“We are the beginning.”
The words vibrated in the air, the sound of a thousand voices seeming to pierce straight through him.
Beginning?
That told him nothing.
Was it supposed to be some sort of riddle, like those of the Sphinx?
He tried a new approach. “Where am I?”
“At the mouth of the underworld.”
Ah. That would explain why he’d been drawn to this place. The dead had always spoken to him.
But it didn’t explain why he was lying unconscious in the main temple with a gaping wound that was even now bleeding out.
“Why have you brought me here?”
“There is a story to be told.”
The glyphs on the sarcophagus began to shimmer. “Your story?”
“Our story.” The scent of death swirled through the air. “Watch.”
Even without his body, Zak felt a stab of wary fury as the glyphs began to pulse, as if they were coming alive.
“Magic,” he hissed.
“Do not interrupt.”
There was an impression of pain. Zak couldn’t be sure if he actually felt it or not, but he wasn’t willing to risk that there was serious damage being done to his physical body.
Smothering his gut-deep hatred of being given commands, he focused on the glyphs that continued to pulse, the shimmering beneath them throwing strange shapes on the smooth walls of the tomb.
Zak watched the flickering shapes for a confused minute, at last realizing they were beginning to solidify to form a three-dimensional image of an ancient village.
He continued to watch the unfolding pictures, realizing that the village was built around this temple. There was no mistaking the vivid indigo glaze on the brick facade or the particular pattern to the window lattices.
“Who are those people?” he asked, frowning as he watched a group of robed figures descend the long staircase from the ziggurat to mingle among a gathered crowd.
“Your ancestors,” the multitude of voices answered.
“Necromancers?”
“High-bloods.”
He considered the unfolding drama in silence, intrigued by the strange images even as his clinical brain warned this all could be nothing more than a result of his head trauma.
Or more likely, a trick.
For now he was willing to play the game.
“Is this where high-bloods came from?”
“Yes,” the voices confirmed. “We were blessed by the gods. Their powers gave us the right to rule this world.”
The images shifted. Suddenly the crowd wasn’t bowing in awe of the robed figures, but they were surrounding the temple, weapons held in their hands as they battled their way past the high-bloods trying to block the stairways.
“Not for long,” he murmured.
The air filled with an anger that would have crushed him if he’d been in his physical form.
“The people grew jealous of our blessings.”
Hmm. He didn’t doubt that humans could be fickle and jealous and ready to destroy what they didn’t understand. Even in these supposedly enlightened ages they remained petty little cowards.
But he was a master of manipulating the emotions of others. He easily recognized when he was being finessed.
Lies wrapped in truths.
“They attacked?”
Flames engulfed the images, the distant sound of screams filling the tomb.
“The oracles were the first destroyed, burned in their own temple. Next were the witches.” The flames lowered to reveal the inner temple where the robed figures were being led into underground tunnels by armed warriors. “The Sentinels realized we were on the brink of extinction so they collected as many of our people as they could save and scattered them around the world.” The images began to shift, flickering from one isolated abbey to another. “We remained in hiding for centuries.”
“They created the monasteries,” Zak murmured.
“Yes, as well as the pathways so our people could remain connected.”
Ah. That made sense. No one spoke of the origins of the high-bloods, or the mysterious connection between the monks.
Not that he thought for a minute that he was getting the full story.
“What do you want from me?” he demanded.
The images abruptly returned to the earlier battle, this time revealing a robed figure standing at the top of the temple with a chalice held above his head, blood dripping down his arms from the deep wounds in his wrists.
The same image that was etched in the hieroglyphs in the upper temple, he recognized with a tiny jolt of shock.
Only he was the one holding the chalice.
“Sokar was our leader,” the voices hissed.
Zak didn’t need to ask if Sokar was the body in the sarcophagus.
He knew it beyond a shadow of a doubt.
“A necromancer?” he instead demanded.
“Yes.” The image pulled back to reveal several robed figures standing behind him, their arms raised with the same wounds on their wrists.
