Page 12 of The Rogue's Curse

It would have been much easier to focus if Paris Rossignol didn’t smell so damned good. And it would have been far more helpful if the man wasn’t wearing a pair of perfectly fitted dark gray trousers that clung to one of the most perfect asses he had ever seen. But as he followed the other man down the hall, he caught a strange, foul scent beneath his magnetic masculine aroma.

The more Misha focused, the more he realized it wasn’t a scent at all. Powerful magic clung to Paris like a sticky film. If he didn’t know better, he would think he was sensing Night Weaver magic pouring off the other vampire.

The small entourage led him down a long, tiled hallway and up a concrete stairwell with flickering lights that made him think of oppressive, grim institutions.He had never visited with the Blade of Auberon, though they had a reputation for lavish estates and luxurious parties. Something drastic had changed. Their headquarters was a gated compound of institutional-looking brick buildings with dated architecture and miserable-looking landscaping. Inside, floral scents and bleach spoke of their effort to improve the space, but there was a certain smell that came from aging buildings which they hadn’t been able to eradicate.

Instead of a posh lounge, he followed Julian Alcott into a dated conference room with dingy white walls and a scuffed conference table made of hideous yellowish wood.

A young human woman with long dark hair scurried into the room, pushing a rolling cart with glasses and two dark glass carafes. “Mr. Volkov? I’m Olivia Pierce. I talked to your…your secretary?” she said.

“Ah, don’t let her hear you say that. Ophelia Klein is Lady Demirci’s assistant,” he said. “She is my supervisor, of sorts.”

And parole officer, he thought wryly. Not that any of them needed to know that.

Olivia’s face fell, and she shook her head rapidly as she said, “Oh, I’m sorry. Just let me know if you need anything here. I’ve got a room ready for you, or we can arrange a hotel nearby.”

“Staying here would be quite convenient, actually,” he said. He glanced around the dated room and caught the furtive glances between Julian and Paris. Another wave of prickling heat washed over him as he got a glimpse of the Frenchman. Jesus, his brain had regressed to that of a horny teenager.

“We don’t have much in the way of amenities. Our previous place was attacked, and—” Olivia blurted.

“Ms. Pierce,” he said gently. “I have slept in far worse accommodations. This is fine. But I would appreciate it if you would arrange a car for me. My office will reimburse you.”

She nodded rapidly, and to his surprise, took a seat next to Julian. It was unusual to see a human at the table with a court Elder and not be on the menu. The final arrival was a statuesque redhead who introduced herself as Safira Brandt. He recognized the name from his files, briefly recalling that she was some three centuries old and had a reputation for being ruthless and ferociously loyal, much like Julian. Like Paris, she smelled of magic, though it was not nearly as overwhelming to his senses.

His work with the Sanguine Crown had brought him into a strange, dissonant place of power. He was younger than most vampires he knew; not quite a hundred, connected only loosely to his court thanks to being recruited by the Crown. But his power and training as a blood witch made him a figure to be feared. It always seemed to him that people did not know whether to look down on him for his tainted bloodline or to fear him for his power.Early in his training, his mentor Rafaela told him that uncertainty was good. Smart vampires would choose the safer option to treat him with respect.

Always take a seat of power. Be polite, but do not show insecurity. You are in command, Rafi had taught him. That was easy for her to say when she was a blood witch with more than three hundred years of practice and a direct line to one of the oldest vampires in the world.

He had to remind himself of her advice as he sat at the head of a tablewith threevampires of a very old and powerful court, all centuries older than him, full of knowledge and experience he did not possess. But they all looked at him expectantly, as if they were waiting for him to unveil the solution to all their problems. He was a capable practitioner of his craft, but he was not a miracle worker.

“Mr. Volkov—” Julian began.

“Misha,” he corrected.

“Misha,” he echoed. “I’ll be happy to introduce you to the rest of the court later, but we’re a bit overwhelmed at the moment. Several of our people are out patrolling known hotspots, while several more are training new vampires to fight.”

“Understood,” he said. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“Ms. Klein said she gave you all our information,” Olivia said.

He smiled. “She did, but it helps to hear it from the people who’ve experienced it rather than someone who’s summarized a report. Don’t be shy about the details.”

For more than an hour, the leaders of the newly formed Durendal Court unleashed a tale of woe that had his head spinning. It began with measured, even voices as they detailed the discovery of several blood farms run by Lilah Whitlock and Kieran O’Brien, who worked for this previously unknown Carrigan Shea before being imprisoned in the Mausoleum. As they spoke of Shea manipulating the Shieldsmen, they grew impassioned. Though Julian Alcott maintained his calm, Misha saw the man’s deep pain and fear as he spoke about their strongholds being attacked.

On his way, he’d read Ophelia’s file about Julian Alcott. Over four centuries old, he’d been turned into a vampire by Eduardo and then served him for nearly his entire life. Given his position in the court and his blood ties to Eduardo, it must have been quite a rift to make him break his bond and forge a new Covenant after all this time.

“And you chose to sever your allegiance to Eduardo Alazan?” Misha asked, watching Julian’s face closely. “He has a sterling reputation and has long been a respected member of the Crown. Was that wise?” The older man flinched, but recovered quickly.

Before Julian could respond, Paris blurted, “Eduardo Alazan chose to roll over and let Carrigan Shea fuck us.” His eyes went wide as he realized what he’d said, but he leaned across the table and continued, “Was it wise? No. But that isn’t the question you should be asking. It was the right thing to do, and you can tell the Crown that.”

As Paris spoke, his blue eyes brightened to a fiery red that betrayed his turmoil. A shiver ran down Misha’s spine.

“Do you think we should have left with him? Allowed Shea to have this whole damned city in the name of peace and protecting our own hides?” Paris spat.

“I said nothing of the sort,” Misha said calmly. “I’m simply trying to understand your choices.”

“Paris, it’s all right,” Julian said firmly. He held up one hand, and Paris slowly leaned back in his chair. “I understand the Crown isn’t here to defend humanity. But Shea is flaunting vampire law. He cares nothing for secrecy. His people leave bodies like trash in the streets. And he has declared war on us.”

“A war which we are losing,” Safira said. She flinched as Paris glared at her, but she shrugged and said, “We’re outnumbered, and we play by rules that he doesn’t. If we had no morals, I’d walk into the nearest university, turn a bunch of nineteen-year-olds into vampires, and sic them on Carrigan Shea, but I can’t.”

---