скачать книгу бесплатно
For what, he often wondered. Heh. Guess she hadn’t succeeded.
“That’ll be all, Clas. Thanks.”
“No problem. Let me know when you need another favor.”
“You know I will.”
The vampire left, closing the door behind him, and Slater lashed his tongue over the bloodied heart. Verity’s taste burst on his tongue. She’d never allowed him to bite her. He’d always known she’d taste sweet. Pity he only got to experience her sweetness postmortem.
“This is what happens when you piss me off, witch,” he muttered and tucked the necklace in his desk drawer.
Chapter 2 (#ulink_30bead98-8060-5b04-a2c7-81ceeeec4296)
A beam of morning sunshine prodded at Verity’s eyelids. She popped upright from lying on her side in the middle of the hardwood floor. Looking about the attic bedroom, discombobulated by the sudden awakening, she winced as sunlight flashed through a crystal suspended overhead and lasered her directly in the eye.
With a yawn, she stretched her arms and legs, curling her toes inside her boots. She still wore her ankle boots? And her clothing from last night.
Her fingers landed on the open grimoire, a thick, centuries-old book that had been in the Von Velde family for six generations. Bound in blue leather, it was two feet long and almost as wide. Beside it sat black and red candles, both guttered to wax puddles that would leave a stain on the painted floor. Beside that lay a dead dove that she’d deftly eviscerated to get to the beating heart. The heart lay embedded in the guttered black wax.
The grimoire was opened to a blood-spattered (from the dove) page that detailed the spell for Fending Off Imminent Vampirism in Mortals. She wasn’t mortal by any means, but it had been her only hope. In desperation she had recited the ancient Latin incantation and torn out the dove’s heart.
Once bitten, the vampiric taint entered the victim’s system. If the wound was not properly sealed with the vampire’s saliva, the victim could then turn vampire by the next full moon if one of three things did not occur: the victim killed the vampire who had bitten them; the victim refused to drink mortal blood before the full moon (which generally resulted in madness because the blood hunger was relentless); the victim committed suicide.
Verity had walked through one and a half centuries and had not been bitten once. Hell, until two decades ago, vampires would have never dreamed of biting a witch because of the Great Protection spell enacted a thousand years earlier to safeguard witches from vampires enslaving them for their magic. It had made all witches’ blood fatal to the vampire.
And then the spell had been lifted as a means to bring peace between the two breeds.
“Idiotic plan,” Verity muttered. “What witch had thought that a good idea?”
When the vampire she recently dated but had not allowed to bite her had turned on her after a month, she’d realized he’d been grooming her to steal her magic all along. The only way to do that was with bloodsexmagic. Lots of sex and biting and drinking blood imbued the vampire with the witch’s magic. It also left the witch’s magic drained and lacking.
Verity would have none of that and had broken it off with the vampire. She would never rule vampires out completely as dating prospects, but she would be much choosier next time she fell for a fanged one.
She rarely went beyond the three-date mark. It was safer that way. It was difficult to shake the mantra her mother had ingrained within her soul: Men were not to be trusted. But the three-date minimum had been stretched to a few more with the last guy. Rules were not meant to be rigid.
Her ex-vampire lover had stalked her for months after their breakup, but she’d thought he’d finally given up when she had been forced to move two months earlier. He hadn’t found her new address.
Or had he? The hunter had said the vampires last night were from tribe Zmaj. Same tribe as her ex-lover.
“No, if he wanted to hurt me, he’d do it himself,” she said, stroking the rough wounds on her neck. “Blessed goddess, I hope the spell worked. What am I saying? It did work.” She tapped the grimoire. Never did her spellcraft fail her. “I’m fine. Just a little bite mark that should heal within a few days.”
As a witch, she didn’t heal quickly—perhaps only fifty percent faster than a mortal. The healing arts had never been her talent. That was her friend, and fellow witch, Zoë’s forte.
As she studied the wound with her fingers and trailed them over the dried bloodstains on the dress neckline, she realized something was missing.
“My necklace.”
The vampire must have torn it off as he’d ripped his teeth from her neck. Why would he take that precious bit of wood and leather from her? Or could it have simply fallen off during the attack? She’d had the necklace since early in the twentieth century. Had been waiting for its owner to come and claim not only the wooden heart, but also the very soul within.
“I have to go back and look for it.”
She had protected and cared for that soul too long to give up on it now. And because of what the hunter had said last night. Rook. She couldn’t get his startled exclamation out of her head.
“His soul?” As bedraggled and exhausted as she felt, Verity couldn’t help but smile. “Could he be the one?”
Sure she’d find the necklace lying in the alley near her dried bloodstains, she pushed to a stand and wobbled. Weak and drained, she felt as if she’d run two marathons. Curse her girlie need to always wear high heels.
“First a shower,” she muttered. Making a beeline for the bathroom, she stripped off her clothes along the way. “And then back to the scene of the crime.”
* * *
The Order had intel on the majority of vampires across the world. Rook wasn’t a computer expert—he employed a team of IT techs for that—but he did use the database frequently. Actually the IT team was one man, and he was currently in the States setting up operations because the Order didn’t have an official US headquarters yet. He and King hoped to open the New York base within a few years.
