Darkness Unleashed

by Alexandra Ivy

  “He moves her around a lot, but I know where most of his labs are hidden. It would only be a matter of time before you could corner him.”

  Regan frowned. The information was just the sort of vague, unreliable crap that anyone could make up. Still, she couldn’t dismiss even a remote possibility of rescuing her sister.

  She, of all people, understood that miracles could occasionally occur.

  That didn’t mean, however, that the arrogant King of Weres would be willing to make a deal with the treacherous cur.

  “Why would Salvatore trust you?” she demanded. “You’ve already proven to be a traitor.”

  “That’s why I wanted to capture Sadie,” he growled in frustration. “I intended to hand her over as a gesture of goodwill, but you came out of the cabin instead of her. Now I have no choice but to hope that by not handing you over to Caine when I could have, I’ve proven my intentions are pure.”

  She snorted. If Duncan’s intentions were pure then she was the freaking Queen of England.

  “Yeah, right.”

  He shrugged. “Okay, my intentions are completely self-serving, but if you want your sister back, I’m your best hope.”

  Regan gritted her teeth. It might piss her off to give into blatant blackmail, but at the moment she’d do anything, including selling her soul, to gain her freedom and get to Jagr.

  Besides, if there was even a remote chance that her sister could be rescued, then surely she should take it.

  “Fine, let me go, and I’ll contact Salvatore…”

  “No,” he rudely interrupted, his expression hard.

  She struggled against the chains, ignoring the searing pain that jolted through her body. She’d endured far worse over the years.

  “I don’t have time for this crap,” she hissed. “Release me or I swear to God Salvatore will be the least of your concern.”

  He paled at the stark threat in her voice, but stubbornly held his ground.

  “I need his word that he’ll give me his protection before I release you.”

  “And just how the hell is he supposed to give you his word?” Regan narrowed her gaze. “Did you kidnap him, too?”

  “The next best thing.” With two long strides, Duncan was reaching to yank aside a blanket that had been draped over a nearby bush.

  Only it wasn’t a bush.

  Her eyes widened in horror as she recognized the tiny gargoyle currently encased in stone.

  “Levet,” she breathed, her gaze shifting to stab Duncan with fury. “Damn you.”

  “He’s not hurt. In a few minutes he’ll awake and he can contact Salvatore directly.”

  Her brows snapped together. “He’s a gargoyle, not a cell phone.”

  “All gargoyles, no matter how tiny, can open a portal in another’s mind.”

  She grimaced at the thought of that strange rip in space that Gaynor had conjured opening in someone’s head.

  “Ew.”

  Duncan regarded her with a hint of surprise, as if startled she could be so clueless.

  “Not a physical portal. More like a…wireless connection. Which means it can’t be overheard or traced even by magical means.” His hand absently lifted to stroke the amulet hung about his neck. “No one will know about this call except the three of us and Salvatore.”

  “Paranoid much?” she muttered, feeling stupid she hadn’t known about Levet’s skill.

  He glared at her taunting, his expression tight in the thickening shadows.

  “You haven’t met Caine. He might be a mystical freak, but he’s smart as hell and he has his personal spies everywhere. There’s never been anyone who’s tried to double-cross him who’s lived to tell the tale.”

  About to inform the cur that Caine couldn’t begin to compete with Salvatore when it came to ruthless cunning, Regan was distracted by the unmistakable crack of stone.

  Turning her head, she watched in awe as the granite crumbled from the statue image of Levet to reveal the gargoyle beneath.

  “Sacrebleu.” With a mighty shake, Levet rid himself of the clinging bits of stone, waddling forward and waving his arms in anger. “You mangy, lice-ridden dog, I’m going to…” Belatedly spotting Regan tied to the tree, Levet widened his eyes in alarm. “Ma cherie, what are you doing here? Are you harmed?”

  “What I am is pissed off,” she muttered.

  Levet frowned as he glanced around the island. “Where’s your vampire?”

