Читать книгу Beyond the Moon - Michele Hauf - Страница 8
ОглавлениеParis—now
King laid a manila folder on Rook’s desk and then stepped around to stand beside it, arms crossed.
“Got time to take a look at this?” King asked Rook. “I’m getting itchy about Slater with the Zmaj tribe. He’s been acting out through others. Over the past six months the tribe has turned sour. Too many murders linked to their vamps, and the increase in their numbers is disturbing. Slater is creating vampires without regard. I think it’s time the Order stepped in.”
The Order of the Stake policed the vampires across Europe and took out the ones who proved a danger to mortals. One of the Parisian tribes, Zmaj, had been peaceable since its inception early in the twentieth century, but recently the Order’s intel had noted a shift in power within the tribe. And a disturbing penchant for violence.
“I’ll put our best knights on it.” Rook, King’s right-hand man and the figurehead in control of the Order, tapped the keyboard to boot up the computer screen. “I might even scout them out myself. Been feeling the need to return to the field lately.”
“Is that so? I thought you’d grown accustomed to your cozy office chair.”
“That’s just it. Do you know what happens when a man rests?”
King shrugged.
“He rusts,” Rook replied. “I haven’t trained a new knight in months. I need to do something physical. Go beat in some vampire skulls and get the death punch out of the bottom drawer.”
The Order’s knights called the specially designed titanium stake the death punch. Standard gear—no knight went on the hunt without three or four in his arsenal.
King, the founder of the Order, had recruited Rook about a decade into his project. They’d known each other since the end of the sixteenth century and had been friends and brothers through the ages. Rook loved and admired the man. He would do most anything he asked, and he knew the respect was reciprocated.
While King watched over his shoulder, Rook scanned through the Order’s database on tribe Zmaj. Their computer network kept detailed records on all known vampires and tribes in Europe and the surrounding nations. Although they focused on vampires, the Order also recorded information on all other paranormal breeds because their work tended to overlap.
They’d been keeping an eye on the vampire Frederick Slater for more than a decade, since his creation in the early part of the twenty-first century. Before that, he’d been mortal for thirty years. The sick bastard had asked for vampirism. The tribe leader was aggressive and devious, yet used others to do his dirty work. And he had entitlement issues. Took things that didn’t belong to him, such as expensive cars and nightclubs. And innocent mortal women he then turned into vampires. A nasty habit the Order had overlooked because he hadn’t been killing them. Until now.
Rook opened the manila folder, a recent file on Zmaj. The first picture was a crime scene photo of a young woman lying in an alley, her neck torn out. Dead. A bloody handprint marked her cheek, a common indicator in the other photos that followed.
“Zmaj is marking their kills,” King noted, tapping the handprint. “Why?”
Rook had no clue. “Vampires tend to be secretive and hide their mistakes.” He shuffled through the photos, each flashing bloody handprints. “These kills are bold and blatant, as if they wanted someone to discover them. Or, rather, to know they are the tribe responsible for the death.”
“They’ve captured the attention of the mortal authorities.”
“Which means,” Rook said, “it’s time the Order shut down tribe Zmaj before Tor has his work cut out for him.”
Torsten Rindle did spin work for the Order. He was a master at convincing the mortal press that a vampire bite on a dead body was simply deranged fandom at its worst.
Rook closed the manila folder. “I’ll take care of this personally.”
“See that you do.” King strode out of the office as silently and unexpectedly as he’d entered.
From the drawer at the bottom of his desk, Rook drew out a titanium stake. With a squeeze of his hand to compress the paddles, out pinioned the deadly stake from the sleek column. Pressed against a vampire’s chest, the weapon pierced the heart and reduced the vamp to ash. Rook had created the stake centuries earlier, and as technology had improved, so had the original design. He took pride in the implement.
He spun the weapon smartly, slapping it solidly into his palm. A bloody palm print? “You just signed your death certificate, Slater.”
He stood and, with a keystroke, put the computer to sleep. In the closet at the back of his office hung a long, leather cleric’s coat with a bladed collar and reinforced Kevlar panels on the chest and back. Leather pants, a cotton undershirt and a Kevlar vest hung inside.
Stripping off his crisply ironed gray dress shirt, he tossed it aside and caught a glimpse of his bare chest in the mirror inside the door. He proudly fisted the raised brand of the Order of the Stake on his left shoulder and announced, “Tonight I’ll turn this city gray with vampire ash.”
* * *
With full intel on the Zmaj tribe, Rook had headed toward the seventh arrondissement, where most of the attacks marked with the bloody handprint had been reported. It was an affluent quarter where old money mingled with the new. The Eiffel Tower and Les Invalides attracted tourists, which led Rook to believe Zmaj was hunting either unknowing tourists or the established, yet oblivious, rich.
