Page 1 of The Rogue's Curse

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At this time tomorrow, Paris Rossignol intended to be drinking the world’s most expensive bourbon from Carrigan Shea’s bloody skull. For months, Shea’s influence had spread and festered, attracting lawless vampires like flies to shit. Eduardo Alazan had fled town, delivering an implicit go fuck yourselves to nearly half a million humans. And Paris was tired, for more than the usual reasons. He was tired of holding together a fragmented court, tired of his entire life revolving around Carrigan Shea and his violent whims, tired of fighting an increasingly futile battle.

And so, tonight, Shea would die. He would, or Paris would. And either way, it would be the end of things.

Fury boiled in his veins. Like the rest of his comrades, he’d fed until his belly nearly burst, leaving several generous veravin in need of medical attention.Seeing one of his favorite veravin pale and half-conscious still weighed on him; he was normally cautious and attentive, not leaving so much as a bruise. But there were countless human lives at stake, and he couldn’t afford to be gentle.

Full of fresh human blood, his senses grew so acute that they were nearly disorienting, as if he were a brand-new vampire drowning in sensory overload. He smelled everything from car exhaust to gunpowder to long-decayed trash in a dumpster several blocks away. The noise of cars rumbling along the downtown streets, blasting music and podcasts and petty late-night arguments, deafened him, forcing him to bring his focus to a narrow, but satisfying point: destroying Carrigan Shea.

Several stories beneath Paris’s perch atop a nearby highrise, the self-proclaimed vampire king of Atlanta held court in his modern castle of brick and glass. His court reveled and drank their last drops, blissfullyunaware of their looming demise.

Death awaited in the form of the Guillotine, the lethal team of fighters he had assembled from their new court. It seemed an appropriate enough name to foretell Shea’s impending fate. Cut the head off swiftly and let the body die. Or at the very least, let the body fall to pieces in the severing of a Covenant, which would leave Shea’s people vulnerable to being picked off one by one.

Semantics, really.

From a distance came a series of rhythmic clicks that formed a distinctive signal. That was Nikko, crouching on the roof of the nearby MARTA station. With vampire guards on the ground just below them, they didn’t dare use verbal communication.

A long pause, then another unique pattern. Sasha and Kristina, on the ground a block away.

A third. Safira, with her rifle and her deadly aim several floors below him.

A fourth. Jonas Wynn and Thomas Moon, in a car circling the block.

Finally came Dominic’s signal, from just a foot away. Wait for my mark, his signal said.

Paris looked up and met his friend’s gleaming crimson eyes. They’d both exchanged their usual tailored suits for black tactical clothing, complete with body armor and armored collars to protect their throats. Veins pulsed along Dom’s temples, his eyes unnaturally bright from over-feeding. The sight conjured memories of dark times, when they had converged on a tiny village in the dead of night and wrung secrets out of a doomed dhampir hunter.

Alistair had wanted to help with tonight’s mission, but Paris had left him in charge of protecting Julian and the ladies. Olivia and her sister were back at the compound, along with Shoshanna and Rachel. As much as Alistair had wanted to be part of the action, he took his responsibility to Shoshanna seriously, and had agreed to keep them safe in their new headquarters nearly fifteen miles away.

Before Paris’s tactical team had departed, his old friend had drawn him close and kissed his brow, as he had done countless times in decades past. The familiar brush of lips against skin had ignited something in Paris—desperation and hunger and even a bit of anger.

“Come back to us,” Alistair had told him.

You belong to another, Paris had thought. Then he realized what he’d heard, what Alistair actually said, and the yawning gap between. Not come back to me, but to us, as if to remind Paris that he was excluded from us, that he was not a part of this beautiful unity that Alistair now had.

Once Paris was gone, his former lover would return to Shoshanna’s embrace, knowing fate itself was pleased with him, so pleased that the mysterious old creature had given him the love of his life. It was where he belonged, and Paris had no right to be bitter when his friend was so damned happy, but here he was. He would never breathe a word of it to Alistair, but his envy sometimes clawed up his throat and choked all the decency out of him.

“I will,” Paris had said, letting his better nature take control. “The house is yours for the night. Keep an eye on the kids.”

A light chuckle followed, but real fear lurked in Alistair’s eyes. Much to his dismay, Julian Alcott was also forced to stay behind. Such was the burden of a court Elder. If Julian died, their newly formed Covenant would shatter, putting all of them at risk. That would only compound the problem of Shea’s bloodthirsty vampires, and so he was banished to his office with Alistair and several new vampires to watch over him. None of them wanted to admit that if they failed tonight, there would be little left for Julian to govern.

So, they could not fail. Simple as that.

Dominic nudged Paris, raised his dark brows, then nodded. It was time.

With a slight nod, Paris took out his own signal. Karina Nowak had fretted for days over how to communicate quietly, but it was their Olivia who had suggested the dog training clickers.

He squeezed the little button. Four quick clicks, a pause, then two slow clicks.

Go.

A quiet whoomp sounded from below them. A split second later, a shell slammed through the brick building across the street. Shards of brick exploded from a jagged hole in the wall. Two more shots left the brick building looking like something had taken a bite out of it. A clatter came from below as Safira changed weapons. With the next two shots, huge plumes of toxic wood smoke poured from the jagged holes.

Paris and Dominic yanked helmets over their faces, then launched themselves from the edge of the nearby office tower, soaring through the night to tumble onto the roof of the former Atlanta Constitution building, the building he had drunkenly dubbed Chez Shea.

Chaos had erupted already, with furious shouts and pained screams pouring from the shattered walls. Another well-placed shot from Safira cracked the tinted glass walls of Shea’s penthouse. Paris didn’t wait for the next shot; he kicked right through the spiderwebbed pane. Glass rained to the concrete, and he plowed through the jagged opening.

The tinted visor of his helmet obscured colors, making it easier to focus. Half a dozen men waited inside the penthouse, already firing directly as Paris and Dominic breached the door. Bullets bounced harmlessly off his body armor, and he took two targets down easily with headshots that left bloody craters where slicked-back hair once lay. Dom took another three. The lone survivor ran for the door, but they cornered him and left him twitching. After swiping his key card, they set off a smoke grenade and descended further into the building.

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