump to conclusions.”

  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.

  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.