Читать книгу Beyond the Moon - Michele Hauf - Страница 9
ОглавлениеA 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.
You are not here to flirt but to find your soul. Ask her!
Oz had the worst timing, but like it or not, the demon had always been more forthright than Rook’s conscience.
“Do you…” he started, not sure how to ask such a thing. “I mean, the touch. It felt familiar.”
She set the teacup down and tilted her head. Her assessment of him delved a bit too deep to remain a simple flirtation. She looked into him, beyond the suit and tie and the well-groomed jaw stubble. Beyond his vain need to slick back his hair in an attempt to coax the tufts of gray behind his ears. Her look felt as much like a touch as if she’d actually laid her palm over his chest.
“I need to tell you a story,” she finally said. “About something that happened to me, oh…a hundred and ten years ago. It was around 1908, I believe. A few decades after my mother died.”
Rook sat back, wondering where this was leading but content to listen to anything this sultry vixen wanted to tell him, even a story. “1908? It was a good year, if I recall correctly. The tale end of bohemia.”
She nodded, their shared history refreshing. Rare did he meet someone who could remember the history he did—that is, someone he didn’t want to stake.
“So, there I was, in bohemia—actually, it was more the Victorian era coming toward an end. I remember the stuffy long black skirt I was wearing. Wool. Ugh. So gothic. Anyway, I was wandering the edge of the Bois de Boulogne.”
The park that hugged the modern peripherique road that surrounded the city had once been a forest—and still was—though by the nineteenth century it had already been commandeered by less upstanding citizens for midnight liaisons and occult rituals. Not that Rook would admit to knowing anything about such rituals firsthand. Some things a man liked to keep close to his vest.
“Have you lived in Paris all your life?” she asked.
“I’ve traveled France and Europe and stayed in some countries a year or two at a time, but Paris has always been my home.”
“Then you’ll know that the forest had some wild parts. And I’m not talking about the illicit parties.”
Perhaps she also kept a few dangerous liaisons close to the vest. The thought that he may have passed by Verity Von Velde while wandering in a sex-blissed haze at a midnight orgy dialed Rook’s lust up another degree.
“It was near a field,” she continued, “and I saw a fallen rowan tree. Actually, I was compelled to the tree. My soul does that to me sometimes. Makes me go places and do things I would never intend to do. It always works out swell, though.
“The trunk had split away from the stump and had fallen with old age, but the wood revealed in the split smelled fresh and alive. I was lured closer to inspect, and I ran my hands along the jagged wood and down inside where the deepest parts had been reduced to soft decay from insects.
“At the core it was solid and hard, and I felt something there.” She looked at him, her bright gemstone eyes waiting for him to respond.
“A soul?” Rook’s heartbeats thundered as he began to grasp the hope he was aware Oz had tread for ages.
She dipped her head and gazed up at him. “Is that what you believe?”
“Don’t you know?”
“I do. I also knew the soul belonged to a man. A sad man. And that it needed to be kept safe. I can recognize things like that. A person’s heritage and, well, I can generally tell if that person has fathered children or been reincarnated. I have a reincarnated soul. And you…” She twisted her lips as she studied him from tufts of grey to the perfectly knotted tie at his throat. “Yes, you’ve fathered a child.”
“Sorry to disappoint, but I have not.”
“Hmm…I’m usually never wrong. My intuitions are like my magic. Spot on.”
“There’s a first time for everything, eh?” Her blatant confidence appealed to him. “But let’s get back to your tale about this soul in a tree.”
Rook’s memory flashed to the end of the sixteenth century, that fateful night he’d stood in the open field near the edge of the Bois de Boulogne, where he had made his home with Marianne. That cruel, dark night that the devil Himself had stood before him and presented an offer Rook had not refused.
“My soul was taken from me and buried in the ground,” he blurted out. “Very near the forest.”
“Hmm, that makes sense. If it was buried, a tree could have grown up through and around it, encompassing it in the core of its structure.”
A thick violet curl fell over Verity’s shoulder, and she cupped her hands around the teacup, lifting it just below her chin to inhale the spicy aroma.
“I couldn’t walk away from it,” she said, “so I dug out the core of the tree. Took me all day because I had but a small athame with me. Maman always berated me for carrying it around. One must revere instruments of magic,” she said in a haughty tone, obviously imitating her mother.
Rook chuckled, but he wanted her to continue, so he didn’t speak.
