The chief’s lips parted to cross-examine him, then clearly deciding it wasn’t worth the battle, she instead turned her attention to the file folder in her hand. Flicking it open, she read from the top page.

“Sixty-two-year-old Caucasian male, in decent health, who made a fortune in the financial world.”

“Anyone want him dead?”

“Two ex-wives who were stupid enough to sign prenups and a dozen employees with pending lawsuits that accuse him of everything from sexual harassment to insider trading.”

Typical. What was it with rich guys having to be dickheads?

“So not the most popular guy.”

“I have Caleb running down the more obvious suspects. But—”

“But this murder was anything but obvious,” Duncan finished for her.

“Exactly.”

He strolled toward the desk, allowing his gaze to wander aimlessly over the room. He’d discovered over the years that clues rarely came attached with labels or blinking neon lights. Instead it was almost always something subtle.

A chair moved for no apparent reason.

A drawer not fully closed.

A recently repaired window.

Anything out of place that was inexplicably easier to notice with a casual glance instead of a focused search.

“Do you know anything about the coin that was stolen?”

Molinari shrugged. “I have the research department enlarging a picture of it. They haven’t found anything yet.”

“Yeah. I picked up a copy.” Not that it helped. Even with the details of the coin brought into focus it meant nothing to Duncan. He needed an expert. “Was it listed on his homeowners policy?”

“Not.”

“So, black market.”

“That would be my guess.”

“What about the other artwork?”

Molinari shuffled through the papers in her file. “It looks like most of the pieces have legitimate paperwork, but I’ll have it double checked.”

Duncan grimaced. No one would be stupid enough to display such famous pieces if they were off the black market. Unless they were forgeries.

His hand reached to pick up the stone vase that was safely wrapped in an evidence bag.

“What about the container?”

“What about it?”

“What is it?”

“I don’t have a damned clue. It looks old.”

It looked older than old. It looked ancient.

Holding it to the light, he studied the strange symbols etched into the stone.

“Can I keep it?”

Molinari frowned at the unexpected request. “It’s evidence.”

“I won’t let anything happen to it.”

There was a long silence as the chief weighed the need for information against protocol.

At last the shouts from the growing crowd of gawkers across the street made her heave a sigh of resignation.

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt. It’s already been dusted for prints,” she muttered. “What do you want it for?”

“Callie and her pet Sentinel are searching for the history of the necromancer in an effort to locate him. I want to start at the other end.” He glanced toward the black mark on the carpet where Calso had died. “The present.”

“You lost me.”

He lifted his head to meet his companion’s puzzled gaze. “If we find out where Calso got the coin and what makes it worth killing for, we might be able to use the information to discover who else was interested in the coin,” he explained, his mind already shifting through his various contacts. “There can’t be that many numismatists willing to dabble in black markets. This vessel can hopefully lead me to a specific dealer.”

Molinari gave a slow nod. “Clever, but we don’t know for sure that the vessel and the coin are actually connected.”

“It’s a place to start.”

The chief abruptly tossed the file back on the desk, her expression tight with frustration.

“Shit, I hate this.”

Duncan grimaced. “I think we’re going to hate what’s coming even more.”

Chapter Fifteen

The journey from Kansas City to Saint Petersburg might have been made in the blink of an eye, but it was as disconcerting as hell. It seemed no matter how great the power, you couldn’t jerk a body halfway around the world and nine hours into the future without it making a girl feel dizzy.

Moving to lean against the wall that was covered in delicately painted hieroglyphs, Callie sucked in a deep breath, waiting for her head to stop spinning.

Across the small room Fane stood in silence, unaffected by the teleportation.

Not that he was entirely happy.

Callie grimaced as her gaze skimmed over his large tattooed body, which was covered by a pair of casual khakis, heavy black boots, and a tight muscle shirt. There was no missing the rigid tension of his shoulders and the tightness of his starkly male features.

For all his stoic calm, Fane was royally pissed.

At her.

“Why don’t you spit out what you have to say before your head explodes?” she murmured.

He turned to study her with a steady gaze. “Would it do any good?”

She briefly considered the pleasure she’d found in Duncan’s arms. Had it been a mistake? Maybe. Did she give a damn? No.

“Doubtful,” she admitted with a rueful smile.

