Chapter Three

What's the difference between a wizard who raises the un-dead and a sexy vampire? One is a necromancer, and the other is a neck romancer.

Oliver stepped out of the nondescript, mid-size gray rental car onto Main Street of what could be Any-Small-Town, USA. The GPS claimed it was Hubbard, Ohio. Despite the dipping spring sun, he continued wearing his sunglasses and fought the urge to reapply sunscreen. It was fine. He was fine. The sun had already dipped low in the sky, and despite the gnawing in the back of his mind, it was perfectly safe for him to be out in the sunlight and had been for hours now.

Clearly, the town rolled up the sidewalks at 6:00 p.m., if not earlier, and it was already nearer 8:00. He'd spent enough time in small towns over the years to know that they all consistently promised either nothing at all or drunken trouble after 10:00 at night. The only signs of life came from what he assumed was a family-owned restaurant or maybe a bar, which still had a red OPEN sign flashing. However, only an old truck was parked in front of the building, offering up what could be late-night drunken trouble in the future. Checking his phone, he saw that there was a coffee shop around the corner just off Main Street, but it would be closing soon.

He removed his black suit jacket and carefully hung it on the back of the driver's seat before rolling the sleeves up on his crisp white shirt. Despite his years on earth and his current financial security, the lessons of his youth prevailed: take care of your belongings.

Perusing the rustic downtown area, he realized his attempt to dress down for a town this size was coming a bit late, but perhaps this would help him blend in. Maybe the locals would believe he was a businessman traveling along the turnpike from Toledo to Cleveland, stopping for a bite to eat and a chance to stretch his legs. Even if he saw someone tonight, they probably wouldn't recognize the $500 shirt and assume it came from Macy's at best.

Strolling down the street in the general direction of the coffee shop, he kept his stride casual as he constantly scanned the streets. Stretching as if he'd gotten out of a long car drive allowed him to keep his eyes on all parts of the street, even if anyone was around to notice him. Adding in quick movements that human eyes wouldn't see, he followed up, scanning all buildings top to bottom, instinctively looking for places where someone could hide or an ambush could occur and noting the small boutiques and shops with their pretty window displays, but not missing the peeling paint or the equal number of empty storefronts. Nothing seemed threatening, but Oliver hadn't survived this long by being caught off guard.

Not for the first time that day, he half-cursed the loyalty that made him respond to Ravyn's plea for help. As owner of the security firm that protected the enigmatic Ravyn, he could snap his fingers and have any number of highly qualified paranormal employees eager to help their most important client. However, despite his desire to remain in his home, he couldn't ignore the bonds that tied him to her—and what he owed her.

If he was honest with himself, he might be stuck in a rut, working all day on lines of code and handing off the day-to-day business to Malthazar and Sebastian, only responding to their daily updates if needed. Oliver couldn't remember the last time he'd needed to do even that. It crossed his mind that it had been a few weeks since he'd heard from Malth. His previous call had been gruff, cryptic as usual.

"Need time off and going off-grid."That was Malth for you, though. He was a creature of few words and would show up when he showed up.

When Ravyn had Face Timed on his private number, the number only the few he called close friends had and even fewer dared to use, she'd looked wide-eyed and tense and sounded equally as frightened. Both exciting and disturbing. In the . . . was it 150 years now? He mused. Could it possibly be that long? Yes, around that. In the 150-odd years he'd known her, nothing—and he meant nothing—had frightened this fearless woman. As a human, she'd faced what nightmares are made of and, after she became a nightmare herself, nothing could. The relief on her face was palpable when he answered within a few rings.

"Ravyn Sinclair, it's been too long." Oliver spoke the words blandly. They texted most days, and it had only been a few days since their last video call.

"Darling, I'm so glad you picked up," she said, as if he had any other option. Indeed, his slow pulse had reverberated faster upon hearing the hesitation and uncertainty in his maker's voice. With her face clear of the makeup she usually wore these days and her hair hanging loose, she looked like the innocent, helpless human girl Oliver imagined she'd once been. She went on in an accented voice that spoke of the many combined lines she'd lived but was simultaneously indistinguishable. "I'm not safe."

