Read a Free Excerpt from Daughters of Shadow and Blood – Book II: Elena (Part 3)

In anticipation of the upcoming release of Daughters of Shadow and Blood – Book II: Elena, I am releasing a free excerpt once a week until release day on April 23, 2016. This is Part 2. (Read Part 1 and Part 2 here.) I hope you enjoy! Please share and order your copy today!


Thessaloniki, Greece

6 October 1999

Clara leapt out of the chair and backed away from the desk where Arion’s bleeding form lay. She frantically scanned the office for the deadly red dot but failed to find it. She gathered up as many of the loose papers as she could and stuffed them into her bag. The professor continued to stare sightlessly at her, his mouth open, his last words still hanging on his lips, while the red stain spread across his shirt.

She yanked the door open and ran out into the hallway, directly into a man’s arms. She pushed herself away, but the man, dressed in riot gear with words in Greek written across the front of his jacket as well as POLICE in large white letters, seized her wrist. Clara looked up into cold, blue eyes set in a bulldog face.

He pulled her back toward him. “Please, miss, don’t fight,” he said in thickly accented English. “I am trying to get you away from here.”
People emerged from the other offices. The man yelled something in Greek, and they all ran toward the stairwell, panic on their faces. The bulldog dashed down the hall after them, dragging Clara behind.

Outside the building, police pushed back the gathering crowd underneath Arion’s window. The bulldog, however, took Clara in the opposite direction, around the corner to the other side of the building. He stopped in the shade of a sycamore tree.

“Thank you,” Clara said, struggling to catch her breath.

But the bulldog didn’t let go of her wrist.

Clara tried to fight until he squeezed. She winced and started to cry out, but he jerked her arm, bringing her close enough to feel his hot breath. He held up a pistol and touched the muzzle to his lips.

Clara glared. “You wouldn’t shoot me, not here, not in broad daylight.”

The bulldog’s mouth twisted into a smile. He eyed the rooftop of a nearby building. “Who said anything about me shooting you? Now if you don’t want someone else to get hurt, you’ll keep your mouth shut. Don’t worry. We’re not going far.”

He led her a short distance to a circular building lined with Ionic columns, obviously much older than the one where Arion had his office. Instead of the main entrance, he pushed her toward a small door on the opposite side. It opened onto a set of stairs that led down into the dark. At the bottom a short hallway ended in another door. The bulldog pushed it open and forced Clara into a dim room. The only light came from a small lantern resting on a low table. Another man already waited there.

The bulldog slung Clara toward the man. “Here, Filip. Why don’t you do something useful and tie her hands. I can tell she’s not going to be an easy one to deal with.” His smile told Clara he was speaking English for her benefit.

The man he called Filip didn’t reply.

The bulldog began stripping out of his police clothes. “Sometime today, Filip. We need to get moving soon.”

Still Filip didn’t reply.

The bulldog paused and snapped his fingers. “Filip, did you hear me?”

Filip stepped toward him, into the lantern’s pool of light. When Clara saw his face, she gasped. It was the man who had recovered her wallet in the market.

“I heard you the first time,” her Good Samaritan said.

The bulldog’s eyes grew wide. He went for his gun, but before he could get to it, the man from the market fired a shot from his own. With a lurch, Clara’s captor collapsed to the floor.

The man turned toward Clara. “Are you all right?”

“No,” she replied. “No I’m not.”

“What happened? How did they grab you?”

“Hell if I know. I don’t even know who they are. One minute I’m talking to a professor in his office. The next he’s dead on his desk from a sniper’s bullet.”

The man swore in a language Clara didn’t know. If she had to guess, she would have said it was Russian. He reached for her. “We need to get you someplace safe.”

Clara jerked away. “That’s what he told me. Why should I trust you?”

“Because I very probably just saved your life. And I also did catch the pickpocket who stole your wallet, which is fortunate because you’re going to need your ID.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean we have to leave now. You can’t stay in Thessaloniki.”

Clara shook her head. “Oh, no. No. I’m not going anywhere with you. I’m going back, and I’m going to talk to the police—the real police—and I’m going to tell them what happened, and then I’m going to book the first ticket back to the U.S.”

“I’d advise against that.”


“Because like it or not, you’re in danger. And because then you’ll never know what happened to Adam.”

