“You really get off on the whole royalty thing, don’t you?”
“It’s good to be King.”
“Yeah, I bet.”
His smile softened to a wicked invitation. “But not as good as it is to be the King’s…”
Jagr tightened his arm around Regan’s waist, his power making the hair on the nape of her neck stand on end.
“Careful, dog,” he hissed.
“Feeling a little territorial, vamp?” Salvatore mocked.
“Regicidal.”
Chapter 9
A tense silence descended as the two predators huffed and puffed and did all the stupid things males did when they weren’t allowed to kill one another.
Regan rubbed her hands over her arms, shivering at the painful prickles that brushed over her skin. Holy crap. Things could go nuclear in a hurry, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.
At last the gathering storm was broken by the return of Max, who had barely broken a sweat despite his swift run up and down the high bluff.
“Thank God,” Regan muttered, struggling free of Jagr’s arm to snatch the notebook and pencil from the cur.
Vividly aware of the tension sizzling between the males, Regan moved to perch on a flat rock. Christ, the air in the cave was so thick she could barely breathe. And it didn’t help that the two curs had moved to flank Salvatore as if preparing for a battle. Why didn’t they just wave a red flag in front of the ancient, lethal vampire?
Morons.
Clearing her mind, Regan forced herself to concentrate on the memory of the cur that had attacked them. What was the point in fretting over Jagr and Salvatore? If they wanted to rip each other apart, then so be it.
She wasn’t about to play Super Nanny.
Sliding the pencil across the paper, Regan lost herself in her sketch. She was no Picasso (well, who was?), but over the years she’d discovered the trick of capturing an image with the minimum of strokes.
She had completed the basic outline of the cur’s face and was working on the narrow goatee when she felt Jagr move to stand at her side, his power carefully muted.
“That’s perfect,” he murmured, a hint of surprise in his voice. “You have a true talent.”
Regan shrugged. “Not talent, just practice. There’s not a lot to do in a cramped cage besides watch TV, read, and sketch.” With a few more strokes of her pencil, Regan was satisfied and held out the notebook toward Salvatore. “Here.”
Salvatore moved forward with the hulking Hess at his side.
“Do you recognize him?” the Were demanded of his companion.
The cur snarled in recognition, his eyes glowing. “Duncan.”
Salvatore frowned. “What do you know of him?”
“He’s a disciple of Caine.”
Shock rippled over the Were’s handsome face. “Cristo.”
“Who’s this Caine?” Jagr demanded.
Salvatore snapped his teeth, his thoughts obviously distracted. “Internal Were business.”
“It becomes my business when one of your hounds nearly barbeques me,” Jagr snapped. “Why are they trying to kill Regan?”
“I don’t know.”
Jagr stepped toward Salvatore, his body coiled to attack, his fangs glinting in the dark.
“Don’t try me, Were.”
Regan shivered, but Salvatore merely arched an arrogant brow. Courage or stupidity?
Impossible to say.
“You can flash all the fang you want, vamp, I have no explanation for why the curs would be in Hannibal, or why they would have an interest in Regan.”
“Then what the hell do you know?”
Salvatore gritted his teeth, but obviously aware that Jagr was preparing to beat the truth out of him (with as much pain as possible), he abruptly turned to pace across the cave.
“I’ve had reports that a cur by the name of Caine has been gathering curs into a secret society.”
Regan swallowed a ridiculous urge to laugh. “Like the Masons?”
Salvatore continued to pace. “From what little information I’ve been able to gather, it’s more like a fatwa.”
“A holy war?” she demanded.
“A handful of curs have convinced themselves that the Weres are deliberately diluting their powers.”
She shook her head. Being raised in a silver cage with only occasional encounters with other demons, she was remarkably ignorant of her people. Something that had never bothered her until a bunch of mangy curs decided to steal Culligan.
“Which powers?” she demanded.
Salvatore shrugged. “Their strength, their ability to control their shifts, their lack of immortality. Nonsense, of course. A cur might take on greater strength and a prolonged existence, but in the end they’re merely a human infected by our bite. They are not resurrected to become a full demon as vampires are.”
So the curs got a glimpse of glory, only to fall short. Kind of like her.
A mutant with no real place in the demon-world.
Who wouldn’t want revenge? Especially if it meant dethroning the smug, overbearing, GQ-addicted King of Weres?
Of course, Caine of the curs couldn’t be very smart if he thought for a moment a ragtag pack would have any chance against any pureblood, let alone one of Salvatore’s power. And why Duncan would imply they were somehow interested in her…
Her breath tangled in her throat. “Oh.”
Jagr flowed to her side, as if sensing the outrageous suspicion that flowed through her mind.
“What is it, little one?”
“I…” With a shake of her head, Regan turned to meet Salvatore’s searching gaze. “The curs believe a Were could offer them the powers they want?”
“As I said, a few idiots are convinced we are deliberately altering the amount of venom in our bites to lessen their abilities. Once I track down Caine, I intend to bring an end to his dangerous claims.” His sensuous lips curved into a terrifying smile. “A painful end.”
Regan grimaced. “Very Rambo of you, but have you considered the possibility that this Caine has decided to do more than just complain about the fate of curs?”
Salvatore snorted. “He doesn’t possess enough followers to strike against the Weres. He prefers to hide in shadows while stirring the seeds of revolution.”
“Yeah, well, maybe the Benedict Arnold routine is just an act.”
Jagr hissed, reading her mind with unnerving ease. “Yes.”
Salvatore frowned, thankfully not capable of rummaging around in her thoughts.
“What the hell do you mean?”