In the database, Rook located the Other section, which detailed all breeds not vampire. It was more a way to keep tabs on who was living where and associating with whom than a complete archive of every breed that trod mortal ground. Their files on faeries were sparse. Those creatures lived in an entirely different realm, yet the knights had occasion to deal with the sidhe who lived in FaeryTown. Mortal vampire sympathizers also were kept under close watch.
Under Witches, the database didn’t list any more on Verity beyond her name, believed to be Veritas Von Velde. Or so he assumed she was the only witch named Verity who lived in Paris. Records guessed at her age as more than two centuries. Because she was associated with the Demon Arts Troupe, a known address was listed for her. A recent move within the past few months?
He made a note of her address and headed out. Half an hour later he stood in front of a pretty little walk-up townhome with a vast and lush herb garden out front, enclosed by a wrought-iron fence painted deep purple.
He clanked the greenman brass door knocker and after five tries decided she was either not home or not answering a hunter’s raps. He didn’t sense anyone inside; it wasn’t a magical skill, he just felt as if the place was empty. So he scribbled a note and tucked it under the mat.
He’d wanted to see that she had survived the attack last night with little wear and tear and check that she had found a spell to counteract the bite. The last thing he needed on his watch was a witch turning vampire. The double-whammy of magical skills and the hunger for blood tended to make such a creature deadly and place them on top of the Order’s Most Wanted list.
* * *
The field trip to search for the necklace resulted in disappointment. But stocking the pantry had been successful with a quick stroll down the Rue Cler.
“Wanted to know that you are okay,” Verity read from the note she’d found fluttering up from under the doormat. “Need to talk to you. Please meet me at the coffee shop on Quai d’Orsay at eight p.m. Rook.”
She fanned the note over her lips as she strode inside and set the reusable grocery bags on the kitchen counter. Drawing the multicolored silk Hermes scarf away from her neck, she touched the bite wounds. She’d applied her great-grandmother’s ointment on the punctures, and the swelling had calmed nicely.
After putting away the groceries, she cut a head-sized watermelon into chunks, which she transferred into a glass container. She ate a few pieces, then picked up the note again and marveled over the precise, squared letters that reminded her of an architect’s writing style.
It was already evening. Dare she meet the man? She had an idea what he wanted to talk about. Couldn’t tell him she’d lost the thing, could she? No, she had to be certain of his identity before she started worrying about that.
And she did want to learn more about the man who had saved her. Sort of saved her. It would have been a hell of a lot better had he staked all the vamps before the bald one had bitten her. And she was just snarky enough to let him have it for that omission.
But should she meet a strange man out of the blue? Especially a hunter?
Though her mother had been dead for more than a century, her warning words still resounded clearly in Verity’s memory. Amandine Von Velde had been betrayed by a hunter—a betrayal that had taken her life.
Sighing, Verity popped another watermelon cube in her mouth. Yet grandmother Freesia’s entreaty to find the one man she could trust dallied with the learned maternal diatribe. Verity had lived alone for more than one hundred and sixty years. She’d had many lovers and a few boyfriends, but never had she allowed herself to completely let down her guard. To trust. Even her male friends she kept at a comfortable distance. A witch had to be cautious.
She wanted that trust. That moment of releasing her breath and just accepting. And she wanted love. What woman did not? Yet would she recognize it when finally it entered her life?
“I hope so. I don’t want to die alone. Companionship sounds…lovely.”
Yes, she would go see the hunter named Rook. Because she wanted to look at him in the light and see if he had been as handsome as she’d remembered while in her fearful, panicked state. And if he embraced her again, maybe gave her a welcome hug, then her night would be complete.
Because his hug had made her feel safe. And that feeling was all too uncommon of late.
* * *
Rook paused mid-sip of his espresso. The witch striding across the street toward his table positioned out front of the café was the sexiest thing on two legs.
Shod in shiny black patent leather high heels, her long legs stroked the air sensuously. Those sexy gams were sheathed in sheer black thigh-high stockings that stopped about four inches below her skirt, and those four inches of skin made his mouth water.
He finished the sip and winced at its heat. Or was that the heat suddenly moving over his perpetually cool skin?
A miniskirt flirted with black ruffles at the hem, and above that, a plain white T-shirt emphasized her pert nipples as the swing of her long, curly, purple hair brushed over them. An unbuttoned gray sweater slouched off one of her shoulders and hung longer than the skirt length, giving her a tousled bedroom look. As if she’d just been given a sound tumbling between the sheets.
Fuck, she was gorgeous.
The dark eggplant hair was curious but not shocking, the color of a lush bloom one would nuzzle to their nose to smell the fragrant perfume. Something he wanted to push his fingers through and clutch to his face while he was giving her the tumble her sensual allure demanded.
And with that thought, Rook straightened and set down his coffee before he spilled it on his lap and singed the erection that had suddenly tightened his pants.
