Darkness Unleashed

by Alexandra Ivy

  Not that she was about to apologize.

  She hadn’t asked for his interference, dammit. And she most certainly didn’t ask to be treated like a helpless bimbo who had to be tucked away in a safe lair while Jagr played superhero.

  She was the one who Culligan had tormented and tortured for three decades. She was the one who had dreamed night after night of ripping out the imp’s throat. She was the one who’d tracked the bastard to Hannibal.

  This was her fight, and by God, she was going to see it to the bitter end.

  And her stubborn reaction to his protective instincts had nothing at all to do with the fear that the stunning pleasure she’d felt in Jagr’s arms had given him a power over her that was as ruthless and eternal as Jagr himself.

  She shivered again.

  Christ. She needed a distraction.

  And a freaking jacket.

  “What is this place?” she demanded, gazing around the wide stretch of open land that was surrounded by a handful of large, elegant homes. “A park?”

  Quickening his pace to walk beside her rather than glowering from behind, Jagr deliberately pulled back his power, easing the chill in the air.

  “A golf course,” he corrected.

  “Ah.” Her lips twisted. No wonder she didn’t recognize the place. Culligan had never spent much time around the country club set. “That would explain the lack of teeter-totters.”

  “And the manicured greens with holes cut in them.”

  She shot him a startled glance. “You golf?”

  “There are few things I haven’t tried over the centuries.”

  “Yeah, I can imagine,” she said dryly.

  Heat flared through his eyes, burning away the lingering ice. “I’d be happy to demonstrate a few of them later.”

  Regan hastily turned her head, following the peach-scented trail that led toward a line of woods at the back of the golf course. Not that she hoped for a minute the damned vampire couldn’t see the blush staining her cheeks.

  “What would an imp be doing out here?” she muttered.

  Half-expecting Jagr to pounce on her obvious vulnerability, Regan breathed a sigh of relief when he instead turned his attention toward the thicker shadows gathered ahead.

  “My first guess would be that he’s hiding.”

  “From us?”

  Jagr tilted back his head as if sensing the night air. “His trail is fresh. And he’s near.”

  Regan abruptly halted, realizing the scent of peach had grown considerably stronger. She pointed toward the line of trees along a barbed wire fence.

  “I’ll circle to the right,” she whispered so softly only a vampire could catch the words. “I’d rather not have to chase him through the trees.”

  “Regan.”

  She stiffened, sensing his grim frustration.

  “What?”

  He muttered a low curse. “Just be careful.”

  Regan lifted her brows.

  No grim pronouncement that it was too dangerous?

  No squawking that he was the only one capable of dealing with the hidden demon?

  No growling, hissing, or chest thumping?

  Not willing to press her luck, Regan slipped silently down a cement path she assumed was for the golf carts.

  She didn’t believe for a moment that an ancient vampire could actually learn new tricks. At least not this ancient vampire.

  So either he didn’t believe the imp posed enough of a threat to make a fuss over, or more likely, he was confident he could protect her even if she was stubborn enough to charge into danger.

  The rueful thoughts had barely skimmed through her mind when there was a rustle of noise and a slender form darted across the closely mowed green, heading directly for the nearby bushes.

  “Oh no, you don’t,” Regan muttered, launching forward to tackle the fleeing imp.

  She had a brief impression of reddish blond hair that was cut short and styled to emphasize the narrow, handsome face and pale green eyes. His thin body was hidden beneath an elegant blue suit that made him look like a banker.

  Or a gigolo.

  No doubt the old ladies at the tea shop fluttered over him like a clutch of infatuated hens.

  Tackling the imp from behind, Regan drove him to the ground, intending to land on his back. Of course, the best laid plans of mice and men…yadda, yadda…

  The impact was enough to knock her to the side, and the imp struck out desperately, his fist hitting her square in the stomach. The breath was wrenched from her lungs and before she could move, the imp landed a blow that would have broken her jaw if she’d been human. Thankfully Regan wasn’t a human. She was a pissed-off pureblood who’d just been sucker-punched.

