Her gaze jerked back to her father’s arrogant face.

She tried to tell herself that he was just a blowhard.

A megalomaniac who was lost in his delusions of grandeur.

But there was nothing delusional about the dead woman standing obediently next to him. Or the pulsing power that filled the air with a suffocating chill.

She didn’t know if he could raise an army, but it was obvious he could control the dead.

She had to find some way to stop him.

“How?”

She hadn’t noticed he’d been hiding a hand behind his back until he held it out to reveal a battered golden goblet.

“This.”

Okay. That wasn’t what she’d expected.

“A cup?”

“A chalice,” he corrected in chiding tones. “It was made from the magic of necromancers. True necromancers like us, not the pathetic diviners who cower behind their Sentinels.”

On the point of informing him that she wasn’t anything like him, Callie was distracted by the small cut on his inner wrist.

“You’re bleeding.”

“Power demands a sacrifice.”

“Blood?”

“It’s the source of my life force.” He lifted his arm, revealing the bead of blood that appeared from the wound only to disappear. “The chalice opens the doorway, but it’s the blood that controls my children.”

Callie frowned.

Was the chalice absorbing his blood?

It seemed like the most logical explanation in a world that had gone insane.

“Each... child takes a part of your life force?”

“Yes.” He lowered his arm, his gaze trained on her pale face. “Which is why you were created, dear Callie.”

She flinched.

A part of her wanted to slap her hands over her ears. Yeah, it was childish, but there was only so much a poor girl could take. And she’d had more than her share of shocks over the past half hour, thank you very much.

Unfortunately, a larger part understood there was no more running, no more hiding from her destiny.

This was what Boggs had warned of all those years ago. She knew it in the very depths of her soul.

All she could do was hope that she was strong enough to prevent her father from using her in his quest to ... Wait, she still didn’t know what his actual quest was.

“What do you mean, why I was created?”

“To take my rightful place I must have an army, but unlike my predecessor, I have no intention of becoming a martyr.” He glanced toward the small wound on his wrist before his eyes lifted to meet her wary gaze. “It will be your blood that is sacrificed.”

It was exactly what she expected, but that didn’t halt the black wave of dread that threatened to overwhelm her.

With an effort she forced back her despair, instinctively tucking her hands behind her back. As if that would stop the lunatic.

“And if I don’t want to become your sacrifice?” she croaked.

Her father smiled with cold indifference.

“It really isn’t optional, my dear.”

Duncan paced the inner garden of Valhalla, his seething impatience making it impossible for him to stand still.

He’d awoken two hours ago with his head aching and his shoulder on fire, but ignoring the young healer who’d insisted he remain in bed, he’d gone in search of the Mave.

He had to get back to Kansas City.

And he didn’t care who he had to piss off to get there.

Unfortunately the Mave had been impossible to track down and Fane had refused to allow him to leave, claiming they were doing everything possible to locate Callie.

It wasn’t that Duncan doubted the Sentinel’s word; Fane would lay down his life to rescue Callie. But being forced to pace the floor while Callie was in danger was nothing short of torture.

Trying to pass the time without doing something crazy that would get himself locked in the dungeons, Duncan had called his chief to explain to her why there was a dead body in the parking lot of his apartment building.

And, oh yeah, to warn her that her most trusted coroner was not only dead, but now under the control of Lord Zakhar.

His heart squeezed at the memory of Molinari’s shocked grief, but he refused to give in to his own seething emotions. He would mourn Frank once Callie was safe.

Until then... he was the enemy.

Pausing long enough to slam his fist into a marble fountain, he abruptly stiffened, but not in pain.

Someone had entered the garden.

Spinning around, he watched as Fane stepped from behind a trimmed hedge, his tattooed face as hard as granite.

“It’s about damned time,” Duncan growled, stomping his way through the flower beds to stand in front of the Sentinel. “Where’s the Mave?”

Folding his arms over his bare chest, Fane met Duncan’s fierce scowl with a shuttered expression and said, “She’s called together the witches.”

“Why?”

“She hopes they can combine their powers to locate Callie.”

Duncan narrowed his gaze. He knew jack-squat about witches and their powers. “What are the odds they can?”

“Not good enough.” Fane gave a jerk of his head. “Come on.”

