Page 23 of The Guardian's Curse

“I was just wondering,” she said.

He slid the tablet toward her. “The amount we’re paying you every week is more than enough to quell your curiosity. Sign, please.”

She lifted her eyes to him and scanned the contract. She was hoping for a nice parchment with gothic script on it, but instead it was a simple text document in PDF form. It was written in surprisingly plain language for a bunch of centuries-old bloodsuckers. She signed with her finger, then typed in her email address before sliding it back to Paris.

“Violette will transfer your payment on Fridays,” he said. “I expect you to start work on this place tomorrow. Fair enough?”

“Got it,” she said.

He finished off the glass of blood, then set it on the counter. “Thanks for the snack. Bon nuit, mon petit sorcière.”

He left her with more questions than answers, and more than a little frustration. They’d taken Elliott seriously enough to bring her here, but they seemed perfectly content to squirrel her away indefinitely like a princess in a tower. And why wouldn’t they? Immortal vampires probably had no sense of urgency.

And really, who was she to complain? They wanted to pay her good money to sit in this beautiful house, work on her spells, and occasionally pour a glass of blood for a reclusive vampire. A girl could do worse.

She cleaned the kitchen and put away the dishes, leaving it as spotless as she’d found it that morning. Then she retreated to her bedroom to get ready for bed. Magneto was sprawled across her pillow, and he simply raised his head to look at her as she entered. “Hey bud,” she greeted. “Did you have a busy day of sleeping?”

A big yawn revealed a mouthful of tiny panther teeth. She chuckled and retired to the bathroom to wash up. After a long, luxurious shower, she smoothed on a minty-scented moisturizer from Ruby’s shop. It was nice to contemplate the morning without having to get up early to brew overpriced coffee.

She carefully wrapped her hair to protect her curls, then changed into her loose pajama pants. When she returned to the bedroom, Magneto had vacated the plush pillow. She plopped down and tucked her feet under the covers.

“Mags,” she called. “Come to bed if you want bedtime scratches before I sleep.” She clicked her tongue to get his attention, then reached over to turn off the lamp.

The room was quiet without the steady sound of his noisy purr. Way too quiet.

“Mags?”

She sat up and peered around the room. The glint of the doorknob caught her eye, revealing the door that was open just enough to let out one little, sneaky cat.

“Shit,” she hissed, leaping out of bed. She never closed her doors at home, because he would yell at the sight of a closed door.

Shoshanna grabbed her phone for light, then hurried down the hall. Across the house, a melancholy tune drifted from the piano like a whisper on the wind. Her chest tightened.

“Maggie,” she murmured, barely raising her voice for fear of catching Alistair’s attention. Knowing him, he was in the kitchen poking his face into anything that smelled interesting.

She emerged into the open expanse of the living room and froze. A candelabra with a single lit candle sat in the corner of the room, casting a hazy yellow glow. It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust well enough to see him.

A dark figure sat at the piano bench, its head concealed in a hood. The fingers dancing over the keys were covered in black fabric, and a robe of some sort hung down his back and pooled on the floor.

And to her absolute horror, there was a nine-pound black cat sitting next to the cloaked man. His tail hung over the edge of the bench, completely relaxed and still.

Oh God. As she crept closer, she could see Magneto, the ruiner of her life, nuzzling his head against the man’s elbow. “Magneto,” she whispered. “Come here.”

Of course, he ignored her.

The piano playing stopped, though the man didn’t turn. Silence hung between them as the final chord died out.

“Uh, Mister—Master Thorne,” she blurted.

“Alistair,” he said. What a voice. It ran down her spine like warm water. There was a rough edge to it, but it didn’t entirely mask the rich depth, a bass sound like a bow drawn across a cello string. There was a faint British tinge to his accent. It wasn’t quite the voice she’d heard in her dream, but it was all the better for being real.

Her legs threatened to turn to Jello. “Alistair, I’m so sorry about the cat. I hope he didn’t bother you. I’ll keep him in my room. If it’s a problem, I can—”

“It’s fine,” he said gruffly. His gloved hand rested on Magneto’s back, and the little cat stared up at him. “We have an understanding, don’t we? You are not the master of this house, are you?”

Magneto let out a tiny, chirping sound.

Alistair rubbed between his ears, and Magneto head-butted his arm in a signature sign of affection. “I thought not.”

---