Page 111 of The Rogue's Curse

Now he held so many beautiful, delicate things in his bloody hands. And to know that he could lose them… It was unfathomable. He’d watched Julian suffer again and again as he lost Brigitte. He would not be so strong if Misha was snatched away from him. In its strange way, life had been easier since Alistair had left him. That century of detachment, of pleasurable flings and shallow connections, had been safer than daring to hold someone so close that they could be ripped away and take a chunk of his flesh with them.

Now it was all so delicate and dangerous, and he had so much to lose.

22

At least it would be over soon. That was what Misha told himself as he paced nervously around his workshop. He’d awoken early with a crawling sense of dread, his magic flickering and sparking like it had in those chaotic days after Frasier first conducted his bloody ritual. The wastebasket was full of broken glass, and the room smelled faintly of smoke.

This was dangerous. In his early years of training under Rafaela’s stern tutelage, she’d warned him that uncontrolled magic could burn itself out, and the wielder with it. He could lose his magic, or worse, it could burn up his mind if it went haywire while he was using his power. And that was without the looming threat of a Night Weaver’s curse fraying every thread to its breaking point.

After carving another two anchor stones, the sense of roiling unease in his gut felt nearly unbearable. Bolts of red lightning flashed across his vision, and with each stroke of the engraving tool, he could hear Beckett Frasier taunting him. Then it was Rafaela, warning him that his brain would melt. Marcel de Salvio, Elder of the Court of Thanatos, saying that he’d have killed Misha if not for the coven’s claim on him. Dear Henry, telling Misha how much happier he was with his human mate and the kind of life Misha couldn’t—or wouldn’t—give him.

Stone scraped. Metal screamed, and he had just enough time to close his eyes before the metal bit of the engraving tool snapped in half and flew across the room. He threw it down and let out a string of foul curses that would have had his poor sweet mother praying for his soul.

He lurched out of his seat, grabbed a notebook and pen, and sat on the floor. Slowly, just as Rafi had taught him, he drew a focusing rune. Slow, steady strokes, until—

Something hissed behind him. He lunged for his knife and whirled to see a shadowy, horned thing. Vaguely humanoid, it had massive, curled horns and satyr-like legs, along with long, jagged talons it seemed determined to relocate into Misha’s chest.

He swung wildly and sliced it across what might have been its chest. Sharp talons scraped his cheek, drawing blood. Within the shadow, silver-blue eyes ignited with eerie light. With a growl, he lunged at the beast and drove it into the wall as its talons swung over his head. Misha drove his blade up into its chest, then backed away, dragging it with him like a hooked fish.

Dodging its swipes, Misha retreated into the room across the hall from his lab, where sunlight poured through the open windows. Whirling and throwing his weight to carry the creature with him, he thrust the thing into a beam of light. His hands instantly stung from the searing light, but the demon-like creature shrieked and burst into a puff of ash. He backed away and huddled against the wall, away from the light.

As he caught his composure, he looked back to the door and nearly screamed in surprise. His Henry, the lover he had parted with years ago, stood in the doorway. “Your life is much too dangerous. You aren’t capable of loving anyone, and we all know that,” he said, his warm voice still sounding kind despite the cruel words.

“You’re not real,” he said. He squeezed his eyes shut, tried to envision Paris, tried to envision that sense of safety and warmth, and opened his eyes again.

The doorway was empty.

HIs frustration and despair boiling over, he stomped back into the lab. He grabbed a pencil and began drawing his runes again.One stray stroke ripped through the page. He swore, tore it off, and started again. Four torn pages later, he had finally managed to draw the symbol properly. Closing his eyes, he let his vision shift into his arcane senses. Immediately, he was buffeted by sweltering heat, as if he stood in front of an open oven. The steady pulsing of it felt like a heartbeat, startling after nearly seventy years of being a vampire.

He strained to force his power along that little shape, which knotted and distended with the sheer force of his efforts. It was as if the Night Weaver’s curse was tearing open the conduit of magic, increasing the pressure to the point that his body couldn’t take it.

Finally he closed his eyes, shoved away the paper, and grabbed his phone. He’d considered this hours ago, but it was time to be a man and do the right thing. He couldn’t scold Paris for fighting through a horrific injury and keep doing this without being a hypocrite. With dread in his belly, he called Rafi. Perhaps she wouldn’t answer. Perhaps—

“Misha, love!” she crowed. “How are you?”

“I’m g—” he hesitated. “I’m not good, Rafaela. I need your help.”

She gasped dramatically and said, “Just a moment, darling. Let me step into somewhere a bit more private.” He heard voices in the background, Rafaela dramatically telling someone she had a critically important call, and then the closing of a door. “Carry on, my dear. What’s wrong? Tell me everything.”

Not in a million years, he thought. Measuring his words carefully, he said, “I’ve been exposed to a Night Weaver’s curse, and it’s impacting my magic.”

“Oh, dear,” she said. “Tell me what’s happening. Be specific.”

“I’m seeing things. Shadows at first, but they manifest into reality if they draw blood,” he said. “But my power is unstable. It’s like when I first trained with you, but much worse.”

“And you’ve tried the concentration runes I taught you?”

“They’re not powerful enough,” he said. “I can barely focus long enough to use them, and it’s like the power is too much for them. I’m blowing them out within seconds. Can you give me something stronger? Maybe something with more loops to contain it?”

“Oh, dear,” she said again. “You’re not… Misha, is this something I should worry about? Something that the Crown should know?”

“I don’t think so. I just need something to calm it all down,” he said.

“Brew a pagos, drink as much as you can stand, and get on a plane tonight. I’ll meet you wherever you can get a flight and help you, love,” she said.

“We’re on the brink of completing the mission,” he protested. “I have to keep working. Their court is in danger of being wiped out.”

Rafaela was quiet for a moment. When she spoke again, her usual jovial bluster had vanished, leaving a cold, firm voice. “Misha, you are worth far more than that little court. You are special. They are replaceable.”

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