Page 133 of The Rogue's Curse

Predictable.

Shea released Paris long enough to rear back for another vicious strike, and Paris got his arm free to stab the stake into his throat. Blood sprayed from the wound as Paris yanked out the stake, then drove it into the back of the man’s neck.

Blistering heat burst from the stake, and he actually felt the snap of Shea’s Covenant breaking like bone. Clipped screams and gasps erupted around him. A strange scent of blood and smoke filled the air. Shea reeled, making awful, wordless sounds of pain.

Paris lunged for Shea, but a spiderweb of dense gray threads bisected the room suddenly. Through the hazy veil, he could see the witch—this had to be Lux—moving her hands rapidly like she was weaving with her bare hands. Shea was staggering toward her, his voice ragged as he shouted, “What happened? Get me out of here!”

“There’s a spell locking the building down,” she said, her voice strained. “If one of your people can get to the roof, they can break the anchor. I can protect you or break the spell, but I can’t do both.”

Paris slashed at the web, but a hundred tiny tendrils slashed back at him, opening slivered cuts along his arm.

“Break the fucking spell. Get my court out of here,” Shea barked at her, shoving the woman’s arm. Her eyes glinted silver, but she slapped her hands together, then ran toward the back of the room.

Behind him, Sasha and Kristina, both bloody and battered, were still fighting off some of the remaining vampires. Nikko lay flat on his back, fingers twitching. Lilah Whitlock lay next to him, or at least her body did, while her head was notably missing.

This was what he’d come to do, and he was either leaving with Shea’s head or he wasn’t leaving. His body gave a warning heave as he slashed at the web again.

You can’t use it forever, he heard Misha telling him.

He didn’t need forever. He just needed a few more solid hits.

Without the witch actively casting, the web snapped beneath his empowered blade, giving him an opening to run at Shea.

This man had tried to take everything from him, and now he was standing between Paris and the life he’d never dared to dream of. And even knowing that Shea had nothing to do with Misha’s condition, nor with his curse, he dumped all his fury and vengeance into his pursuit. Snapped tendrils grasped for him, but he ran through the broken web and launched himself at Carrigan Shea.

Veins bulged on Shea’s brow, and brilliant red lines slithered over his skin. That smoky magic smell pervaded the air. The bloody stake lay on the ground, but it seemed the damage was done.

He swiped at Shea and sliced open his hands as he protected himself. The other man had found a sword, which he swung at Paris. They tussled in a deadly dance of glinting blades and wild punches, every step utterly desperate and wild.

He feinted. Shea kicked out his knee with a crunch, then brought his sword down on the junction of his shoulder, slicing into his neck like felling a tree. Shock rolled through him, but he rolled away. It took the other man too long to recover, and Paris drove his own blade up to slash open Shea’s inner thigh.This was like the old days, fighting up close and personal, where you could smell the blood and see the fear in the other man’s eyes.

Blood poured over his chest and arm, but he slipped the blade into his left hand and ran for Shea again. He was so close. It would be over soon.

The building shook, and he heard a chorus of shouts. The smoky smell intensified, and he heard a woman’s voice scream, “Get the hell out!”

Misha’s spell had been broken.

Shea’s eyes were wild with triumph. He palmed Paris’s face, and he wriggled away before the man could crush his skull. “I have to give you credit. You’re a stubborn little bastard,” Shea said, teeth bloody. He swung wildly and brought the sword down into the open slice in his shoulder, and Paris could feel it against his spine, sending a slithering sensation through his body. His legs buckled, and he forced himself upright, his right arm hanging useless at his side. He blocked the next swing, and Shea punched him hard enough to snap his head back, then drove the sword through his gut, pinning him to the wall. “You could have been an ally,” he said.

“Much too disagreeable. I don’t follow orders well,” Paris said weakly, fumbling into his pocket for the last injector.

The smell of Shea’s ancient blood buffeted Paris. His eyes gleamed impossibly bright red. He grabbed Paris’s hair and said, “I want you to look me in the eyes and know that you lost.”

Paris laughed. He dropped his blade and jabbed the injector into Shea’s gut.

“You and your fucking wood poison,” Shea said, looking down at it. “You didn’t learn—” His eyes went wide, and he doubled over, swearing in a language Paris didn’t recognize. He backpedaled, prying the empty injector out as his body went rigid. “What did you do?” he gasped.

Paris grabbed Shea’s sword and pulled it out, trying not to notice the copious amount of his own blood running down it. He threw it aside and staggered toward Shea, who fell to his knees. Bulging, dark veins rose beneath his sweat-sheened skin. “Look me in the eyes and know that you lost,” he mocked. “Unlike you, I adapt and prepare.”

A terrible, thunderous crack nearly deafened him, and he stared in horror as the wall of the penthouse sheared in half. Massive black tendrils whipped toward them, and he looked up to see the ceiling crumbling. The fiery-haired witch, eyes incandescent white, landed on a pile of rubble, hands wrapped around a glowing orb.

Barely through the roaring sound, he heard Dominic yell, “Get out. She’s bringing down the building!”

Paris hurled Misha’s blade at the witch, spearing her through the belly. She flew backward into the wall. He dove at Shea, who lay pinned under a slab of concrete. “I told you that this was my city,” Paris snarled. “You could have gone anywhere else. You wrote this ending for yourself.”

Since his own weapon was buried between the witch’s ribs, he hefted Shea’s sword instead, a simple, but well-balanced blade. With a roar, he brought it down on Shea’s neck, slicing through sinew and bone. His fingers still twitched, and he pulled back to finish the job.

Brilliant white flashed in his eyes and left him blind. Something smacked him across the chest and threw him backward, and suddenly Paris was flying out into the night, staring up at the stars in confusion. He flailed in midair, fighting to right himself as he was tossed by the shockwave.

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