Page 44 of The Guardian's Curse

“You deserve better than me,” he said.

Paris scowled at him. “I don’t give a damn about your face, Alistair.”

“Even you are not so good a liar,” Alistair said. He pulled away. “Go back to the court. I will not drag you down with me.”

“You don’t mean that,” Paris protested. “You are in pain, but it will pass. And we will find an answer. But you are still mine. No witch can take you from me.”

He wanted to believe that. He wanted to trust that Paris could love him no matter what. But he had seen the look in his eyes when Alistair stumbled onto his doorstep with the witch’s curse boiling in his veins. And as it progressed, taking over his body, Paris had grown distressed, even disgusted. He was a beautiful man, charming and witty and ferociously loyal, and he deserved someone who could stand at his side.

Not Alistair.

“I am not yours,” Alistair said. “Please leave me.”

“Allie—”

“Leave!” Alistair bellowed.

Paris gaped, and then his shock turned to anger. “You are in my home,” he snapped. “You do not have to be alone, but if that is your choice, then you will be the one to leave. And when you find yourself utterly alone, remember that this is your doing. You didn’t have to suffer this. I told you not to go.”

His words were like a slap to the face. He was right. All of them had told him not to confront the witch. And they were right.

“I will be gone before sunrise,” Alistair said.

Paris’s lips parted, as if he wanted to speak, but he simply walked out of the room and left him alone, as he deserved.

* * *

A quiet knock at his door woke him from a tangle of unpleasant dreams and memories. He rose and inched down the hall and to the basement door. His hand brushed the knob as the second knock came. Her voice was quiet and tentative. “Alistair?”

He was silent. He wanted to be near her, to bask in that warmth again. But he didn’t want her to see him ever again.

She knocked a third time. “I’m sorry to bother you,” she said. “And um...I’m sorry about the fire. I didn’t realize it was you. I want to talk to you face to face. Would you open the door?” She waited. “I know you can hear me with your super hearing.” Another long pause. “Well, make sure you drink both glasses. The blue one is a healing tonic. It will help flush out the toxins from the stake.”

Another long silence, then a sigh as she retreated. When she was down the hall, he opened the door, then grabbed the two large glasses sitting on a tray outside his door. After closing the door, he heard her footsteps, as if she’d run to see him. Then another heavy sigh. “Dammit.”

Her disappointment made him feel oddly conflicted. All of this would have been easier if she just left him alone. But he liked her, and he liked even more that she was drawn to him.

The blue tonic tasted like vanilla and licorice, with the unpleasant edge of something unfamiliar. He drained it quickly and followed it with the warmed blood. While he drank his breakfast, he listened for the sounds of her moving around the house.

Since her arrival, he had learned the song of her evening; shower, then the intermittent bursts of water as she brushed her teeth. A little sing-song to the cat, who answered with chirps and meows. Then the long, satisfied sigh of sinking into bed. When the silence fell, he knew she was asleep.

When she retired for the night, he crept upstairs to speak to Lucia. Shoshanna’s sweet scent hung in the alcove around the stone statue. A single sheet of paper with a dozen geometric drawings and scribbled notes lay on one of the cushioned benches in the bay window. The arcane drawings made no sense to him, but she had clearly been busy.

“Was the witch here?” he asked. “I apologize for not visiting you. There was...an incident.”

He took his time to clean the stone, making up for his absence the previous night. After gently kissing her fingers, he settled down to read from the book of sonnets. Not wanting to risk an encounter with Shoshanna, he headed to bed early.

For the next few nights, their routine repeated. Shoshanna left him blood, heated to near-perfection, along with a glass of a sweet-tasting tonic that renewed his strength. On the third night, she left a hand-written note that said Please come out and talk to me.

He did not. It was not for lack of desire; he found himself at the door a dozen times, thwarted by the memory of her stricken face.

On the fourth night, he heard her practicing the piano. She played the top part of a Debussy suite for four hands. As the music rang out in the house, the empty spaces beckoned to him. There were incomplete chords, lines that went nowhere without him.

Still, he did not join her.

Paris visited twice more that week to check on him and inform him about Shoshanna’s progress. A contractor would come during the day to take up the wood flooring in the living room, so she could place her central sigil on the concrete foundation. That was a sign that she would soon be done, and out of Alistair’s hair. He supposed he should have been excited, but he felt only resignation.

Paris also informed Alistair of an upcoming celebration at Infinity, where they expected him to make an appearance.

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