Page 50 of The Rogue's Curse

Alarms rang in his mind, and he instantly swiped at his hand with the sharp point of his ring. But his blood felt strangely dormant, without its usually intense thrum.

Rising from behind a steel table were a silver-haired male and a red-haired woman. Paris swore in French, holding one arm up to block Misha’s passage as the silver-haired man said,“I was hoping you’d bring the blonde bastard. But I remember you. You’re the reason I’m here, you self-righteous little fuck.”

11

Nothing was ever easy, was it? Of course they weren’t going to waltz in and get easy answers out of Kieran O’Brien.

He could clearly see what was in front of him, but it made no sense. Niall Ross and Joanna Barragan, two of Lilah’s flunkies, stood there.

Months ago, he’d put a wooden stake in Niall’s heart after Olivia Pierce identified him as one of Lilah’s conspirators. It had been thoroughly satisfying to grab Niall right off the street and rescue the blood-dazed damsel on his arm; it was too late to prevent Olivia’s suffering, but at least they’d taken one more sociopathic bloodsucker out of the mix. Niall had been here at the Mausoleum for months, long before they knew he was affiliated with Shea.

Meanwhile, Joanna had been part of Lilah’s crew that dressed the Pierce girls and dragged them out to be bitten. She’d also been part of the team that shot Nikko outside 21 East and tried to take him back to Lilah and Kieran. She’d checked into her steel-walled suite here at the Mausoleum a few weeks after Niall.

But instead of being shackled and near-comatose in their coffin-like cells, both vampires were here, cheeks feverishly flushed from a fresh feeding. Niall was bright-eyed and furious as he snarled, “I’m going to deliver your head on a platter.”

“I’ll break your fucking neck and put you right back in a goddamn cell,” Paris spat at him. He dove across the room at Niall, who was surprisingly fast for someone who should have been starved for the last three months. The two vampires collided, and he kept rolling with Niall and slammed him into the nearest wall. A sick sensation washed over him, and his belly cramped. Acid licked at the back of his throat.

The damned administrator had poisoned them.

Niall’s fist cracked across his jaw and sent him reeling. Behind him a woman shrieked, and he prayed that it was Misha putting an end to Joanna. Dodging another wild blow, Paris leaped over a steel table to tackle Niall. They swung wildly at each other, and he roared with satisfaction when he got a handful of Niall’s hair and slammed his face into the concrete floor. Niall reared back and elbowed him in the chest. Paris saw stars and stumbled back, but someone shoved him back the other way. Smoke filled the air, and he looked up to see Niall stumbling around with his shirt on fire.

He dove at Niall, clambered onto his smoldering back, and took him down in an awkward heap. With a roar, he yanked the other man’s head around the wrong way, tearing through his spinal column. Niall gurgled and fell flat, fingers twitching.

Paris swiped at his face and got to his feet. When he turned, he saw Misha wiping his bloodied hands. Joanna lay unmoving, her head looking down while her body lay faceup. “You okay?” Paris asked.

“Great,” Misha bit out. “I don’t feel right.”

“Something in the blood,” Paris said. He tested the door. Locked. It had to be a solid eight inches of steel, and it wasn’t budging.

Misha nudged him and said, “Let me.” Using the jeweled ring on his right hand, he sliced a seam open on his left, then painted a rune on the door with bloody fingers. Fire erupted from his palm, and the door blasted outward. His eyes were fiery red, almost glowing through his skull. As they emerged from the room, Paris stared in horror.

Every door on the narrow hall stood open. The smell of vampires hung thick as smoke. Worst of all, he smelled fresh blood, which was the last thing he wanted to smell in the Mausoleum.

From an unseen intercom came a familiar female voice that sent a shiver down his spine. This was the woman that he’d briefly spoken to months ago, the one who told him she was going to kill a human every ten minutes until Nikko Baudelaire delivered himself to her. “My friends, a reminder that the one who brings me the two Auberon will have a place in Carrigan Shea’s court. Alive,” Lilah added. “They’re coming your way now.”

He and Misha exchanged a look, then barreled down the hall. Misha slapped him on the back and said, “Into the stairwell, and cover your head.”

There was still a shred of ego-driven instinct that told Paris to protest, to tell ninety-eight-year-old hotshot Misha Volkov he could shove his overprotectiveness up his ass. But the younger vampire was surrounded by a powerful, smoky smell that grew stronger with each second. The fine hairs on Paris’s arm rose as if there was static electricity in the air.

Paris bolted.Figures blurred past, bursting out of the cells, and a hand caught him. His momentum spun both of them around, and he continued the motion to shove the interloper into the nearest wall. Without stopping to look at who he had, he grabbed their arm and slung them overhead, slamming a young male vampire into the floor. With a vicious snarl, he stomped down on the man’s chest, then on his face in a spray of blood. Paris sprang over the limp body and into the stairwell, where he huddled against the concrete wall.

A strange tension filled the air, and everything went silent for a split second. A shockwave exploded down the hall, and he felt the spike of pressure against his eardrums, making his head swim. The smell of Misha’s blood filled his nose, overwhelming him with a strange sense of desire and ferocious protectiveness. That was his Misha.

He emerged and saw Misha lurching down the hall, eyes blazing bright. At least three vampires lay on the ground twitching.A woman darted out of a nearby cell, and Misha slammed his bare hand against her chest, emitting another burst of red light. She fell, gasping, and Misha bent to snap her neck.

This was not the time. In fact, it was the absolute worst time to think about anything but survival.

But with that show of power, Misha Volkov had cemented his position as the sexiest man that Paris Rossignol had ever met. He prayed to all the gods of debauchery, with a special nod to Dionysus, that they survived this so that he could consummate their growing bond. He would absolutely worship at the man’s feet when he got the opportunity.

Another vampire burst from a nearby cell and feinted toward Misha. He swiped and missed, and the male tackled him at the waist. As they went down, Paris sprang out of the stairwell and pounced on the other man’s back. While he was busy trying to gouge out Misha’s pretty eyes, Paris twisted his head around backwards and hauled him off, then threw him into the nearest cell.

Misha stared up at him appreciatively, then took the offered hand to get up. He was unsteady on his feet, his cheeks going pale. “You know that I’m direct,” he said shakily.

“Yeah,” Paris agreed.

“I can’t do much more,” he said.

Paris nodded. “Trust me. I’ve got you.”

---