His steel-toed boots took the cobblestones swiftly, quietly. His senses were alert for sounds beyond the incessant traffic noises. The city never slept. It was something he had in common with Paris. The air was crisp with imminent autumn, a season he enjoyed because it softened the city’s harsh odor as the ominous dread for winter settled in.
As the principal trainer and supervisor for the Order, Rook took knight trainees out in the city on the hunt, but he hadn’t hunted alone in years. Not for lacking desire to stake some longtooths. He had simply been too busy training and running the Order. The paperwork involved in keeping their secret order an actual secret was ridiculous. He never could have imagined, four centuries earlier, filling out computer database profiles or making duplicates over an office copy machine.
The vampire population in Paris was high, but most of them enjoyed their anonymity from mortals and worked hard to keep it that way by not killing humans and thus raising the Order’s ire. Best way for a vampire to ensure immortality? Avoiding a stake to the heart.
Yet there would always be the young and reckless vamps who deemed the world their playground and enjoyed the kill. They never survived long. And although the Order served only to protect mortals from vampires, Rook knew many breeds appreciated the work they did because keeping all vampires mythical in the eyes of the mortal population benefited everyone.
Some mortals believed in vampires, werewolves, faeries and all the other breeds that shouldn’t exist. Those mortals were few and were rarely considered a problem. It was those who did not believe but then had been attacked by a vampire—forcing them to believe—who Rook wanted to keep far from the fangs of hungry vampires. Those victims who would scream, raise a holy stink and invite investigation, and Rook wanted to avoid that.
And the only way to do that was by ashing the culprits.
Closer.
Directing his attention inward, Rook questioned Oz’s statement.
Something feels…familiar.
Rook always paid attention to the entity within him. Asatrú, an incorporeal demon, had been trapped within him for four centuries, accompanying him through this thing called life.
“What seems familiar?” he asked Oz. Sometimes he spoke aloud to the demon, but he could think the question and the entity would understand just as well.
It is a feeling. You are close…to something important.
Not far ahead of him, a female cried out.
Rook fitted a stake into both hands and ran toward the harrowing sound. It was before midnight, yet this section of the city was quiet and dark with only intermittent vehicle traffic. Ancient buildings that had seen war, revolutions, and the rise and fall of monarchies closely paralleled the street. The alleys in between buildings were claustrophobic. Street lighting was at a minimum. Not the optimal place for a lone female to go walking.
Nowadays mortals had lost their sense of danger. Their naïve complacency never ceased to astonish Rook. One must always be vigilant.
He spied a crowd of young men looming around something, or someone, he could not see. Yet he could feel fear in the air as tangibly as he could read a person’s truth by placing his hand over their heart. Had to be the woman who had screamed.
One of the men hissed dramatically and exposed fangs.
“Thought so,” Rook muttered. He picked up his pace.
What was that?
A fireball, small and tight and flaming orange, zipped through the air and singed one of the vampires on his bald head. The vamp yelped and batted at the flame, hissing and cursing at the one who had lobbed the attack.
Was the woman they had surrounded a witch? Had to be to throw fire like that. A rare witch, though. Few practiced such magic because fire promised a witch’s sure death.
Another ball of flame looped in the air but fell onto the cobblestones like a deflated balloon. Sparks sputtered, and the flame hissed to smoke. She didn’t have control. Had her hands been shackled by an attacker?
Rook shouted, catching the vampires’ attention. Four charged toward him. He took one out with a plunge of the stake to his chest. Ash formed in the air in the shape of a man. The remaining three vampires scattered in the inky darkness.
Rook ran through the ashy cloud toward the woman clinging to the brick wall. In the confusion of having one of their comrades ashed, the vampires had left her alone. Fire burned in patches on the ancient cobbles before her, finding tinder in the dry autumn leaves littering the ground. She huddled against the wall, her dark hair spilling over her face and wide eyes taking in the scene. Hands out before her, her fingers shook, and he thought perhaps the flames on the ground danced at the command of those shaking fingers.
Rook lunged to kneel beside her, laying a hand high over her breast to feel her frantic heartbeats. It was a conditioned touch. He could read a person that way, but—not this time. What the hell? Perhaps her fear blocked his read.
“You okay?”
She nodded frantically.
He was getting nothing from her. Not the clear read of truth he always did when touching another. Yet he felt a strange sensation of recognition surge through his system. Something familiar but so distant he couldn’t touch it. He’d lost it so long ago.
That is it!
He winced at Oz’s inner outburst. Looking into the woman’s shadowed eyes that flickered with small red flashes from the flames, he wondered aloud, “My…soul?”
“Get him!”
