A cold chill prickled down his spine. “I disagree,” he said.
“You’re welcome to disagree, but you’re wrong, love,” she said. “You know that your oath is to the coven.”
“My oath is to the Crown,” he said mildly.
She was quiet again. “You called for my help. If you actually want it, then you’ll do what I say. Stop using your magic, drink a pagos, and use the concentration runes until things calm down. Then put yourself on a plane and come home. That’s all I have for you.”
He swallowed and nodded. “All right. I’ll do that.”
“Good boy,” she said. “We can meet when you come home.”
“That sounds wonderful,” he lied.
He hung up and set his phone down, staring at it intently. Rafaela knew her business when it came to magic, and if she told him to stop using his power, that was surely the best thing to do.
But he was not special, not any more valuable than Paris and the rest of his court. And if keeping his power meant leaving these people to suffer, letting Carrigan Shea wreak havoc on Atlanta and beyond, then fuck his power. What in the hell was the point of having a gift if he safeguarded it so closely it couldn’t benefit anyone?
Perhaps there was a middle ground. If he could teach Shoshanna some of the basic tasks without jeopardizing his vows, that would reduce the load. At the very least, he could teach her to distill vampire blood and create a bloodstone. That was basic enough.
He spent the next hour carving two more anchors, stopping only when his phone buzzed. He ignored it, but it began buzzing intently again a few minutes later. He glanced over and froze when he saw the name: Ophelia Klein.
After wiping dust from his hands, he picked up the phone and tentatively said, “Hello?”
“Misha, I need a report on your status,” Ophelia said. Seconds later, the video screen lit up.
“I’m close to finishing the job,” he said, reluctantly accepting the call.
“That’s not what I mean. I just heard from Rafaela Amato, who is extremely concerned about you,” she said.
“I wasn’t aware that she had any sway over the Crown,” he said.
“She is your mentor and felt compelled to let us know that you were in dangerous conditions,” Ophelia said. “Are you able to finish the job?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Without using your magic any further?”
He was quiet. “No.”
“Then you will stand down. I will send another team to help deal with the matter,” she said.
“With all due respect, we’re so close. Waiting longer gives Shea more time to prepare for us,” Misha said.
“For us?” Ophelia said. “Misha, this is an order. The Crown will not risk an asset like you.”
“Why is that? Because I’m so special?”
“Yes,” she said. “We don’t have that many blood witches, and fewer still that have your nerve in a fight. You should—”
“What is the point of you preserving me as an asset if I can’t use my skills?” Misha protested.
“No one is saying you can’t use your skills. I’m asking you not to destroy yourself for a mission. That’s not what we ask of you,” she said. “Especially not for something like this.”
“So the Crown will hold me responsible for Beckett Frasier’s crimes, over which I had no control, but not allow me to intervene with Carrigan Shea’s, which I am uniquely equipped to handle?” he said.
She was quiet for a while. “Misha, you are an agent of the Crown. We give you the freedom to run a mission as you see fit, but you still ultimately answer to us.”
And he had been answering for more than fifty years now. When did it end? “Understood,” he said.