She set down the teacup. “The chunk I took away was about the size of a baby’s head.” She formed the shape with her hands. “I took it home and carved at it for months until I felt I’d carved to the essence of it. I made it into a heart shape about this size.”
She pinched her fingers together to represent something the size of a half golf ball.
“I polished it and strung it on a leather cord and have worn it around my neck ever since.”
Rook found words impossible. That she had done such a thing. Actually found his soul? It had to be his. The devil Himself had placed his soul in the ground, a wicked remuneration for the bargain they’d agreed to. A foul bargain that no sane man should have made.
What man could ask for such a thing?
He had. And he lived with regret even now. Never would he have forgiveness. Yet it was all he desired.
“So you have it?” he asked, tapping hope with his tone.
Verity took another sip of tea and looked aside, rubbing a hand along her sweater sleeve. She shook her head.
“You don’t have it? But you said you’ve worn it since. Protecting it?”
“I was wearing it last night. It must have fallen off during the struggle with the vampire. I went looking for it this afternoon, but…maybe I need to look once again.”
“Yes, you must. I’ll go with you.”
Rook stilled as she placed her hand over the back of his. Not clasping but simply calming his desperate need to rush into action. “How can you be sure it was yours?” she asked.
“How many times does a man have his soul stolen at the edge of the Bois de Boulogne and then watch it be buried? It can’t be anyone else’s soul. And like I said, I felt it when I touched you last night. It was a brief knowing.”
“Yes, I had a moment of knowing when you touched me, too. I think we’re connected, Rook.”
“Maybe.” He certainly felt some compulsion toward this beautiful woman. But it could simply be that she was gorgeous and appealed to his desires. “I’m sorry, but…could I touch you? Just to see if I can feel it again.”
“My boob?”
He chuckled. “I’d like to put my palm above your breast because that’s where I can feel your heartbeat. I, uh…can read people. Not like you claim to know things about people—I can actually see their truths.”
With a sigh, she turned on the chair to face him and propped her elbows on the wrought-iron chair back. “Fine. But don’t perv out on me.”
Much as he’d love to do that, he was a gentleman. Until he was not.
“Trust me, when I cop a feel, you’ll know it.”
Verity tugged the sweater open wider, and the soft T-shirt beneath revealed nipples so hard Rook could already feel them against his tongue.
Gentleman, remember?
He placed a palm above her breast, spread out his fingers over the shirt and closed his eyes. The heat of her was delicious; it spread up his fingers, up his arm and through his system like waves of rose blossoms shushed by a breeze.
At the sound of her sigh, he opened his eyes to see she had closed hers. Her lips were slightly parted. Long dark lashes dusted her cheeks. If they weren’t sitting out in the open with tourists and Parisians passing by, he’d kiss her.
“What do you feel?” she whispered in a breathy tone, eyes still closed.
Nothing.
Nothing?
Hell, he felt absolutely nothing. He couldn’t read her truths as he could do to any person or creature in this realm. It was an odd gift he’d had since the incorporeal demon had landed inside of him. Oz was a truth demon, after all.
Really? he asked inwardly.
A mystery, Oz answered. One you must explore further. I need you to get your soul back, my friend. My wife waits for me!
Yes, Oz’s faery wife, who was soon to give birth to their first child. He owed Oz his freedom. And there was only one way to do that—find and restore his soul.
Retracting his hand, Rook stared at his palm a few seconds before wiping it along his pants leg. Nothing. What was that about?
“That bad, huh?” she said, remarking on his actions.
“I didn’t get the same feeling as I did last night. But if you lost the necklace, then what I felt last night could have been true. And now with it missing, it makes sense I would not feel it.”
“I’m so sorry. I will find it. I’ve had it so long it’s become a part of me. And if it was your soul, well…”
“It’s not your problem anymore. I’ll track back to the site of the attack and have a look around. Your neck.” He gestured to the bite mark. “It’s healing? I did feel latent traces of vampire when I touched you.”
“Like the shimmer?”
The shimmer was the subtle vibration of connection vampires felt when they touched one another. It was the only way they had to know one another, unless, of course, fangs were down.
“A bit like the shimmer, but I’m not vampire. I just know that feeling.”
“You have been bitten?”
“Many times.” He wouldn’t tell her it had been voluntary. And that it always delivered erotic pleasure. That was another of those secrets he’d take to the grave. “Part of the profession. Like I said—”
“You can read people.”
