They weren’t wrong.
Zak was seated at his desk in his private library when the scent of blood had him lifting his head to watch as Anya stepped into the room.
For once she’d put aside her designer clothing and was covered from neck to toe in a black satin robe with her hair pulled into a tight braid that fell down her back. Zak was similarly attired, although his robe was made of a silver silk that would be disposed of once they were done.
Blood and death were a messy business.
“You have prepared the spell?”
She shrugged. “The blood has opened a pathway to our destination.”
He rose to his feet, unconcerned by the knowledge she’d had to sacrifice a young child to create the magic necessary to create a gateway.
It was, after all, the reason he’d first been attracted to Anya.
There were any number of witches and mystics among the Russian court, some of them even real. But Anya was special. Long before high-bloods had become known by the norms, she’d trained with a clandestine coven that had taught her magic that was long since banned. Including the ability to travel that was similar to a Sentinel, although she was drawn to objects with magical power instead of using well-established portals from monastery to monastery.
Which was how she first stumbled across the ancient ziggurat covered in hieroglyphics that was nearly buried in the deserts of Iran.
“Good,” he said, grim satisfaction edging his voice. “Then let’s go before my destiny can be once again snatched away.”
“Snatched away?” Her eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”
“A traitor.”
“A traitor?”
He arched a brow. “Did I stutter?”
“No, but—” Anya frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“Really? I should think it was obvious. Someone has betrayed me.” A chill swirled through the air. “Someone very close to me.”
“You can’t possibly suspect me? It would be ridiculous.”
“Don’t pretend moral outrage, Anya,” he warned in cold tones. “It doesn’t suit you.”
The witch clenched her bloodstained hands. “I have as much invested as you, Zak. Why would I devote my life to you only to become a traitor?”
He was far from impressed by her fierce response. Only an idiot would trust a woman who would willingly sell her soul to the highest bidder.
“And what do you have invested?” he drawled.
She sucked in an outraged breath. “I saved your life.”
“Maybe.”
“What do you mean? I pulled you from the flames.” Temper abruptly snapped in her emerald eyes. “It was my magic that kept your heart beating while your body healed.”
His own expression remained glacial. “You also promised a dozen times we were about to get your hands on the coin, only to discover that it had once again slipped from our grasp.”
She muttered a foul curse. “It was your bokors that failed, not my magic.”
His fingers stroked over the coin hidden in the pocket of his robe. Over the years he’d meticulously reviewed his failures to acquire the coin. He’d wasted enormous resources and risked exposure each time he raised the dead. The fact that they’d missed carrying out their mission by mere hours, sometimes minutes, had been enough to stir his suspicions.
“Hmm.”
Anya narrowed her gaze. “What?”
“The more simple explanation was that someone was warning the owners of the coin that I was on their trail.”
She appeared genuinely outraged by his words. “If you suspected I was a traitor then why did you allow me to stay with you?”
He shrugged. “I’ve always believed in the theory that it’s best to keep your enemies close.”
“This is insanity,” she hissed. “If it was me, then why wouldn’t I have warned Calso?”
“Perhaps you’re actually innocent. Or perhaps this is a cleverly constructed trap.” He shrugged. “Until I know which it is, I can assure you I will be on constant guard.” He offered a cold smile. “Now, are we traveling to the temple or not?”
“Fine.” With a swirl of satin robes, the witch was heading out the door. “Follow me.”
In silence they made their way to Anya’s private rooms on the upper floor. The stench of blood became almost overwhelming as she pushed open the door to reveal her sitting room, which had been converted into a basic chapel.
With a grimace, Zak glanced over the scrolled chairs with pretty pastel cushions that were arranged in a semicircle around the rough wooden altar. The expensive artwork that had once hung on the ivory walls had been piled in one corner and replaced with shelves of murky bottles that held an assortment of nasty ingredients used by Anya when she was cooking up her potions or casting her spells.
The curtains had been pulled across the window, shrouding the room in shadows. The only light was a lone candle that sat on the altar next to the wooden bowl filled with blood.
The blood of an innocent.
Moving forward, Anya waved a hand toward the altar. “Stand beside me,” she commanded.
Zak joined her, reaching to grasp her wrist in a grip tight enough to hurt.
“Anya,” he murmured in silken tones, “make very certain there are no mistakes.”
Duncan was damned proud of himself.
He hadn’t pulled his gun when Fane had stood protectively close to Callie, his expression hard as he clearly tried to convince the young diviner to return to Valhalla with him.
Or when Callie had lifted her hand to touch the Sentinel with an intimacy that made him growl like a f**king dog.
Or even when Fane had sent Duncan a glare that warned all sorts of bad, bad repercussions if Callie was hurt on his watch.
Yeah, so kudos to him.
Still, he couldn’t resist wrapping a possessive arm around her shoulders when she at last returned to his side and the hulking guardian jogged up the steep path, pausing at the top to send Duncan one last glare.
And if that made him a caveman ... then so be it.
“He doesn’t look happy,” he muttered, tugging her even closer to his side.
At least he hadn’t pounded his chest, right?
“He’s not.” She heaved a faint sigh before turning to study him with a determined expression. “Where do we go first?”
His gaze slid over her pale, perfect features, barely resisting the urge to pluck off her reflective glasses so he could drown in the sapphire beauty of her eyes.
“I know where I’d like to go,” he murmured softly.