  Regan turned to glare at Duncan. “He’s waiting for me and he’s not going to be happy if I’m late.”

  Duncan planted his fists on his hips. “Get the gargoyle to contact Salvatore, and you’re free as a bird.”

  She ground her teeth, knowing she was between a rock and a hard place.

  Of course, a voice whispered in the back of her head, it wasn’t the first time.

  Hell, it wasn’t even the first time today.

  And with her luck, it wouldn’t be the last.

  “Christ.” She turned her attention to the wary gargoyle. “Levet, I need a favor.”

  Chapter 16

  Despite Jagr’s grim determination to keep the howling demons at bay, the passing hours began to take their toll. Pacing the cramped prison, he felt his powers being ruthlessly drained even as the walls seemed to close in around him.

  Memories of the endless years of torture seared through his mind, clenching his muscles until he was curled into a shuddering ball in the corner.

  At last, not even the image of his beautiful Regan could hold back the hovering insanity.

  In desperation, Jagr sank into the deep, death-like sleep only a vampire could achieve.

  The comatose state left him vulnerable to attack, but it conserved his strength and, more importantly, it muted the black rage that threatened to consume him.

  He was unaware of the passing hours. At least he was unaware until the soothing blackness was stirred by the sound of approaching footsteps outside his cell.

  Slowly he allowed his consciousness to rise back to the surface, careful to keep his body perfectly still. At a glance he would look like a corpse, no heartbeat, no pulse, not even a breath. It was an ability that had served vampires well over the years.

  Who would fear a dead man?

  There was a scraping at the door, almost as if whoever was on the other side was unfamiliar with the lock. At last, there was a distinctive click and the door slid open.

  Jagr’s fangs lengthened as the footsteps edged toward his seemingly unconscious form.

  His first thought was that there was no scent. An impossibility without the assistance of a witch. His second thought was that the intruder hadn’t bothered to close and lock the door.

  Freedom.

  With grim effort, he leashed his brutal surge of hope.

  There would be no escape until he’d dealt with the enemy who was stalking slowly toward him.

  With his eyes closed and the creature’s scent masked, Jagr silently measured the sound of the footsteps.

  Closer, closer, closer…

  There was a stir of air as the intruder knelt beside him, clearly believing he was dead, or at least incapacitated.

  It would be the last mistake the fool ever made.

  Preparing to attack, Jagr allowed the bloodlust he’d so desperately tried to keep at bay to flow freely through his body. With his strength muted by the damned hexes, he needed the fury to fuel his powers.

  “Jagr.”

  The soft voice cut through the silence, but Jagr was past hearing. His only thought was to kill the enemy so he could reach the door and escape.

  With a movement too swift for even the most skilled demon to avoid, Jagr shot his arm upward, grasping his enemy around the throat.

  There was a gurgling moan as he wrenched his eyes open, staring at the pale, beautiful face poised above him.

  Something flickered in the back of his mind. Some strange alarm that clamored for attention, but the bloodlust made his gaze flicker with a haze of red, obscuring the del
icate features and drowning out the distress that clutched at his heart.

  Kill.

  He had to kill to be free.

  With a low roar, he surged to his feet, still holding his prey by the neck. It was surprisingly slender. As easy to snap as a twig.

  “Jagr,” a voice rasped. “It’s Regan.”

  Regan.

  The bloodlust faltered.

  That name…

  With a rough motion, he jerked the squirming captive closer, burrowing his head into the curve of her neck. Nothing. No scent. No explanation for why he was halting his killing blow.

  “Jagr…please,” the voice pleaded, a hand touching his face in with a soft, familiar touch.

  Jagr shook his head, dropping the creature as he struggled to clear his mind.

  Instinct howled for blood, but a more powerful force refused to give into the screaming need.

  He knew this woman, a voice whispered in the back of his fogged mind. She was…

  His.

  His to protect.

  Shuddering against the fierce desire to attack, Jagr wrapped his arms around himself. Shit. He truly was going mad.