“He, along with his trusted disciples, remained behind to ensure the rest could escape,” the voices explained. “His sacrifice saved hundreds of high-bloods, but has left us trapped between the world of the living and the world of the dead.”
The images abruptly ended, the room once again filled with shadows.
Zak contained his flare of frustration. He had a thousand questions. There was so much of the high-blood history that was hidden, or even lost in the mists of time.
But he wasn’t a fool. He’d been allowed to see precisely what the strange voices wanted him to see and no more.
He couldn’t fully trust anything he might be shown in this place.
“You still haven’t told me why I’m here.”
The answer came without hesitation. “The imprisonment of Sokar has stolen the connection to the dead that was once the birthright of the necromancers. We have long waited for one to be born who could return what was lost.”
“And you believe I am the one?”
“We shall soon discover.”
That wasn’t precisely the assurance that Zak was hoping to hear, but he bit back his demands for a more definitive promise of ultimate glory.
“You will give me the power to raise the dead?”
“Open the gates,” the voices whispered. “And the power will be yours.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Without Fane’s intimidating presence to scatter the gawkers, Callie was prepared for the avid stares as Duncan led her through the police station.
Some curious. Some hostile. Most wary. As if convinced she was some dangerous demon who worshipped the devil beneath the full moon and raised zombies on the weekends.
Moving past the large room filled with desks, filing cabinets, the usual office equipment, as well as suspicious cops, Callie kept her chin held high.
She wasn’t going to apologize for who she was.
Muttering his opinion of cops who had bigger guns than brains, Duncan put a possessive hand on the lower curve of her back as he urged her toward the back of the room.
“Ignore the idiots,” he said, loud enough for his words to be overheard.
Watching as one of the younger cops deliberately wrapped his fingers around the grip of his service revolver, she smiled wryly and murmured, “Easier said than done.”
Duncan glared at the cop until the younger man flushed and turned away.
“I could shoot them if you want,” he offered.
“That seems a little extreme.”
His glare swept around the silent room. “Not to me.”
A door was suddenly thrown open and a small, dark-haired woman appeared.
“If you all have time to stand around scratching your balls then there’s a stack of cold case files in the basement I can start handing out,” she announced, her hands planted on her hips as she watched the cops scurry to look busy. “No? Good.” She turned her attention to Duncan and Callie. “This way.”
Callie hid a smile as they were led out of the room and down a short hallway. This had to be the infamous Chief Molinari. Somehow she’d thought the woman would be six feet tall with horns and a tail.
Not that her diminutive size made her any less intimidating.
In fact, she reminded Callie of the Mave. Stern, frighteningly competent, and ruthless when necessary.
Keeping his hand on her lower back, Duncan urged her closer to his side as they followed the chief down the hall.
“You said the man asked for me?” Duncan demanded.
“Yep,” the chief confirmed. “He wandered in off the street. He says his name is Hektor. No last name.”
Odd.
“And he claims to be the owner of the coin?”
Molinari’s heels clicked on the industrial tiled floor. “He said it belonged to his—”
Duncan and Callie exchanged a puzzled glance as her words trailed away.
“His what?” Duncan at last prompted.
“Brotherhood,” the chief muttered.
“Brotherhood?” Duncan frowned. “Is he a gangbanger?”
“You have to see to believe.”
The chief halted in front of a two-way mirror, nodding toward the interrogation room on the other side.
The room was deliberately barren, with white walls and a linoleum floor that were bathed in a harsh fluorescent light. In the center of the space was a long table with a half dozen wooden chairs.
But it was the lone man seated at the table who captured Callie’s attention.
“Christ, what now?” Duncan muttered.
Callie was wondering the same thing as she took in the stranger. He was a thin man in his late forties with short black hair smoothed from a narrow, ratlike face. His skin was tinted a honey brown, as if burnished from long days in the Middle Eastern deserts. An image only emphasized by the long white tunic he wore over a pair of loose pants.
Her eyes narrowed as she studied the small wooden box that he’d laid on the table in front of him. On the worn top was carved a strange symbol that resembled the bird that had been etched onto the vessel. The vessel that had held the coin stolen from Calso’s safe.
