Page 8 of The Rogue's Curse

If Paris ever dared to believe in karma, he had only to look at the pock-marked cinderblock walls to see the truth writ large. He had spent most of his life serving Eduardo Alazan as a loyal warrior. And when he began to doubt Eduardo’s morals and chose to be a bulwark for the woefully underprepared human population, his noble effort was rewarded with a steel-toed boot to the teeth. Meanwhile, Carrigan Shea, who killed as he pleased, flaunted vampire law, and obeyed no rules other than his own desires, lived in luxury with his court growing every day. It felt like a cruel cosmic joke, one that became less funny with each passing day.

Shortly after sunset, Paris received a message from Rhys Collins, reminding him about his daily checkup. With a grumble, Paris left the central building which held their offices and headed for Building Two. His office was in the administrative building, a curved glass edifice that looked like a corporate campus rather than a proper home for vampires. Five residential buildings made up the rest of the compound, connected by sidewalks across the overgrown lot. Plastic playgrounds and leaf-covered basketball courts stood empty, making the place feel eerie and sad.

It was a short walk to Building Two, where the first floor had been turned into an infirmary staffed by the terminally cheerful Rhys and his more severe counterpart, Elspeth.

As soon as Paris stepped into the brick building, he smelled Dominic amid the scents of cleaning products and laundry. He knew that scent like the sound of his old friend’s voice, as clear and distinct as his face in a crowd. Guilt panged in his chest, and he nearly turned around to leave when Rhys called his name.

“Paris, in here,” he said.

His shoulders slumped as he walked into the small exam room. The Shieldsmen’s attack on their Midtown clinic had left Rhys badly burned, but he’d recovered well, with only the faintest scarring along the left side of his face.

“Let’s see you,” Rhys said, far too cheerful for such dire circumstances. The handsome young nurse had figured out that Paris would avoid him at all costs, and had taken to showing up in his office or his bedroom once a day if he did not produce himself on schedule. Paris had even threatened to show up naked, and Rhys called his bluff by showing up in the communal bathroom with his medical supplies and no concern for Paris’s state of undress. Finally, he conceded the battle and agreed to show up every day as requested. There was a fine line between stubborn and childish, and he attempted to stay on the age-appropriate side whenever possible.

Perching on the edge of the pitiful metal cot,Paris painfully lifted his shirt to let Rhys peer at the mangled wound on his chest. It was not the first time that a monstrous vampire had attempted to tear out his heart, which made him wonder about the sort of life he was living and the company he kept.

At least last time, he’d eventually gotten his revenge. Alistair occasionally wondered aloud what ever became of Franziska von Bauer, the wretched harpy who had turned him against his will and stolen his future. If not for her, Alistair Thorne’s name would have been uttered in the same breath as Strauss and Brahms, but he had been relegated to the salons of rich vampires instead of Europe’s finest concert halls.

Then again, Paris would have never met Alistair if not for Franziska. His gratitude ended when she showed up in their lives not to help, but to mock Alistair for the curse that had stolen his beauty. After Alistair became a hermit, Paris saw to it that Franziska would never step into Alistair’s life again, nor turn any other unsuspecting young man who was hypnotized by her ageless charm and plunging necklines. Her remains had long been scattered in the Danube and had hopefully ended up in a garbage patch in the ocean where she belonged.

Being a vampire had obvious advantages, particularly in the realm of longevity and survival. The only way to kill them permanently was to cut off their heads, which meant even having his heart quite literally crushed wasn’t enough to kill him. But they still had blood flow, albeit very slow. With his heart still healing, the rest of his body could barely keep up. Even with Shoshanna brewing him clever little potions, he was much weaker than he would have liked.

“Have you been feeding properly?” Rhys asked.

“I ate yesterday,” Paris said.

“Live or bagged?” Rhys asked.

“Bagged,” he said.

The other man’s brow furrowed. “Do you think it helps anyone for you to punish yourself?”

“Do you think it helps you to psychoanalyze me instead of doing your job?” Paris asked.

“My job is to keep you in one piece, so in fact, it does,” Rhys said amiably. “Eat properly, or I’ll hold you down and inject blood directly into your veins. Not like you could do much about it right now.”

“I’m in no mood—”

Rhys’s smile evaporated, replaced with a cold glare. “Mr. Rossignol, with all due respect, I don’t give a frilly pink fuck what you’re in the mood for. If you think that by starving yourself, you’ll fix all that’s broken, you’re an idiot. The court looks to their leaders for confidence and hope. What are you showing them?”

It was a marvel that Rhys had chosen bandages over blades. The man had balls of steel. Finally, Paris yanked his shirt down and said, “I’ll eat. And I’m not starving myself. It’s just not fair for me to get to feed on a veravin when so many of the court are drinking from bags.”

“Most of the court didn’t go toe-to-toe with Carrigan Shea,” Rhys replied. “You did what they couldn’t.”

“Yeah, I obviously did a great job,” Paris muttered.

Rhys just gave him a sad smile and gently lifted his shirt again, pressing warm hands to the small of his back.They were silent for a while as Rhys gently probed at his back and neck, then his shoulders to check his range of motion. He had limped away from his fight with Carrigan Shea with his heart ripped open, but shielding Dom when they escaped the building had left him with a crushed spine and cracked skull. Pain still lanced through his nerves every time he moved, and he was in no shape to fight. Julian’s right hand was broken and useless. As skilled as Rhys was, he had no magic or special ability to ease his pain; he had only his consistent and annoying optimism.

Paris sat in the aching, tense silence for a while before working up the nerve to ask, “Any change?”

Rhys shook his head, then rose silently. Paris followed him into the hall and up the stairs to one of the sun-proofed rooms where Dominic had lain unconscious for more than two weeks. His handsome face was clean, nearly healed from the scrapes and bruises of their failed incursion into the Constitution building. Someone had shaved his goatee, which had been ruined by the exit wound. It was growing in uneven and messy, which he didn’t like. That wasn’t Dom.

He would heal. He had to. As long as a vampire didn’t lose their head, they could eventually heal, or so Rhys said. And there had been progress; when they first stumbled back here with their tails between their legs, half of Dominic’s face was gone.

But what would be left of him if he ever woke? Was Dominic still in there, or would there be an empty shell that no longer held that noble spirit, the one who loved being a papa as much as he loved being a husband?

You should have left me there, he thought, his stomach twisting in knots. Dominic was here in this bed instead of sweeping his Rachel off her feet because Paris couldn’t get the job done. With a soulmate and a sweet child that thought he hung the moon, Dominic had everything in the world to live for, and yet, here he was…barely alive.

In the aftermath, he and the others had debated it for hours. The plan was solid tactically. They’d taken out more than a dozen of Shea’s people and rescued human prisoners. Everyone else had succeeded in their tasks, and they’d suffered minimal losses.

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