Page 90 of The Rogue's Curse

He chuckled. “It’s Crown business. You know I can’t.”

She let out a heavy, put-upon sigh and said, “You never let me have any fun.”

“I do have a question for you. I’ve run into a pretty powerful barrier around a building. It smells like Night Weaver magic to me, but I’m not entirely positive. Anything you can tell me to be sure?”

She huffed. “Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if one of the Weavers had gotten in bed with a bad character. They’ll do anything for power,” she said. He chuckled to himself. “Their magic smells like decay to me. And it manifests in gray and black threads. Not dull, though. It unsettles me.”

“Any tips for bringing it down?”

“Kill the one who set it up,” Rafi said in the same matter-of-fact tone. “Be careful trying to pry it apart by brute force. If I had to do it, I’d build a bloodstone chisel and ignite it. Remember the technique I showed you when we were setting up the new protections on the library?”

She prattled on for a while, and he took notes as she talked. He’d learned years ago never to tune her out, no matter how long she went on. Between bits of gossip and colorful details, Rafaela dropped advanced knowledge about magic.

“Does that help?” she finally asked.

“It does. Thank you,” he said. He’d filled three pages with notes.

“And you’re doing all right on the magic front?”

Just as Ophelia and Orlando kept tabs on Misha, Rafi kept tabs on his magic. She was less suspicious of him, though he was certain it was overconfidence in her own prowess as a teacher, not his integrity or skill.

“I’m doing fine,” he lied. No need to mention the strange hallucinations and other nonsense. “My magic has been a bit unstable, but your exercises have helped.”

“Oh, good. Always go back to basics, dear. They’ve served us for hundreds of years,” she said. “Well, do call me when you come back to London, and I’ll make sure to visit. We must catch up.”

“Of course,” he said, nodding as if she could see him. Rafaela would be thrilled to hear about Paris, but he was still wrapping his head around it. Telling her would make things infinitely more complicated.

And the thought of going home… What did that mean, now that his entire life had changed? Fate had shown that she had other plans for Misha. If they were destined to be together, something major would have to change for one or both of them.

He glanced around. Humble as it was, he liked this place. The dingy tile and cinderblock didn’t bother him, nor did the rather meager supplies of blood instead of healthy young humans who offered up their throats in exchange for a night of forbidden pleasure. This was a family of people who truly cared for one another. It was a good place, and he was surprised at how easily he could imagine himself blending in. They wouldn’t care about who had made him, nor where he had come from. That alone was a delight.

But he wouldn’t be allowed to stay here. The Crown owned him in perpetuity, a thought that turned his gut to lead and left him feeling hollow.

As if he’d sensed Misha mooning after him, a text message came through from Paris.

Paris

Meet me in the main building. I need your truth-telling skills.

He set his jaw and grabbed his blade before heading out of the building. When he arrived at the central building, he found Kristina Arensberg in the lobby, waiting to lead him upstairs and into a wing he hadn’t visited before. “We caught Shea’s assistant,” she said. “And we need you to get information out of her. Are you up for it?”

“That’s why I’m here,” Misha said grimly.

Following her down the hall, he found Paris and Julian in an empty library. Tall, yellowish wooden shelves stood askew in the large, carpeted room, though only a handful of books remained, as if they’d been forgotten in the process of packing up. And sitting in a chair, stakes protruding from her chest and wrists shackled, was a bloodied woman with wavy brown hair. Kristina Arensberg sat on a scuffed wooden table a few yards away, arms folded over her chest.

Merely walking into the room buffeted him with a now familiar scent. Beneath the smell of vampire was the same distinct scent that clung to Lilah Whitlock’s blood. They had the same Maker: Carrigan Shea.

Rhys was bent over the woman with a bloody towel and a silver medical instrument, and appeared to be rooting around in her skull. Misha wrinkled his nose and approached Paris. “Who’s this?”

“Shea’s assistant,” Paris said. “Kristina’s a good shot and put her down hard.”

There was a soft chuckle from across the room. “Sure am,” Kristina said quietly.“She deserved it, too. She smashed Sasha’s face. Didn’t you?”

“Kristina,” Paris said, though there was no real heat behind the scolding. In fact, his lips were curved in a faint smile. He met Misha’s gaze and added, “This could change everything.”

A few moments later, Rhys let out a quiet aha! and stepped away from the woman. Despite her being an enemy, he was curiously gentle as he dabbed her bloody face clean, then squeezed a bit of fresh blood onto her tongue. The woman groaned, then let out a pitiful moan.

Paris rolled up his sleeves and approached her. “Can you talk?”

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