Oliver immediately went on guard; his Ravyn couldn't feel that way. Keeping his tone even and gentle, he questioned, "Are the men I have on you not working out?"

Her studio hired human guards to watch her as needed, but as far as he was concerned, they were mere decoys. Two wolves stayed within her property during the daylight hours, and two vamps were always within striking distance during the nighttime hours, possibly more, depending on her needs and what Sebastian deemed necessary. Events meant more hidden security. Each guard was personally handpicked and vetted, knowing that if he couldn't watch her, at least those Oliver put in place might protect her with their lives.

As his creator, she would always hold a special place in his heart and life, more so because she never forced her will upon him using their bond. Even now, she wasn't demanding or summoning; she was requesting his help as a sister, not as a master. That was just who she was. He felt rage rush through his limbs at the thought that someone was making her feel unsafe

"No, they're fine and working out perfectly," she reassured him, unaware that she gnawed on her lower lip, "but there is just something more, something out there. I can feel it. I don't think they can handle what's coming."

Oliver bit his tongue to avoid standing up for the quality of sups he hired, waiting not so patiently for her to continue. In fact, his patience was gone within the half a minute they'd been on the phone, and he felt rage growing as a low growl of frustration escaped him.

Ravyn didn"t appear to notice the precipice he balanced on. "It seems silly, but Ollie, something or someone is watching me. I could feel it at the premiere. And before you say it: yes, I know I'm an actress and someone is always watching me, but this was different. It was a separate feeling from the crowd and the regular watchers. I could literally physically feel it watching me. Whatever this entity is, it got close enough to touch me. It literally touched me, but no one could see a thing except me freaking out!"

Her voice sped up, hitting a higher pitch as the words tumbled out in sudden near hysteria. "It was there, but it wasn't. And it's evil, and I don't mean like whooo hoooie evil. I mean that stuff that made me evil." Ravyn shuddered, wrapping her thin arms around herself as if to ward off a cold Oliver knew she couldn't feel. It was oddly . . . human-looking and he wasn't completely comfortable seeing his sire behaving this way. He'd seen her act human and helpless before, but this was no act.

She was utterly and completely terrified and trying to hide it.

A masculine hand with a scar across three knuckles appeared hesitantly behind her on the screen. It sat on her shoulder, and she reached up automatically, squeezing it for comfort.

"Who's there with you? A guard?" Oliver barked out sharply, guilt tight in his stomach that he wasn't there to offer her the same comfort.

Ravyn glanced over her shoulder as Oliver's head of security and lone wolf, Sebastian, leaned onto the screen. His blond hair fell in waves, surrounding his face as his deep voice vibrated over the phone. "It's Bash, sir. Due to the recent threats Ms. Sinclair has received, I came down myself to lead the premiere security detail." He didn't break eye contact with Oliver or even look down at Ravyn, who appeared shocked when she realized she was clutching his hand. She slowly released the hand and edged her own back into her lap.

Oliver noted with interest that she didn't push it away or shrug it off. However, Sebastian was lying; he'd been there for weeks but apparently wanted Ravyn to think it was a one-off.

"I do believe there is a credible threat, sir."

"Oh my gosh, of course, there is!" Ravyn shrieked, pulling her shoulder away and shrugging his hand off. "What is wrong with you, Thor? I said there's a threat! I don't need you to say there's a threat." Another uncharacteristic reaction that Oliver filed away for later consideration; however, for now, he needed to know what the hell was going on.

She'd gotten comfortable bossing the regular shifter security team around, but an unfortunate side effect of her age was that the vamps on the team always deferred to her. Clearly, Sebastian didn't fall into either category, and Ravyn wasn't a fan.

Ravyn slowly explained, with Sebastian interjecting with additional details as needed, the feeling of being watched and stalked for the last few weeks. She'd been having vivid dreams lately, which went without saying aloud; neither of them had dreamed since, well . . . before. When sleep was upon them, there was nothingness, darkness, and meaninglessness. To him, it sounded as if she were being stalked and assaulted by witches, but few were powerful enough or stupid enough to try such a thing. Of course, it was against the agreements, but not everyone followed the accords set centuries ago to keep them hidden and prevent them from killing each other outright.

