Page 85 of The Rogue's Curse

After the shocking events of the evening, he was in a good enough mood to appreciate a joke from Kristina, something that would have been unfathomable a month ago. “Or perhaps one of those fuzzy green lichens that grows on gravestones. Vibrant, but soggy and slimy to the touch.”

“I’ll take it as a compliment,” she said, her smile broadening.“I also have to assume you wanted me to be a buffer for my father.”

“He’s such a pain in the ass,” Paris admitted. “His face is so very punchable.”

“Tell me about it,” she said with a little laugh. “Hey, Sasha and I were discussing names. We like Nightwatch.”

He wanted to reject it on principle, but it had a nice ring. A little less grim than the Shroud. “Not too bad,” Paris said.

She spared a little smile, then fixed her eyes on the Goodwin house. “I’m ready.”

“After we surveil the house, I’ll go to the front with Jonas. You circle around the back to make sure no one comes, then maintain watch from the best vantage point you can find,” he said.

“Understood.”

After sending a message to Jonas to confirm their arrival, they walked down the street. Both on alert, he and Kristina moved quickly, surveying their surroundings before pressing themselves tightly to a massive tree in Diana Goodwin’s yard. He caught Kristina’s eye, then cupped one hand to his ear.

They both listened. There were thrumming heaters, pipes running through walls, and a dozen muffled voices from televisions and phones.

Ever so softly, someone cleared their throat. A familiar male voice said, “It’s me.”

Kristina peeked out, then beckoned with one hand. She pointed to Paris, and Jonas met his gaze. The dhampir man nodded to him.

“To the door,” Paris said quietly.

Kristina slipped away in silence. As much as he’d hated the idea that Sasha’s soulmate was a damned vampire hunter—and one of the Shieldsmen at that—she really had grown on him.She wasn’t the sunshine and roses type; she was often serious and quiet, though Sasha always made her smile.

But he truly admired her integrity, something he hadn’t expected when he first met her. Her moral code outweighed her allegiance to her order, something he respected even more after splitting from Eduardo’s court. Knowing how much the rest of the Auberon would despise her for her past, she hadn’t balked, both on Sasha’s behalf and in service of the greater good. And it didn’t hurt that she’d been trained for years to deal with vampires while living in a fragile human body. She was infinitely better at it now that she had vampire strength and speed.

He knocked on the door, then heard a muffled voice from inside. A young man said, “Stay put, Mama.”

Footsteps approached the door, and then it swung open. From inside the house, he smelled something savory—chicken and potatoes, perhaps. A TV was being turned down, as if someone else was trying to listen from across the house.

A teenage boy in a blue hoodie stared up at him, hazel eyes narrowed in a pitiful attempt at intimidation. “Yeah?” he spat. His posture said he was trying to intimidate, to be the man of the house, but the messy hair and lonely stray hairs on his chin said he was barely out of puberty. Paris admired the chutzpah and hoped it wouldn’t get him killed.

“We’re here to speak to Mrs. Goodwin,” Jonas said smoothly.

The boy folded his arms over his chest. “She’s not seeing any guests tonight.”

“Not even from Mr. Shea?” Paris asked.

The boy’s pupils dilated, and he took a tiny step back. Thin filaments of red spiraled around his pupils before fading again.

That treacherous bastard.

“We just want to help your mother,” Jonas said. “Let us in.”

“You can’t,” the boy said, shaking his head rapidly. Suddenly, he whipped out a pistol, hands shaking as he aimed it. “I’m not going to let them hurt Ella.”

Paris lunged at the boy and grabbed his wrist. He was surprisingly strong, but Paris twisted his wrist until he dropped the gun. A primal, furious shout erupted from his throat, and Paris clapped his hand over his mouth as Jonas hurried inside and shut the door.

“Blake!” a woman shouted. “Don’t you hurt him!”

Jonas stepped into the open kitchen, where a tired-looking woman stood brandishing a butcher knife. “No one is going to hurt anyone,” he said. “We’re here to help you. I swear.”

The woman’s eyes were wide. Her head twitched to one side as if she heard a voice, and then her hand steadied. “Let my son go.”

Paris released the boy, though he snatched up the small pistol before Blake could retrieve it. He hurried through the kitchen and pulled the curtains closed. “Is there anyone else in the house?”

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