Page 37 of The Rogue's Curse

By the time Rhys was done telling the tale of how Shea had roundly beaten Paris and his colleagues, Misha was stunned. He’d seen that sheer ferocity and stubbornness tonight, not realizing that Paris was three weeks away from a shattered back and having his heart literally ripped to pieces inside his ribcage.

“Anyone else would still be resting,” Misha said.

“Well, he can’t because of his curse,” Rhys said. Then he clapped his hands over his mouth. “Oh, fucking hell.”

“What’s his curse?” Misha asked.

Rhys shook his head rapidly. “He really will kill me.”

“He’s not going to kill you,” Misha said. “He needs you to run this place. Do I need to remind you of my position again?”

Rhys shook his head again. “His medical care is my business, but not that. If he wants you to know, he’ll tell you. All I know is that he doesn’t sleep. And that’s made him heal much slower than he should.”

Lack of sleep certainly wasn’t helping Paris’s mood. A few days without rest, and Misha was ready to bite off the head of the first person who looked at him askance. If Paris hadn’t been able to rest for weeks, no wonder he was so touchy.

Misha sat back and pondered. “If I brew him a potion, will you help me find a human to feed him?”

“Gladly,” Rhys said. He chuckled. “And if you’ve got spare time, I could use another miracle next door.”

His brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Rhys’s smile evaporated, and he beckoned for Misha to follow. They strode down the hall and into a quiet, dark room with a single lamp in the far corner. A handsome man lay in the bed with a clean white sheet pulled up to his chest. His skin was unmarked, his face clean and unbruised.

“This is Dominic Cattaneo,” Rhys said quietly, walking to the man’s side. He crossed himself, kissed his fingers, then pressed them to the sleeping man’s brow. When he returned to the door, he spoke quietly. “He was shot in the head when they were escaping from Shea. The wooden bullet fragmented inside his skull. His body has healed, but I’m afraid his mind will never return.”

“And Paris feels responsible,” he said, dread washing over him as he heard the echo of that flippant remark. How’d that work out for you?

He was staring at the evidence of how it had worked out. A dear friend clinging to life, his silence an unending accusation. And Misha had spat in his face.

“That’s an understatement,” Rhys said. “Even before this happened, Paris was carrying the weight of the world. Now I fear he’d rather crumble to dust under the weight than let on how heavy it is.” He shook his head and said, “I’ve known Dom a long time, and he wouldn’t want anyone to blame themselves, least of all Paris. But it’s perfectly natural. And I don’t know what else to do for either of them.”

Misha glanced at Rhys. “Would you let me look at him?”

“You can get in bed with him and sing him a lullaby if that would help,” Rhys said with a sad smile. “Just wash your hands first.”

Misha followed his lead and scrubbed his hands in the steel sink. This was beyond his expertise, but he’d dealt with plenty of vampire injuries. In his early years as a blood witch, his skill at brewing healing mixtures were far more in demand than his ability to kill another vampire. Though he was, as Paris put it, a ‘fixer,’ he simply wasn’t needed all that often for those skills.

He sat on the edge of Dominic’s bed and took his hand. It was curiously warm, though he didn’t react to being touched. His hands were loose and limp, rather than being tight and clawed, which seemed a good sign. Energy still thrummed in his veins.

Just as he had examined Paris, he opened his arcane sight to examine Dominic. Threads of rich, deep scarlet wove through his aura. It pulsed brighter at his center, where there was a lingering dark shadow. The faintest hint of dark magic caught him, but it seemed to be a scar rather than something active and acute. His blood was still strong, flowing with intense power.

Dealing with a comatose vampire was not in his wheelhouse, but he felt the life still in this man, the same sort of vibrancy that he sensed in Paris and Rhys. This wasn’t as precise as human science; this energy would not tell him that a certain blood vessel was damaged or that Dominic had some hidden injury. But he had sensed the energy of dying vampires, and this was not it. Dominic was weak, but not gone, or so he hoped.

He pulled back and waited for his vision to clear. Rhys looked at him hopefully.“I think I might be able to help,” Misha said. “Can I have a blood sample?”

Rhys practically ran into the wall in his hurry to go to a medical supply closet down the hall. A few moments later, he had filled three small vials and tucked them into a little plastic bag. Before handing them over, he said, “If your way doesn’t work, will it hurt him?”

“I can’t promise that, but I don’t think it will,” he said.

Rhys hesitated and said, “His wife will want to know. I’ll ask her permission, but I’m positive she’ll say yes if there’s a chance he gets better.” Setting his jaw, he held out the vials. When Misha took them, Rhys clasped his hands. There was a strange blend of resolve and gentleness in Rhys Collins, and Misha found himself wanting very much to earn his approval.

“Thank you for trusting me,” Misha said.

Rhys nodded eagerly. “If you can help, I would be forever in your debt.”

Misha shook his head. “No, you wouldn’t. When we have the power to help each other, we should.”

At that, Rhys smiled shyly and said, “I quite agree.” He offered his hand, which Misha gladly accepted. Some of that wary edge had evaporated, leaving a pleasant warmth in his eyes. “I’ll be glad to help with whatever I can.”

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