Darkness Unleashed

Jagr ignored Regan’s fists that pounded his chest, as well as her colorful descriptions of what should happen to oversized oafs who tackled hapless women, not willing to move until he was certain that the cave wasn’t on the edge of collapse. Only then did he lift himself high enough to run a searching gaze over Regan’s wriggling body, needing to be certain that she wasn’t hurt.



Dodging a fist aimed directly at his chin, Jagr flowed to his feet, hiding his smile.



If she could throw a punch like that, she couldn’t be badly injured.



Sensing he might lose a hand if he offered to help her off the ground, Jagr turned to join Salvatore and his curs at the entrance to the cave. He would no doubt pay for his violent instinct to protect Regan, but there had been no choice. He could no more have halted his reaction than he could halt the sun from rising.



A knowledge he shoved to the back of his mind as he stepped beside Salvatore and studied the expensive Humvee that was now a ball of flame in the parking lot far below.



“Dio,” the Were breathed. “Hess. Max. Bring me whoever is responsible.”



Looking as if they’d been shot from a cannon, the two curs bolted down the steep slope of the bluff, their low growls echoing through the darkness.



Jagr folded his arms over his chest, not entirely displeased to watch Salvatore’s vehicle go up flames. Not just because of his overly intimate manner toward Regan (although that was reason enough to rip out his filthy heart), but because the Were had wounded Regan when she was at her most vulnerable.



The bastard had freed her from the nightmare of Culligan, only to toss her aside when she couldn’t provide him what he desired.



It was no wonder she found it impossible to trust.



“Your curs have a peculiar means of welcoming their king.” He studied the burning Humvee. “Unless this is some ritual I’m unaware of?”



Salvatore ignored the taunt as power rippled beneath his skin. As a pureblood, he was capable of controlling his shifts, but the wolf was obviously struggling to break free.



“I should have sensed them,” the king rasped, his voice low and thick.



Jagr grimaced. “The witch.”



“She’s starting to wear on my nerves.”



“Agreed, but being rid of her is easier said than done. Only the gargoyle can sense her magic, and he seems incapable of tracking her down.”



“Hey.” There was a snap of angry wings as Levet exited the cave, followed closely by Regan. “I’m the one who’s been out tromping through the nasty boonies while you were playing splish-splash with our beautiful guest.”



Jagr took a second to savor the sudden heat that stained Regan’s cheeks before returning his attention to the gargoyle with a lift of his brow.



“Tromping that obviously led the curs straight back to this lair.”



“Or maybe they followed Mr. Lord and Master over there. Did you ever think about that?” Levet challenged.



“In either case, they’ve left warning that they know Salvatore is in Hannibal. And more importantly, they know this is our lair.” This time he turned to directly meet Regan’s guarded gaze. “We’re no longer safe here.”



Salvatore muttered a curse. “I have no pack in the area. I will have to return to St. Louis for reinforcements.”



“Why don’t you just call them?” Regan demanded.



“I prefer to give my commands in person. It helps to avoid any confusion.”



She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I bet.”



Jagr frowned. “Do you have a magic-user among them?”



“No, but I can negotiate with the local coven.” Salvatore toyed with his heavy signet ring, his expression hard. “Unfortunately, it will take time. Witches are notoriously reluctant to offer their services to demons.”



“What am I?” Levet threw his hands in the air. “Chopped gall bladder?”



Jagr narrowed his gaze, in no mood for the annoying gargoyle. “What?”



“I think he means liver,” Regan wryly translated. “Chopped liver.”



“Gall bladder, liver…whatever.” Levet puffed out his chest. “I am a magic-user. What could a witch do that I can’t?”



“Track the curs? Weave an enchantment to hide our own presence? Ward this cave from intrusion?” Jagr smoothly pointed out.



“Bah, I will find the curs, and if you want an enchantment…” The tiny gargoyle lifted his hands.