  The imp swung his arm again, but this time Regan was prepared. Grabbing his fist, she squeezed until he was squealing like a…well, pretty much like an imp in pain. Then wrenching his arm behind his back, she rolled him face-first into the ground.

  He kicked out, connecting painfully with her knee as she climbed to straddle his lower back. Regan cursed, jacking his arm even higher up his back as she grabbed a fistful of his hair and smacked his face into the dirt.

  There was a cool brush of air, and suddenly Jagr was crouched at her side, his gaze on the imp whimpering beneath her.

  “I think he’s subdued, little one.”

  She turned her head to spit the blood from her mouth. Damn, the freaking idiot had made her bite her tongue. She hated that.

  “You could have helped,” she muttered.

  Jagr arched a golden brow. “And be accused of overstepping my place as your meaningless sidekick? Thanks, but no thanks. Besides, it looked like you had everything under control.”

  “Crazy bitch,” the imp whined, his eyes rolling toward Jagr as if hoping to get a bit of sympathy from a fellow male. “Get her off me.”

  Jagr’s chuckle chilled the air. “If I were you, I wouldn’t insult the pissed-off werewolf holding you in a half nelson.”

  “Who are you?” the imp demanded. “What do you want?”

  “You’re confused, imp. We’ll ask the questions, and you’ll answer them,” Jagr warned. “Understand?”

  Regan tightened her grip on his hair. “And you’ll give us the truth if you want to keep your head attached.”

  The imp hissed in pain. “What is this? The demon version of good cop, bad cop?”

  “I’m afraid that Regan has a few issues with imps,” Jagr drawled.

  The imp stiffened beneath her. “Regan?” he breathed.

  Jagr narrowed his gaze. “You recognize the name?”

  “No…” His denial was cut short as Regan banged his head on the ground. “Wait, dammit. All I know is that Culligan had a pet Were called Regan.”

  “Pet?” Her temper snapped as she banged his head over and over. Christ, she hated imps.

  Jagr gently touched her arm. “Careful, little one, we need him alive if he’s going to answer our questions.”

  Regan forced herself to halt, sucking in a deep, calming breath as she met Jagr’s steady gaze.

  “Can you sense if he’s speaking the truth?”

  “Yes.”

  Regan leaned forward, deliberately twisting his arm higher. “What’s your name?”

  “Damn you, I…arrg…Gaynor. My name is Gaynor.”

  She eased the pressure. “How do you know Culligan?”

  Gaynor licked his thin lips, the scent of peach thick in the air. “We both lived in New Orleans during the Civil War. Culligan never had much magic, but the looting was easy, and the humans were ripe to be plucked of what few valuables they had left.”

  Jagr growled deep in his throat. Even Regan shivered at the sound.

  “That doesn’t explain how you knew about Regan.”

  Despite the chill of Jagr’s power, the imp began to sweat. “We crossed paths in Chicago thirty years ago. He told me he’d fallen into a sweet deal with a baby Were that he intended to take on the road in some sort of freak show. Lucky idiot.
”

  Regan sucked in a startled breath.

  Chicago?

  Culligan had always claimed he’d found her abandoned in a ditch near Dallas.

  Of course, Salvatore had tried to convince her that Culligan had lied, and that her family would never have willingly abandoned her.

  Still…the suspicion had continued to rankle deep in her heart.

  “Who offered him this sweet deal?” she rasped.

  “A cur. I think Culligan said his name was Caine.”

  “Christ.” She gave a stunned shake of her head, her stomach twisting with a sick sensation. “This is nuts. How did the curs get a hold of me? And why would they give me to Culligan?”

  Easily sensing her distress, Jagr stroked her arm in a comforting motion.

  “We’ll discover the truth, little one. That I promise.” Jagr turned his attention to the imp, his eyes glittering like frozen chips of sapphire in the dark. “Didn’t you think the Weres might want to know about a missing child?”

  “Culligan swore the dogs were the ones who gave him the baby in the first place.”

  “You couldn’t possibly be stupid enough to believe any Were would willingly hand over a pureblood child to an imp,” Jagr accused.