Jerked away from the woman by a vampire’s claws, Rook switched from the sudden, overwhelming knowing that clenched about his heart to fierce and ready fighting mode. He twisted at the waist, swinging out an arm and slashing the stake across a vampire’s face.
Behind him, three vamps lined up. He caught a glimpse of the woman. Now on her feet, she ran away from them.
Get as far away as you can, he thought.
No, we need her! Oz said.
Perhaps, but right now he stood his ground surrounded by vampires. All thoughts focused on getting the job done. This night, no longtooth would walk away from him alive.
* * *
Verity ran down the dark street, her heartbeats racing her strides. A short skirt and heels were not optimal running attire, but when her ankles threatened to buckle, fear pushed her.
After a long night at the gym practicing her performance piece for the Demon Arts Troupe, she’d looked forward to strolling home in the crisp night air to walk off the strain in her muscles. Her mind reviewing the new routine she’d been perfecting, she’d walked right into the gang of vampires. Though she’d never feared them in numbers before, immediately she had known they hadn’t wanted to chat.
She’d thrown fire at them, but there had been too many. Two had wrangled her wrists, stopping her from casting more flame balls. They’d begun to reason out who would bite her first when the hunter had charged onto the scene, stakes swinging like some kind of samurai warrior.
Though he’d worn the coat of the Order of the Stake, the long leather jacket had not concealed his muscular physique. His movements had been skilled and swift. Nothing like having a knight in dark leather rush in for the save. Verity had swooned a little when he’d held his hand against her chest and their gazes had locked. When he’d said “My soul,” she had gasped.
Could it be?
She clasped the wooden heart that hung from a leather cord around her neck and ran faster over the cobblestones, her heels clicking too loudly. So long she had wondered about what she held in her hand, and—could he have finally found her?
Sensing someone was quickly gaining on her, she couldn’t risk turning back for a look. One of the gang must have escaped the hunter and now pursued her, a panther hot on the rabbit’s tail.
She dodged to the right down a narrow alley, seeking the streetlight some hundred yards ahead and cursing the fact that she didn’t know where she was. She needed a moment to reorient herself with the neighborhood.
Testing her magic, with a thought she sent out a spurt of fire. That was all she could manage, a tendril. She’d expelled most of her fire during practice. She needed a night of rest to properly recharge and restore her magic.
And although she was skilled in gymnastics, this running in heels business was quickly taxing her after hours of exertion in the gym. In proof, she stumbled on a loose cobblestone, but instead of her body floundering, she felt a hand sweep around her waist, turn her and slam her shoulders against the concrete wall. Impact jarred her teeth. Her ankles wobbled. Verity could barely hold herself upright as she faced the bald vampire with fangs revealed and menacing eyes.
“What the hell do you want?” She tried to say it with command, but without any magic to control, she had lost her only defense.
“Your blood, witch.” The vampire slammed his hands to either side of her shoulders and leaned in to sniff at her hair. “You burned me, so now I’m going to make you scream before you die.”
Before she could reward him with the scream he sought, the vampire sunk his fangs in her throat. Instinctively, Verity jammed her knee upward but only managed to connect with his thigh. The bloodsucker didn’t even groan. She beat his chest with her fists, but he easily wrangled her hands with strong, pinching fingers.
The teeth in her neck tore at her skin. It hurt like nothing she’d ever experienced before. She’d never been bitten. Would not suffer a vampire to be so intimate with her, despite having once dated one. The creep sucking at her vein drew out her blood. He moaned as if in the throes of orgasm and—
A yell from down the alley stopped the vampire. He tore out his teeth from Verity’s skin, twisting his head to pinpoint the origin of the shout. The wounds hurt so badly, the pain manifested as a scream. Slapping his hand to her cheek, the vampire mimed a goodbye kiss, but thankfully, his bloody lips did not touch hers.
As the vampire ran off, Verity sank against the wall. Grasping her neck, her fingers slipped in her blood.
The hunter lunged to a diving kneel before her and lifted her chin to peer at her neck. He inspected her cheek and swore. “Damn it. I didn’t see that one get away!”
Eyelids fluttering, Verity tightened her jaw to keep back the tears that threatened. She wanted to beg him to save her, to make it all better, but she knew it was too late. She’d been bitten. And the vampire couldn’t have had time to seal the wound. If the wound was not properly sealed, the victim risked becoming a vampire.
“You a witch?” the hunter asked quickly.
She nodded.
“Impressive fire magic back there. Are you going to be okay?”
“Of course,” she gasped. Dragging her knees up, she hugged her arms about her legs. “Just a little nibble.” It hurt to conceal the pain, but she was an expert at hiding her weaknesses.
“I think I got here in time.” The hunter stood.