“No,” Jagr and Salvatore bellowed at the same time.



“Fine.” With a twitch of his tail, Levet was marching down the steep bluff. “You want curs, I’ll find you curs.”



Regan spread her annoyed glare between both Jagr and Salvatore as she called out softly.



“Levet.”



With a stiff dignity, Levet turned to face her. “Oui?”



“Please, be careful.”



The ugly features softened. “For you, ma cherie, I will take the greatest care. Be assured that I will return in magnificent, vigorous, and virile health.”



Jagr swallowed his urge to snarl. “You can return any way you want, but we won’t be here. We have to find a new lair.”



“Do not fear, I will find you.”



“That was my fear,” Jagr muttered.



Levet blew a raspberry in Jagr’s direction before continuing down the slope.



“That creature is an embarrassment to gargoyles everywhere,” Salvatore said with a shake of his head.



For once, Jagr could actually agree with the Were.



Not that he was about to admit as much.



Especially not when he could smell Salvatore’s henchmen approaching.



The two curs appeared from the woods behind the cave, a matching expression of frustration on their faces.



“We followed their footprints to the river, then they disappeared,” the larger, bald-headed Hess grudgingly confessed. “We searched the area, but there was no sign of them.”



Jagr clenched his fists in annoyance. He didn’t like being taunted by a pack of worthless dogs.



“They can’t have gone far.”



“No, but without a scent we’re incapable of hunting them.” Salvatore gestured toward his companions. “There’s nothing more to be done here. I will return as soon as possible.”



Jagr didn’t attempt to halt Salvatore as he disappeared into the surrounding shadows. What good was the Were if he couldn’t track the curs?



Besides, having two alpha predators in the same territory was never a good idea. Jagr doubted that Styx would be pleased to learn one of his vampires had the pelt of the King of Weres nailed to the wall of his lair.



“Well, this is going just peachy,” Regan muttered, her damp hair fluttering like strands of silver in the night breeze. “Christ. All I wanted was to find Culligan and kill him, not get mixed up in some stupid war between the curs and the Weres.”



Jagr reached out to capture one of the silky strands, his expression somber.



“You would be safe in Chicago, Regan. Not even this Caine and his renegade pack of curs would be suicidal enough to attack a vampire stronghold.”



“A really stupendous idea if I wanted to be buried alive,” she mocked. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m not exchanging one prison for another.”



He gave a tug on her hair. “You would be an honored guest, never a prisoner.”



“Oh, I’m sure my cell would be something out of the latest episode of Cribs, and my guards would be oh so kind while they explained why it was too dangerous for me to go out alone, or spend a weekend in Vegas.”



His brows lifted. “You have a particular desire to visit Las Vegas?”



“I have a particular desire to go where I want, when I want, without asking for permission.”



Jagr considered his words as his fingers shifted to brush down the seductive line of her throat. What could he say? There was no way in hell that Styx would allow Regan to come and go as she pleased. At least not as long as there was any threat to her.



Styx was by nature a control freak, and while Darcy had gone a long way to soften his rigid instincts, he couldn’t change centuries of habit overnight.



“Even if it puts you in danger?” he at last demanded.



“Yes.”



“Independence is one thing, Regan, and stubborn foolishness another.”



“Do you live under the roof of the Anasso?” she challenged.



His fingers lingered on the pulse at the base of her throat, the rush of her blood teasing his senses with sweet temptation.



“I have a private lair, but I owe fealty to the Anasso, as well as Viper,” he murmured, unwittingly lowering his head to drink in her intoxicating scent.



Her pulse leaped beneath his fingertips.



“Viper?” she rasped.



“Clan chief of Chicago. When either commands my service, I must obey.”



“Like coming to Hannibal to collect a dysfunctional Were?”



His lips twitched. “Yes.”



She sucked in a shuddering breath, as conscious as Jagr of the potent awareness that jolted between them.



“Why give them such power?”