Page 43 of The Guardian's Curse

Paris opened his mouth as if to speak again. His gaze held Alistair’s for a long, uncomfortable stretch. Then he apparently thought better of it, and gently lifted the veravin into his arms. “Get some rest, Alistair.”

He bit his tongue and watched Paris go. His friend sealed the door behind him, blocking out the noise of the house. Alone in the dark, he let out a heavy sigh. There was a maddening itch around the two wounds, and they were searing hot to the touch. Whatever the witch had given the veravin, it was working.

As lovely and competent as she was, he was haunted by the look in her eyes. How could he venture upstairs again? She would see only a monster now, as all of them did. Whether it was pity, disgust, or contempt, the eyes never lied.

* * *

1932 - Prague

“He doesn’t want visitors,” Paris protested, his muffled voice ringing throughout the house.

Alistair hadn’t thought it possible, but his hearing was even more sensitive now, thanks to the witch’s curse. As if being transformed into a horned monstrosity was not sufficient torture, his head had been pounding for days. Smells were more intense, and every little shift in the wind brought a cascade of fresh horrors, from unwashed bodies to sewage to rotting meat.

“He will wish to see me,” an imperious voice rang out. “I am his Maker, you presumptuous dandy.”

He sat bolt upright in bed. That was a voice he had not heard in decades. Feet thundered up the stairs, and he caught Paris’s scent as he tried to block the door to Alistair’s darkened chamber. “I said no.”

Franziska Bauer, wretched harridan and demoness of the ill-fated Rubrum Court, drove her jeweled hand directly into Paris’s chest. His knees buckled as he clutched at her wrist, letting out tiny choking sounds. “And I said get out of my way.”

Even with her hand buried to the wrist in his lover’s ribcage, Franziska was still as breathtaking as she had ever been. The fashions had changed, but she had not. Out of sheer instinct, his body stirred to life, but his soul cringed.

“Let him go,” Alistair snarled, rising from the bed. The sheets fell away to reveal his leathery skin, the dim candlelight bringing the uneven planes into sharp relief.

Her hand wrenched free of Paris’s chest with a horrific squelching sound, Crimson dripped from her long, elegant fingers. Her red eyes skimmed over him, and her face twisted in disgust. “My God,” she murmured. “I had no idea it was this bad.”

“Get out,” Paris bit out, gripping the doorframe for balance. His white shirt was soaked through, but his eyes were filled with murder. He spat out a mouthful of blood and straightened even as his pale face contorted in pain. Scrubbing one hand across his lips, he lurched toward Franziska.

Franziska ignored him, drifting toward Alistair. Despite everything, his body remembered her, the sweetness of her kiss, the way her legs tightened around him when she made love to him. Her fingers, still bloody, traced the craggy landscape of his face. She made no attempt to hide her disgust. “She has ruined you, my sweet boy,” she said. “What did you do to anger the witch so?”

Her scent was maddening, crawling along his senses and invading his mind. He slapped her hand away. “Did you only come to gloat?”

“You should have stayed with me,” she said. “The Auberon have destroyed you.”

“He’s not destroyed,” Paris said.

“And what curse did the witch bestow upon you?” she said. “Clearly not your face, nor the efficacy of your cock, judging by your thorough plundering of all of Europe.” She cupped Alistair’s face, forcing him to stare down at her. Even after years apart, the bond between a Maker and a Vessel was powerful. Her blood called to him, and he could not look away, even as he saw his hideous face reflected in her scarlet eyes. “Come with me. I will find this witch and peel her skin from her bones until she undoes this.”

“I am still loyal to the Auberon,” he said, fighting to get the words out.

“And are they loyal to you?” she asked. “Eduardo holds court while you hide here in the shadows. I hear he already has another fine entertainer. They are ashamed of you. They will forget you, despite all you have done. But I still love you, my sweet.”

He tilted his head. “Have you lost your other playthings, Franziska? Is that why you must resort to begging for me?” He grinned, knowing how horrific his smile was.

She recoiled, but she recovered quickly. “You will always be mine. You were mine before any other knew you. Do you think this vain fool will care for you like I will?”

Snarling at her, Alistair said, “Leave. Consider yourself free of me.”

Though his posture was hunched, and the smell of vampire blood filled the room, Paris stepped between them. “You heard him, Frau Bauer.”

Her lip curled with disgust. “Then suffer together for eternity.”

And with that, she flounced out of the room.

Paris grasped his face gently. “Are you all right?” The feeling of his hands, smooth and graceful and unmarred, awakened his lust and infuriated him. How could Paris, painfully flawless, bear to touch him?

He twisted out of the other man’s grasp. “She’s right. You should leave.”

“She’s right...have you gone mad?”

---