“Then what is it?”
“My lack of interest in those females.”
“As if. Men like you…”
Jagr was bending down his head and sealing her lips with a brief, searing kiss before he could halt the impulse. Perhaps because for the first time in centuries, his brutal self-control was being undermined by a tiny wisp of a Were with the tongue of a drunken harpy and the manners of rabid badger.
Abruptly lifting his head, he met her stunned gaze.
“Why the hell do you keep doing that?” she muttered, her cheeks flushed with a heat she couldn’t hide.
Jagr growled deep in his throat. “If I knew, I would no doubt be falling on the nearest stake.”
The emerald eyes flashed. “That can be arranged.”
“There you are.” Stomping from the cave, Levet regarded them with a jaundiced frown, his wings twitching in aggravation. “I thought you’d abandoned me. Again.”
Jagr swallowed a snarl, resisting the urge to toss the gargoyle into the river below. His body might howl at the interruption, but the pea-sized part of his brain that was still functioning realized that he was allowing himself to be perilously distracted by his strange fascination with Regan.
Gods, he was going to get them both killed.
“Levet, I need your help,” he commanded in frigid tones, allowing his warrior instincts to drown his seething frustration.
“Of course you do.” Levet smirked. “You run off and do whatever vampires do, and I will be happy to keep Regan safe.”
As if Jagr would allow Regan out of his sight for a second. Stupid demon.
“I need you to track down the local cur pack.”
“Oh, I see.” Levet narrowed his gaze. “I’m to do the grunt work while you get to stay with the beautiful woman. Typical.”
“I suspect that the curs have a demon or witch who is helping to keep them hidden.”
“And what does that have to do with me?”
“You’re the only one capable of sensing magic.”
Levet sputtered, wanting to argue but unable to deny the truth. At last he threw up his hands in defeat.
“Sacrebleu. Fine, I will do it.”
“When you find the pack, do not approach them,” Jagr warned. “I don’t want them spooked before I discover why they were shooting at us, and what connection they have to the imp.”
“Fine, but I expect payment for trailing after a bunch of stinking curs.”
Jagr grasped one of the stunted horns and hauled Levet up to glare into his wide eyes.
“Your payment is that you get to keep your wings. Understood?”
“Hey, let go.”
Jagr dropped the demon back to the ground. “Don’t return until you’ve found the curs.”
“Goth bully.” With a flick of his tail, Levet turned to waddle away.
Jagr grimaced. No doubt both Darcy and Shay would rake him over the coals when he returned to Chicago. They possessed a bizarre fondness for the gargoyle. But for the moment, all he cared about was finding the curs and ending their threat to Regan.
At his side, Regan raked a glance over his large body. “Why does he keep calling you a Goth? I’d say you’re more…ghetto chic.”
Ghetto chic?
“I was once a Visigoth chief.”
“Christ.” Her eyes widened in shock. “Exactly when did you get changed into a vampire?”
With a flinch, Jagr turned to enter the cave, the bags of clothing banging against his legs. The night of his turning was something he never discussed.
Not with anyone.
With a snort of disgust at his retreat, Regan followed on his heels.
“Hello, Mr. Freeze. What the hell are you doing now?”
“I need to speak with Salvatore.”
The elegant bedroom in the St. Louis mansion was a decadent feast for the senses. Gold-veined marble walls reflected the glow of the priceless chandelier, the lacquer furniture was designed for accommodating the most adventurous sexual fantasies, and even the high ceiling was painted with naughty satyrs seducing Rubenesque angels.
Lying in the middle of the Olympic-sized bed drenched in gold satin and black velvet, Salvatore Giuliani was jerked from his fleeting pleasure by the persistent buzz of his private cell phone.
His hand reached for the phone even as the woman straddling his naked body prepared to impale herself on his stiff erection.
“Don’t answer it,” the beautiful cur with long crimson hair and pale green eyes moaned, her lips trailing over his chest. “Please, lover.”
“Get off, Jenna,” he growled, his golden brown eyes glowing as the wolf inside him stirred with anger.
“Call them back later.”
“Get the hell off.”
With a sweep of his arm, Salvatore knocked the cur aside, rising from the bed in one smooth motion.
“Bastard,” Jenna rasped, sprawled spread-eagle across the rumpled sheets, her eyes sparkling with excitement at his rough treatment.
“You have no idea,” Salvatore drawled.
Turning his back on the woman, he reached for the phone, his brows drawing together at the unfamiliar number. Only a handful of people were allowed to dial his private line. Those who called without permission usually found themselves missing their throat. And occasionally their spleen. Flipping open the phone, he held it to his ear. “Who is this?”
“Jagr.” The cold, dark voice was edged with the revolting arrogance that was as much a part of a vampire as his fangs. Filthy leeches. “I was sent by Styx to retrieve the Were.”
“Did you find her?”
“Of course. We’re in Hannibal.”
Salvatore curled his lips at the smug response. Cristo. He hated vampires.
“And?”
“And I want to know why your curs tried to kill us.”
“Curs.” With quick strides, Salvatore was standing beside the heavy desk across the room, clicking through the files on his laptop. “There is no Were pack near Hannibal.”
“Then you have some strays taking potshots at the tourists.”
Salvatore clenched his fist, his eyes glowing with fury. As King of the Weres, he kept his rules simple. Obey or die. No room for confusion.
“A problem easily corrected. I will be there tomorrow night.”
“Once we locate them, I need at least one left alive to question.”
Salvatore clenched his teeth at the cool command. One day soon…
“I make no guarantees.”
With a flick of his wrist, he snapped shut the phone and headed toward the door.