Page 35 of The Rogue's Curse

“I’m sorry—”

“No, it’s all right,” Misha said, shaking his head. “You just startled me.”

“I was going to ask you stay and chat with me if you’re not busy,” Paris dared to say. “I’m curious about what you did to David. I’ve never seen a vampire use that kind of power.”

“If I answer your questions about magic, you have to answer mine,” Misha said.

Paris sighed. “Deal.”

The fearful expression on the other man’s face evaporated into a little smile. “I can make a few minutes. Pour me another.”

8

While he was sorely tempted to blame his reckless actions on a good whiskey, Misha knew full well that half a glass of alcohol was not all that made him want to touch Paris Rossignol. Part of him wanted to strangle the other man for his death wish wrapped in carelessness, while the other wanted to hold him tight.

And another part—one that was not nearly as small and quiet as it should have been—wanted to pin Paris Rossignol against the wall and taste his full, flushed lips.

It was this foolish part that boldly suggested they share another drink and chat, and this part that purred like a satisfied cat when Paris agreed and poured them another round of drinks.

Adrenaline and fear still lingered in his system, making him jumpy as he reached for the drink. After seeing Avery chained and filthy, having his wrist grabbed had set off a nervous alarm in his brain. It had been decades since he was helpless, in nearly the same position, but it felt as if it was only moments ago.

Paris wouldn’t hurt him, he told himself.

The other man was certainly capable of protecting himself; he moved with elegant, deadly precision and was virtually unfazed by the brutal blows he’d taken in their fight. But he was reckless, in a way that Misha understood too well. Paris carried the weight of two worlds on his shoulders and was cracking under it.

And just as they had brought Avery out of that filthy place, Misha wanted to protect Paris from Carrigan Shea, from the dark despair that was drawing him deeper into himself. That was not why he had been sent here, but sometimes the plan changed. A good tactician was flexible, and if Paris was in a better mindset, he would better serve his court.

All tactics, of course.

So he settled into his seat and said, “So, ask away.”

“I want to see that knife you used,” Paris said.

Misha smiled and laid the freshly cleaned blade on the table. It was sleek and utilitarian, with no ornaments or frills to weigh it down. Engraved symbols along the blade pulsed faintly with his residual power. “I told you I was a blood witch.”

“And I thought that meant you looked at a bowl of blood and told fortunes, perhaps a step above reading tea leaves,” Paris said mildly. “Instead, it seems to mean that you’re some sort of puppet master.”

Misha chuckled. “Not exactly. As with any magic, there are specialties. I specialize in using the power contained within blood for combat, as well as alchemical work.” He took the blade and swiped at his left forearm, leaving a shallow cut that beaded with blood. The runes on the blade ignited with rich red light, which he showed to Paris. “Because of my magic, I can awaken power in my blood, which I can direct into this blade. A wound from this blade in my hands is far more devastating than a normal weapon. It also acts as a conduit, allowing me access to my prey’s will.”

He laid the blade down and said, “Take it.”

Paris reached out hesitantly, letting out a nervous laugh when he grasped the hilt. “Feels normal.”

“It is normal for you. My power isn’t yours to control, but I could build you one of your own with enough time,” he said.

Genuine interest sparked in Paris’s eyes.“And it would work the same?”

“It would,” Misha said. “It would take a lot more energy from you, so you couldn’t use it for long. Butunless you plan to engage in knife fights for hours on end, it isn’t a problem.” Paris looked impressed, which filled Misha with warm, fuzzy pride. “Furthermore, if we can get our hands on someone in Shea’s bloodline, I’m confident I can not only locate him, but build a weapon that is uniquely equipped to harm him,” Misha continued.

“A normal blade will cut off his head. No need to forge Excalibur,” Paris said jovially.

Before he could catch himself, he chuckled and said, “How did that work out for you last time? I wouldn’t be here if it was that easy.”

The playful smile on Paris’s face evaporated, and he immediately regretted the flippant remark. Silence filled the room like poisonous smoke.And just as he’d seen before, the other man’s face smoothed into an unreadable mask. His bland smile concealed the sharp, jagged emotions beneath. Setting down his glass with an ominous thunk, Paris rose and pointed to the door. “I’m sure you have work to do. Thank you for the medical care,” he said.

“I’m sorry for being rude,” Misha said. “I didn’t—”

“We still have an hour until sunrise. You should probably get to work on whatever clever business you have to deal with Shea. You are the expert, after all,” Paris said pointedly. “We’ll be on a plane this time tomorrow, which I’m sure won’t be conducive to your work.”

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