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
