He needed to feel her against him.
The beat of her heart against his chest, the brush of her breath against his cheek.
Then, wrapping his arms carefully around her fragile form, he lifted his head to watch Fane in action.
Oddly, he hadn’t doubted for a second that the warrior would be able to kill the necromancer.
It didn’t matter that Lord Zakhar had managed to live for centuries. Or that he had the skill to screw with the dead. Or even that his power was filling the air with a chill that would soon become unbearable.
Fane had prepared for this moment since he’d become Callie’s guardian. And nothing, not even the hordes from the underworld, were going to stop him.
“Callie, stay with me, sweetheart,” he murmured, stroking a hand down her back as he watched Fane slowly, ruthlessly squeeze the life from the necromancer. “Stay with me.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
It was supposed to be over.
The bad guy was dead.
Not only dead, but hacked into itty bitty pieces and set on fire, just in case he tried to come back.
But after Fane spread the bastard’s ashes, Callie didn’t so much as stir in Duncan’s arms.
Whatever was wrong with her hadn’t been solved by the necromancer’s death.
Instead she continued to grow weaker.
Rushing her back to Valhalla, they were now in the high-tech wing that served as a hospital for high-bloods with a dozen healers doing their frantic best to keep her alive.
Duncan sat on the edge of the bed where Callie was lying beneath a thin sheet, her arms heavily bandaged and an IV attached to the back of her arm, replacing the blood that she continued to lose.
Fane paced the floor, his skin still faintly blue and his hands marred by frostbite.
Wolfe had come and gone, telling them that the zombie warriors remained in their statuelike state and that the witch had been locked in the crypts to keep her contained.
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.”