Page 157 of The Prince's Curse

“Cottage,” Paris murmured as they bolted through the broken front door. They ran across the lawn, then went flying in a heap as a shockwave hit them.

The world went eerily silent, and then a wave of pure void darkness burst from the house. As his head swam, Julian could have sworn he saw massive spiderwebs stretching across the sky, lightning bolts dancing along those silken filaments.

Darkness swept over him, so complete and consuming that it overwhelmed his senses. When it passed, he stared blankly at the sky, his body aching and exhausted. Blue eyes peered down at him as Rhys offered a hand. “You okay?” Rhys asked.

Julian groaned as the other man pulled him upright. He felt like a vampire-shaped piece of Swiss cheese. “I don’t know. Am I alive?”

“You are, and I am an expert,” Rhys said cheerfully. He looked like he’d been hit by a bus, run over by a full cycle of Atlanta rush hour traffic, then left to heal in a landfill. And somehow, the bastard was still smiling.

“And you’re alive,” Julian said dimly.

“I am,” Rhys agreed. “Sorry for the unexpected absence. Seems you lot made it without me for a few days.”

Julian rose and threw his arms around the other man, squeezing him tightly. The nurse sank against him, embracing him with shaking arms. “I’m so sorry,” Julian murmured. “We looked. We were here before. How did we miss you?”

“Before today?” Rhys asked, pulling away and looking up at him quizzically. Julian nodded. “Oh. Well, I was elsewhere. Not quite sure where. Bit of a blur. It’s not your fault, Julian.”

Misha was crouched over Paris, stroking his face gently. “Hey, wake up,” he murmured. “You’ve taken this ability to sleep way too seriously.”

Paris’s eyes opened, and his hand drifted up to the marks on his neck. “Get this off.”

Misha nodded and kissed his brow. “I’ll take care of it. I promise. The only person bossing you around is going to be me.”

As they rose, his heart sank. The house lay in shambles, jagged pieces of frame jutting up from broken glass and ash. It was as if much of it had been vaporized. Etched deep into the ground were black scorch-marks as thick as his arm. Armina’s spells, laid deep into the earth. Jagged lines erupted from them like electrical burns.

Limping on what had to be a shattered knee, Sasha rose and called, “Kristina! Kristina!”

Kova groaned and caught his arm. “Cottage. That’s where Danielle is.” He pointed to the edge of the property, where a small guest cottage remained untouched by the magic. “They’re fine. I’ll show you.”

“We should go,” Misha said roughly.

“I told her we wouldn’t leave her,” Julian said. Gingerly, he stepped up to the house and into the space where he would have estimated the parlor to be. A skeletal figure remained there, a distinct signet ring on its right hand. His heart went cold as he knelt and took the ring from her finger. It was strangely unmarred, not so much as a fleck of ash upon it.

“Stella?” he said aloud. His voice sounded hollow and dry.

“There’s no way she lived through that,” Dominic said quietly from behind him.

He glanced at Dominic. “She took the risk of whatever curse Armina had cooked up.”

“Forgive me if I don’t offer her a posthumous medal of honor,” Dom said drily. “Are you all right?”

“No, but I’ll live,” Julian said.“Round the others up.”

Scarlett sat in the middle of the yard, staring at the crumbling remains. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Her fingers still glowed with magic as she tried in vain to stop the tears. He sat next to her and put his arm around her.

She didn’t speak, just turned and buried her face in his chest and wept. He held her tight, and the others gave them a wide berth. In the quiet, Dominic gave orders, and he watched as Kova carefully carried Kristina out of the cottage, her head lolling far too loosely.

Misha’s quiet voice came through Scarlett’s cries, telling Safira that it was over, they were heading home soon.

And still she wept, hot tears soaking through his shirt. His eyes stung as he kissed the top of her head and held her tightly. Her world had begun to crumble long before today. But his unmatched triumph at watching Armina fall was her utter tragedy. If she’d clung to any hope for redemption, it was gone.

But they were here. They had survived. The cycle was broken, and they were together. Tears trickled over his cheeks, and he wished he could scream it out, let out the poison like trapped smoke. Nearly two hundred years of endless grief and despair.

And it was finally over.

Her hand snaked around his waist, and he realized that she was leaning against his shoulder, no longer sobbing violently. He reached up and stroked her hair. “Are you okay?”

“Not quite. But I will be,” she murmured. “Let’s go home.”

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