Beyond the Moon. Michele HaufЧитать онлайн книгу.
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.
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