Page 29 of The Rogue's Curse

The other man’s gaze cut to him, a guarded expression on his face now. “So you use your skills to clean up messes for the Crown. You’re a fixer.”

“More or less,” Misha said. “Most of our problems don’t get this big. Some just take a strongly worded conversation, and some take a sharp blade and a good bit of magic. Regardless, they usually go my way. And to answer your original question…no, it doesn’t bother me at all to kill those vampires. We have laws. They violated the law, and that jeopardizes all of us.”

“You don’t believe in second chances?”

“Of course I do. When you step on someone’s foot or get their name wrong, second chances are just fine. But a pack of vampires holed up in that club murdering humans have long used up their second chances,” Misha said. “Does that surprise you?”

Paris chuckled. “No. Sounds about right for the Crown,” he said.

He hesitated. “And does it bother you?” Not that it mattered. He didn’t need Paris’s approval, and yet…

“Not a bit,” Paris said. “I know humans believe in rehabilitation, but it doesn’t take a genius to understand killing is wrong. And if they can’t manage that part, then they should try much harder not to get caught.”

He nodded to Paris. “Were you thinking you should offer yourself to Shea to get close?”

The other man’s jaw dropped, but he recovered quickly. “It’s a thought,” he said.

“A foolish one,” Misha said.

Paris flashed a wolfish grin. “I suppose we’ll see.” After checking his watch, he said, “Fun’s over. We have to get back and work. No more playtime.”

“Your idea of playtime is a bit morbid,” Misha said.

He laughed. “Don’t tell me that wasn’t a little bit fun.”

“A little,” Misha admitted. Paris gave him a sidelong glance. “Okay, more than a little.”

“The good times never stop with the Durendal,” Paris said drily. “Let’s get back and continue the party with some official reports. It’ll be the time of your life.”

7

Upon arriving back at the compound, Paris and Misha hurried to the infirmary to find their rescued human. Rhys Collins, a saint if there ever was one, was headed down the hall with a mug of soup in one hand and a syringe in the other. He tilted his chin in greeting, then stepped into one of the rooms.

In quiet, warm tones, Rhys coaxed the room’s occupant to drink up, then promised to call his parents to let them know he was all right. Moments later, Rhys stepped out, then beckoned for Paris and Misha to follow him further down the hall.

“Is he all right?” Paris asked.

Rhys nodded. “In a manner of speaking. Is he doing well? No. Is he stable? Yes,” Rhys said. “I sedated him, so you’ll need to wait until tomorrow if you want to pick his brain.”

“Couldn’t we do it now?” Misha asked.

With suspicion glimmering in his eyes, Rhys looked Misha over. “Forgive me, but we’ve not been introduced.”

“Misha Volkov. I’m with the Crown,” Misha said.

If Rhys was impressed, he didn’t show it. “Mr. Volkov, it’s good to meet you. And I’m sorry, but unless you think this man will bring Carrigan Shea down on us in the next hour, then you can’t do it now. Poor lad’s been bitten, bled, and drugged within an inch of his life, and he just watched the two of you kill half a dozen vampires.”

“To save his life,” Paris pointed out.

“Of course. But you’re not the most comforting presence,” Rhys said. “You can chat with him tomorrow. I figured you’d want to know, so I asked the basics. The last clear thing he remembered was doing a Home Eats delivery to the coffee shop down the block, and someone jumped him on the way back to his car. His phone got destroyed, but he thinks it was Saturday. So he’s been with them for five days.”

Paris winced. “Any sign of compulsion?”

Rhys nodded. “Absolutely. That’s why I sedated him. But I’m more concerned about his blood. Something’s wrong with him,” he said, frowning.

“Other than being held captive and compelled by vampires for nearly a week?” Misha said mildly.

Rhys’s eyes narrowed into a stern glare that had Misha Volkov’s name all over it. Paris suppressed a smile. It was nice to not be on the receiving end of Saint Rhys’s stern disapproval for once. “Yes. Something other than that,” Rhys said sharply. “He smells sick, and not like an infection or something temporary. Something in his blood is wrong. I can’t be sure, but I’m going to send some samples to St. Anthony’s so Dr. Lee can test them.”

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