Clara’s heart skipped a beat. “How do you know about Adam?”

“I have an interest in finding him too.”

Clara tried to study his face in the low light. “Your name’s not Filip, is it? Who are you?”

He motioned with his head in the direction of a heap behind him. “Filip is indisposed at the moment. My name is Arkady Danilovich Markov.”

“Why are you looking for Adam? Does that mean he’s still alive? Is he in danger, too?”

Arkady held up a hand. “Questions later. Now we need to be going.”

Clara hesitated. “How do I know this isn’t another trick?”

Arkady sighed. “You don’t. I’m not forcing you to stay. You can go back, go talk to the police if you want, but just know that I’m your best chance to find Adam.” He paused. “As well as to live to see another sunrise.”

Clara struggled to calm her thoughts. A large part of her wanted to leave, to go back to her hotel, book a flight back to the States, and continue with her life. But something else tugged at her. She loved Adam, and he didn’t have anyone else.

She stepped back and motioned to the door. “Okay. Lead the way.”

Arkady shook his head. “No. We’re going the way your friend here was planning to take you.”

“And what way is that?” Clara asked.

Arkady picked up the lantern and opened a door behind him that Clara hadn’t noticed. “We’re taking the tunnels.”


They could have been walking for twenty minutes or two hours. Not long after Arkady led her through the door in the cellar room, the cramped tunnel opened enough that the weak lantern light left the walls in shadow. Occasionally Arkady gave her a curt warning to watch her step as they navigated around fallen stonework and other debris. Somewhere in the distance, water trickled.

“Where is this tunnel taking us?” Clara asked.

“Away from the university,” Arkady answered.

“How do we know there aren’t more of them waiting for us at the other end?”

“Because these tunnels run underneath most of the city. There are countless ways in and out. There’s no way for them to know where we’re going to end up.”

A lump formed in the pit of Clara’s stomach as she envisioned getting lost in miles and miles of pitch-black, maze-like tunnels. “How do we know where we’re going?”

“I know the way,” Arkady said. “Don’t worry.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I’ll worry until we’re back on the surface.”

Arkady laughed, but there wasn’t any humor in his voice.

At the first juncture they came to, he took a tunnel that branched to the right of the main tunnel. Almost immediately, the ground began to slope upward, and it wasn’t long before the light seeped back in. The walls of the tunnel were different here, made of brick rather than stone. Soon they came upon another door. Pushing it open, Arkady led her into another cellar. This one was filled with crates, most of them emblazoned with some sort of crest.

“Wine?” Clara asked.

“Olive oil,” Arkady corrected. “This house used to belong to a wealthy merchant family. They traded olive oil all over the Eastern Mediterranean.”

“Who does it belong to now?”

“It’s abandoned.”

Clara followed Arkady across the cellar to a set of stairs. With each step she took, Clara’s sense of dread grew. Once they emerged on the floor above, Clara knew something was terribly wrong.

She forced down a wave of panic as she and Arkady made their way through rooms full of abandoned, crumbling furniture. Shadows moved, and voices whispered. Like a fog, tendrils of darkness writhed everywhere the light could not reach. Clara glanced at Arkady for any sign that he saw what she did. He didn’t look back at her, though his steps took on a new urgency. Once or twice, Clara caught glimpses of figures out of the corner of her eye—black, vaguely human shapes standing in otherwise vacant rooms. When they reached the front hallway of the house, Arkady practically sprinted for the door, dragging Clara with him. They emerged onto the street to find themselves at the market, just as the afternoon sun dipped behind the buildings.

Clara looked back at the house, only to discover the same looming façade she had passed earlier. Arkady glanced back as well, his face solemn. He muttered something under his breath Clara wasn’t able to catch before he offered his hand to her again.

“Come this way,” he said. “We have a long drive ahead of us.”

Part 4 >>

Read a Free Excerpt from Daughters of Shadow and Blood – Book II: Elena (Part 1)

In anticipation of the upcoming release of Daughters of Shadow and Blood – Book II: Elena, I am releasing a free excerpt once a week until release day on April 23, 2016. This is Part 1. I hope you enjoy! Please share and order your copy today!


Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina

15 March 1994

The bomb didn’t him. It had dismembered him certainly, but it did not kill him. The man’s torso and head—as well as his right arm—were found in a pile of debris on the side of Radićeva Street opposite the bombed-out cinema. His feet and legs had come to rest a few hundred feet away. The rest of him was never found.

As Police Inspector Nikola Gavrilović stood over the mostly reassembled body in the overcrowded city morgue, a question nagged at him.

Where was the blood?

There was none to be found. Not one drop. Impossible, unless the man was dead before the shell hit the cinema, killed in such a way that he bled out completely. It was the third such body found that year—not that anyone paid attention. Not with death raining from above every day. The Yugoslav army had laid siege to the city for almost two years, and from their positions in the hills outside Sarajevo, they pelted the city with shells almost daily. Nikola had already lost friends and family. Everyone had. As perverted an idea as it seemed, it was difficult to find the motivation to investigate murder on such a small scale when the mere act of venturing out of one’s house to buy bread could mean death.

It didn’t help matters that of the other two apparent victims, the first was a homeless man and the second an abusive drunk whose own wife refused to claim his body. Nikola’s superiors would close this case, insisting the man had died in the blast, and he wasn’t in a position to challenge them. He was only half-Serbian, through his mother, but because the Serbs were the ones trying to strangle the city, no one would completely trust anything he said. It didn’t matter that he wanted what almost everyone else in Sarajevo wanted—a free Bosnia.

Besides, he couldn’t exactly tell the truth. All the signs were there, if one knew how to see them. An old threat had returned to the city, and just as certainly as the Yugoslav army brought death from above, this threat brought death from below. Placing the sheet back over the man’s body and then turning to leave the morgue, Nikola resolved to do whatever he had to do to stop it, even if he had to stand alone.

After all, the Serbs invented the word vampire.


Thessaloniki, Greece

6 October 1999

Clara barely dodged the bicycle as she turned the corner. She didn’t understand the stream of Greek the rider yelled as he pedaled past her, but based on his expressive hand gestures, she guessed his general meaning. She gritted her teeth and kept going, pushing her way through the crowded market.

Sounds, colors, aromas swirled around her, everything as incomprehensible as … well, Greek. Laughter and shouting reverberated off the buildings over the noise of the traffic on the nearby streets. A musician had attracted a small crowd with the frantic strains of his violin. Grey business suits mingled with traditional costumes of bright blue, red, and green amid stalls set up by vendors selling everything Clara could imagine—and a few things she couldn’t.

Car exhaust mixed with the smell of concentrated humanity tickled her nose, but as she walked, one scent called to her like a Pied Piper. The sweet and spicy aroma led her to a stall where a young boy was roasting lamb. Her stomach rumbled, and it occurred to her she hadn’t eaten anything since the thin cup of coffee and the small pastry at her hotel that morning.

The boy looked up at her and smiled. She reached into her bag, and a wave of nausea pushed the thought of lunch out of her mind—her wallet wasn’t there. Panic rose as she probed every corner of the bag. Her gaze darted around the market, thinking maybe she’d see someone acting suspiciously or she’d spot a policeman, and when that failed, maybe she’d see someone—anyone—who looked like they might speak English. All her money, her credit cards, her ID—all of it was gone, but what brought her to the verge of tears was the thought of losing the creased and tattered photo that had been lodged in her wallet for the better part of five years.

She needed that picture.

A hand on her shoulder made her jump. She turned around to find a man smiling at her. Maybe a few years older than she was, he had short black hair and a goatee and blue eyes so pale they were almost grey.

He held up her wallet. “Madame, I believe this is yours.”

He spoke English with an accent Clara couldn’t quite place, though she didn’t think it was Greek.

Stunned, she took back the wallet. “How did …? Was it …? I guess it must have fallen out of my purse.”

The man chuckled. “Not exactly.” He motioned over his shoulder, back toward where the bicyclist had nearly hit her. The rider sat on the ground with his back to the wall of a building, a package of ice held to his forehead. His bicycle lay next to him, and a surly-looking policeman, nowhere to be found moments before, stood over him.

“I watched him slip your wallet out of your purse as he passed by you,” the man continued. “I chased him down.”

Clara raised an eyebrow. “You chased down a bicycle? On foot?”

The man shrugged. “The market is crowded. He could only go so fast.”

