Duncan leaned forward to punch the directions into the GPS. “Drive fast.”

The words had barely left his lips when Fane had stomped on the gas pedal and they were hurtling along the road at a teeth-rattling speed.

Holy hell.

Duncan hastily buckled his seat belt, tucking the chalice into the glove compartment so he could brace himself.

Inwardly he made a mental note never to tell a Sentinel to drive fast unless he was prepared to risk his life, and the lives of every citizen in Kansas City.

Thankfully the late hour meant there was little traffic and they managed to reach the south side of town without ramming cars off the road or taking out a hapless pedestrian.

Screeching to a halt in front of the steel and glass building, Fane had barely put the vehicle in park when Duncan was jumping out and heading to the back alley.

Girard lived in a small apartment at the rear of the art gallery. Not surprising. When you stored illegal art that could be worth over a million dollars in your basement, you wanted to keep a personal eye on it.

Lifting his arm, Duncan slammed his fist against the heavy door, bellowing at the top of his lungs. “Girard.”

There was a long pause before the door was at last cracked open, and a bleary eyed Girard peered into the alley.

“You had better be a fucking naked woman or I’ll—”

His words were bit off as Duncan leaned forward. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“O’Conner?” The con man frowned, his peppered gray hair tousled around his face and his slender body covered by a terry cloth robe. “Do you know what time it is?”

In answer, Duncan shoved the door wider, stepping into the narrow foyer and flipping on the overhead light.

“We need to talk and you can skip the faux French accent,” he warned.

Girard stumbled backward, tugging at the belt of his robe as he glared at Duncan. He didn’t even bother trying to summon his image of a sophisticated art dealer.

Why bother? It was four in the morning and they both knew he’d started as a common street thug.

“This is private property, you know,” he groused. “Unless you have a warrant you can get your ass out of here.”

Duncan jerked his thumb toward the silent Sentinel standing at his side. “This is my warrant.”

Anger tightened Girard’s narrow face, but he wasn’t stupid enough to argue.

“If you’re here about the vessel—”

“That’s exactly why I’m here,” Duncan interrupted. He wasn’t going to play games. Not tonight. “I need to contact the Brotherhood.”

“Brotherhood?” Girard gave a faux frown, his hand lifting to covertly tug the edge of his robe higher on his neck. “Is that some sort of code?”

“Shit.”

Duncan lunged forward, ripping aside the robe to reveal the arrow-shaped tattoo the man had been trying to hide. He’d never spotted it before because Girard always wore a collared shirt and tie.

Fane frowned in confusion. “What?”

“Hektor had that same tattoo on his neck,” Duncan said.

Without warning the Sentinel had reached out, grabbed Girard by the throat and lifted him three inches off the ground.

“We don’t have time to screw around, so let me make this simple,” Fane growled, squeezing until the man’s eyes bulged. “Tell me how to contact the Brotherhood or I’ll snap your neck.”

Duncan had to give Girard credit. Despite the sweat dripping down his face, he tried to protect his brothers.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Duncan grabbed his chin, hoping that honesty would loosen his tongue. They didn’t have time for Fane to beat it out of him.

“The pathway to the underworld was opened.”

Girard stopped struggling against Fane’s iron grip, a genuine fear flashing through his eyes.

“You’re certain?”

“Yes.”

The man licked his lips. “It’s too late.”

“No,” Duncan snapped. “The necromancer is dead and we have the chalice. We need the Brotherhood to perform the ceremony.”

Girard visibly weighed his options. If he revealed the location of the secret society and discovered Duncan had been lying, he would be toast.

But then again, if he didn’t contact the Brotherhood and Duncan wasn’t lying, he would be toast.

Duncan knew the second he’d conceded defeat.

“Let me go,” he choked out, glaring when Fane continued to hold him off the ground. “Do you want me to contact them or not?”

Fane leaned forward, until they were nose to nose, holding Girard’s weight with obnoxious ease.

The Sentinel could no doubt bench press the Hummer.

“You make one wrong twitch and you’re dead,” he promised in lethal tones, waiting for the man to give a jerky nod before he set him on his feet and stepped back.