Then she told him about the books—books she'd known about for years and hadn't even hinted at their existence. His temper rose higher and higher at each word. They told each other almost everything mundane and absolutely everything of any importance, and she hadn't spoken a word to him about this. She'd tasked him to be her protector, then sent him away, making such a task much harder, but being dishonest and not telling him things was a betrayal of the worst kind. He was the worst protector.

Back to the books . . . When acquaintances had first talked about their hot summer read nearly ten years ago, Ravyn had only feigned interest, but then, hearing the hints and teasers about the heroine's origin story, she wondered if one of her sisters had, in fact, survived all these years and was making a profit off the pain. Without Ravyn saying the words, Oliver knew this was the hope she had—the hope that one of her sisters was out there—and in not saying anything, she could keep that secret spark, that bit of hopeful excitement, close to her heart.

Or was it simply the case of a creative mind stumbling upon an innovative idea that just so happened to be similar to what had happened to her thousands of years ago? Piquing her interest, Ravyn had begun reading the series that at the time consisted only of two books. Originally, of course, she'd felt the books were harmless, a crazy coincidence that could only happen in this wild world, but still, when not working, she enjoyed learning and devoured the written word. However, after a few chapters, she'd resigned herself to the fact that there were no coincidences in this deadly world. These books weren't written by a long-lost sister of Anat or a simple muse-inspired tale. No, the books were her biography. A biography that not even Ollie, or perhaps even herself after all these years, could have written so thoroughly.

These allegedly fictional books highlighted her very life, chronicling her present while revisiting her past lives. Long forgotten details caused her to chortle at times as the memories flooded back, and just as often hold back tears of sorrow at what was lost and the pain that she'd buried deep. Lovers she'd kept, lives she'd taken, lives she'd saved; so many fantastical secrets lay bare. So much was there, but at the same time, it was a highlighted edition. How could less than a handful of books tell her entire story?

Apparently, they were very popular, even best sellers. Thousand-page tomes that took a few years to write, but eager fans never let the stories fade between books. Three books so far over the span of ten years, with a fourth, and possibly final, on the horizon within the next two to three years. Not an exact retelling of her life—there were differences, for sure, creative licensing had been used—but enough correlation that it couldn't be random.

Oliver hadn't heard of the books, but fiction reading wasn't one of his vices. Give him a good article about new tech, though, and he was all in. On a separate screen, he rapidly scanned the info about the "Vamp of Hollywood" series while Ravyn explained the situation. How had he missed such a popular series? He knew why Ravyn had kept him in the dark: such a secret had probably exhilarated her, and if she'd broken her silence on it, he would have been forced to intervene earlier. It was no secret that Ravyn had an ego. As an actress, she had to have one, as well as a thick skin. It had probably given her great satisfaction reading about herself, and she'd probably daydreamed about secretly playing herself if they made the books into movies.

Oliver said as much and knew he'd hit a truth when Ravyn drew herself up rigid and regal, pursing her lips and attempting to look down her nose haughtily at him.

Her guilty look.

From slightly off-screen, Sebastian admitted with mumbled tones that he'd read the books as well. They were highly entertaining, after all.

Oliver knew the bodyguards sometimes filled their hours at the house reading but had assumed the wolves were reading about how to gut and skin animals or maybe even war books, not paranormal romance. Since Bash didn't know Ravyn's history, he never suspected a problem within the pages, and Oliver couldn't blame him. The books alone should have been a red flag, one she shouldn't have ignored. The blame fell solely on his shoulders as well as Ravyn's. At her age, she'd seen enough that she knew . . . She knew there was no such thing as coincidence.

"Shut up, Thor," she muttered when the security guard whispered something so softly that even Oliver, with his enhanced hearing, couldn't pick it up over the phone. "Put that shit in your reports, don't tattle like I'm a child."

Then the strange gifts of jewelry and flowers had begun to appear where nothing had been before, bypassing the best security system there was, a system he'd put in place. At the same time, she was guarded by the best paranormals he had. Another blaring, red flag that he'd once again not been notified about. Had he? Was it an email he'd scanned, a voice-mail deleted too soon? Maybe at this point, Sebastian's team had felt things were under control; he wanted to give them the benefit of the doubt. However, he would have their heads if the team had blown off these early warnings.