  Gaynor tried to cringe from Jagr, obviously more afraid of the looming vampire than the angry Were perched on top of him.

  Smart imp.

  “He said she was damaged, that she couldn’t even shift,” he desperately tried to excuse his betrayal. “Besides, he had to make a blood oath that he wouldn’t allow her to suffer any permanent harm.”

  “A blood oath?” Regan directed her question to Jagr. “What’s that?”

  He grimaced. “A promise bound in blood and magic.”

  “If Culligan had failed to protect you from serious damage, he would have dropped dead in a New York minute,” Gaynor swiftly added, as if hoping for brownie points.

  Regan ground her teeth, recalling how obsessive Culligan had been to keep the occasional demon visitors from wandering too near the back of the RV. At the time she’d thought he was protecting his cash cow. Now it was obvious he was simply terrified for his own life. “So that’s why he was so careful to keep his disgusting friends away from my cage. Pig.”

  “And you haven’t seen or heard from him in thirty years?” Jagr charged.

  “No, I swear.”

  “Then how did you know he was in St. Louis?”

  Gaynor licked his lips. “The word was already buzzing in the chat rooms that an imp had been busted by the King of Weres for holding a pureblood captive, and that he was hiding in St. Louis. I suspected it might be Culligan, so I sent a hellhound to track him down with a message to meet me.”

  “Imps have chat rooms?” Regan mocked, envisioning a bunch of imps huddled over their keyboards.

  “Hey, we’re more tech-savvy than most demons.”

  Regan’s lips twisted. Clearly the imp hadn’t been into Tane’s version of the Death Star.

  “So the chat rooms were buzzing about an imp being in trouble, and you decided to contact Culligan out of the goodness of your heart?” she demanded. “Give me a break.”

  “I thought if it was Culligan, he might be willing to pay for my help.” He shuddered beneath her. “Do you think I like peddling tea and cake to fat old ladies?”

  “He’s lying,” Jagr breathed softly.

  Regan smacked the imp on the back of the head, hard. “Well, I believe he hates peddling cakes to old ladies, so he must be lying about his reason for contacting Culligan.”

  “Ow…I’m not a Whack-a-Mole,” he protested.

  “No, you’re a breath away from being dinner,” Regan informed him, not above using the imp’s instinctive fear of vampires. “Did I forget to mention Jagr didn’t have time to eat before we came looking for you?”

  Jagr readily fell into his role as enforcer, his fangs suddenly shimmering in the moonlight.

  “And I’m not hungry for cake.”

  “She’ll kill me if I tell you.”

  “Then you’re screwed, Gaynor, because we’ll kill you if you don’t,” Regan assured him.

  There was a pause, then straining his neck, Gaynor attempted to turn his head to speak directly to Regan.

  “Maybe we can make a deal? The information has to be worth something to you.”

  “You want a deal? Fine.” She grabbed his face to turn it directly toward Jagr. “You tell me everything you know about Culligan, and I won’t feed you to the hungry vampire.”

  He swallowed heavily. “Fair enough.”

  “Why did you send a message to Culligan?” Jagr pressed.

  “Can I at least sit up?” he whined. “You’re giving me a cramp.”

  She shoved his arm high enough that it threatened to snap out of its socket.

  “I’ll let you up, but I’ll give you more than a cramp if you try anything stupid.”

  Releasing his arm, Regan slipped off his back to kneel next to Jagr. Gaynor muttered a curse and scrambled to sit upright, straightening his silk tie even as he studied the grass stains on his jacket.

  “Son of a bitch. Do you know how much this suit cost?”

  “Do you know how much I don’t care?” Regan snapped. “Start talking.”

  Giving up on his tie, the imp threw his hands in the air. “Fine. I did hear about Culligan in the chat rooms like I said, but I didn’t send the message because I thought he could pay me. The worthless slug never did have the talent or intelligence to earn more than a few bucks. Even when he was handed a windfall like you.”

  Jagr’s powers whipped painfully around the imp, making the short strands of his hair stand upright.

  “So, why?”

