Beyond the Moon

“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.

Chapter 3

The buildings on the Ile St.-Louis where Rook lived were old, and Verity knew anyone living here had to be wealthy. She suspected Rook was rich, judging by the stylish suit and Italian leather shoes he wore. She wasn’t into brand names, but she could pin a designer label merely from the way it made the man stand, erect and proud, elegant and tailored. Right with his place in the world and not afraid to take on any challenge.

Of course, that could be the hunter in him, too.

And he smelled like something worth more than a quick spritz from a cheap bottle of cologne. Like burnt peaches and tobacco. The idea of tasting him effervesced in her core and warmed her skin.

Occupied by a truth demon, eh? Yet he couldn’t read the truth in Veritas Von Velde. Interesting. And definitely worth further exploration.

After shedding her sweater and handing it to him to hang, Verity sat at the kitchen table with a goblet of Bordeaux to watch her host work culinary magic. Admittedly, cooking was not in her arsenal of magical or just plain practical household skills. She ate simple whole foods that required little preparation, but that was only because she’d never taken the time to learn to cook. She had always been busy with her magical studies. And when a woman grew up with a grandmother, great-grandmother and mother who always cooked, why bother? So to watch this gorgeous man move about with such ease as he concocted food for her was a dream.

Rook was tall and sleek. Beneath the gray dress shirt flexed steel muscles, and the very sinews of him conformed against the fabric as he reached for vegetables or high on a shelf for cooking oil.

In her imagination Verity glided her palms over his cool skin, mapping his contours and memorizing his hard angles. She bit the corner of her lip to contain a squeal of glee.

His slicked-back dark brown hair touted tufts of gray near his temples and a few sprigs of salty strands mixed here and there throughout. Dark brows commanded her attention to his gaze when he regarded her. While sitting at the café table she’d noticed a tiny scar above his left brow and fancied it from a rapier or even a vampire fang.

The groomed stubble that edged his jaw as if to frame his façade begged her to touch. A small triangle of stubble sat beneath his lower lip, and along with the mustache, it gave him a swashbuckler appeal. She loved facial hair and wanted to feel his mustache tickle her upper lip as he kissed her.

All in all? The man possessed a brutal beauty that she wanted to trace and learn.

Rook’s frequent glances over his shoulder acted as if invisible touches shot through the atmosphere and made it impossible for her to relax because her entire body hummed with desire. Tracing the inner curve of her lower lip with her tongue, she tapped a fingernail against the crystal wine goblet.

“You like quinoa?” he asked over a shoulder.

“I’ll like anything you offer.” Including a tickling kiss from that sexy mustache. “It’s a treat to have a man cook for me.”

“I’ve been cooking for myself for centuries. I hired a chef for a few years in the early twentieth century but decided I prefer doing things for myself.”

“You like the control,” she guessed.

He nodded, conceding with a guilty grin.

“That’s the difference between the two of us,” she said. “I prefer people doing things for me.”

“It pleases me to do this for you.” His wink caught her as if a hand about her heart clasped ever so gently.

Verity swore under her breath. The man was sexy. But she’d only just met him. Cool the fire, and calm the jets. She didn’t need to trust him at this stage, but learning a little more about him would prove wiser than leaping blindly into lust. And after her last disastrous relationship, she was skittish.

By all means, she wanted to help him find his soul. Because—and this was just occurring to her now—if this hunter could find the vampire who may have stolen her necklace containing his soul, then naturally, he’d slay the longtooth. Then, if for some strange reason the spell she’d worked last night hadn’t been effective, she would have a backup reassurance that she’d never transform to vampire.

Not that she needed backup. Her spells were always effective.

She wandered over to the stove and peeked around Rook’s arm to inspect his creation. Bright chopped vegetables glistened in the frying pan. Scents of lemon, pepper and rosemary teased her nose.

“Looks delicious. Mind if I snoop about while you

create?”

“Go ahead. The bathroom is through the bedroom if you need it.”

“Thanks.”

As she strolled into the living room, her heels clicked on the parquet flooring. A vast ballroom-sized area, it was sparely furnished with only a massive turquoise velvet couch and a sleek glass coffee table that harbored a laptop and precise stacks of mail and books. Even the man’s clutter was controlled.

Along the far wall stood various large artifacts that drew her interest. A marble sculpture of a nude woman stretched backward in an impossible bend intrigued Verity enough to glide her fingers along the cool white curve of her torso. The creation felt as cool as Rook’s skin. Was he cold because of the demon within? Had to be. She studied the smooth stone. It had been carved especially for Rook. She knew it as she knew things about living, breathing people. It was that thing she had about knowing a person’s place in this world.

Touching the small brass knobs on the unstained apothecary’s cabinet next to the sculpture, she wondered at what might be inside the dozens of tiny drawers but respectfully did not pull any open.

Her heels clicked on the spotless wood floor as she crossed to the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the Seine. Although the sun was setting, the gray sky was illuminated from all the unnatural light that burst forth from a city that never slept. Across the river, lights inside the four- and five-story buildings formed a pixilated artwork against the cityscape.

Verity performed a twirl right there because she felt light, despite the events of the previous evening. She didn’t want to think about that darkness. Tonight she would enjoy spending time with a handsome man.

Her mother would turn over in her grave.

“Just in it for the adventure,” she reminded herself, knowing her staunchly warned heart would never allow her to actually fall for a hunter. Any man, for that matter. Because just when she began to let down her guard and welcome in love, she had gained a stalker.

She walked on light feet to a door impressed with rococo carved wood scrollwork. She decided it must lead into Rook’s bedroom. Glancing over a shoulder to ensure he was still in the kitchen, she pushed open the door and stepped inside.

A bedroom was a person’s thumbprint of their personality, and what an interesting study of the stoic knight. This was his sanctum.

Grays and blues designed the room’s color scheme, with the parquet floor painted a soft gray, much like in her attic bedroom. Calming and serene. Verity released her breath and then inhaled the subtle blend of cinnamon and myrrh. Exotic scents for an equally exotic man.

She decided suddenly that Rook was chocolate yuzu. She had a tendency to assign macaron flavors to the people she knew. Crisp and delightful on the outside, with a surprising tang on the inside.

Smiling at her assessment, she wandered inside the room. Again, little furniture, as if to collect possessions would somehow clutter the man’s vita. She liked that. Some who lived many centuries tended to collect hoards of material things. This home showed restraint. Control was certainly Rook’s mien.

A large turquoise velvet tufted ottoman—must be a match to the couch—sat near the window. Next to that a cloth yoga mat was spread out before an altar that featured a stone Buddha with tumescent belly and a gleeful grin.

“Disciplined,” she further assessed the man. “Yet also open, and…” her eyes fell over the bed “…so sensual.”

The middle of the room offered a peek beyond the tight-fisted control. A king-size bed sat beneath a fall of turquoise fabric tied up to allow entry to the innermost sanctuary. It resembled a harem hotspot, a post where illicit and exquisite pleasures could be had.

Verity tapped her lips. Such fantasies she could entertain beneath that gossamer fabric.

Keeping to the wall that hugged the living room, she tiptoed over to the wardrobe. Drawing her fingers along the steel front, she decided the modern-styled piece felt out of place in the room. A hinged door was open a crack.