“I hate high-bloods,” Girard muttered, pulling a cell phone from his pocket.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Callie woke to discover Duncan lying on the narrow bed next to her, his arm gently tucked around her waist.

His hair was rumpled, his face was lined with weariness, and his golden beard was at least three days old, but he was still the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” he murmured, the hazel eyes filling with relief as he realized she was awake.

She frowned. She had a vague recollection of Duncan carrying her back to Valhalla. Then Serra had come and she was able to warn them of the goblet.

After that it all became fuzzy.

“The chalice?”

He grimaced. “Fane took it along with the Brotherhood to some temple in the Middle East. That’s the only place they could close the doorway to the underworld.”

She blinked. Brotherhood? Temple? Middle East?

“Are you drunk?” she asked.

“I feel like it.” With a choked groan, he pressed his face into the curve of her neck. “God, Callie, you scared the hell out of me.”

She rubbed her cheek over the top of his head, savoring the heat of his body, which drove away the last of her father’s frigid power.

She was safe.

And in the arms of the man she loved.

“I was scared too,” she husked. Understatement of the year. She was going to have nightmares for decades.

He planted a kiss just below her ear. “I know you were, sweetheart, but you saved us all.”

She stiffened. She was fairly certain she’d shared the reason Lord Zakhar had chosen her as his sacrifice when Serra had been rummaging around in her brain, but she had to be sure he understood the blood that ran through her veins.

“Duncan.”

He concentrated on nuzzling a heated path down the line of her jaw.

“Mmm?”

“The necromancer ...” She was forced to halt and clear her throat. “He was my—”

“He’s dead.” He abruptly cut her words short, pulling back to send her a warning frown. “Along with the witch.”

“But they—”

“It doesn’t matter.” He pressed a swift, possessive kiss to her lips. “They’re dead and the zombies have been returned to their graves. It’s over.”

Callie hesitated before heaving a sigh.

Someday they would discuss the gory details. Not only of her father’s sick plot to rule the world and her desperate gamble to take control of the dead Sentinels, but what it meant to be the daughter of Lord Zakhar and his pet witch.

She also had a thousand questions about what had happened after she’d been kidnapped by her psycho father.

But that could wait until the wounds had healed and her emotions weren’t still raw.

“Really and truly over?” she murmured.

“Really and truly over.” Another lingering kiss. “I promise.”

“Thank god.”

He chuckled softly. “Shouldn’t you be thanking me as well?”

She snuggled against him, her heart skipping a beat as his lips found a sensitive pulse just below her jaw.

“Did you want a medal?” she teased.

“Hmm.” He nibbled down the curve of her neck. “I was thinking of a more personal thank you.”

“Perhaps that could be arranged,” she husked, already picturing Duncan spread naked across her bed while her tongue traced his washboard abs.

The things she intended to do to that hard, male body...

Her delicious thoughts were abruptly interrupted by an unwelcomed realization.

Oh... hell.

As Duncan had just said, it was over.

Her father was dead, the chalice had been returned to wherever it came from, and she was no longer in danger.

With an uncanny intuition, Duncan pulled back, his eyes narrowed as he sensed her distress.

“Callie, what’s wrong?” he asked, giving her a warning glare as her lips parted to dismiss his concern. “And don’t you dare try to tell me it’s nothing.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Bossy.”

“It’s part of my charm. Tell me what’s bothering you.”

She might as well. He would nag her to death if she didn’t.

“Now that the necromancer is dead, you’ll be returning to your old life,” she said, her voice deliberately stripped of emotion.

She wouldn’t pressure him into staying.

Or beg to be taken with him.

Only he could decide what he needed to make him happy.

Surprisingly, his expression eased, a tiny smile tugging at his lips. “Will I?”

“Of course.” She plucked at the sheet that covered her, belatedly realizing she must look like hell with her hair sticking up like a porcupine and her body wrapped like a mummy in her hospital gown. Not that it would make Duncan stay even if she was dressed like a movie star. He wasn’t that kind of guy. Still, she did have her pride. “You have your family. Your job—”

“Actually, I’ve taken a new job,” he smoothly interrupted.

She widened her eyes in shock. “A new job? But ... you love being a cop.”