Short and sweet.
But Regan wasn’t gullible enough to believe that it was a simple phone call.
Or that it wouldn’t have long-term consequences.
Having accomplished all she could, Regan returned to the rooms Tane had offered them, and over the next few hours she learned every inch of them.
She clocked in a dozen miles pacing from one end to the other. She rearranged the small kitchen, she folded her new clothes, and placed them neatly back in the bags. At last she lay down on the bed, desperately hoping to catch the lingering scent of Jagr, only to discover whoever had come in to clean the lair had changed the sheets.
Not that a change of sheets could erase the memories of Jagr’s tender touch, or the icy-fire of his kisses.
There wasn’t a power in the world that could accomplish that feat.
Ignoring the clang and whistle and outright screams of alarm that sounded in the back of her mind, Regan snuggled deeper into the mattress, allowing the image of Jagr poised above her, his expression one of fierce bliss as he thrust in and out of her body, to fill her thoughts.
Once he was safe, she would return to her futile battle of pretending she could walk away from him and all his unwanted complications without a twinge of remorse.
For now she simply needed to hang on to the ruthless certainty he would be rescued.
Time passed until Regan could feel the heavy sensation of the approaching dawn. Although she didn’t fear the sun like the vampires, she possessed the blood of Were. She was by nature called to the night.
She shoved herself off the bed, a horrible dread lodged in the pit of her stomach.
Christ, if Jagr didn’t return soon, he would be trapped until sunset.
Always assuming he wasn’t being held somewhere that the sun could…
No.
Enough of this waiting. She might not possess the skills of an ancient vampire, but at least she could function during the day.
Storming into the hideous living room, Regan skirted past the whirlpool and was a mere step from the door when it flung open to reveal Tane’s massive form.
“Well?” she demanded, knowing the answer before he even shook his head.
“I could find nothing.”
“Damn.”
The golden features tightened. “As soon as the sun sets, I will return to the hunt.”
“I called Styx,” she absently muttered, her thoughts centered on Jagr and the overriding need to be doing…something. Anything. “He’ll be here tonight with the cavalry.”
Unexpectedly, Tane reached out to touch her cheek, his touch almost gentle.
“Jagr will be found, Regan.”
Frustration flooded through her at the flat certainty in his voice. “Yeah, but before he’s been staked or beheaded or tossed into the sun?”
The vampire shrugged. “The curs want you. They’ll keep him alive if they think they can use him to lure you into a trap.”
She clung to that hope, but it didn’t ease the desperate need to find and rescue Jagr.
“Even if that’s true, he’ll be kept locked up. Maybe even tortured.” She held the dark gaze, willing him to understand. “Tane, he can’t go through that again. It might break him.”
Only the lengthening of his terrifying fangs revealed that Tane not only understood, but was infuriated by the thought of his brother being harmed.
“Even if he could be found, there’s no way to rescue him now. The sun’s already rising.” His tone indicated his opinion of the sun. It wasn’t good. His fingers brushed down her cheek, before he dropped his hand and stepped back. “I know you’re concerned, but our hands are tied until darkness falls.”
She made a restless motion, her inner wolf at the end of its patience. “I can’t just wait.”
The dark, faintly slanted eyes narrowed. “You do know that Jagr will decapitate me if anything happens to you?”
“Do you intend to keep me from leaving?”
His lips twisted, no doubt sensing the impending battle. “No, pretty wolf, I suspect that Jagr isn’t the only one who’s had enough of prisons.” His voice hardened with warning. “Just don’t get yourself killed. My health depends on it.”
“I’ll do my best,” she dryly promised.
Stepping back into the hall, Tane paused to send her a speaking glance.
“If you decide to drive, wolf, take one of the Hummers. It at least has a chance of surviving.”
Regan ignored the slur to her driving ability. She had, after all, trashed his truck. Instead, she turned to make her way back to the bedroom.
Moving directly to a distant corner, she knelt before Jagr’s heavy satchel.
Just for a moment, she hesitated.
After thirty years of being denied even the pretense of privacy, she possessed an intense dislike for the thought of invading anyone else’s. Especially Jagr’s, who had shared her endless humiliations.
Still, she wasn’t so foolish as to go in search of him without some sort of weapon. Unlike other purebloods, she couldn’t depend on shifting to fight her battles. She needed something sharp. And big.
Sucking in a deep breath, she forced herself to open the satchel, her fingers stilling as they encountered smooth leather instead of the cold, hard steel she’d been expecting. With a rueful smile she pulled out the heavy book that was written in a language she didn’t recognize.
She wistfully trailed her fingers over the aged leather of the cover. She’d encountered various demons and warriors and even powerful leaders during her travels with Culligan, but none had offered such a fascinating mixture of contrasts.
Icily aloof and yet so terribly vulnerable. Strong and yet tender. Raw, ruthless power with the soul of a scholar.
With a shake of her head, Regan set the book on the floor and returned her attention to the satchel. This time, she had no trouble finding one of the numerous daggers that were stacked in the bottom.
Careful to choose one without silver (with her current luck, she’d probably stab herself), and big enough to put a nice-sized hole in an enemy, she tightly gripped the handle and headed out of the private rooms.
