At least for a few hours.
Duncan barely heard the reassurances.
Who the hell cared about zombie warriors?
His entire focus was on the woman who clung to life by the thinnest thread.
Bowing his head, Duncan was busy praying to whatever god would listen when Fane came to an abrupt halt, his brows snapping together.
“Goddammit,” he growled.
Duncan lifted his head. “What is it?”
The answer came when the beautiful Serra pushed open the door and entered the room.
Fane stepped forward, his face grim. “I thought the psychics were told to leave,” he growled.
The female didn’t bother to glance in his direction as she headed for the bed, her gaze locked on Callie.
“I make my own decisions.”
“No shit,” Fane muttered, but his expression eased as Serra stepped into the muted light near the head of the bed.
As usual, she was wearing a pair of leather pants and thigh-high boots with a tiny halter top that could stop traffic, but her face was pale and damp with tears, and the green eyes shimmering with a gut-deep fear.
“Oh, Callie, you idiot,” she whispered in shaky tones, her hand gently brushing her friend’s cold cheek. “What did the healers say?”
“She continues to lose blood no matter what they do to close the wounds,” Duncan said, his voice a harsh croak.
He’d never understood the meaning of true torture until now. Nothing could be worse than feeling helpless while someone he loved slipped away.
Serra continued to stroke Callie’s cheek. “Do you know why?”
Duncan pointed toward the blood-filled goblet on a nearby table. “We think it has something to do with the chalice.”
The psychic glanced up, her expression hard with determination. “I can try to find out.”
Duncan’s heart gave a sudden leap even as Fane shook his head.
“No,” he snapped. “She’s too weak”
Serra sent him a challenging glance. “And if we do nothing?”
“What’s she talking about?” Duncan demanded of the Sentinel.
It was Serra who answered. “I can speak directly into Callie’s mind.”
Duncan frowned. “Even though she’s unconscious?”
“Yes.”
He glanced toward Fane, who continued to scowl, before returning his attention to the psychic.
“What’s the danger?”
“Because she’s unconscious I’ll have to go deeper to read her thoughts. It can be jolting for anyone who’s not used to the intrusion. But Callie ...” She sucked in a shaky breath, blinking back the tears. “I’ve been slamming into her mind since we were both kids.”
He clenched his jaw, turning his attention to the woman lying unconscious on the bed.
She was dying.
He could feel it with every beat of his heart.
He had to do something.
Anything.
Even if it was dangerous.
Squaring his shoulders, he gave a short nod. “Do it.”
Fane stepped toward the bed, his expression stark with fear. “Serra—”
The psychic sent him a sad smile. The sort of smile that sliced through a man’s heart and left him bleeding.
“You know I’d die before I would hurt her,” she said in soft, chiding tones.
He grimaced, dipping his head in regret. “Yes.”
“I’ll be careful,” she gently promised. Turning back to Callie, Serra leaned down, staring intently at her unconscious friend for what seemed to be an eternity. At last she released a deep sigh. “I’m in.”
Duncan swallowed the lump in his throat, his thumb stroking the inside of Callie’s wrist to assure himself that her heart continued to beat.
“Does she know we’re here?” he demanded.
“Yes.” A smile touched her lips. “She can feel you holding her hand.”
Duncan lifted her hand to press the tips of her fingers to his lips.
Fane shifted to stand beside Serra, his jaw clenched. “Does she know what the necromancer did to her?”
There was a long silence as Serra spoke directly into Callie’s mind.
“He... oh my god.”
Duncan stiffened, his free hand automatically reaching for the gun that was once again holstered at his side.
It didn’t matter his gun had been worthless against the zombies. Or that bullets wouldn’t stop anything capable of breaking through the spells guarding the room.
Rational or not, it was going to be a long, long time before he went anywhere unarmed.
“What’s wrong?” he barked.
“The necromancer ... he was her father,” she said with a shudder. “And the witch was her mother.”
The surge of disgusted shock was swiftly replaced by a startling sense of acceptance.
“Of course,” he muttered, sharing a glance with Fane. “It actually makes perfect sense.”