The gifts had escalated: small dead animals, heads of larger ones, and then even human body parts. By vampire standards, a few human ears and fingers weren't horrifying, but delivering them unrequested to a secure location while bypassing security was a final red flag, especially considering that Ravyn lived as a human in a very human world.

Due to her thorough security detail, Ravyn generally never knew the number of human threats she received. And calling those events threats was a disservice to real danger. These mundane human threats were delivered through the usual means, easily stopped, tracked, and deterred by paranormal means that Ravyn never needed to be bothered with. That was if they even made it past her human security team.

The gifts and messages making their way directly to Ravyn were true threats, and they should be treated as such, not swept under the rug and ignored.

Ending the call with a push of a finger wasn't nearly as satisfying as slamming a receiver down into its cradle, but Oliver had to be satisfied with that. He ran a frustrated hand through his dark hair. He wanted someone to hit, someone to blame. But there was no one to blame. Security had done its due diligence and sent the reports up the chain of command to Sebastian. Bash, whom Oliver had hired to take over the entire physical security side of the business. Bash, who had followed every procedure in place and followed all physical leads. Bash, who had apparently been by Ravyn's side unseen and unheard, watching and protecting her even before this most recent escalation. Bash, who had insisted Ravyn call Oliver when he'd exhausted all means and knew that stronger methods needed to be utilized.

The books appeared to be the easiest of leads to track, and they were the reason he was in a town of 10,000 in the middle of rural America. Oliver supposed this hole of a town was probably fine enough if you were into this type of place, the kind where they were hanging onto 1950s nostalgia of mothers in aprons while fathers worked nine to five, forgetting that the female half of the population were second class, unable to bank, vote, or receive health care. Meanwhile, the current day idyllic small-town community had meth rampaging the back streets of the cutesy facade.

Frustrated, Oliver rubbed his chin; it really wasn't a bad place. When had he become so jaded? Had it crept up on him over the years or had it just suddenly happened overnight as the years flashed by and civilization continued to repeat history, unable to truly learn from its mistakes while touting progress and values? At some point, he'd become his grandfather, a cynical, angry old man who could no longer find peace in the world around him. No wonder Ravyn had sent him off without her. If he could tire, he would be exhausted.

The town really wasn't that bad. No trash littered the streets. Apparently, the locals used the public trash cans standing on every block, or perhaps a Boy Scout troop picked up litter regularly. And the signs that adorned the neat but worn store fronts lacked the neon glow that was so common in Chicago. They reminded him a bit of the buildings in the small Illinois town where he'd grown up well before the first of the great wars. Maple trees grew on the lawns, surrounded with the starts of spring flower beds, and nearly all the stores—even the empty ones—boasted at least one planter bursting full with an array of freshly planted spring and summer flora. Tidy and welcoming, it was a place his parents might have chosen to live in if given a choice.

Ending up here was a twisted journey and not as easy as he'd thought it would be. Whomever he was looking for had hidden their tracks well. But he wasn't the best in the business for nothing. Sure, a human wouldn't have been able to track down this author, but there wasn't a chance she could hide from vampire persuasion.

After Ravyn's call ended, Oliver downloaded the books.

He breezed quickly through the tomes, marveling at the accuracy, while also dismayed that Ravyn had found them merely entertaining instead of downright frightening. Astonishingly enough, they did chronicle her life beginning in Egypt thousands of years ago, well before the birth of today's Christian God. A few things were embellished and fleshed out with apparent artistic license—Ravyn had told him that—but most things were factual. He couldn't be sure of everything because it was simply impossible to know all of Ravyn's stories. His heart broke for young Ravyn and for the centuries she'd chosen to slumber away, her soft heart too broken to deal with love and loss time and time again.

Nephthys was her new name after her death and rebirth. She'd taken the name of the ancient goddess of death and decay, winged protector of the dead. Her name before that had been wiped out, and even the book didn't reference it. It had truly been erased. However, the book's heroine went by Fala Ishto, which was yet another winged protector for an American tribe, a nickname cobbled together meaning "Big Crow," a nod to her resemblance to the bird. Ravyn had answered to the nickname Fala during the years when she'd lived with a Chickasaw tribe. She spoke little of those years, but enough that Oliver knew she'd felt happiness and love. Perhaps that was who she saw herself as still. Not simply Ravyn, but more.

