“What are you?” he asked, his voice just a little raspy.

“Tonight I’m your waitress,” I said dispassionately. “Please allow me to pass.”

He looked at me, at the dead thug, and back at me. He did not move. Then he raised his hand and ran a finger down my cheek.

“Pretty,” he said and smiled.

“Poisonous,” I replied coolly and touched the ornate necklace of linked silver medallions that circled my throat.

He sneered, but pulled his hand away. He hadn’t noticed the necklace of linked silver medallions until I pointed it out, which indicated to me that he was very young, very hungry, very stupid, or all three. The way he moved, with his reliance upon speed and stealth, also indicated his recent conversion from human to undead. The inexperienced ones tended to stalk and pursue their prey, using concealment, speed, and ambush techniques—rather like cats, I always thought.

Oddly enough and despite the similarities, I like cats.

Vampires, not so much.

“You’ll have to lick the pavement if you dither much longer,” I prompted him.

He growled, yanked the necklace so that the links shattered, and yowled again as the silver burned him. (Yes, that was another bit of true vampire lore: silver is toxic to vampires; faerie silver even more so.) Faster than I could get away, he grabbed my hair, forcefully tipped my head to expose the vulnerable neck, and bit down. He gulped once, twice, a third time, and then started screaming as the faerie silver of sidhe blood coursed through his body, burning him from the inside. His face began to char at the mouth, beginning with his lips that were yet smeared with my blood, the undead flesh shriveling and sizzling. I sank to my knees and a scrabbling hand found a silver medallion from my necklace. I wiped it against my dirty, bloody skirt and then pressed it against the wounds on my neck. I felt and heard and smelled the sizzle of my own flesh as the silver burned away the poison of a vampire’s saliva. Those three gulps had been long, deep, starving ones and I was weak and unsteady. Yet still I pulled sufficient energy and strength from deep within myself to heal the wounds and leave no scar. Then I sat there, nearly unconscious, for far too long.

And that’s where the police found me.

“They don’t speak English,” she said curtly. “Let’s see if there’s an alternate entrance we can use.”

​They grumbled, but allowed her to lead them back around the block, down an alley, and to a side door that was guarded by three more armed men. These men looked slightly less disreputable and Cassia allowed herself the faint hope that perhaps they wouldn’t shoot her or treat her like … well, like the others did. She approached the one man who looked more European than Asian. Perhaps he understood English. 

“Excuse me, do you speak English?” she asked, noticing that her group hung several yards behind her as if bullets shot from those ugly weapons wouldn’t travel past her. “Español? Français? Deutsch?” 

Vladislav wondered if lightning had just struck him. He felt utterly stunned and every cell in his body sizzled and sang. She is the one. His father always said he would know his soul mate when he saw her—as when the old bastard had seen his mother—and this incredibly powerful urge to claim, protect, and love this particular woman had to be a true herald. He whispered the words he had learned from his father and were engraved upon his heart, the words low and guttural and thrumming with ancient power that gathered and pulsed on the tip of his tongue. 

The woman showed no impact from his words. She merely looked at him, her expression showing a temper fraying from exasperation. The linen of her prim, navy blue dress had wilted in the heat and humidity and clung to a slender, gracefully proportioned body no professional dancer would have been ashamed to claim. Tendrils of hair the color of winter sunshine had escaped confinement from the neat coil pinned to the back of her head and curled languidly in the heavy air. Her eyes were startlingly violet and lushly fringed. A thin, almost imperceptible scar traveled the length of her left cheekbone and disappeared into the hairline. He thought her beautiful. 

“I speak English,” he replied after a moment in an intriguing accent, his cool eyes alight with interest. 

“Oh, God, not again,” she muttered beneath her breath. She took another breath to compose herself, smiled her most professional smile, and asked if someone was available to escort her clients into the hotel so they could return to their conference. 

“You don’t know what happened, do you?” he inquired with a faint grin that concealed the sudden surge of rage wanting to be unleashed at whoever had been foolish enough to insult this woman. His woman.
​

​Nearly a century ago, Rowan Nemed died by lightning strike. The divine bolt ignited something magic and she was transformed into something rare, powerful, and fey: sidhe.

Sidhe survival depends much upon one’s ability to remain hidden from other supernatural creatures and magic users who would exploit them. Rowan has lived for several years in the pressure cooker of Hollywood as a set designer, carefully staying away from the camera. However, a spontaneous act of recognition for her work brings Rowan to the notice of Los Angeles’ supernatural community and her freedom is threatened.

Lion shifter Adrian and vampire Simon are best friends and business partners. When they discover Rowan, each wants her for his own. Rowan does her best to dissuade them, for a supernatural matebond means the end of her freedom.

Then demons begin hunting sidhe and Rowan is a prime target. She agrees to exchange her freedom for survival. But which male will Rowan accept? And can she survive when one of them dies in a battle to keep her?

This is the first of three books in The Tree of Life trilogy. The book can be read as a stand-alone novel.

“Something besides being shot is tormenting her,” Adrian said. “Her every muscle is vibrating with pain.”

“It’s the steel,” Simon said after a brief moment’s consideration. “Elves can’t tolerate iron and the bullets are probably steel clad.”

“That must be it,” Adrian agreed. “The steel is poisoning her.”

“Look at the edges of the exit wound,” Simon observed, pointing at the back of her shoulder with the finger of his free hand. “The edges are cauterized. The iron burned her.”

Adrian cast an ironic look at his partner and added, “Like silver burns you.” He pondered that a moment and then said, “Since silver burns you and her blood burns you, it’s a good bet that she has silver in her blood.”

A knock on the door captured their attention.

“That must be Elena,” Adrian said. “I’ve got my arms full. Would you mind answering your own door?”

Simon was loath to leave his partner alone with the unconscious and bleeding elf, but saw no other good option since he could not hold her while she still bled. At least the bleeding had become sluggish and thick. He rose and dried his hands and left the bathroom to answer the door.

“Hello, you must be Elena, the nurse,” he said brusquely. “Please come in. We’re having a bit of an emergency.”

The nurse looked him over and suddenly went very still.

“What are you?” she demanded coldly.

“I’m Adrian’s business partner Simon,” he responded equally coldly.

“Is that Elena?” Adrian’s voice carried from the master bath.

“Yes, she’s coming,” Simon called back and stared into the woman’s eyes. “I will not harm you. Have no fear and do as we ask.”

The nurse’s shoulders relaxed and she agreed to assist in a somewhat distant voice. Simon bade her enter and she did, her movement wooden. He closed the door and led her into the bathroom. Adrian glanced up, his automatic and charming smile fading immediately.

“Let her go, Simon.”

“She’ll panic,” the vampire warned.

“Try using charm for once, instead of compulsion,” Adrian said snidely. “Now release her. She can’t think properly if you’ve got her mind and body locked down.”

Simon shrugged and released control over the nurse, who immediately opened her mouth to scream. As she inhaled, Adrian sharply called her name to grab her attention.

“Elena! Calm down and help us. This woman’s been shot and needs healing,” he said sharply.

“That’s charming?” Simon murmured dryly.

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