Duncan followed the man out of the garden and into a narrow hall. Then, halting in front of a seemingly blank wall, he placed his hand flat against a small scanner that was hidden in a potted plant.

The wall slid open with a soft hiss, revealing an elevator that was lined with steel and high-tech security alarms.

“Where are we going?” Duncan muttered. “The Batcave?”

Fane shoved him into the elevator and pushed the one button on the control panel. “To meet with the Tagos.”

“Goddammit,” Duncan snapped, watching the door slide close in frustration. “We’ve wasted enough time. We should be out searching for Callie.”

Fane leaned against the smooth wall as they headed downward at heart-stopping speed. “Where?”

Well, that was the question, wasn’t it?

If Duncan had so much as a fucking hint where the necromancer was keeping Callie, there wasn’t a force in nature that could keep him at Valhalla. He muttered a curse.

“Don’t you have some sort of mystical bond with her?” he challenged his companion.

Fane’s stony expression never altered, but there was no mistaking the heat boiling from his massive body. The Sentinel was as close to the edge as Duncan.

“I can sense she’s still alive, but there’s something cloaking our bond,” he admitted in stark tones.

“The necromancer?”

“Yes.”

The elevator came to a sudden halt, the door sliding silently open.

“Perfect,” Duncan snarled as he stepped out of the small cubical. “Just perfect.”

“Your frustration serves no purpose, cop,” a deep male voice chided.

Belatedly realizing that he’d stepped directly into a huge office, Duncan came to an abrupt halt.

Yow.

He was accustomed to the cramped police station with outdated equipment and shitty furniture.

This... this was a cop’s wet dream.

A long, brightly lit room with a state of the art computer system and heavy wooden furniture that was spaced far enough apart to give a person privacy. On the far wall was a line of monitors that hinted at surveillance equipment that could rival the Pentagon.

Hell, he was fairly sure that some of those monitors were connected to government satellites. Maybe the high-bloods had their own satellites.

On another wall there were several doors that were closed and monitored with motion and heat sensors, making Duncan wonder what kind of secrets were lurking just out of sight.

Military grade weapons?

Super heroes?

Elvis?

Shaking his head, Duncan turned his attention to the man standing in the center of the room.

Wolfe, the leader of the Sentinels.

There could be no doubt.

He didn’t have the tattoos or bulging muscles of Fane.

He didn’t even wear a symbol of his authority.

But there was an unmistakable authority stamped onto the dark, exotic features that were framed by glossy dark hair that was touched with a startling streak of silver. And a predatory power in the lean body that was covered by a pair of black jeans and white tee stretched tight over a broad chest.

His feet were encased in a pair of heavy shit-kickers and spread wide, his hands planted on his hips as he regarded Duncan with a suspicious glare.

Or as Duncan’s pa would say “giving him the stink-eye.”

Any other time, Duncan might have been intimidated. Wolfe was the kind of guy who could daunt anyone. But right now he was consumed by his fear for Callie and in no mood for a pissing match.

“You think I should be satisfied to sit around here with my thumb stuck up my ass?” he rasped, giving his own version of the stink-eye.

“Mind your manners, cop, or you’ll have something besides your thumb stuck up your ass,” a new voice growled.

Hissing in shock, Duncan turned his head to watch two men step out of the shadows. Christ. He would have sworn on his favorite Sig Sauer that they hadn’t been there a second ago.

So did they use a hidden entrance?

Or could they cloak themselves?

Smiling at his shock, the speaker halted next to Wolfe, looking every inch as dangerous as his Tagos.

Oh, he made a pretense of being civilized. He had his dark hair that was threaded with hints of autumn fire cut short and his lean body was attired in a blue silk shirt and black chinos.

His lean face was perfectly constructed with a wide brow and narrow nose. And while he was too masculine to be traditionally handsome, he had the sort of “tall, dark, and broody” looks that made women swoon.

His partner, on the other hand, had the beauty of an angel.

His features were delicate with a mop of light brown hair with honey highlights. And his eyes... in the bright light they shimmered a perfect gold.

No doubt he liked being dismissed as a lightweight, but Duncan didn’t miss the muscles honed to lean perfection beneath his casual T-shirt and faded jeans, and the ruthless willingness to kill that simmered deep in the gold eyes.