“Then there’s no point.”

“It might make you less grumpy.”

“Doubtful.”

She rolled her eyes as he turned on his heels and headed out of the portal room. Fane had never tried to interfere in her intimate affairs. Usually because she had no affairs, intimate or otherwise.

But they both understood that Duncan O’Conner threatened to become more than a passing distraction.

They entered the main section of the monastery, and Callie forced herself to ignore Fane’s foul mood as a heavily cloaked monk moved toward her.

Her guardian was like an older brother. No matter how much they might fuss and fight, nothing could break their bond of trust.

She would never, ever doubt he had her back.

“Welcome to our humble abbey.” The monk offered a bow before he straightened and pulled back his hood to reveal a long, deeply wrinkled face that was made beautiful by his kind blue eyes and sweet smile. “I am Brandon.”

Beside her, Fane returned the bow, his hand pressed over his heart in a gesture of respect.

“We are honored to be your guests. I’m Fane and this is Callie Brown.”

“Fane. Ms. Brown.” He sent them both a piercing glance. “A pleasure.”

“Please call me Callie.”

“Thank you.” Another sweet smile before Brandon waved a hand toward a nearby archway. “We have prepared for your arrival. If you’ll follow me.”

They traveled through the reception room, which was built of stark gray stones with narrow slits that offered a mere glimpse of the fading sunlight. She didn’t allow herself to think that it was still late morning at Valhalla. Her stomach was just settling from the journey.

There was a long, narrow hallway that ended in a heavy wooden door with an old-fashioned iron lock. Brandon pulled an equally old-fashioned key from the pocket of his robe and used it to tumble the lock. Then, with a strange air of ceremony he pushed open the door and stepped aside so Callie could enter first.

She wasn’t sure what to expect.

Although she’d been surrounded by Sentinels all her life, not to mention traveled by portal with Fane from one monastery to another, she’d never been beyond the public rooms that were always stark and uninviting. The monks were OCD when it came to the privacy of the students and their training.

Now she sucked in a startled breath as she glanced around the vast library.

The place was . . . stunning.

Unlike the sleek, high-tech library at Valhalla, this room spoke of Russia’s past, with an onion-domed ceiling that was richly painted with Orthodox icons and edged with gilt. The floor was a white marble inset with pieces of jade and gold that shimmered in the light from the candelabras. The walls were lined with towering bookshelves that were ornately carved and separated by fluted columns. The rosewood furniture was clearly the work of master craftsmen and so highly polished it seemed to glow.

“Oh.” Callie twirled in a circle, absorbing the sheer beauty of the room. “This is exquisite.”

The monk chuckled. “I will share your appreciation with our students.”

Callie widened her eyes. “Sentinels did this?”

“We train all our Sentinels with some craft.”

Callie shot a glance toward the silent Fane. “So that’s how you learned to carve such beautiful figurines.”

Fane shrugged, but his features eased as he studied her dazzled expression. He would have his tongue cut out before he admitted he took pride in his small carvings that filled the nurseries at Valhalla.

Tiny ballerinas, trees with squirrels perched on leafy branches, intricate castles, and mind-twisting puzzles. Bewitching creations that the children adored.

“It teaches that anything worthy comes from patience and dedication to detail,” Brandon explained.

Callie smiled. “We should all learn that particular lesson.”

Brandon moved to a fireplace set behind a large desk, brushing his hand over a jade vase. Without warning a panel beside the fireplace slid open to reveal a hidden staircase.

“This way,” the monk urged, leading them down the dark stairs.

Callie followed behind him with Fane bringing up the rear.

“Where are we going?” she asked in confusion, skimming her hand down the cement wall as the darkness thickened to the point she was nearly blind. Her own skills didn’t include seeing in the dark.

“This is where we keep items that are too fragile to be put on display,” Brandon answered, opening the door at the bottom of the stairs to reveal a brilliantly lit room that was built in the shape of an octagon and lined with steel. Eight doors were set in the steel. “These vaults are specially designed to maintain the proper temperature and humidity.” Brandon headed to the nearest door, pressing his thumb against a digital scanner. If the library upstairs had been a vision of old-world elegance, this was a glimpse into the future. “And, of course, the scribes are trained to handle even the most ancient artifacts.”