She half-expected to be halted as she retraced her steps out of the lair, but while the vampires watched her pass in creepy silence, not one leaped out to try and block her exit.
Thank God. She didn’t think her dagger, no matter how big or shiny, was going to do much good against them.
Regan jogged across the open fields, keeping her senses alert for any scent of Jagr.
If the imp had a brain, he would have taken his hostage halfway across the world, but Culligan had taught her that the flighty demons were content to leap first and consider later. If ever.
Of course, hoping she might stumble across Jagr was something like hoping she might find a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Still, she had to…
Regan halted, suddenly struck by a crazed thought.
Why search for a needle in the proverbial haystack when she could go directly to the source of her troubles?
If she could track down the cur that had ordered Gaynor to capture her in the first place, then eventually the imp would make an appearance. The one thing that Regan was certain of was that the imp wouldn’t want to be stuck with a furious vampire for long.
And she suddenly realized that she might actually possess the means to find the bitch.
Ignoring the urge to race as fast as possible back to Hannibal, Regan forced herself to maintain a steady pace that allowed her to continue her search for Jagr, as well as to keep guard for any lurking danger.
There was no use getting herself killed for what might very well turn out to be a wild-goose chase.
As she jogged, the sun crested the horizon, bathing the landscape in a soft haze of pale peach and rose. The light glittered off the dew clinging to the grass, fragmenting until it appeared the world was drenched in pastel.
Regan barely noticed the dazzling display. Or the dampness clinging to the hem of her jean
s. She was on a mission, and nothing was going to distract her.
Choosing a more direct route back to the tea shop, Regan hid in the bushes and studied the pretty structure for long minutes.
There was a gradual stirring in the quiet neighborhood. A woman dressed in a power suit climbed into her Lexus and roared down the street. An elder man swept his front porch. A child pressed his eager face against the window.
All mundanely human, without a beastie to be seen.
Regan straightened and dashed across the street, knowing it was now or never.
Skirting the house with all its froufrou trellises and cheesy birdbaths, she allowed her nose to lead her to the kitchen window, using her considerable strength to shove up the sash a few inches and breathe in the various scents.
She grimaced at the intoxicating aromas. Holy crap. Jagr hadn’t been wrong when he accused Gaynor of hexing his food. Even with her immunity to the magic, she could feel her mouth watering in response.
Damn imps.
Closing her eyes, she concentrated on sorting through the various teas, pastries, and candies. At last, she caught and held the scent of peanut butter fudge.
As she had hoped, the smell was distinctive. Rich, creamy peanut butter with a hefty dose of imp magic.
Which meant that she wouldn’t mistake it for any other fudge that seemed to be one of the basic food groups in Hannibal.
Circling the tea shop one last time, even knowing it was a futile effort to discover some hint of Jagr or the damned imp, she at last turned on her heel and began jogging toward the east.
Gaynor had admitted that he’d smelled the river on Sadie, and since Jagr hadn’t detected a lie, she was going with the hope the cur would still be near it.
Refusing to consider the knowledge that the Mississippi River ran over two thousand miles, she jogged through the near empty streets, ignoring the howling dogs and occasional car that whizzed past.
Briefly, she wondered if Levet found a safe place to turn into stone. Although she’d heard over the years that gargoyles were close to indestructible, she didn’t know if that was true for miniature ones, and unlike Jagr, she found the tiny demon oddly charming. She would hate for him to be injured trying to help her.
Thoughts of Levet were driven from her mind as she reached the quaint, historic section of town. She turned right at the steps that led to the lighthouse on top of the bluff, and hurried past the antique and gift shops that now filled the old buildings. Thank God she’d taken the time to sniff out Gaynor’s particular recipe for fudge. The entire area reeked of the stuff.
Turning again she passed by the bed-and-breakfast that had once catered to the passing steamboats, and climbed the levee behind it. From there it was an easy jog down to the edge of the river.
She briefly hesitated before she turned south, grimly refusing to glance toward the bluff where she’d shared the cave with Jagr. The curs would want a place outside of town where they could easily hunt away from prying eyes.
If she didn’t find some sign of them within a few hours, she would backtrack and try her luck north of town.
Not much of a plan, but it was better than sitting in Tane’s lair and pacing holes in the carpet.
Well, at least marginally better, she acknowledged three hours later, tugging her jeans free of yet another thornbush from hell. Scouring the banks and steep bluffs along the river was not only time-consuming, but it was wearisome work, even for a pureblooded Were. Clearly the whole Huck Finn lifestyle was far more romantic in books than real life.
With a sigh, she leaned against a rock that jetted from the river. She was only a handful of miles south of Hannibal, but she might as well have been in the middle of nowhere.
There was no sound of traffic, no laughter of children, no barking dogs. In fact, there wasn’t even the call of a bird…
Regan shoved herself upright.
She might be in the middle of nowhere, but there should have been the usual wildlife scurrying through the dense trees. A bird, a squirrel, a curious raccoon.
The fact that there wasn’t could only mean that there was something dangerous in the area. Something that had been around long enough to drive them away.
