Page 139 of The Rogue's Curse

But fate herself had sent him Misha Volkov. Fate had put this precious man in his arms and entrusted him with his safety. To fail him would be a failure of his entire existence. He understood why Alistair had nearly beat him senseless for even suggesting he might steal Shoshanna, why Nikko had nearly fled town at the mere thought that he might hurt Olivia.

And it was that all-consuming love that drove him to make that call to Ophelia Klein. He’d been careful; he took the blame, saying that he had pushed Misha too hard. They had promised to send a witch who could help Misha. He prayed that it would be unnecessary, and that they would simply be pissed that Paris had wasted their time. But if this failed, if Shoshanna could not contain the chaotic power, then he had to protect Misha the best he could.

“Here we go,” Shoshanna said. When she pressed her hands into two small circles and began to chant, the tattoo-like markings ignited up her arms like lace gloves. As she began to chant her spell in French, her powerful voice rattled his teeth and vibrated down into his belly. He found it impossible to focus on her words as the sensation of magic washed over him.

Paris wrapped his right arm around Misha, holding him tight. The ground trembled beneath them, and he suddenly felt the bond snap taut between them. It felt like barb wire yanked through his heart, and he seemed to stumble through darkness, out of Shoshanna’s workshop and into a shapeless black void. Down he fell, tossed by wind currents that screamed at him in long-forgotten voices:

Phillippe!

Mon fils!

Paris!

Monster!

Endless darkness coalesced into clouds, and gravity suddenly wrapped her sharp claws around him, slamming him onto hard ground. Lurching to his feet, he found himself in a dry, barren field. A droning chorus hummed in the distance, and he realized with grim horror that he heard the buzzing of flies. The pungent smell of death hung in the air, and he whirled to see the humble farmhouse that had once been home.

Fat threads of gray spider silk clung to the house. “This isn’t real,” he said, staring at the shimmering facade.

The front door swung open, and a chubby-cheeked girl skipped out. “Phillippe!” she squealed.

“No, no, no,” he murmured, backing away. She was a perfect rendition of sweet little Anais, except for the way her flesh peeled from her bones, leaving one skeletal hand to clutch the moldy rag doll.

“Give me a hug! It’s been so long,” she said, sprinting toward him with terrifying speed. Brittle bones rattled as she clambered onto him and tackled him into the dust.

“Stop!” he shouted. Even in this strange place, he couldn’t bring himself to strike the thing that looked so like his little sister, dead for centuries now.

“I want a hug, Phillippe!” she insisted. “You left me alone for so long, and I missed you.”

He braced himself, staring into those dead, milky eyes. So long ago, he had helped the survivors in the village carry corpses to pits, where they would be burned to prevent spreading the plague. He had put that well-loved and oft-patched doll in her hands, praying she wouldn’t be frightened as she passed to the other side. There she lay among strangers, with their Papa already dead and burned, and Mama not yet joining her in death.

“I’m sorry I left you alone,” he said, gently stroking her cheek and wincing as the flesh broke away. “I would have kept you here if I could have.”

He sat up and opened his arms. An unpleasant squirming sensation surrounded him as he hugged the apparition, which faded away into nothing. Something clacked, and he turned to see a spinning wheel in the field. There, a thin, vaguely female figure sat with shimmering red thread twined around her fingers. Her grayish skin gleamed with an opalescent sheen in the low light. She sighed dramatically and said, “It’s no fun if you just go along with it. Where’s all the weeping and anguish?”

“Are you the fati aranaeum?” he asked.

The creature’s eyes widened. “Where have you heard that title?”

“My friend is a powerful witch,” he said. “She wants to release you.”

“That is her name for one such as me,” the creature said. She lifted her hand and twisted, as if pulling a leash. He jolted forward and found himself at arm’s length from her. Up close, her eyes were too large, her features far too sharp. Her body looked vaguely human, as if she’d burst from the memory of someone who had seen a human a thousand years ago. Her shadow was too large, spreading far across the desolate fields.

“Do you have your own name?” he asked.

Her head cocked, and when she opened her mouth, the world tore into pieces, nearly taking his mind with it. He froze as color splintered through his mind and noise deafened him. When the world resolved once more, night had fallen, and wilted flower petals littered the field. “Did you catch it?”

“No,” he whispered. He touched one ear, expecting to find his fingers bloody.

“Then I’m afraid you won’t be able to use my name,” she said smugly.

It would figure that his spider witch would be a complete smartass. He probably had it coming after three hundred years.

Where was the test? What would she ask him to do? And would the mere fact that he was already scheming about it make him fail? Nervous anticipation rocked through him as he watched her spin.

Finally, she spoke. “You are not here to release me. You are here because you wish to be released.”

“Can’t they be the same? We could help each other.”

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