Born in Blood (The Sentinels #1)

Born in Blood (The Sentinels #1) Page 29

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.

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.”

Duncan waved aside the invitation, crossing the sparse office that was the same mixture of glass and steel as the gallery. Reaching the desk, he placed the stone vessel wrapped in plastic directly in front of the man.

“I need your expertise.”

Jacques leaned down, studying the object with sudden interest. He might be a fraud as a sophisticated Frenchman, but he knew his shit when it came to art.

“Nice,” he murmured. “Where did you get this?”

“Not your concern,” Duncan said. Jacques was too smart not to eventually realize the vessel was a part of Calso’s murder investigation, but Duncan wasn’t about to share confidential police info. “Do you recognize the symbol?”

The dealer continued to study the vessel, his expression oddly tense. “I’m not an expert on antiquities, but my guess would be Sumerian.”

Sumerian?

That seemed . . . random.

“Who deals with this sort of item?”

The man straightened. “None locally.”

Duncan frowned. “Don’t jerk me around, Girard.”

“I’m not.” Jacques held up his hands. “This is museum quality. Very rare.”

“So give me a name.”

The man shrugged. “I’m going to have to do some digging.”

Duncan tossed the picture he’d grabbed at the station onto the desk. “What about this?”

Jacques picked up the twelve-by-twelve glossy picture of the coin that had been taken from the security tape. It had been blown up as large as possible without turning it into a fuzzy blob, but with a sharp motion, Jacques reached for a magnifying glass lying on his desk to study it in grim silence.

“Did it come with the vessel?” he at last demanded.

“Yes.”

“Hmm.” Another long silence. “Not currency. Maybe a symbol of authority.”

“How much would it be worth?”

“I can’t say for certain.”

Jacques made a sound of shock as Duncan smoothly pulled his gun and aimed it at his head. “Mon Dieu. I truly don’t know. Were they found together?”

Duncan kept his gun pointed at his companion. He didn’t intend to shoot the con man. But he sensed Jacques knew more about the coin than he was willing to admit. Obviously, he needed . . . inspiration to share his full range of knowledge.

“How did you know they were found together?”

Jacques licked his lips, using the magnifying glass to point toward the vessel on his desk. “The symbols along the top of the vase.”

“What about them?”

“I’m no expert, but I suspect that they describe the purpose of the coin.”

Duncan furrowed his brow, considering his words. “Like an instruction manual?”

“Exactly. And here ...” The magnifying glass lowered to point toward the odd bird sketched into the stone. “It matches the hieroglyph etched on the coin. It can’t be a coincidence. Together the pair would be almost priceless.”

Duncan stiffened, abruptly realizing what had been nagging at him since he’d walked into Calso’s office and caught sight of the ancient vessel.

“A pair,” he breathed softly.

Jacques shrugged. “That’s what I just said.”

“So why would somebody take the coin and leave behind the vessel it came in?”

“No collector would,” Jacques instantly denied. “Apart they’re extremely valuable. Together ...” He set the picture next to the vase, emphasizing their matching symbols. “As I said. Priceless.”

Duncan had already ruled out robbery as a reason for the murder. A thief didn’t leave behind millions in artwork, let alone a stack of untraceable bills.