Feeling her strength return, along with a flood of hope, Regan grimly headed up the steeply angled bank, using the dagger to hack through the thicker foliage. At least the damned thing was going to come in handy for something.
Regan reached the top of the bluff and slowed her pace to a mere crawl. If she were right (not at all a certainty), there was a pack of curs roaming these woods and they had the witch’s spell to keep then hidden from her senses.
It seemed a good idea to try to avoid tripping over one.
Slipping silently from tree to tree, she listened carefully, depending on her superior sight and hearing to warn her of any danger. The sun slowly moved overhead, warning that time was passing, but Regan ignored the urge to rush. This was supposed to be a…what did they call it? A recon mission. A search and get-out-alive sort of deal.
On the point of accepting she was wasting her time, again, she was hit by the unmistakable scent of peanut butter fudge. Yes! She continued forward and at last caught sight of a tin roof through the trees.
A cabin. It had to be.
Her heart lodged in her throat as she edged cautiously closer. Yep. Definitely a cabin. Peering through the trees, she studied the wooden structure. It wasn’t much. Just a few unpainted boards slapped together with a door and two windows. The attached shed wasn’t much better, only without the windows, and leaning to the point it threatened to become detached from the rusty tin roof.
A place that had gone past charming, straight to rustic.
And not at all the setting she would have pictured for a pack of curs with authority issues.
Of course, that’s what usually made a good hiding place a good hiding place.
Crouching behind yet another bush, Regan kept a watch on the building, her nerves stretched tight by the uncanny silence. The place appeared deserted, but she wasn’t stupid.
Isolated cabin. Seemingly abandoned.
It was a trap waiting to happen.
It was also the closest thing to a clue she’d found all day.
Gathering her courage, Regan slipped silently toward the cabin, her heart pounding so loudly she feared it would give her away. Astonishingly, nothing attacked (wonders of wonders), and pressed against the rough planks, she carefully inched up high enough to peer into the window.
A battered chair, a heavy dresser, a fireplace that looked like it had been recently used.
No howling curs. No magic-wielding witch.
No Sophie. No Gaynor.
She gritted her teeth, too stubborn, or maybe it was too stupid, to concede defeat.
Straightening, she inched her way toward the attached shed, keeping herself pressed against the cabin, as if that somehow made her invisible. Hey, it was how they did it in the movies. Then pausing only a moment to lean her ear against the door, she pushed it open.
Preparing to bolt at the first hint of danger, Regan scanned the shadowed interior, not surprised to find a handful of rusting tools collecting cobwebs in the corners, or the wooden barrel that had been overturned to play table for a kerosene lamp.
The whip and numerous daggers, swords, and handguns placed on a rickety shelf were a bit more unexpected.
It was the bedraggled, nearly unrecognizable imp chained to the wall, however, that was the real showstopper.
Culligan.
Chapter 15
Just for a moment, Regan remained frozen in the doorway.
After days of endless, grueling, relentless searching, she’d stumbled over her damned prey when she wasn’t even looking for him.
How was that for irony?
She clenched the dagger, studying the imp who’d made her life a living hell.
He looked…ghastly.
Blindfolded and leaning heavily against the chains, as if he couldn’t hold his own weight
, his red hair was matted into disgusting clumps, and his white skin was marred with dirt and dried blood.
Gone was the brash, conceited demon who had taken such delight in tormenting her, and in its place was a sad, pathetic waste of a creature wearing nothing more than a red thong.
A smile of absolute pleasure curled her lips as he weakly attempted to lift his head, clearly sensing someone had entered the shed, but too disoriented to recognize her scent.
“Who’s there?” he croaked. “Please, help me. I’m being held against my will. Please…” His plea was cut short as she crossed the narrow space to rip off the blindfold. He blinked against the sunlight that spilled into the room, then his eyes widened in horror as he recognized his rescuer. “Oh, shit.”
“Hello, Culligan,” she purred, her gaze lowering to the small medallion tied around his neck. The witch’s amulet. And the reason she hadn’t sensed the bastard when she’d first approached the cabin.
“You,” he rasped, struggling against the heavy chains that held him.
“Surprise.”
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“I told you that you couldn’t escape me.” Reaching out, Regan ripped the amulet from the leather thong around Culligan’s neck and tucked it into her pocket. Immediately the shed was filled with the overpowering smell of plums, while her scent disappeared. Well, well. Wasn’t that convenient? Her smile widened with wicked pleasure. “Of course, at the time I didn’t expect the curs to be so rude as to steal my toy and hide him from me. I hope they didn’t break you.”
Sweat bloomed on his forehead, visions of his death dancing in his head.
“There are curs crawling all over the place,” he desperately attempted to frighten her away. “Are you trying to get caught?”
He did have a point.
A smart Were would cut out Culligan’s heart and escape before the curs returned.
Unfortunately, her mission was no longer one of simple revenge. Jagr needed her. And if it meant keeping this bastard alive and risking her neck…then so be it.
Of course, that didn’t mean she couldn’t have some fun with the jackass.
Darkness Unleashed Page 19