He scanned down the street. She knew he wanted to go after the vampire—and he should. But he squatted again before her, drawing her in to his overwhelming presence. An easy authority that felt not too harsh and not too hesitant. When he wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her against his chest, she sank into the comforting embrace.
How strange that he gave her the comfort she had craved, yet had thought to skillfully conceal that need.
You must get home and find a spell to counteract the bite!
But right now Verity could only tilt her head against the hunter’s shoulder. She felt so good in his strong arms. He smoothed a hand over her hair. Perhaps a teardrop spilled down her cheek. Or it could be the repulsive heat of the blood the vampire had taken from her vein and smacked onto her cheek.
She clutched his jacket, and he suddenly tugged it away from her face. The Order knights wore blades at their collars to deflect vampire bites. Verity wished she’d worn more than the comfortable slip dress. Like full armor with a neck guard.
Get to safety!
She was safe in this man’s arms. She knew it without doubt. That was her mother’s voice prodding her to flee. Never trust a man. Most especially a hunter.
“Who are you?” she managed between sniffles and gasps for breath.
“Name’s Rook,” he offered. “I’ll see you home?”
“No, go after the vampire. He could harm someone else. And I need to fix this. To find a spell to stop the vampire taint from changing me.”
He bent to meet her eyes. Compelled to look into his eyes, Verity’s breathing calmed. Despite the frail light from the distant streetlamp, she clearly saw his irises were blue. Intense, bright and true. Yet something about him was as far from the truth as it could ever be.
She had no idea what that meant.
“I felt…” He looked at her chest where he’d touched her earlier. “But not now.” He shook his head and stared at his hand, as if battling with an inner argument. Then he touched her cheek where the vampire had slapped her. “Zmaj.”
She knew that tribe. How did he know? He must have been tracking them.
“You sure you’ll be okay if I go after the longtooth?”
She nodded fervently and looked at her shaking, bloody fingers. “Yes, you’ve a job to do.”
“I will—uh, what’s your name?”
“Verity.”
He gave her the oddest look. “Your name means truth, yet…” Now he laid his hand against her chest again, and she wanted him to hold it there forever, imbuing his surprising coolness into her very being and stealing away her fears. “I can’t read you. Strange.”
“Go,” she said against the screams from her heart that begged her to swoon into his arms so he’d have to carry her home.
He nodded and, helping her up, walked her to the end of the alley. “You live around here?”
“I—yes. I need to orient myself. Where is Les Invalides?” The military museum, which was also a hospital, always served as a navigation point for her.
“That way.”
“Then I can walk home in five minutes. I’m good now. Thank you, Rook. You’re with Order of the Stake?”
“Yes.” He took out a metal stake and spun it between them. His body shifted as he stepped from foot to foot, eager to return to the chase. “Start walking. I want to make sure you can so I don’t have to worry about you.”
Taking directions, she meekly turned the corner and scampered homeward, finding adrenaline carried her to the front door. Once inside, she raced upstairs to her attic bedroom and through to the bathroom.
Flicking on the light, she leaned toward the vanity mirror. A bloody handprint dripped down her cheek. But that wasn’t half as disturbing as the actual bite mark. Panic rose at the sight of her bleeding neck—and then she adjusted that unnecessary fear into more helpful focus. She twisted on the faucet and sloshed hot water on the wound. Cleaning it wasn’t important. Vampires rarely carried disease or anything communicable—save vampirism itself. Stopping the vampiric taint from entering her bloodstream was paramount.
Verity raced out into the attic bedroom, half of which was her spell area. The lofty room was dark, save for moonlight that beamed through the cathedral window on the south end and across the gray floorboards and walls. Silvery light glittered in the dozens of grounding crystals she’d strung from the ceiling beams, like stars to capture the night’s enchantments.
Grabbing the centuries-old grimoire that she’d been writing in since she was a child and slamming the massive tome onto the floor, she then knelt over it and paged through the spells.
“Please let there be something in here to stop me from becoming a vampire.”
* * *
The bald vampire tossed the bloodied necklace onto the table before Slater.
“You did it?” Slater asked. He stood before the window, looking out at Sacre Coeur’s multiple travertine domes, lit from below by spotlights.
The vampire nodded. “She’s dead.”
“What’s that thing?”
“A trophy. Ripped it off her neck after I bit her.”
Slater studied the simple wooden heart, stained with blood. A worn leather cord had been run through a small metal loop at the top. It felt warm, almost as if it possessed a pulse. He recalled Verity’s skin had been warm and soft, electric against his skin. He inhaled the blood scent but didn’t want his tribemate to see him devour her essence.
And then he remembered. She’d always worn this necklace. Had once even said something curious like, “I’m keeping it safe.”
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.
