Born in Blood
Page 46

He gave a shake of his head, unwilling to mar the peace of this moment with such ugliness. There would be plenty of time later to worry about the rest of the world. For now it was just the two of them.
On the point of waking his sleeping beauty with a kiss, Duncan was caught off guard when she abruptly began to thrash against him, her tiny moans of distress piercing his heart.
“Callie. Sweetheart.” He sat up, pulling her tight against his chest.
She struggled against him, her breath coming in panicked gasps. “No . . . no.”
His hand pressed her head against his shoulder, his arms keeping her from tumbling off the bed.
“Callie, wake up.”
The low command in his voice seemed to do the trick. With a low moan she lifted her lashes, the brilliant clarity of her eyes clouded with a lingering horror.
“Duncan?”
He cupped her chin, brushing a soft kiss over her trembling lips.
“You were having a nightmare.”
“Yes,” she said slowly, a shudder wracking her body. “God, it was horrible.”
His lips moved to stroke her temple. “Do you want to share?” he asked. “Or just forget about it?”
“I was standing at the edge of Valhalla and—”
“Callie?”
“They were everywhere,” she said, bravely trying to swallow a choked sob.
“It’s okay.” His arms tightened around her at the feel of her trembling against him. “I’ve got you.”
“I couldn’t stop them.”
“Stop who?”
“The dead.”
His heart squeezed at her whispered words. Dammit. Couldn’t they leave her alone even in her sleep?
His hand ran a soothing path up and down her back. “Callie, it was just a dream.”
“No. Not just a dream.” She tilted back her head to reveal her troubled expression, her cheeks damp with tears. “It was real. A premonition.”
He ignored the cold chill that inched down his spine. No. He wasn’t going to start jumping at shadows.
They were both on edge. Wasn’t it more likely her dreams were a reaction to her stress rather than some omen?
He used his thumbs to brush away her tears. “Is seeing the future one of your skills?”
“No, but
“Then it was just a dream,” he insisted.
She sucked in a quivering breath. “It was my blood.”
“What?”
“It was my blood that called them from their grave.”
“Ssh.” He laid his cheek on top of her head, his hand reaching up to yank aside the curtain so the morning sunlight could spill over the bed. “Nothing is going to happen to you. Not as long as I have you in my arms.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Zak studied the small cut on his palm, fascinated as a drop of blood appeared only to vanish, reappearing in the chalice he’d left on the counter of his lab.
Inside he could feel the dark power that flowed through him like a river of ice. It was the same pulsing avalanche that threatened to sear the flesh from his bones ... and yet, different.
With the chalice it was deeper, more profound.
His senses were heightened to a near unbearable acuteness, as if his every nerve had been exposed. The fluorescent lights were almost blindingly bright, the faint brush of central air made his skin prickle, and the sound of Tony’s thundering heartbeat as he cowered near the door echoed through the air.
But above it all, he was aware of the shimmering strands of magic connecting him to the corpse standing in the middle of the floor.
This wasn’t the familiar slipping into the mind of the dead. He wasn’t controlling an empty shell that was rapidly deteriorating.
No.
A part of Frank Sanchez remained despite his death. He was imbued with a magic that flowed from the chalice and into Zak before flowing to Frank. The cop could walk, talk, and think for himself. The magic even made him seem alive. He blinked, occasionally sucked in an unnecessary breath, and his face could show a few sluggish expressions.
The magic also disguised the gaping wound on the side of his head where Zak had crushed his skull. Almost as if it was Frank’s own memory of himself that was being shrouded around his corpse.
But while he seemed alive, he was well and truly dead, and in the absolute control of Zak.
The perfect weapon.
A smile of satisfaction curled Zak’s lips as he slowly circled his newest creation. “You can hear me?” he asked softly, pleased when Frank’s gaze settled on his face, awareness shimmering in the dark depths.
“Yes.”
“You know who you are?”
“Frank Sanchez.”
“Shit,” Tony muttered from the doorway, his face a pasty white.
“Be quiet,” Zak snapped, his gaze never leaving Frank’s face as it scrunched into a puzzled frown. “What is it?”
“Who are you?” the coroner demanded.
Ah. So he didn’t remember the moments before his death.
Interesting.
