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?”
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 f**king naked woman or I’ll—”