“Obviously the rumors of your extraordinary intelligence were not exaggerated, my brother.”
With a hiss, Jagr turned and stormed through the shattered opening. “I’m not your brother.”
Viper monitored Jagr’s furious exit with a wary gaze.
Actually it hadn’t gone as bad as he had feared. No death or mutilation. Not even a maiming.
Always a plus.
Still, he knew Jagr too well. Of all his clansmen, he had always known that the ancient Visigoth was the most feral. Understandable after what he’d endured, but no less dangerous. He was beginning to regret having brought the tortured vampire to Styx’s attention.
Slipping past the seated demons who were once again enthralled with the dew fairies, Viper returned to the office, finding Styx staring out the window.
“I have a bad feeling about this,” he muttered, his gaze taking in his priceless paintings, lying shattered on the floor.
Styx turned, his arms folded over his chest. “A premonition? Shall I contact the Commission and inform them they have a potential Oracle?”
Viper arched a warning brow. “Only if you want me to lock you in a cell with Levet for the next century.”
Styx gave a sharp bark of laughter. “A nice bluff, but Levet has decided that he is the only one capable of tracking Darcy’s missing sister. He left for St. Louis as soon as Salvatore informed me that Regan had slipped from his grasp.”
“Perfect, now we have two loose cannons charging about Missouri. I’m not sure the natives will survive.”
“You believe Jagr is a loose cannon?”
Viper grimaced, recalling the night that Jagr had appeared at his lair requesting asylum. He had encountered any number of lethal demons, most of whom wanted nothing more than to kill him. He’d never, however, until that night, looked into the eyes of another and seen only death.
“I think beneath all that grim control, he’s a step from slipping into madness.”
“And yet you allowed him to become a clansman.”
Viper shrugged. “When he petitioned, my first inclination was to refuse. I could sense he was not only dangerously close to the edge, but that he was powerful and aggressive enough to challenge me as clan chief. He’s a leader by nature, not a follower.”
“So why allow him into Chicago?”
“Because he swore an oath to disappear into his lair and not offer any trouble.”
“And?” Styx prodded.
“And I knew he wouldn’t survive if he were without the protection of a clan,” Viper grudgingly admitted. “We both know that despite your attempts to civilize the vampires, some habits are too deeply ingrained to be easily changed. A rogue vampire with that much power would be seen as a threat to any chief. He would be destroyed.”
“So you took mercy.”
Viper frowned. He didn’t like being thought of as anything but a ruthless bastard. He hadn’t become clan chief because of any sensitivity bullshit. He was leader because the other vampires were scared he’d rip out their undead hearts.
“Not mercy—it was a calculated decision,” he growled. “I knew if the need ever arose, he would prove an invaluable ally. Of course, I assumed that I would need him as a warrior, not as a babysitter for a young, vulnerable Were. I’m not entirely comfortable sending him on such a mission.”
Styx grasped the medallion that always hung about his neck, revealing he was not nearly as confident in his decision as he would have Viper believe.
“I need Regan found, and Jagr has the intelligence and skills that are best suited to track her and keep her safe. And he possesses an even more important quality.”
“It can’t be his sparkling personality.”
“No, it’s his intimate knowledge of the anguish Regan has suffered.” Styx regarded him with a somber expression. “He, better than any of us, will understand what Regan needs now that she has been freed from her tormentor.”
Chapter 1
The campground a few miles south of Hannibal, Missouri, was like any other campground.
Oversized RVs parked on the barren ground, a row of portable potties in the back, and a small shack near the front entrance where the humans paid for the privilege of being crammed next to people they wanted to throttle by the end of their vacation.
Regan Garrett knew all about the throttling thing firsthand.
Granted, she wasn’t human, but she had spent the majority of her life in one campground or another. They were breeding grounds for homicide.
Indifferent to the threat of impending mass murder, Regan swiftly jogged through the neat columns of RVs. She had deliberately waited until it was late enough that the old folks would have their dentures in a glass and their wrinkled asses in bed, while the younger parents would be comatose after a day of unrelieved suffering at the hands of their children.
Midnight in Hannibal, and not a creature was stirring.
Reluctantly, she turned to jog back toward the shack that had its door closed against the late March air. The chill didn’t trouble Regan, despite the fact she was wearing nothing more than a pair of jeans and a sleeveless knit top. She might not possess the ability to shift or procreate, but she did have most of the werewolf’s talents.
She was faster and stronger than humans, temperatures didn’t trouble her, she could see perfectly in the dark, and she had a remarkable ability to heal any wound not inflicted with silver.
Her feet briefly faltered. It was that ability to heal that had…
No. Not now.
She had to focus. She would grieve the past once Culligan was dead.
For the past ten hours she’d been on the imp’s trail, following his scent from St. Louis to the edge of Hannibal. She could almost taste her revenge when his trail mysteriously vanished on the outskirts of town. She didn’t know how the son of a bitch had managed to disappear into thin air, but it wasn’t going to stop her.
One way or another, she was finding the man who had held her captive for the past thirty years, and paying him back a hundredfold.
Not bothering to knock, Regan shoved open the door to the shack and stepped in. It was a cramped space, the walls covered with glossy pamphlets proclaiming all the wondrous sights to see in Hannibal, and one narrow window that overlooked the park.
At first glance the place looked empty, but Regan didn’t miss the cigarette smoke that hung in the air. Moving to the Formica counter at the far end of the room, she banged on the small silver bell.
There was the muffled sound of cursing, then a door behind the counter was shoved open, and a shaggy head poked out.