Darkness Unleashed (15 page)

“If you decide to drive, wolf, take one of the Hummers. It at least has a chance of surviving.”

Regan ignored the slur to her driving ability. She had, after all, trashed his truck. Instead, she turned to make her way back to the bedroom.

Moving directly to a distant corner, she knelt before Jagr’s heavy satchel.

Just for a moment, she hesitated.

After thirty years of being denied even the pretense of privacy, she possessed an intense dislike for the thought of invading anyone else’s. Especially Jagr’s, who had shared her endless humiliations.

Still, she wasn’t so foolish as to go in search of him without some sort of weapon. Unlike other purebloods, she couldn’t depend on shifting to fight her battles. She needed something sharp. And big.

Sucking in a deep breath, she forced herself to open the satchel, her fingers stilling as they encountered smooth leather instead of the cold, hard steel she’d been expecting. With a rueful smile she pulled out the heavy book that was written in a language she didn’t recognize.

She wistfully trailed her fingers over the aged leather of the cover. She’d encountered various demons and warriors and even powerful leaders during her travels with Culligan, but none had offered such a fascinating mixture of contrasts.

Icily aloof and yet so terribly vulnerable. Strong and yet tender. Raw, ruthless power with the soul of a scholar.

With a shake of her head, Regan set the book on the floor and returned her attention to the satchel. This time, she had no trouble finding one of the numerous daggers that were stacked in the bottom.

Careful to choose one without silver (with her current luck, she’d probably stab herself), and big enough to put a nice-sized hole in an enemy, she tightly gripped the handle and headed out of the private rooms.

She half-expected to be halted as she retraced her steps out of the lair, but while the vampires watched her pass in creepy silence, not one leaped out to try and block her exit.

Thank God. She didn’t think her dagger, no matter how big or shiny, was going to do much good against them.

Regan jogged across the open fields, keeping her senses alert for any scent of Jagr.

If the imp had a brain, he would have taken his hostage halfway across the world, but Culligan had taught her that the flighty demons were content to leap first and consider later. If ever.

Of course, hoping she might stumble across Jagr was something like hoping she might find a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Still, she had to…

Regan halted, suddenly struck by a crazed thought.

Why search for a needle in the proverbial haystack when she could go directly to the source of her troubles?

If she could track down the cur that had ordered Gaynor to capture her in the first place, then eventually the imp would make an appearance. The one thing that Regan was certain of was that the imp wouldn’t want to be stuck with a furious vampire for long.

And she suddenly realized that she might actually possess the means to find the bitch.

Ignoring the urge to race as fast as possible back to Hannibal, Regan forced herself to maintain a steady pace that allowed her to continue her search for Jagr, as well as to keep guard for any lurking danger.

There was no use getting herself killed for what might very well turn out to be a wild-goose chase.

As she jogged, the sun crested the horizon, bathing the landscape in a soft haze of pale peach and rose. The light glittered off the dew clinging to the grass, fragmenting until it appeared the world was drenched in pastel.

Regan barely noticed the dazzling display. Or the dampness clinging to the hem of her jeans. She was on a mission, and nothing was going to distract her.

Choosing a more direct route back to the tea shop, Regan hid in the bushes and studied the pretty structure for long minutes.

There was a gradual stirring in the quiet neighborhood. A woman dressed in a power suit climbed into her Lexus and roared down the street. An elder man swept his front porch. A child pressed his eager face against the window.

All mundanely human, without a beastie to be seen.

Regan straightened and dashed across the street, knowing it was now or never.

Skirting the house with all its froufrou trellises and cheesy birdbaths, she allowed her nose to lead her to the kitchen window, using her considerable strength to shove up the sash a few inches and breathe in the various scents.

She grimaced at the intoxicating aromas. Holy crap. Jagr hadn’t been wrong when he accused Gaynor of hexing his food. Even with her immunity to the magic, she could feel her mouth watering in response.

Damn imps.

Closing her eyes, she concentrated on sorting through the various teas, pastries, and candies. At last, she caught and held the scent of peanut butter fudge.

As she had hoped, the smell was distinctive. Rich, creamy peanut butter with a hefty dose of imp magic.

Which meant that she wouldn’t mistake it for any other fudge that seemed to be one of the basic food groups in Hannibal.