She smiled. “Thank you, Mr. …”

He shook his head. “No need for thanks. I’m just a Good Samaritan. Please, have a pleasant stay in Thessaloniki.”

With a nod, he walked away and melted into the crowd.

She turned back to the boy roasting the lamb. He smiled and held up a piece of freshly shaved meat, rich and hearty smelling. She glanced down at her watch and realized, regrettably, that she didn’t have time for lunch. She shook her head and continued on her way through the market.

When Clara came to the end of the stalls, an old stucco building loomed in front of her, its arched windows dark, even with the afternoon sun shining. The road forked to either side, confronting her with a choice. She knew the address where she was going and had traced the route on a map that morning, but now she wasn’t so confident she could remember the way. She wished she had thought to bring a guidebook. Having one certainly would have helped in the market. She was lucky the man who had retrieved her wallet spoke English, though it didn’t occur to her until that moment to question how he knew she did. Maybe he had opened her wallet and seen her driver’s license.

In truth, that she had managed to make it to Greece with anything more than her toothbrush was a small miracle. Only a week earlier she had come home from work to discover the blinking red light on her answering machine. The message was terse. A man’s voice stated that Adam was seen in Thessaloniki in August. He left no name and no contact information, but after two frustrating months of fruitless phone calls, unanswered letters, and pleas to State Department employees in a half-dozen countries, the message was the first news of Adam since he disappeared.

A hastily booked plane ticket later, Clara was walking amid the ancient city’s sun-bleached buildings set against the electric-blue Aegean Sea.

Yet for three days door after door shut in Clara’s face. Smiles vanished and mouths closed every time she mentioned Adam’s name, so she was shocked when Arion Tsakalidis, a Romanian language professor from Aristotle University, had contacted her and asked to meet.

Clara chose the road to the left. As she passed by the old building, she glanced up at the once-white façade, grey now from years of dirt and city grime. The building seemed abandoned, but something about it sent a chill up her spine. She wondered what it had been used for.

A flicker caught her eye from one of the shadow-draped windows on the second floor, and a whispered voice drifted down, saying words too low to understand. Her heart all but stopped. Clara gazed at the window, expecting to find some dark figure standing there, only to watch a pigeon emerge to strut along the sill. She looked around, embarrassed for letting her imagination get the best of her. Still, she doubled her pace.

When Clara finally reached the campus of the university, a wave of relief washed over her. Gone were the narrow, clogged streets and noise of the city; she stared now at the open, manicured lawns and broad walkways of a modern university.

Thanks to Adam she knew a lot about universities. Memories came to her of bringing him dinner in his office when he stayed late grading exams, of walking through the fall leaves holding hands, of picnics on the lawn. The corners of her mouth turned up in a faint smile. She thought she had found someone she could spend the rest of her life with.

Professor Tsakalidis’ office was on the second floor of a nondescript building that housed the Department of Romance Languages. She almost missed it. Adam always made a big deal about how his office was in the only building that predated the university. That would be difficult to do in a country like Greece.

A lanky man with round glasses perched on the end of his nose answered the door when she knocked.

“Professor Tsakalidis?” she asked.

He smiled. “You must be Clara MacIntosh.”

“It’s good to meet you face-to-face.” She held out her hand, which he took.

“And you as well. Please, come in. Pardon the mess.”

Stacks of books took up most of the space on the floor of his office. A computer screen provided the only light in the room apart from the narrow slits of sunlight seeping through the blinds. A coffee cup occupied the only spot on the desk clear of papers.

It could have been Adam’s office.

Clara sat in the chair Professor Tsakalidis gestured toward. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

He walked behind his desk and opened the blinds to allow the sun into the room. “It is the least I could do, given the circumstances.”

Clara brushed a lock of hair behind her ear and cleared her throat. “That’s what I’m hoping you can help me with, Professor Tsakalidis.”
“Please, call me Arion.”

“Arion then. The problem is that I don’t know what circumstances you mean, and I haven’t been able to find anyone who will talk to me. Adam was supposed to be on sabbatical in Budapest. He was scheduled to come back to the States in July, but he never did. I only just learned he was in Thessaloniki in August, but I can’t imagine what he was doing here. I haven’t had any contact with him in months. No one has.”