Fane shrugged, clearly not interested. “What did the necromancer do to her?”
Serra closed her eyes, silently communicating with Callie.
“He used her blood to bind her to the magic of the chalice,” she at last said.
Fane leaned forward. “What magic?”
“It opens the pathway to the underworld.”
Duncan squeezed Callie’s fingers. She was connected to the underworld? Shit, shit, shit.
“How do we close it?”
Serra opened her eyes to meet Duncan’s worried gaze. “She doesn’t know, but she’s afraid.”
Afraid? Afraid of what?
“Tell her that Lord Zakhar is dead.”
She shook her head. “That’s not what’s bothering her.”
“Then what is?”
“If she dies, the Sentinels that are bound to her will be released.”
Duncan parted his lips—about to snarl that there was no way Callie was going to die—only to be interrupted by Fane.
“Back to their graves?” the Sentinel demanded.
“No.” Serra’s expression was troubled. “They’ll kill anything in their path and nothing will be able to stop them.”
“God dammit,” Fane snarled.
Duncan made a sound of impatience. “Look, I don’t want a crazed band of indestructible zombies rampaging through Valhalla—”
Fane glared at him. “It won’t stop at Valhalla.”
“I get it,” Duncan snapped, refusing to consider the damage the zombie warriors could cause. “But right now all I care about is Callie.” He glanced back at Serra. “How do we destroy the chalice?”
She did her psychic thing, her face managing to lose even more color.
“It can’t be destroyed,” she whispered.
“No.” Duncan was abruptly on his feet. “I don’t accept that.”
Fane folded his arms over his bare chest, equally determined.
“If the chalice can’t be destroyed then the doorway must be closed some other way,” he announced, his flat tone shaking Duncan out of his brief flare of panic. “The monk mentioned a ritual. I’ll return to Russia. There has to be some mention of the chalice in the texts.”
Duncan forced himself to take a deep, calming breath. Becoming hysterical wasn’t going to do Callie any good. He had to think clearly. Starting with how they could close the doorway.
Pacing toward the window that offered a view of the still dark countryside, he shuffled through his memories.
There had been something nagging at him since he’d had his meeting with Hektor from the Brotherhood.
Something...
It hit him with enough force to make him gasp.
Fane sent him a searching glance. “You okay, cop?”
“I think we can find someone who knows the ritual much closer,” he said.
“Who?”
“The Brotherhood.”
Fane frowned. “You know how to contact them?”
“No, but I’m betting I know someone who does.” Duncan turned his attention to Serra. “Can you stay with Callie?”
She settled on the edge of the bed, her chin jutted to a dangerous angle. Only a fool would try to pry her away from her friend.
“I won’t leave her side.”
Moving back to the bed, Duncan leaned down to press a lingering kiss to Callie’s forehead, breathing deeply of her apple scent.
“Hang on, baby,” he whispered, willing her to stay strong. “I’m coming back with the cavalry.” Straightening, he snatched the chalice off the table and met Fane’s steady gaze. “Can you take me to Kansas City?”
“Let’s go.”
They made their way through Valhalla and into the small chapel where they stood before the familiar copper post. Fane was never chatty. Tonight he was downright mute as he gathered his powers and sent them spinning through... well, whatever they spun through to get to Kansas City in the blink of an eye.
It was only as they left the monastery and climbed into the waiting Hummer that he at last spoke.
“How are you going to contact the Brotherhood?” he asked, driving out of the garage and onto the nearby path. “Any personal info they gave will be bogus.”
“No shit,” Duncan snorted. He was a trained cop. He didn’t need help smelling bullshit.
“Then how?”
“It bothered me that Hektor asked for me when he came to the station,” he said.
“Why?”
Duncan shrugged, pointing for Fane to turn onto the road that led to the nearest interstate.
“No one in the public should have known the coin was missing, let alone that I was looking for it”
Fane arched a brow. “True.”
“So there was either a leak at Valhalla—”
“No way,” the Sentinel snapped.
“Or the police station.” Duncan ignored the interruption. “Or, more likely, from the one civilian I asked to identify the vessel that held the coin.”
Fane hissed out a breath. “Where is he?”