“Except, apparently, you.”
Tilting her head down, she looked up through her lashes. “I’ve a bit of intuition about people.”
“Still never fathered a child.”
“Maybe. But I do sense something about you. Your touch is cool. I thought the knights in the Order were mortals?”
Oops. “They are.”
“You’re not mortal, Rook. Especially because you seem to recall the bohemian period at the beginning of last century. What are you? There’s…something inside you.”
Her intuition was surprisingly on the mark.
“What are you that you can read me so well?” he countered.
She shrugged and sipped her tea. “My mother always said I had a keen sense of place in this world. And that I could place others too. Though I’m a bit of a mystery to myself. Thanks to the reincarnated soul, don’t you know? It’s a demon inside you,” she stated suddenly. “Am I right?”
Rook nodded, finding the centuries-old lie to protect his identity did not come forth with the usual practiced ease. What sense was there in lying when she had so cleverly figured him out?
Yet why couldn’t he see her truths? How annoying.
He toyed with the porcelain coffee cup. “A truth demon,” he offered. “Asatrú has been with me for centuries. Allows me to read people’s truths.”
“But not mine?”
“I’m not sure why that is. Oz is as baffled as I am. You’re the first person I haven’t been able to read. And your name is Verity. How ironic is that?”
“I’ll count that as a good thing. A girl can’t give up her secrets too quickly. A little mystery is a good thing, yes?”
As she drew her tongue along her upper lip, Rook decided that yes, mystery was indeed good.
“So you call the demon Oz?”
“Asatrú is his full name, and he is pleased to meet you,” Rook offered, though Oz made no whisper that he cared about the witch one way or the other. The demon was pouting because she did not have his soul.
“I don’t understand why the vampire would want my necklace. It’s just a wooden heart and of no value to anyone else. I don’t think vamps can detect souls, can they?”
“I’m not aware that they can. He may have claimed it as a sick kind of trophy. Did you get a good look at him?”
“I was frantic and more upset that I’d expelled all my fire magic and was feeling helpless. He was bald, but you already know that.”
“Right. The one you blasted with fire. Good shot.”
“I’ve expert aim, but unfortunately using so much fire magic depletes my stores quickly. And I had been rehearsing earlier.”
“Rehearsing?”
“I’ve a fire act with the Demon Arts Troupe.”
“Interesting. It was a good thing I happened along last night. I need to find that vampire. If he has the necklace with my soul in it—”
“If it is your soul.”
“I think it is.”
“You want to believe it is.”
“Is there anything wrong with wanting to believe?”
“Not at all.”
Her mouth curved so prettily, Rook thought surely, if it had been his heart stolen by her, he’d let her keep it for as long as she wished to wear it around her neck on a leather cord.
“Would you mind taking a look at some mug shots at Order headquarters?”
“I, uh…hmm.” She twisted the teacup around on the saucer.
“If you’re unsure about what you saw…”
“It’s not that. I’m not particularly fond of taking sides within the paranormal community. I let the vamps do their thing, and they tend to leave me alone. If I should dabble in their affairs…”
“You fear reciprocation. What if I could promise you protection?”
She shook her head. “No. I’m sorry. I just…”
“That’s fine.” He didn’t want to push, though he couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t want to catch someone who had harmed her, no matter the breed. If he had been mortal, would she have helped him?
He wouldn’t dwell on it. He had other ways to make the woman talk. And he didn’t really mind what the topic of conversation was, so long as she didn’t walk away from him now, never to be seen again.
“Would you have dinner with me?” he asked. “I find I don’t want you to walk away from me. I’d like to get to know you better.”
“Where would we have dinner?”
“The location hinges on your decision?”
“Of course. If you suggest a seafood restaurant, I’d have to refuse. I’m not much for slimy cuisine.”
“My place,” he said. “I want to cook for you.”
“I’ve never had a man cook for me.” Her eyes brightened as she pushed aside a thick curl from her face. “It’s a date. Right now?”
“Have you other plans?”
That smile would undo him. “Not at all. Do you live close?”
“On the Ile St.-Louis. My car is parked just down the street.”
“I am at your beckon.” She took his proffered hand and followed him down the street.
That had been too easy. Yet disappointment weighed down Rook’s shoulders. He’d been so close to his soul, and now it was gone. Possibly taken by a vampire. He had to get it back.
Because he owed Oz for four centuries of imprisonment.