  Gaynor shivered. “A week ago a cur came into the tea shop and asked for me to invite Culligan to Hannibal.”

  Jagr beat her to the obvious question. “Who was this cur?”

  “She called herself Sadie.” His lips curled. “Damn, she was hot. Tall and dark with the kind of body that makes a man think about whips and chains. Very tasty.”

  Regan frowned. She’d assumed the cur would be Duncan or perhaps the mysterious Caine. Who the hell was this Sadie?

  “Had you ever seen her before?”

  “No, and she wasn’t a woman a man would forget. Not ever.” A leer touched the imp’s too-pretty features. “Maybe her rack was a bit small, but…” His disgusting words were cut short as Regan threw a rock at him with enough force to snap his head back. He glared at her as he raised a hand to the bleeding lump on his forehead. “Shit.”

  “My suggestion would be to stop digging your own grave, imp,” Jagr said dryly.

  “She asked.”

  Regan regarded the imp in disgust. “You sold out your friend because you thought the cur was hot?”

  “No, I sold him out because the cur handed over a butt load of money.”

  “Nice.”

  “Hey, Culligan would have done the same in my position.”

  Regan couldn’t argue with his logic. Culligan was an amoral, spineless turd who would sell his soul for a buck.

  “Did the cur say what she wanted with him?”

  “She said he’d failed in his duty to the curs, and that he needed to be punished.”

  “That’s not all she said, is it?” Jagr abruptly insisted.

  “She might have mentioned using him as bait.”

  “To lure Regan to Hannibal?”

  Gaynor flinched at the ice edging the vampire’s voice. “She didn’t say. I’m not precisely her confidant. More like her stooge.”

  “Where is she?” Regan demanded.

  “I don’t know, but it must be near the river.”

  Jagr frowned. “Why do you say that?”

  “I could smell it on her.”

  Jagr’s frown deepened. “Her scent wasn’t masked?”

  “Masked?” Gaynor widened his pale green eyes. “How does a cur mask her scent?”

  Regan didn’t need to be a mind reader to know the im
p was lying. Casting a covert glance toward Jagr, she held her tongue as he gave a faint shake of his head. For whatever reason, he didn’t want to challenge Gaynor.

  “Did she come alone to meet you?” he instead asked.

  “She came inside alone, but there were a half dozen curs surrounding the shop.” There was no pretense in the flash of anger that rippled over his face. “The dolts completely ruined my daffodils. Oh, and the bitch took off with an entire batch of my peanut butter fudge.”

  Regan blinked. Okay, that was…weird.

  “Why would she take your fudge?”

  Gaynor stiffened, as if offended by the question. “Because it just happens to be the most famous fudge in the state. Perhaps in all of America.”

  Jagr snorted. “And it’s hexed to compel the unwary to crave it like a drug.”

  “You can’t prove that,” Gaynor hissed.

  Regan glanced toward Jagr. “Can curs be hexed?”

  “They’re more susceptible than pure demons,” he answered before turning back to the imp. “Has she been back for more?”

  Gaynor shifted nervously closer to the bushes. Idiot. Did he actually think he could outrun a vampire?

  “When I opened the shop two days ago, she was waiting for me,” he grudgingly confessed.

  “For fudge?”

  “For fudge, and to make another offer,” he said slowly.

  Regan gave a lift of her brows. “An offer for what?”

  There was an odd pause, then with a movement so swift that it caught both Jagr and Regan off guard, Gaynor knocked aside a pile of branches to reveal a shimmering, swirling mist that seemed to hang in the darkness.

  Although Culligan had never had the power necessary to create a portal, Regan had witnessed other imps weave a doorway in thin air. She’d always been fascinated by the magical gateways when they’d been at a distance. She wasn’t nearly so delighted to have one close enough to tumble through.

  “The offer is for you, Regan,” the imp admitted, reaching to grasp her arm.

  More astonished than frightened, Regan felt herself being yanked toward the swirling portal. She instinctively struggled, but the imp was unexpectedly strong as he planted his feet and scooted backward, inching her closer and closer to the opening.