Page 17 of The Guardian's Curse

“I took lessons for most of my life,” she said. “I don’t get to play often anymore. No piano.”

“Well, I’m certain that Master Thorne wouldn’t mind if you played.”

He listened closely as Paris gave her the grand tour of the house, pointing out the bathrooms, the kitchen, and the library in turn. Thankfully, his old friend steered clear of his bedroom, simply telling her to leave the basement level alone so she didn’t introduce light into his quarters. Clever vampire.

“Is there anything I can do?” she said as they circled back around the bottom floor. “Like with the house? I can cook if that would be helpful.”

Paris chuckled. “We don’t eat. But I do have work for you. I want you to design wards like what you put up at Infinity. Maybe more. I’ll write you a list.”

“I can do that,” she said eagerly. Her voice was more serious when she asked, “What are you going to do about Elliott?”

“I don’t know yet,” he said. “Fifty years ago I would have hunted him down and torn his head off and called it a night. Things are more complicated now. But I give you my word—as does Alistair—that you will be safe here.”

“Thank you for all of this,” she said.

“Don’t thank me too soon,” he said. “Dominic was right. This won’t come without strings. But for now, just get some rest. Try not to leave. Order out if you need anything.”

There was the faint sound of a kiss, sending a flare of envy through Alistair. Paris had failed to mention that he was seducing the pretty human witch.

Of course he was. She was mildly interesting and had a heartbeat, so of course Paris was seducing her. And he was Paris, so of course the witch would want him in return.

There was a clatter as someone carried bags into one of the long-empty bedrooms. He noted with a hint of gratitude that Paris had guided her to the room farthest from the door to the basement. Though his old friend could be a real shit when he wanted, he had his moments of consideration.

He listened for the sound of shoes on the porch, and then there was a clear voice, speaking in his native tongue. Paris didn’t speak German nearly as well as English, but he was fluent enough. With their sensitive hearing, he could hear him through the glass. “This could start something ugly, Alistair. You must keep her safe. This witch could be critical in surviving another war.”

“I understand,” he said quietly.

The engine of the SUV roared to life, then faded as his brothers left him alone with the woman. Shoshanna’s soft scent of vanilla and sage wafted through the house, startling in its strangeness.

It was strangely thrilling to have a guest, and a beautiful woman at that. Once upon a time, he would have been confident and bold in her presence. He’d charmed many beautiful women from the piano bench, meeting their eyes across a crowded room. One such meeting had led to his transformation into a vampire, and another had resulted in his curse.

But those days were long gone. Shoshanna would not look at him and hear a silent invitation to bed. She would only see a monster. And though he had no illusions about what he was, he could not bear to see the disgust on her face.

He heard her tiptoeing around the kitchen, speaking quietly. “You better behave, Maggie,” she said. “Or the big bad vampire might eat you.”

“What?” he whispered to himself. Moving silently, he crept down the stairs, keeping to the shadows. If she noticed him, she didn’t say a word. Now that he was closer, he could smell the faint animal scent of a cat, and heard the gentle purr.

“Blood, blood, and more blood,” she said, pulling the refrigerator open. “Not surprising. Groceries tomorrow.”

A few minutes later, she retreated to the guest room. The door closed, but he could hear her chatting quietly to the cat. She was stern as she told the feline he better not get her kicked out of the nice vampire’s mansion by pooping on something expensive. The water ran for a while, and finally, it was quiet. He waited a few minutes longer before creeping downstairs.

He intended to go to his library for a book, but instead, he found himself drawn toward the guest room. Her intoxicating scent drew him to the closed door. If he stilled, he could hear the steady, quiet thump of her heartbeat, along with a subtle thrum of a purring cat.

The witch’s curse had taken his looks and his dignity, consigning him to the shadows. He had been isolated from his kind and their dramatics for nearly a century. And he had long felt like the cold, undead creature that folklore held him to be. The world was unaware of him, and little would change if he faded from existence. The closest he came to feeling connected, to having some tiny impact on the world beyond his door, was on his late night hunts.

Somewhere, sweet, foolish Stacey was a little safer than she had been. There were dozens of Staceys in the city, and there was a very good reason that Midnight Springs had been rated the safest place in the Southeast to live. Perhaps he could no longer enjoy the warmth of making love to a beautiful woman. But he knew the visceral satisfaction of tearing apart a would-be rapist or abuser, ensuring they wouldn’t hurt anyone again. That was something.

And now there was Shoshanna, who surely mattered to someone.

He could not do much, but he could ensure her safety. Standing there, listening to her breathe so soft and slow, he silently vowed, You will be safe here.

With that, he silently crept to his library. In addition to the usual book of Shakespearean sonnets, he took down a copy of The Cherry Orchard. His Russian was rusty, and he’d been doing his best to brush up for the last few months. After pouring a glass of Scotch, he retreated to the cozy alcove overlooking the barren gardens.

Moonlight poured through the open window, casting a silvery pall on the stone statue keeping silent vigil. Though it was a fool’s wish, he always hoped that he would arrive one night to find Lucia smiling, or better yet, to find her gone. Instead, he found the ever-present somber expression on her face, her graceful hand reaching for the cursed lover who could not save her from her fate.

“Good evening, Lucia,” he greeted. After setting down his books, he took a soft cloth from the nearby shelf and gently dusted her from head to toe. He took care with her face, using a light touch as if she could still feel the fabric scraping over her eyes and lips. When he was done, he brushed a kiss over her cold stone fingers. “We have a guest for a while. I may have to abstain from playing in the evenings, so long as she sleeps at night. I trust you’ll understand, and when she leaves, I’ll make it up to you.” He opened the book of sonnets. “Now, where were we? Ah, one hundred twelve. A continuation of the prior, as you well know. He cleared his throat, though the foul witch’s curse had left his voice permanently rough. “Your love and pity doth th’impression fill which vulgar scandal hath stamped upon my brow...”

When he finished the sonnet, he glanced up at Lucia, unmoving and silent.

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