"I am not." Styx pointed toward the door. "Just go."
Levet gave a ridiculous bat of his lashes. "Anything else while I'm there? A stuffed toy? Or her favorite blanket?"
"You can bring her clothes," Styx abruptly decided. "Humans seem to have a preference for familiar items."
"Very thoughtful of you."
Styx slowly narrowed his gaze. "Do you have any other observations you wish to make?"
Entirely missing the lethal edge in Styx's soft voice, the gargoyle allowed his smile to widen as he regarded his host's black leather pants, high boots, sheer silk shirt, and delicate turquoise amulets threaded through his braid.
The smile became positively huge as Styx shifted in discomfort.
"Well, I was going to compliment you on your appearance. Such elegance for a vampire who was happy to grub about in caves. Such savoir faire—" The words broke off as Styx took a threatening step forward. "I... urn ... not at the moment. I'll just be on my way."
"You are smarter than you look, demon," Styx growled.
Waiting until the gargoyle had scuttled from the kitchen, Styx turned on his heel and headed through the distant door.
By the gods, he would not be mocked by a miniature gargoyle.
He was a grown man, and if he desired to take care with his appearance, it was no one's concern but his own.
It had nothing to do with his beautiful captive.
He gave a small grimace.
All right. Maybe it did have something to do with Darcy. Maybe it had everything to do with Darcy. But it was still not the concern of a busybody gargoyle.
Making his way through the dark house, he paused at one of the unused bedrooms to gather a thick brocade robe left behind by Viper before returning to the hall and opening the door to Darcy's room.
He stepped within only to come to an abrupt halt on the threshold.
A sharp stab of unease clenched his chest as his gaze moved over the rumpled, empty bed and the equally empty room.
Had she slipped away while he had slept? Had Salvatore managed to sneak through the security and take her?
On the point of calling for every vampire in the state to begin an all-out search, Styx paused as he caught the unmistakable scent of fresh flowers.
"Angel?" he said softly.
The door to the connecting bathroom opened and Darcy entered the room covered in nothing more than a fluffy white towel.
Styx clenched his hands at his sides as his fangs instinctively lengthened.
There wasn't much of her, even for a human. Still, he couldn't deny a fierce fascination with the pale, delicate limbs and faint curves annoyingly hidden beneath the towel. And that face . . .
His body hardened as he studied the wide, innocent eyes and the full lips. Lips that made a man dream of having them exploring all sorts of intimate places.
"Cripes." Not seeming to share his immediate flare of desire, she clutched the towel tighter and glared at him in annoyance. "Have you ever heard of knocking? Even a prisoner should be allowed some privacy."
He ignored her bad temper as he moved forward to hold out his gift.
"I brought you a robe. I thought you might wish to have something to cover you so that you can leave these chambers."
She tentatively took the beautiful garment and regarded it with an odd expression.
"I'm sorry," she at last said softly.
"What?" '
"I'm not usually so bitchy." She lifted her head and offered a wry smile. "And despite the fact that you totally deserve it, being angry is bad for my karma."
He gave a bemused shake of his head. He could speak a hundred languages fluently, but he was beginning to suspect that Darcy spoke a language entirely her own.
"Your karma?"
She shrugged. "You know, my life force."
"Ah." Styx smiled wryly. "I fear I don't recall any life force I might have had."
Her expression was more curious than horrified at the reminder that Styx was no longer human.
"You were a human once, weren't you?" she demanded.
"A very long time ago."
"But you don't remember?"
"No." Styx struggled to concentrate. Hell, what man wouldn't struggle when there was a beautiful, half-naked woman standing so close he was wrapped in the scent of her warm, tempting skin? "When a human is ... transformed into a vampire there is no memory of any past life."
"No memory at all?"
"None."
"That's strange."
He smiled wryly. "No more strange than waking up a vampire in the first place."
"How did it happen?" She ran an absent hand through her short, spiky hair. Styx had always liked long hair on women, but the style seemed to suit the tiny, pixie face. Not to mention the fact that it gave a delicious view of her slender neck. "I mean, how do you become a vampire?"
Styx paused. As a rule vampires rarely discussed their heritage with others. It wasn't precisely a secret, but most demons were by nature secretive.
In this moment, however, he was far more concerned about reassuring Darcy that neither his touch nor his bite would turn her into a vampire.
"It only occurs when a vampire drains a human completely," he confessed. "Most die, of course, but on rare occasions a human will share enough of the vampire's essence to rise again. There is no way to know which human will survive and which will perish."
"So you were dead?"
"Quite dead."
Her brow furrowed as she attempted to accept the difficult truth. "And now?"
"Now?" He shrugged. "I live."
"For all eternity?"
He smiled. "There are never any guarantees."
She gave a small nod, silently mulling over his words. "And what about werewolves? How are they made?"
Styx frowned. Her interest in the demons that were desperate to get their hands on her was understandable, but he didn't care for the thought of her brooding on the undoubtedly handsome Salvatore.
"There are true werewolves, or purebloods, as they prefer to be called," he grudgingly revealed. "They are born to a mated pair of Weres and are very rare. Then there are curs. They are humans who have been infected by a werewolf and managed to survive the attack. They are far less powerful than purebloods and have little control over their instincts."
Darcy abruptly sat on the edge of the bed. "So there are vampires and werewolves just roaming around everywhere?"
Styx resisted the urge to join her on the bed. As difficult as it might be to admit, he was not at all certain he could depend on his once flawless control.