Page 5 of The Rogue's Curse

Finally, a chance to rest.

Someone screamed in the dark void.

Why were they so loud?

“What the fuck is that?” a woman cried out. Lovely numb silence sharpened into a thousand sharp points, a nightmare kaleidoscope of broken glass and screams.

Gunshots rang out. Something inhuman screeched, and he felt a tug at his heart, as if it was on a string. Paris lifted his head. His limbs didn’t seem to be attached anymore, and it seemed as if all his blood was on the concrete around him rather than in his veins. That didn’t seem right.

The tug came again. The familiar stench of rot and decay brought him into full, too-clear awareness. Kristina Arensberg was swiping with a glinting silver blade at a massive, winged beast made of pure shadow. A thousand tendrils of gray and black slithered along its form, forming sinew along its spindly, sharp-jointed legs.Another nightmare of his, springing to life at the worst possible moment.

“Hey, you ugly fuck,” he shouted in French. The creature whirled on him and roared, baring its mouth full of black-dripping fangs.

Someone hauled him into the back of a truck, and he could barely hold back a whimper. How many bones were there in his body? It seemed as if three or four might not be shattered.

Kristina recoiled, one hand clapped to her cheek as it poured blood. Fighting through the haze that tried to pull him under, Paris tugged on that thread to the beast, to his nightmare. “Leave her alone,” he ordered. It pulled back, and he felt the distinct bleeding sensation as it drew from him again. His vision faltered as its eyes brightened. His whole body lurched, and he murmured, “I can’t. I’m sorry I failed you.”

Come back to me.

I can’t.

And all went quiet.

2

Blood swirled at Misha Volkov’s feet, swirling translucent red into the shower drain. With a groan, he pried out a metal slug from between his ribs and set it on the side of the tub.

Idiot vampires.

Metal bullets instead of wood said they’d thought a human was hunting them instead of a fellow vampire. Fools. His previous kills had been practically flawless, and they somehow thought a human had pulled it off? It was almost offensive.

He scrubbed his hair clean, finding more blood—not his—and flung pinkish suds off his fingers. Then he stood under the stinging hot spray until the water finally ran clear. It seemed rude to stain the fluffy white hotel towels with blood, particularly the blood of two German vampires who were quite literally too stupid to live.

Emerging from the shower, Misha wrapped a towel around his waist and quickly examined himself in the fogged mirror. Marguerite had put up more of a fight than her husband, leaving deep scratches on his face and a nasty bruise that was spreading across his ribs.

A tentative smile produced a sharp sting in his slashed cheek. Hopefully it would heal by the time he boarded his flight tomorrow. “Minor car accident,” he said aloud, practicing the sheepish grin that would hopefully deter any questions in the airport.

A sharp knock interrupted his rehearsal. Holding the towel tightly, he hurried to the hotel room door and peered through the peephole. Through the lens, he saw a comically distorted male with faded purple hair. “Who is it?” he asked.

“A delivery from the Gray Queen,” a trembling voice said in German. “She sends her regards to her footman.”

Ophelia Klein had watched too many spy movies in the last twenty years. He yanked the door open to find a wiry young human holding out an insulated bag. The man’s thrumming pulse perfumed the air with the scent of blood. Misha considered inviting him in for a snack, but instead took the bag. “Did she pay you?” Misha asked.

“Paid up front, sir,” the boy said. “She said you would have something for me.”

“Give me a moment.”

Misha left the door open and retrieved a bag of his own, which he held out to the boy. Its contents had been rinsed and wrapped in a towel. “You understand what to do with this, yes?”

“It goes to the crematorium,” he said. “Sir.”

“That’s right,” Misha said. “And what happens if you open it?”

“They put me in the crematorium too,” he said quietly.

“Good boy.Take care of it.”

The boy grabbed the bag, then bolted down the hall. Assuming Ophelia had hired a competent courier, the weapons Misha had used to kill the rogue vampires would be burned to a crisp. His own blood-stained shirt and gloves were in the bag as well. It was not for fear of human authorities, but for being tracked by particularly dedicated vampire hunters.He hadn’t tangled with the notorious Rodzina in years, but he wasn’t taking any risks when his own head was on the line.

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