Born in Blood
Page 9

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.
Not that he was in the mood to appreciate her beauty. Unlike most men he wasn’t controlled by his cock.
Not ever.
“True, but every general needs a few expendable soldiers to do the grunt work,” he reminded his companion.
“A pity they have to be so stupid.” She halted next to the desk, the scent of herbs and blood clinging to her. A sure indication she’d been in her rooms brewing up some concoction or another. “It’s entirely their fault the body was found by the authorities.”
Zak steepled his fingers beneath his chin. He didn’t need the reminder.
He’d been furious when his servant had returned to the house without the female that Zak had personally selected. That didn’t mean, however, he was prepared to accept defeat.
“Charles paid for his mistakes.”
“Perhaps, but—”
Zak narrowed his eyes as the words deliberately trailed away. “Say what you have to say, Anya.”
“You should have chosen another female.” She was the only creature in the world with the nerve to lecture him, although her tone was carefully devoid of censure. “It’s too risky to take the body from the police morgue.”
“It took us twenty years to track down Calso and another six months trying to find a way past his security.” He curled his lips in disgust. “Did you want to throw it all away because you have cold feet?”
“Not cold feet,” she denied in petulant tones. “But I’m not going to be happy if we’re forced to move again.”
With a deliberate motion, Zak pushed himself out of the chair, the swirl of his power tugging on Anya’s hair in icy warning.
The witch had saved his life when he’d been burning on the stake. She was also the one who’d managed to stumble across the means for his ultimate triumph.
But he’d been born during a time when only the strong survived and he didn’t believe in democracies.
He was in charge.
Which meant he didn’t confess just whom he’d encountered while he was in Leah’s mind. Or that he’d all but thrown down the gauntlet to those fools who cowered behind the walls of Valhalla.
He was done waiting for his unjust rewards.
“There will be no more running.”
Belatedly realizing she’d crossed a dangerous line, Anya took a step backward. “No, of course not,” she hastily purred, lacing her words with a spell of soothing. As if her magic could actually sway a man with his powers. “Soon you will have endless followers who will be worthy of your greatness.”
“So you have promised for the past—” He deliberately paused. “How long has it been, Anya?”
Her lips tightened. “Nearly three hundred years.”
Zak grimaced. He had a vivid memory of the night he’d been captured by the local villagers and burned at the stake. Hard not to. It played and replayed every night. Like his nightmares were stuck on one channel.
The next hundred years had been spent in a protective cocoon of magic Anya had wrapped around his burnt body that had barely clung to life, followed by another tedious century of regenerating his physical form. Time that was fuzzy in his memories.
Thank the gods.
The past hundred years had been devoted to restoring his former powers. And more importantly, to locating the key to unlocking the ancient secrets to his ultimate destiny.
“My patience is at an end,” he informed the witch.
“I understand, I truly do, but our enemies are searching for you,” Anya attempted to soothe. “It’s too dangerous to draw such attention to yourself.”