He stood and offered his hand, which she shook before sitting down in an elegant glide and crossing her legs beside the chair instead of under the table, giving him a great view of her gorgeous gams.
“Purple, eh?” he asked stupidly.
She swung thick ringlets over a shoulder. “It’s natural.” With a gesture to the waiter, she confidently summoned him.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Rook offered, inwardly admonishing himself for his sudden timidity. He didn’t do insecurity. He’d overcome that weakness, at the least, three centuries ago. “I’m glad you did.”
“I had to come. I wanted to thank you in a more coherent manner than I must have done last night.” She patted his hand before releasing it. “You’re cold. It is a bit chilly this evening, isn’t it?”
“It’s the way I am. I’ve always been cooler than most. But I warm quickly when…” He stopped himself from saying stroked properly.
Just met the chick, Rook. Dial your lust down a notch.
This one he did not want to scare off. She could help in his investigation.
The waiter stopped by, saving him from having to finish the sentence. Verity ordered mint tea and two vanilla macarons.
“So, thank you,” she said when the waiter walked away. “Did you stake the vampire who bit me?”
“I, uh…” He didn’t want to answer that question but had known it was coming. “He got away. I’m sorry. By the time I left you, the longtooth had given me the slip. I searched the Order database but couldn’t find him. I didn’t get a good look at his face. All I know is that he’s bald.”
She nodded and looked aside, tugging down her skirt in a nervous gesture. On her fingers glittered copper rings clasping amethysts. Witches were into gemstones and precious metals. He’d once known the meanings of the stones and how they could be utilized in magic. That had been so long ago.
“It’s fine,” she offered sweetly. “You took out four others.”
“Were you able to find a spell to prevent the bite from…?” No way to put it gently so he would not even speak it.
“Performed it last night as soon as I got home. I’ll be fine.”
Fluttering her fingers over the glass tabletop, she grasped the creamer with one hand while the other tugged up her sweater collar to hide the bite marks Rook managed to note with a glance.
“So, Order of the Stake. How long have you been a knight?”
“A long time.” And leave it at that. He never revealed the details unless he felt it was worth the trouble of helping the person through the shock. However, she was a witch and nothing should shock her when it came to paranormal particulars. “I’m actually the trainer and leader of the knights, just under the founder.”
“Impressive. Now I feel special. The big man on top saved me?”
Her flirty lash flutter captivated him. Her blue eyes were tinged with deep violet, almost as purple as her hair. As if some kind of rare jewel, they briefly stole attention from her soft, plump lips. But not for long.
Tea was set before her, and she stirred the tea bag about with a spoon. A nip at the macaron summoned a purring approval from her kissable lips.
“I love macarons. If you want to know the way to my heart?” She held the pale ochre pastry up. “This is it. I can tell you which patisseries in Paris sell the best macarons, which offer the crispest, softest and most unique in flavors. And which ones to avoid.”
“Duly noted. It’s always helpful to know the way into a woman’s heart.”
She lowered her gaze.
Rook sipped his espresso and took in the graceful lines of her hand wrapped about the teacup and the flick of her tongue as it dashed out to lick off a flake of pastry from a fingertip. Every move she made was sensual; he fought to not lean in and kiss her.
But what he desired more than a kiss? He wanted to lay his palm over her chest and read her, as he could read any person. He’d gotten such a strange read from their brief contact last night. All night he’d wondered about that flash of knowing that had washed over him as if heat had flooded his nervous system.
Oz had also been distracted through the night. In fact, the demon had been the one to prod him to visit Verity’s home and invite her to this meeting.
“I have to ask you something,” he started.
“It’s about what you said to me last night, isn’t it?”
Her eyes brightened and, compelled, Rook leaned across the table. To be nearer. In her aura of lush flowery scent and sweet sugary macarons. He wondered if her perfume was rose. He wanted to remember her scent when he returned home alone.
She added, “About your soul?”
He sat upright. So she had heard him utter that last night. Even shivering with fear, she’d been coherent and so brave. “Yes. I…felt something when I laid my hand on you.”
“You mean when you grabbed my boob?”
“I didn’t grab it.”
Not purposely. He’d been in a rush to ensure she was all right while the vampires had closed in on him from behind. But her flirtation amused him. She wasn’t afraid of him. In fact, the woman exuded an engaging confidence. Maybe she was interested in more than a chat over tea. He certainly wouldn’t rule it out.
“You felt me up,” she said, drawing her tongue along the jagged edge of the second macaron. He didn’t know her well enough to guess if that tone had been a tease or if she was actually offended.
“It was an accident,” he offered. “I wanted to touch you, to make contact, and let you know you were not alone at such a harrowing moment.”
“Sure.” She tapped the spoon against the plate and sipped her tea. “Admit it. You got a free feel.”
“Well, sure. And what an appropriate time, when four vampires were on my ass.”
“Touché.”
Her lips pursed as she sipped, and Rook sat up straighter, easing his leg to the right to allow some room in his rapidly tightening pants. Damn, she was gorgeous. And a witch. He held great respect for witches. Even when considering his not-so-illustrious history with the breed.