As Oliver read, he realized that if even half the words on the pages were true and not artistic license, then this writer, this mysterious A. Scriver, knew more about Ravyn than anyone alive—even him. The digital book jacket contained a vague picture of the so-called writer shot from the side with her hair falling to hide the profile of her face. It was black and white, with the only color coming from a yellow ray of light fading off in the distance. Her biography was even more sparse. The space normally filled with accolades about inspiration and education, along with a summary of hobbies, kids, and pets was non-existent. Instead, riddles filled some of the empty space around and below her picture.

Book One asked, "What did the period say to the sentence? We'd better stop now."

Book Two stated, "Past, Present, and Future walked into a bar . . . It was tense."

Book Three was the shortest with just, "Broken pencils are pointless."

Was this supposed to be a clue about the writer"s identity? Was she threatening Ravyn with the knowledge of past and present while threatening her future? Could broken pencils be a metaphor for the pointlessness of Ravyn's vampire existence or a tasteless joke about sharp objects and vampires?

Were dead animals and body parts a gift or a threat? Did any of it even mean anything or was he chasing the wind? Despite the lack of answers, Oliver couldn't suppress the slight thrill that swept through him as each unanswered question led to even more questions. Fingers flew over the keyboard as he typed out anything from his readings that might be a lead or a note to follow up on.

Sometimes the easiest answer was the most obvious; unless, of course, it wasn't. Internet searches turned up only the vaguest of details. Conveniently located in Chicago, the book publisher would be an early morning stop. Numerous fan pages dedicated to the books yielded few results. Apparently, A. Scriver avoided cameras, book tours, interviews, and basically anything remotely connected to promoting her work. He found no solid information, just speculations.

Oliver bookmarked a few promising sites in case his other ideas yielded the same results. He found teasers for a fourth book that was set to be released within the year, but again, nothing of substance. Despite the excitement the press releases generated from the fans, there wasn't a single clue on what was going to be in the next book. Even the author's name was a riddle, a generic German surname aptly meaning "writer." Literally "A Writer" or, if he was being fancy, maybe "A Scribe." However, this writer wasn't any simple teller of stories. She was a threat.

He rubbed a frustrated hand over his face and pondered. What could be in the next book? Book Three had covered Ravyn's life up until recently. Searching and scanning social media posts, he read through more fan pages and groups devoted to the writer and her works. Still assuming the writer was a woman, the picture could be a red herring designed to throw off searchers. But why? Why would someone go to such lengths to remain unknown? Even the most secret of persons must enjoy basking in the adulation of adoring fans. Surely she followed the pages under a different name, but going through each profile was definitely something he was assigning to an employee.

Finally, a page simply called Scriver, with a blue check mark and several thousand followers popped up in a search. Oliver scoffed. The writer must know that if she'd typed it like it was on the book, she would have more hits, or maybe she simply didn't care if fans followed her. Despite all the accolades posted about her, possibly she didn't need the affirmation. It was difficult to believe, but at this point anything was possible.

Oliver studied the sparse page, looking for clues. The posts were simple. The latest one from ten days ago included a closeup of the top of black coffee in a white mug. "So much happening . . ."

Cryptic and pointless, he scoffed, but the fans went wild guessing and begging for more interaction. A post from a month earlier was a stock photo of a salad captioned, "Lettuce get it on!" Absolutely no cohesive posts to give him even a hint on where to look next.

Oliver realized as he scrolled through posts that Scriver never responded to any comments or even came back to "like" a post or comment. Perhaps part of her appeal was her lack of accessibility? Clearly, she was a follower of the "less is more" ideology. Keep the audience wanting.

With a few clicks of the keyboard, he searched for the IP address that posted on the account. Another Chicago address. Could he find the writer without even leaving the Chicago area? He was already mentally patting himself on the back for successful tracking. No one could outrun tech.

