then fluttered through the portal, and Verity would not see her lavender-haired grandmother for a long time.
Years after Grandmother Freesia’s visit—Paris, 1908
Verity tripped through the field grass that the city attendant had not scythed, for this swath of land that edged the forest was kept wild. Tourists did not venture off the paths or cobblestone roads that cut through the Bois de Boulogne. She would not normally skip through the overgrowth in a long skirt and button-up chemise, scratching at the buzzing insects, had she not been compelled.
Sometimes Verity’s soul insisted so profoundly, she had no choice but to listen. And follow.
Now, she raced toward a massive tree stump that pushed up from the earth, its serrated edges jutting like castle crenellations. Thick, verdant moss coated the south side. The rowan tree must have fallen naturally from age or perhaps a lightning strike. The stalk, branches and leaves had long been cleared away, most likely for firewood.
Arriving at the grand root base, Verity sighed in awe. She had great respect for nature and knew all living things were connected, be they human, paranormal, animal or botanical. Kneeling before the trunk, she laid her palms on the cool moss coating and smiled. It must have taken four men to clasp hands and surround this tree when it had once proudly held court here at the forest’s edge.
The wood pulsed with life. And there, in the center of the stump, which had been dug out by animals and insects over the years, grew four new shoots of life. All things renewed and lived on.
Much like her soul.
Reaching down, she played her fingers over the wood where it was wet from yesterday’s rain and smelled earthy and sweet. Insects had not chewed through this part for it was solid and strong. The heart of the rowan. Verity felt the pulse. She curled her fingers within the core of the tree, and it pulsed again.
And yet…
She tilted her head, her dark, unbound hair spilling across the stump. The pulse felt familiar. Human? Perhaps, and long lost.
“A soul?” she wondered.
And then she knew, indeed, that it was. This is why her soul had compelled her here.
Sliding her fingers inside her ankle-high leather lace-up boot, a gift from her mother for her fifteenth birthday, Verity drew out the silver-handled athame. Her mother had always chastised her for carrying it about. One must honor the sacred tools of magic and keep them wrapped and tucked away until required to conjure a spell. Silently mocking her mother’s nagging words—may she rest in peace—Verity tapped the wood core with the blade tip. “If I had kept this tucked away, I wouldn’t be able to free you now.”
She worked at the wood, carefully carving around the core, which was about as wide as her fist and shaped like a pain de campagne. An hour later she’d set the core free. Verity turned and sat against the mossy base of the stump between two thick, twisted roots, smoothing her hands over the rough, moist core of the rowan tree.
“I know you belong to someone. What did he do to lose you?”
She pressed the wood against her chest and felt the subtle resonance of the long-lost soul and knew, without doubt, a man had sacrificed this soul in great sadness. She also knew that the man yet walked this realm.
Did he seek what he had lost?
“I’ll keep you safe,” she promised. “Someday he will come for you.”
Paris—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