Both those who openly worked against him, and those who hid in the shadows ...

Ignoring the pain that pounded through his skull, Zak turned his head, a grim satisfaction replacing his momentary confusion.

Even in the shadows he could make out the unmistakable glint of gold.

The chalice.

Grasping his trophy, Zak awkwardly forced himself to his feet.

It hadn’t been a dream. Or a trap.

He’d spoken to the ghosts of his ancestors. And he’d been found worthy.

More than worthy, he silently gloated, forcing his heavy feet to carry him out of the temple.

Unlike the previous necromancer, he had no intention of jeopardizing his life to acquire the power necessary to raise an army. The martyr routine had never appealed to him. Not when he’d been clever enough to prepare a proper sacrifice.

What was the point of power if you couldn’t use it to rule the world?

Making his way down the long staircase, he paused at the bottom, gathering his strength before he walked the short distance to the waiting witch.

His head might be throbbing and his knees threatening to collapse, but he would never show weakness.

He was too close to his ultimate success to risk a knife in the back.

Halting in front of Anya, who was still on her knees, her head bent in weariness, he reached down to grasp her arm. Yanking her to her feet, he slipped the chalice into the deep pocket of his robe.

“Is the pathway still open?” he growled.

Anya blinked, her eyes unfocused as if she’d been asleep. “Yes, but—”

“Let’s go.”

“What happened?” she demanded, glancing around the barren desert. “Did the coin work?”

He offered a tight-lipped smile. “I have what I need.”

She studied him in the fading moonlight, her brows drawn together. “Are you bleeding?”

“How very astute of you, Anya,” he drawled, refusing to speak of what had happened in the temple. “Do you intend to continue this inquest? Or perhaps we can finish it when we aren’t standing knee deep in sand?”

“Fine.” Her chin tilted as she held out her hand. “Let’s go.”

His hesitation lasted less than a heartbeat before he grasped her fingers and braced himself for the journey. He was weary, but not helpless.

And besides, being on constant guard meant that he was prepared for any trap.

Keeping the chalice hidden in his pocket, Zak clenched his teeth as the world dissolved and he was shrouded in a choking blackness.

He hated making himself vulnerable to Anya’s magic, even when it was necessary.

There was a sickening lurch as they traveled through the strange fold in space, then the world abruptly reappeared and they were standing in his private study.

With a groan, Anya dropped to her knees, her brilliant curtain of hair tumbling over her shoulders to brush the Persian carpet.

Taking a step back, Zak regarded his companion with impatience.

“Go to bed, Anya. You will be of no use until you’ve regained your strength,” he said with a brutal lack of sympathy for her fatigue.

With an obvious effort, the witch rose to her feet, her face pale with the strain to remain upright.

“I want to know what happened in the temple.”

Zak paused before giving a shrug. There was no point in hiding his success.

Not when he intended to begin the final stages of his plan within the next few days.

Perhaps even hours.

“I was given what I need to take my place as the ruler of the high-bloods,” he admitted, removing the chalice from his pocket and moving to place it on the desk.

Anya sucked in a sharp breath, no doubt sensing the magic that pulsed around the golden artifact.

“What does it do?”

He ran a loving finger along the rim of the chalice. “With this I can raise armies to fight my battles.”

Anya swayed, her face more pale than usual as she grasped the back of a nearby chair.

“Zak, this is too dangerous.”

He sent her a frown. “What?”

“The last time we tried—”

“I have no need to be reminded of my previous failures,” he snapped.

“I just want you to take this slow.” Anya licked her lips. “You may mock the Mave and Valhalla, but they aren’t helpless.”

His cold smile hid his stab of fury.

Over the centuries he’d watched from the shadows as the high-bloods had started to ban together in small, secretive groups. He understood the philosophy that it was safer to surround yourself with people who were like you. Especially when the humans began to realize that the myths and legends they’d always thought were nothing more than fairy tales were actually true.

There were monsters in the dark.

But he’d seen the hieroglyphs on the temple wall and he understood what happened when high-bloods lived in communities, their powers revealed for the world to see.

He had no intention of becoming a visible enemy for the violent humans who were always eager to destroy what they feared.