A search of the address revealed it to be a live-in care facility. A few more clicks connected to and then opened the cameras at the facility, revealing a few early morning residents slowly strolling the halls using walkers. He flipped through camera view after camera view, scanning the early morning-shift workers and the residents alike. Oliver frowned. It seemed unlikely that a successful modern writer resided in an assisted living facility. The writing seemed younger; perhaps one of the workers? Without a flash of guilt, Oliver downloaded the employee files with the intent of viewing them after his visit to the publishing house or perhaps sending the mundane task to an underling. Sometimes the most obvious possibility was the answer: the writer had simply bounced around IP addresses until she landed randomly on this place, and there was no connection at all.

He sent the connecting files to an associate with instructions to continue scanning cameras while noting every visitor, employee, even delivery people. After a moment, he added an additional note to run background checks as well. Time consuming and quite possibly the most mundane task known to the company, he knew that direction coming straight from him would make it a priority without him needing to say it.

As he had maneuvered the early morning traffic, Oliver searched for information on the publishing house not available to the public. Voice command made simultaneous searches efficient as he drove. Contracts, author lists, email lists, and other secure information began to run through his customer sorter, searching for anything that mentioned the books by name, A. Scriver, and other key words such as "vampire" and "paranormal." The program estimated at least four hours to complete. Hopefully, he would have the information the old fashion way before it could even complete its cycle.

The publishing house was nearly a bust as well. Oliver confidently entered the modern offices on the outskirts of the city, thankfully not far from his own building, noticing the few cameras in place and even fewer that worked. He made a note to have his team erase him from the footage the minute he left, even though he easily slid around any clearly viewed areas.

Despite his vampire mind compulsion, Oliver's discreet inquiries were met with censure from most of his interviewees, who eagerly offered any assistance they could but were then unable to.

Frustration was mounting; admittedly, he was a bit out of practice with fieldwork, but humans shouldn't still feel the desire to hide information from him when he compelled them. Of course, despite their desire, they were unable to hide anything from him. It was just that they really didn't know anything. Despite her sales and apparent fame, no one he interrogated had even seen a picture of the writer, let alone met her in person. Apparently, she never came into the building. Despite claiming to have never met her, each person he spoke to announced verbatim that she was the loveliest of ladies and always so kind to everyone, a joy to work with. When pressed, they couldn't remember if she was young or old. Despite the fact that her book jacket showed long hair hiding her profile, no one could say if her hair was long or short. They could recall she had beautiful eyes, but not one person could say for certain what her eye color was. Blue? Brown? Hazel? Anything that appeared to be a memory of her was a canned response, and specifics were all uncertain and different.

Everything was done through her agent, who also apparently never came into the offices.

What an asinine way to do business, Oliver thought rather cynically.

Admittedly, if keeping hidden was the writer's goal, it was working. Business was conducted by email or courier through the unknown agent; one woman thought maybe the agent was Bess or Liz, but when pressed further, her mind became even more befuddled. The groundwork had been laid before he'd arrived to hide this writer from anyone who came looking. It smelled suspiciously supernatural, and where there was smoke there was fire. Combined with the mysterious gifts and visitors, all the paranormal activity tied together to spell out trouble.

However, after slipping in and out of several offices and chatting up receptionists with no luck, Oliver found a chatty and bored assistant to the personal assistant of the editor-in-chief. Ironically enough, he didn't have to use any persuasion beyond a half grin and leaning close enough to speak in hushed confidence to gain the little information she did know. Setting aside her nail file, she seemed eager to speak to anyone who approached her hidden corner desk.

The editor-in-chief was the only person with whom the agent corresponded directly, and he was currently on another "vacay to a beach."

"The contracts with A. Scriver are, like, super confidential," the assistant babbled.

Oliver leaned on her desk, suppressing an eye roll while encouraging her with a nod and a flash of teeth with his smile.

"There are, in fact, no electronic copies." She leaned in closer to him as she ran a finger down her neck, dipping lower. "He keeps them off-site somewhere. His other assistant might know, but she's on vacay too." With a pout of her pink lips, she added with a huff and toss of blond hair, "My uncle said I had to still come to work this week, even with them gone. But sometimes I leave at lunchtime."

Now, with a whiff of persuasion and a hint of irritation, Oliver commanded the young woman to forget that she'd spoken to him, leave for an early lunch once again, and forget that she'd let him into the editor-in-chief's office. Then with a sigh, he added a healthy caution of stranger danger for her own protection to his compulsion.