Ignoring the bullets that his enemy desperately fired in his direction, Jagr prowled forward. He could easily kill the cur with his powers. Or even with the dagger still clutched in his hand.
His bloodlust, however, demanded more.
With a surge of desperate hunger, Jagr grabbed the cur by the hair and jerked his head to one side. There was the sound of someone calling his name, and the tantalizing scent of midnight jasmine, but he was too far gone to be distracted.
His fangs ached for soft flesh and warm blood. Nothing less would satisfy him now.
Roaring his victory, Jagr struck with painful force, his teeth sinking deep into the cur’s throat.
The man briefly struggled, dropping the now empty gun as he pummeled Jagr’s chest. Jagr didn’t even feel the blows. Not with the rich, soothing taste of blood filling his mouth and the potent heat washing away the lingering effects of the hexes.
It took a few minutes to actually drain the cur dry, although his struggles ended after only a few deep sucks.
At last dropping the lifeless body to the floor, Jagr roared as the power rushed through him.
Although not a full demon, the cur’s blood was far more potent than a mere human, bringing with it a satisfying rush that eased the black rage.
Shuddering in relief, Jagr allowed the madness to recede. Slowly, the red haze dissipated from his mind, clearing his thoughts and relaxing the knotted muscles.
As the fog lifted, he glanced around the ruined kitchen with a frown.
What the hell?
Painful minutes passed as he struggled to recall where he was and what had happened.
His last true memory had been of himself in a small, cramped cell. The imp—Gaynor, yes that had been his name—had yanked him through a portal. That’s when things began to get fuzzy.
There’d been pacing and cussing and futile attempts to break down the door. That he damned well remembered. Then he’d gone deep inside himself to avoid the looming panic, hadn’t he?
So how did he get out of the cell?
“Jagr?”
Regan’s soft voice, along with the tantalizing scent of midnight jasmine, was nothing more than a whisper, but both slammed into him with the force of a two-ton truck.
Oh…shit.
The lingering fog was blasted away as images of his escape from his prison seared through his mind with cruel clarity.
The invader entering the cell. Leaning over him. And then…
Spinning on his heel, Jagr frantically studied the slender form standing in the door leading to the basement. Even through the shadows he could detect the faint marks that marred her slender neck.
Marks he had put there.
Regan wasn’t a coward. Granted, she didn’t have one of those hero complexes that demanded she always dash around proving her courage, but she could face pain and even danger when necessary.
So it wasn’t fear that kept her in the basement as Jagr charged out of the cell and headed upstairs to battle the curs.
At least, not fear for herself.
For the moment, Jagr was at the mercy of his rampaging emotions. No big freaking surprise there. The vampire had to have a major case of PTSD after enduring centuries of torture, and being locked in the tiny cell had obviously pushed all his buttons.
And while she refused to believe he would seriously hurt her even in the midst of his bloodlust, she knew that during battles anything could happen. Friendly fire wasn’t just a human danger.
If she were accidentally injured, the stupid man would hold himself responsible for rest of eternity.
So ignoring the desperate urge to rush up the stairs and make certain Jagr didn’t allow his blind rage to get himself killed by the guards she’d slipped past only a short time ago, Regan hovered near the bottom of the stairs, clutching the dagger and hating the feelings of helplessness.
Thank the gods that the marks from Duncan’s damned silver chains had already healed. At the time, she had been infuriated that it had taken so long for Levet to convince Salvatore to meet with the stupid cur. She might sympathize with the King of Were’s reluctance to strike a bargain with an out-and-out traitor, but her only concern was being released so she could get to Jagr.
And of course, there had been long minutes wasted as she’d argued with Levet. The gargoyle had been determined to return to Hannibal with her, but while Regan would have taken any assistance she could get, she couldn’t dismiss the thoughts of her sister.
If Duncan could honestly reveal where she might be hidden, then she didn’t want the bastard out of sight for a moment. He wouldn’t be allowed to disappear before Salvatore could get the information out of him.
With a shake of her head, Regan returned her attention to the cramped basement.
Distantly she could sense the bothersome drain of the hexes that lined the cell, and the lingering scent of Jagr’s desperation, but she concentrated on the crashes echoing from above. One hint that Jagr was in danger, and she would be up those stairs and kicking some cur butt.
At last the sounds of the short, brutal battle came to an end, and sucking in a deep breath, Regan made her way to the top of the steps.
What she discovered as she stepped into the trashed kitchen didn’t particularly surprise her. Windows shattered, one wall cracked, pots and pans scattered, three injured or dead curs on the floor, and the fourth being rapidly drained by the infuriated vampire.
Still, she couldn’t help but admire Jagr’s brute strength.
No wonder Culligan was always so nervous when it came time to negotiate with the local clan chief.
Watching from a relatively safe distance, Regan sensed the moment Jagr’s maddened fury began to slip away. It was in the hint of warmth that threaded through the biting chill in the air, and the loosening of the warrior’s bunched muscles.
Of course, she wasn’t stupid enough to run and throw herself in his arms as she strangely ached to do.
Instead she softly called his name, careful not to startle him by moving forward.
For a moment, she thought he meant to ignore her, then slowly he turned, his expression wary as his gaze slid a searing path over her.
Sharp relief flared through Regan as recognition flared in those beautiful blue eyes. He was back. And lucid.
Taking a step forward, she abruptly halted as the ice-blue gaze landed on her neck and recognition morphed to black regret.
Christ.
She resisted the urge to lift her hand and hide the telltale marks. Instead, she held herself perfectly still as he walked toward her, his movements jerky, as if his mind and body were at painful odds.
“Regan,” he breathed, not stopping until his cool power wrapped around her like a welcomed blanket.