Still, it had been a constant source of annoyance to watch the Maves come and go at Valhalla, each one commanding more power than the one before.

He was the destined leader of the high-bloods.

“They’ve grown complacent over the years.” His lips curled into a sneer. “I must strike before they can prepare for an attack.”

Anya’s grip on the chair tightened until her knuckles turned white.

Fear? Desperation? Some combination of the two?

“You have no guarantee that the chalice will even work.”

He shrugged. “I will soon discover one way or another.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think we should have a small test.”

“Zak—”

“Go to your room, Anya,” he interrupted.

Soon he would have to deal with the witch.

But not tonight.

Sensing the dismissal in his tone, Anya grudgingly crossed the floor and with a last wary glance, left him alone in the study.

Zak waited until he could hear her footsteps on the stairs before running his fingers beneath the edge of the desk. There was a faint click, then a secret panel on the side slid open. With a stab of satisfaction he reached to grab the chalice, tucking it into the empty compartment before sliding the secret panel shut.

It wasn’t the most secure hiding place, but the chalice pulsed with a magic that was unique to diviners. The magic of death.

No one but a powerful necromancer could use it.

To anyone else it was just a battered goblet.

With his prize tucked away for the night, Zak sank into the chair behind the desk and absently reached for the remote to turn on the plasma TV over the fireplace.

He always devoted an hour or so before bed to watch the news, both global and local. He might consider humans beneath him, but he never underestimated them as an enemy. It was imperative that he study their strengths and weaknesses.

Fast-forwarding through the tedious fascination with glamorous actors behaving badly and the unpredictable stock market, Zak abruptly rose to his feet as the image of a dead girl lying on the bank of a river was flashed on the screen.

It wasn’t the sight of Leah that captured his attention. He’d known her body would eventually show up. After all, Tony had disposed of her. Which meant he’d driven to the river and tossed her in at the nearest spot, not even bothering to consider she would get snagged on the bank just a few miles away if he didn’t weight her down.

Idiot.

But instead, it was when the camera panned to the side to catch the image of a lean, hard-faced man who broke away from a group of cops to speak with a young woman. A woman with hair the color of fire and eyes covered by reflective glasses.

He surged to his feet, his mind racing with possibilities.

Callie Brown.

Just the woman he wanted.

Reaching down, he stabbed a button that connected him to the intercom system.

Within seconds the groggy voice of Tony floated through the air. “Yes, sir?”

“In my study.”

There was a momentary pause. “Now?”

Zak hissed with impatience. “Yes, now.”

Lifting the remote control, he replayed the news clip, his narrowed gaze missing nothing as he considered the various ways to take advantage of this unexpected stroke of fortune.

He was on his fourth time through the clip when Tony at last lumbered into the room, his girth covered by a too-short robe and his hair rumpled.

“You need something?” he asked, his voice gruff.

Zak pointed toward the image on the television screen. He’d paused it at the point where the blond-haired man was speaking with the female diviner.

“Do you recognize the man?”

Tony grimaced. “O’Conner. Sergeant O’Conner of the Kansas City Police Department,” he said. “He busted me about six years ago. Bastard.” Tony stepped toward the television, giving a low whistle. “Who’s the babe?”

With a nonchalant motion, Zak backhanded his servant, sending him crashing against the far wall.

“Never speak of her again, is that clear?”

Tony climbed slowly to his feet, wiping the blood from his split lip. “Yeah, painfully clear.”

“Good.”

Zak pressed Play, carefully watching the possessive manner O’Conner behaved toward Callie. They were lovers. It was obvious in the way she leaned in to his intimate touch and his protective glares whenever anyone strayed too close to them.

They were emotionally entangled, which meant that they wouldn’t be able to stay away from one another.

All he had to do was keep a careful watch on the cop. Eventually Callie would leave Valhalla to spend time with him. Hopefully without the constant protection of her Sentinel.

The trick would, of course, be taking them alive.

His specialty was death.

Rewinding the tape, he watched as O’Conner spoke with his fellow police officers, taking note of the private conversation he shared with a gray-haired cop who stood apart from the others.

“What about the man?” he demanded.