  “Jagr?” The woman painfully struggled to her feet, either too courageous, or too stubborn, to remain down. “Are you hurt?”

  “Stay back,” he growled in warning.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I…” He gave another shake of his head. “Why can I not smell you?”

  Beautiful green eyes widened, then with a jerky rush she reached into the pocket of her too-tight jeans to reveal a small amulet. She licked her lips as he tracked her every movement, his fangs exposed and his eyes no doubt glowing with hunger. He didn’t need to smell her fear to recognize it.

  Careful to keep her motion slow and unthreatening, the female tossed the amulet toward the open door.

  Immediately the sweet scent of midnight jasmine filled the cell, threading its way through the crimson veil of his bloodlust.

  Drinking in the heady aroma, Jagr felt a stirring of excitement deep in the pit of his stomach.

  “That scent,” he breathed. “I’ve smelled it before.”

  “Yes.” With a frown she stepped forward, as if to touch him.

  Jagr took a hasty step back, knowing that he was far from stable. Just as he knew that something would break inside him if he accidentally injured the woman.

  “Do not.”

  As if sensing the danger throbbing in the air, the female stood perfectly still, her expression troubled.

  “I’m here to help you,” she said softly. “But we don’t have much time. I managed to slip past the curs on guard, but without the amulet they’ll soon catch my scent and come to investigate.”

  Jagr growled, his fangs aching. Curs. Yes. He’d always hated the bastards.

  “Where?”

  She frowned. “What?”

  He snapped his teeth with impatience. “Never mind. I will find them on my own.”

  Whirling on his heel, Jagr headed for the open door. His rage pulsed and the bloodlust still thundered through his body. He needed to kill. And if he didn’t want it to be the woman in front of him, then he needed other prey.

  The curs would do just fine.

  The woman called out, but he ignored her plea to remain. He was a vampire on the hunt, and anything foolish enough to cross his path was dead.

  Four long strides took him through the outer chamber and to the narrow flight of stone steps. Those he consumed in two swift bounds. A wooden door blocked his path at the top of the stairs, but one swing of his arm smashed through the fragile barrier.

  Splinters flew through the air, spreading before Jagr as he stepped through the mangled frame. There was a yip as a cur keeping guard was hit with the small, but painful missiles. A yip that became a howl of agonized pain as Jagr grabbed him by the hair and tossed him across what appeared to be a kitchen.

  Jagr watched the slender man smack painfully into the wall, leaving a trail of blood as he crumpled to the floor. The cur lived, but before Jagr could concentrate on yanking the bastard’s heart out, there was the sound of footsteps from outside the house.

  Bending down, Jagr yanked out the silver-bladed daggers he always kept hidden in his boots. A part of him might relish the thought of ripping apart his enemies with his bare hands, but bloodlust didn’t equal stupidity.

  Until he knew just how many curs were prowling around the place, he wasn’t going to take any chances.

  There was a low snarl and Jagr listened as one of the approaching sets of footsteps shifted from two legs to four. Jagr widened his stance, a dagger clutched in each hand, his lips pulling back to reveal his lethal fangs.

  Showtime.

  The shifted cur entered first, crashing through a set of French doors that led to a back terrace. It was large by cur standards, the height of a good-sized pony and thickly muscled beneath the shaggy brown fur. But it was the long, razor sharp teeth that could slice through bone that was the true danger. Even a vampire could be killed if his head was snapped off.

  There was another snarl as the cur launched his heavy body directly at Jagr. The brainless animal was too far gone to have the sense to realize it was a suicide mission.

  Which suited Jagr just fine.

  Braced for the impact, he barely moved when the cur smashed into his body. Instead, he easily avoided the teeth aimed at his throat and slid the two daggers deep into the beast’s chest.

  The glowing eyes of the cur widened, a death rattle in its throat the only sound it made as it slid off the daggers and tumbled backward. He was changed back to a man, a very dead man, by the time he hit the floor.

  Jagr had no time to admire his handiwork as two more curs appeared through the destroyed French door, both rushing forward in unison.