“His family must be worried sick.”

“He doesn’t have any family. Just me.”

“You’ve been together a while?”

She blushed. “We’re not together, not anymore, but we’ve stayed friends. It just didn’t … We weren’t …”

It was Arion’s turn to blush. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to overstep.”

“No. It’s okay. I just want to find him.”

Arion sighed. “I’m afraid that may be difficult.”

“Why?” Clara asked.

He drew his mouth into a grim line. “Because Dr. Mire may have been involved in a murder.”

If there had been anything in Clara’s stomach, she would have had to reach for the nearest trash can. “Murder?”

“A colleague in the history department, Marina Dimitriou, was stabbed to death in her office. Dr. Mire was the last person seen with her. He ran from the police when they tried to question him.”

Clara frowned. “He would never do something like that.”

Arion shrugged. “I wasn’t there, but multiple eyewitnesses have all told the same story.”

“I still don’t understand. Where is he? Was he arrested? Is he rotting in some jail somewhere waiting for trial?”

“Not exactly.”

“What do you mean?”

“The details are little hazy. I can tell you that Dr. Mire was arrested by the local authorities, but then the Hellenic Police took him into their custody.”

“The Hellenic Police?”

“Like your FBI.”

“So do they have him?”

Arion shook his head. “The car he was in was ambushed. The two Hellenic Police with him were shot and killed.”

“But Adam?”

“Nowhere to be found. He simply vanished.”

Clara was silent for a moment, struggling to retain her composure. “Do you know why he was here?”

The professor pursed his lips. “The reason others have been reluctant to talk to you is that they are afraid of the consequences. I myself am
taking a risk by meeting with you.”

“So why are you meeting with me?”

“After having come all this way, you deserve to know the truth, or at least as much as we can piece together.”

“What is the truth?”

He leaned closer. “I think Dr. Mire stumbled upon something dangerous.”

“Something people were willing to kill over?”

Arion nodded.

“You don’t believe he murdered your colleague.”


“But whoever killed her is trying to kill Adam, too.”

“If they have not already succeeded.”

Clara bit her lip.

He placed a hand on top of hers. “I’m sorry. I know it’s hard to hear, but I don’t want to give you false hope.”

“Do you have any idea what this ‘something dangerous’ might be?” she asked.

Arion opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a stack of loose papers. He handed them to Clara. “A few weeks before Dr. Mire’s visit, Marina showed me something, a handwritten journal. She said a friend had sent it to her, but it was all in Romanian. She asked me to translate part of it.”

Clara glanced through the pages of neat, precise handwriting. Arion had translated it into English. “What does it have to do with Adam?”

“Marina told me the day before she was killed that she wanted a colleague who was visiting from the States to look at it as well. I can only assume she meant Dr. Mire.”

“That still doesn’t explain why he was here to begin with.”

“Maybe Marina contacted him about the journal, wanting him to see it.”

“Who did the journal belong to?”

“A Romanian army officer during World War II.”

“Wasn’t Romania—”

“Allied with the Nazis? Yes, it was, but the entries that filled this journal, they weren’t about the war. They were about monsters.”

“Monsters? Like from the movies?”

“From what I could understand.”

Clara placed a hand on her temple. “Couldn’t he have been talking about the war, though? After all, there were a lot of people who acted like monsters.”

Arion shook his head. “That’s the curious part. I didn’t get the sense it was meant to be metaphorical. ‘Monster’ is my translation, but the Romanian word he chose to use was bală.” He pointed to a line on one of the pages spread out in front of Clara. “The word has several other meanings, though, ones steeped in the folklore of this part of the world.”

“And these other meanings? What are they?”

He didn’t answer. His gaze went to a small red dot dancing across the papers strewn over his desk. It reminded Clara of the inane laser pointer that Adam had used at one time in his lectures until she laughed at him and told him his students weren’t cats. But then an alarm went off inside her brain.

The little red dot wasn’t a pointer.

It was a target.


Arion turned toward the window as Clara shouted for him to stop. The glass exploded, and he lurched backward onto the desk, sending a flurry of papers into the air. A bright red flower of blood bloomed across his chest. His head lolled to one side, his unseeing gaze falling on her, his eyes already beginning to glaze over.

Part 2 >>