Page 25 of The Rogue's Curse

With a growl of frustration, he snapped the man’s neck and left him to twitch pitifully. “Which one of you bastards was turned by Shea?” he shouted.

There was a groan of pain from inside the club. It drew all the chaos into a singular focus.

He was in trouble.

Misha bolted. Inside the nightclub, the human captive was no longer sprawled across the bar. Paris tussled with a wild-eyed woman in front of the curved bar amidst a pile of shattered glass. Amidst a flurry of messy blows, the snarling woman slammed her fist into Paris’s chest. It was a brutal hit, but one that shouldn’t have taken him down. Still, Paris went down like a disassembled puppet, his face going deathly pale. The woman snarled and kicked him in the side, and he struggled to sweep her legs from under her.

As the woman fought for her balance, Misha lunged and plunged his athame into her chest. As soon as he felt the warmth of her blood on his hand, he released a jolt of power into the enchanted runes. Her legs buckled as she screamed. When she doubled over, he yanked out his blade and examined her neck.

No mark.

He let the woman fall aside, then offered his hand to Paris. When the other man didn’t take it, he grabbed Paris by the arm and hauled him up. But instead of expressing gratitude for the rescue, Paris shook him off and said, “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” Misha said.

The other man’s dark shirt hung wet and dark with blood, but he was already on the move. He crept around the bar and crouched to speak to the human hiding there. “Hey, you’re going to be okay,” he said warmly.

The human’s eyes were wide and wild. “You’re one of them.”

“Not exactly,” Paris said. “I need you to stay right here. Do you know how many others were here?”

The man shook his head rapidly. “It’s all kind of a blur. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Paris said. “I promise we’re not going to hurt you, but for your safety, I need you to stay here. Got it?”

The young man nodded.

Paris rose and said, “Help me check the other floors.” As they headed down the side hallway, he was texting rapidly. “Kristina and Sasha spent weeks with Shea. I want them to come and check out our squatters here and see if any of them smell like him. Even if they’re not in his Covenant, maybe one of them has been in contact with him.”

Misha followed him up a spiraling staircase to the second level of the club. Unless the Auberon had been terrible housekeepers before leaving, the club had been in use since they left. Empty liquor bottles and blood bags were discarded on the plush carpet, while blood stains marred the luxurious leather couches.

“Animals,” Paris muttered. Up and down the halls they went, peeking into offices and private lounges. Once, they stopped in a large, beautifully furnished office that must have belonged to Eduardo. Paris looked around, his expression grim, then beckoned for Misha to follow.

Down they went, below ground level and into a dark hallway lined in offices. Shattered glass littered the floor, but there were still nameplates on some of the doors:

01: Julian Alcott

02: Paris Rossignol

Misha stole a look inside and tried to imagine Paris working here during better days. Though his scent lingered, it was hard to imagine him in the stripped-down, dusty office.

Deep lines of tension framed Paris’s eyes as he peeked inside. “At least they didn’t redecorate,” he quipped. His humor fell flat, and Misha watched with sorrow as he ran one finger over his nameplate before turning away.

On the bottom floor was a training gym that had clearly been used recently, with shattered wooden stakes and broken glass lying around. Opposite the gym was a hallway lined with austere barracks that still smelled of vampires. Amidst the wild scent of Untethered vampires, he detected several older, familiar scents. He caught Paris and Julian, and even a hint of Olivia.

While they found backpacks and suitcases, a collection of laptops, and phones that seemed to belong to their dispatched vampire squatters, they found no more vampires below. Upon returning to the upper level, Misha caught Paris’s arm lightly.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “She hit you pretty hard.”

Paris’s jaw ticked. “I understand that you’re here to help. But I have protected my court for three hundred years, and I did not become a blushing maiden in the twenty-four hours since your arrival.” He started to pull back, but Misha held him tighter. Wiry muscle tensed beneath his grasp, and his blue eyes darkened to red. “Let go of me.”

Misha leaned in and pulled Paris closer. “Check your ego, Mr. Rossignol,” he said sternly. “I am treating you no differently than I would treat any of my colleagues on a similar mission. I can tell that you’re dealing with a recent injury. If you give a damn about your court and about seeing this mission through, it will be much easier if you remove your head from your ass.” He released Paris and stormed past him, headed for the human at the bar.

His cheeks burned with anger. What the hell was wrong with protecting someone? And why did he care? He was here for a job, not to earn Paris’s favor.

I found you.

Stupid fucking dreams. He hurried back to the bar to speak to the human on the ground. Pale and bruised, the young man jolted with surprise at the sight of Misha. “What’s your name?” Misha asked brusquely.

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