  With deadly accuracy, Jag threw one of the daggers. It spun through the air, end over end, shimmering with brilliant flares of silver as the slanting moonlight caught it. The charging cur, stuck midway in his shift to wolf, had no chance to avoid the blade as it sunk deep into his chest.

  The second attacker screamed in fury as his companion dropped to the ground. But he did, astonishingly, have enough sense to avoid a direct attack.

  Slowly circling Jagr, the cur battled his instinctive need to shift. His eyes glowed and his skin rippled as his wolf struggled to free itself.

  Jagr flashed a taunting smile. “Are we going to dance or fight, dog?”

  The cur snapped his teeth, reaching beneath his shirt to pull out a large handgun.

  “In a rush to die, vampire?”

  “Not before dinner.”

  With a slow grin, Jagr released his coiled power. The frigid blast exploded through the room, knocking pans from the shelves and shattering the windows. The remaining cur screamed as he was tossed through the air and pinned to the wall by the tangible force.

  Ignoring the bullets that his enemy desperately fired in his direction, Jagr prowled forward. He could easily kill the cur with his powers. Or even with the dagger still clutched in his hand.

  His bloodlust, however, demanded more.

  With a surge of desperate hunger, Jagr grabbed the cur by the hair and jerked his head to one side. There was the sound of someone calling his name, and the tantalizing scent of midnight jasmine, but he was too far gone to be distracted.

  His fangs ached for soft flesh and warm blood. Nothing less would satisfy him now.

  Roaring his victory, Jagr struck with painful force, his teeth sinking deep into the cur’s throat.

  The man briefly struggled, dropping the now empty gun as he pummeled Jagr’s chest. Jagr didn’t even feel the blows. Not with the rich, soothing taste of blood filling his mouth and the potent heat washing away the lingering effects of the hexes.

  It took a few minutes to actually drain the cur dry, although his struggles ended after only a few deep sucks.

  At last dropping the lifeless body to the floor, Jagr roared as the power rushed through him.

  Although
not a full demon, the cur’s blood was far more potent than a mere human, bringing with it a satisfying rush that eased the black rage.

  Shuddering in relief, Jagr allowed the madness to recede. Slowly, the red haze dissipated from his mind, clearing his thoughts and relaxing the knotted muscles.

  As the fog lifted, he glanced around the ruined kitchen with a frown.

  What the hell?

  Painful minutes passed as he struggled to recall where he was and what had happened.

  His last true memory had been of himself in a small, cramped cell. The imp—Gaynor, yes that had been his name—had yanked him through a portal. That’s when things began to get fuzzy.

  There’d been pacing and cussing and futile attempts to break down the door. That he damned well remembered. Then he’d gone deep inside himself to avoid the looming panic, hadn’t he?

  So how did he get out of the cell?

  “Jagr?”

  Regan’s soft voice, along with the tantalizing scent of midnight jasmine, was nothing more than a whisper, but both slammed into him with the force of a two-ton truck.

  Oh…shit.

  The lingering fog was blasted away as images of his escape from his prison seared through his mind with cruel clarity.

  The invader entering the cell. Leaning over him. And then…

  Spinning on his heel, Jagr frantically studied the slender form standing in the door leading to the basement. Even through the shadows he could detect the faint marks that marred her slender neck.

  Marks he had put there.

  Regan wasn’t a coward. Granted, she didn’t have one of those hero complexes that demanded she always dash around proving her courage, but she could face pain and even danger when necessary.

  So it wasn’t fear that kept her in the basement as Jagr charged out of the cell and headed upstairs to battle the curs.

  At least, not fear for herself.

  For the moment, Jagr was at the mercy of his rampaging emotions. No big freaking surprise there. The vampire had to have a major case of PTSD after enduring centuries of torture, and being locked in the tiny cell had obviously pushed all his buttons.

  And while she refused to believe he would seriously hurt her even in the midst of his bloodlust, she knew that during battles anything could happen. Friendly fire wasn’t just a human danger.