“I’m your master,” he said with a stern simplicity.
The frown deepened. “Bullshit—”
Zak allowed his power to flow through the bond, halting the angry words and enforcing his will on the man.
“Who am I?” he demanded.
The frown smoothed away and Frank gave a bow of his head. “Master.”
“Very good.” Reaching into the pocket of his Armani pants, he pulled out his phone and held the screen toward Frank. “Do you remember this man?”
There was no hesitation. “O’Conner.”
“That’s right.” Zak skimmed his finger across the screen to pull up another image. “And what about this woman?”
“Necro.”
Zak narrowed his eyes. As soon as he was in command of Valhalla things were going to change. Beginning with humans learning their proper place.
“Her name is Callie Brown,” he said in a soft, icy voice. “Say it.”
“Callie Brown,” Frank obediently parroted.
Satisfied, Zak returned the phone to his pocket.
“I want her brought to me,” he commanded. “Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
With a speed that took Zak by surprise, the cop was turning to head to the door.
“Wait,” he growled, grabbing the man’s arm and spinning him back around. “You don’t know where she is.”
Some undefinable emotion briefly flared in the dark eyes. Or more likely it was just a memory of an emotion.
He doubted that the magic filling Frank could actually give him genuine feelings.
“She’s with O’Conner.”
Zak narrowed his gaze. “You’re sure?”
“She was at the station with him yesterday.”
“Was her guardian with her?”
“Not.”
Zak turned away, pacing toward the stainless steel counter.
Was it possible?
He’d waited so long, been denied so often.
Could destiny at last have taken a hand in ensuring his ultimate success?
Yes, a voice whispered in the back of his mind.
Fate had obviously chosen this moment for him to take his rightful place. Why wouldn’t the stars align so that Callie would be precisely where he needed her to be?
Slowly turning back, he resisted the urge to rush from the house and attain the female who was the last key to his glory.
Destiny or not, he’d be a fool to put himself at risk when he was so close to glory.
“I want you to find O’Conner. If Callie is still with him I want you to capture her and bring her straight here. If he’s alone I want you to keep an eye on him until she shows up.” He shifted his attention to the man who was trying to disappear into the shadows. “Tony will accompany you.”
“Hell no,” the servant barked, his eyes bulging as he shoved away from the door.
“Excuse me?”
Tony flinched at the lethal warning laced through Zak’s tone.
“Our deal never included being a sidekick to a zombie,” he muttered.
Zak smiled with frigid amusement. “Is your objection to being a sidekick or working with the dead?”
Unable to find the humor in the situation, Tony began backing out the door.
“I quit.”
“Tony.”
Zak’s voice was soft, but filled with enough power to make the henchman halt in his tracks.
“What?” Tony rasped, his belligerent attitude unable to disguise his fear.
“You will be assisting Frank,” Zak informed him, his tone flat. Uncompromising. “Whether you’re alive or dead while you’re assisting him makes no difference to me.”
“Hey, sleepyhead.”
Callie woke for the second time, her earlier nightmare forgotten as she felt warm, male lips tenderly stroking over her cheek and caught a delectable scent filling the air.
Oh... yum.
She couldn’t decide which was better. The arousing sensations of Duncan’s light caresses or the aroma of cinnamon and butter and warm maple.
It was the growl of her stomach that decided.
“Hmm,” she murmured, lifting her lids to discover Duncan seated at the edge of the bed with a tray filled with food perched beside him. “Do I smell waffles?”
He nodded. “I made them fresh.”
“You made them?” Scooting up to lean against the headboard, her eyes narrowed as she caught sight of the fluffy waffles perfectly browned and dusted with cinnamon and powdered sugar with a dollop of whip cream on top of the stack. Beside the plate was a tiny jug of maple syrup and on the other side a bowl of ripe, red strawberries. “Liar.”
“Busted,” he admitted with a boyish grin that tugged directly on her heart. “I did order them. Does that count?”
Callie swallowed a resigned sigh. He was unshaven, wearing a plain white tee with faded jeans, and his hair was tumbled onto his brow. He should have looked scruffy.
Instead, he was indecently, gloriously male and so beautiful she wanted to crawl into his lap and beg him to hold her for the next eternity or so.