Page 39 of The Rogue's Curse

9

Shortly after midnight, Paris and Misha were miles above the Earth, and Paris was debating whetherhe wanted to punch Misha Volkov or pin him against the nearest wall to kiss him.

Perhaps both.

From just inches away, the other man’s scent maddened him. Olivia had sprung for business class tickets, but they still sat close enough to touch. Not that it mattered; he would have smelled Misha from the back of the plane if not from thirty thousand feet below, on the dark landscape of the east coast, from another bloody galaxy.

Kiss or punch, kiss or punch?

Long ago, he’d often had the same turmoil over Alistair, who could drive him absolutely batshit insane while still managing to be so magnetic that he could never stay mad for long.

Like Alistair all those years ago, thoughts of Misha had kept Paris distracted all day. He’d stared at himself in the mirror for a solid ten minutes, tracing the healed cut on his face as he recalled the way Misha’s fingers had felt on his skin, so warm and gentle. That thought, paired with the memory of the man’s aggressive efficiency in a fight, was a powerful aphrodisiac. Paris felt a profound desire to kiss Misha and fuck him senseless.

And close on the heels of that lusty madness was the memory of Misha’s flippant remark: how’s that working out for you? In one single, casual comment, he’d managed to pierce Paris’s heart, call him useless, and tell him to fuck off and die without realizing it.

They’d barely spoken on the way to the airport. He’d come from checking on Dominic just in time to hear Misha demanding something from Olivia, who sounded afraid but managed to stonewall him until Paris interrupted. He was no fool, and he suspected Misha was asking about his curse. Yet another weakness, another flaw for him to judge.

But what if…

No. There was no way that beautiful, competent Misha Volkov was destined for him. Fate really was a merciless bitch if she would doom Misha to such an existence.

And yet, he entertained the stupidest little spark of hope. Why couldn’t he dream that he might finally get to rest? Why couldn’t he dream that someone would love him the way Olivia loved Nikko, the way Dominic loved Rachel?

It had been decades, if not centuries, since he’d felt so insecure. He knew the effect he had on men, women, and everyone in between. He was a generous lover who easily brushed off rejection, knowing that he was a delightful prize for anyone lucky enough to be in his bed.

But just as Shea had taken his peace and his home and now one of his best friends, he had also stolen Paris’s confidence. He no longer felt sure about his place in the world, nor that the ground itself would be steady beneath his feet. Everything was uncertain, and the mere thought that Misha would turn him down was enough to shake him off his foundation.

So he would continue to appreciate him from afar, or at least from one seat away. He would appreciate the fact that Misha knew the arcane art of rolling up crisp shirt sleeves to reveal well-muscled forearms, and that he smelled good enough to eat. The pheromones alone turned the bastard into a biological weapon.

Paris was transfixed by the subtle shift of muscle along Misha’s right forearm as he sketched on a legal pad.The man was currently drawing a complex diagram that reminded Paris of Shoshanna’s work. Bold strokes took shape under Misha’s pencil, and he occasionally paused to write notes in Russian. While Paris spoke and read printed Russian respectably, he’d never mastered reading their cursive, and he couldn’t make out a word of Misha’s tiny, neat script.

While Misha worked, Paris caught up with his own work. Jonas Wynn had reported back to him that Goodwin and Sons had indeed shut down after the death of Ronnie Goodwin. Thus far, Ronnie’s bereaved wife hadn’t replied to his email requesting a visit. Jonas had smelled a strong vampire presence around the building, and agreed to do daylight surveillance. Paris had assigned two of their new recruits to monitor the building for the night. Their prisoner, David, said that he’d found the place himself, rather than getting a tip from Shea. But he’d also said that he’d shared the information with Georgina. That left the tiniest possibility that some of Shea’s other followers might show up to dump a body, which could lead them back to the hive.

Alistair had texted him to let him know that he was helping Julian train new vampire recruits that evening. The thought of Alistair barking orders at a bunch of half-feral new vampires was enough to make him chuckle despite his dour mood. He’d also received an update from Safira, who had sniffed out a large pack of Untethered vampires throwing parties near the Georgia Tech campus to draw in overworked college students in search of free booze. He replied with orders to crash the party however possible.

He’d also received an email from one of the administrators of the Mausoleum, Allegra Roman. He hadn’t been to the prison in decades, and he did not look forward to visiting.

Soon after their arrival in New York in the late nineteenth century, the Auberon had built an isolated estate outside the city as a safehouse for Eduardo. They were not the only vampires in America, and they dealt with several challengers who wanted New York for themselves. The Auberon eventually renovated the estate into a prison nicknamed the Mausoleum. They’d only imprisoned a few vampires there, with the rumors of being starved in the sun acting as a powerful deterrent to other usurpers.

Meanwhile, the relentless vampire hunters of the Rodzina had driven the Vasilieva court out of their native Russia. The reigning Elder, Piotr Vasiliev, brought his surviving followers to New York. After years of being hunted, the Vasilieva should have been more careful. But it seemed that they were so relieved to be across the sea from their enemy that they became careless in their celebrations.

The Shroud immediately hunted down Piotr’s inner circle and told them to get the hell out of their territory. No one wanted the Rodzina in America; back then, they were well on their way to exterminating every vampire in Eastern Europe. Predictably, Piotr’s people told them to go fuck themselves, so Paris and Safira had several of Piotr’s personal bodyguards thrown in the Mausoleum to send a clear message.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the end of it. They fought a quiet turf war for years, sabotaging each other and taking hostages without officially going to war. Eventually, the Shieldsmen caught wind of vampires in New York. When the hunters arrived, the embattled courts united to keep the Shieldsmen from gaining a foothold in New York.

They succeeded, enthralling several hunters into believing they’d slain the last of Eduardo’s people. The lie wouldn’t hold for long, but it gave them time to breathe—figuratively speaking. In the meantime, Eduardo had struck a formal alliance with Piotr Vasilieva. He sold their territory to Piotr, knowing that New York would be an obvious target for vampire hunters in the future.

If Piotr kept his business in the north, he could have New York, and Eduardo would throw in the Mausoleum and a few secret spots they’d built around the city. The purchase price was substantial enough to let the Auberon live quite comfortably for years in their new southern home of Atlanta.

Paris had accompanied Eduardo to negotiate the deal with Piotr, as he’d done many times. Julian at one side, Hugo at the other, and Paris watching from the corner of the room. Violette Baudelaire, Eduardo’s Gilded Hand and keeper of the coin, had calmly explained the terms of the alliance and detailed the generous trade.

And if we say no? Piotr had said, as if he hadn’t just been chased off an entire continent.

Then I will kill you and break your Covenant. Then I will kill everyone whose veins carry your blood and salt every bit of earth you have ever walked on, Eduardo had said, just as calmly. You walk out of here as my ally, or you do not walk out at all.

Those words had made Paris’s blood run cold. And whatever Piotr saw in their former Elder’s eyes, it was enough to convince him. An alliance had been struck minutes later, and they had lived at peace ever since. Back when the Casteron had first come to Atlanta, some of them secretly suspected it was Piotr building blood farms and clubs to undermine the Auberon. But their peace had held.

In the ensuing decades, Eduardo continued to send money to support the Mausoleum. Over the decades, as smaller courts sprang up in the States, the prison became a communal facility with approval from the Sanguine Crown. However, due to its proximity to New York City, most of the prison’s staff came from the Vasilieva court.

---