Circling the tea shop one last time, even knowing it was a futile effort to discover some hint of Jagr or the damned imp, she at last turned on her heel and began jogging toward the east.

Gaynor had admitted that he’d smelled the river on Sadie, and since Jagr hadn’t detected a lie, she was going with the hope the cur would still be near it.

Refusing to consider the knowledge that the Mississippi River ran over two thousand miles, she jogged through the near empty streets, ignoring the howling dogs and occasional car that whizzed past.

Briefly, she wondered if Levet found a safe place to turn into stone. Although she’d heard over the years that gargoyles were close to indestructible, she didn’t know if that was true for miniature ones, and unlike Jagr, she found the tiny demon oddly charming. She would hate for him to be injured trying to help her.

Thoughts of Levet were driven from her mind as she reached the quaint, historic section of town. She turned right at the steps that led to the lighthouse on top of the bluff, and hurried past the antique and gift shops that now filled the old buildings. Thank God she’d taken the time to sniff out Gaynor’s particular recipe for fudge. The entire area reeked of the stuff.

Turning again she passed by the bed-and-breakfast that had once catered to the passing steamboats, and climbed the levee behind it. From there it was an easy jog down to the edge of the river.

She briefly hesitated before she turned south, grimly refusing to glance toward the bluff where she’d shared the cave with Jagr. The curs would want a place outside of town where they could easily hunt away from prying eyes.

If she didn’t find some sign of them within a few hours, she would backtrack and try her luck north of town.

Not much of a plan, but it was better than sitting in Tane’s lair and pacing holes in the carpet.

Well, at least marginally better, she acknowledged three hours later, tugging her jeans free of yet another thornbush from hell. Scouring the banks and steep bluffs along the river was not only time-consuming, but it was wearisome work, even for a pureblooded Were. Clearly the whole Huck Finn lifestyle was far more romantic in books than real life.

With a sigh, she leaned against a rock that jetted from the river. She was only a handful of miles south of Hannibal, but she might as well have been in the middle of nowhere.

There was no sound of traffic, no laughter of children, no barking dogs. In fact, there wasn’t even the call of a bird…

Regan shoved herself upright.

She might be in the middle of nowhere, but there should have been the usual wildlife scurrying through the dense trees. A bird, a squirrel, a curious raccoon.

The fact that there wasn’t could only mean that there was something dangerous in the area. Something that had been around long enough to drive them away.

Feeling her strength return, along with a flood of hope, Regan grimly headed up the steeply angled bank, using the dagger to hack through the thicker foliage. At least the damned thing was going to come in handy for something.

Regan reached the top of the bluff and slowed her pace to a mere crawl. If she were right (not at all a certainty), there was a pack of curs roaming these woods and they had the witch’s spell to keep then hidden from her senses.

It seemed a good idea to try to avoid tripping over one.

Slipping silently from tree to tree, she listened carefully, depending on her superior sight and hearing to warn her of any danger. The sun slowly moved overhead, warning that time was passing, but Regan ignored the urge to rush. This was supposed to be a…what did they call it? A recon mission. A search and get-out-alive sort of deal.

On the point of accepting she was wasting her time, again, she was hit by the unmistakable scent of peanut butter fudge. Yes! She continued forward and at last caught sight of a tin roof through the trees.

A cabin. It had to be.

Her heart lodged in her throat as she edged cautiously closer. Yep. Definitely a cabin. Peering through the trees, she studied the wooden structure. It wasn’t much. Just a few unpainted boards slapped together with a door and two windows. The attached shed wasn’t much better, only without the windows, and leaning to the point it threatened to become detached from the rusty tin roof.

A place that had gone past charming, straight to rustic.

And not at all the setting she would have pictured for a pack of curs with authority issues.

Of course, that’s what usually made a good hiding place a good hiding place.

Crouching behind yet another bush, Regan kept a watch on the building, her nerves stretched tight by the uncanny silence. The place appeared deserted, but she wasn’t stupid.

Isolated cabin. Seemingly abandoned.

It was a trap waiting to happen.

It was also the closest thing to a clue she’d found all day.

Gathering her courage, Regan slipped silently toward the cabin, her heart pounding so loudly she feared it would give her away. Astonishingly, nothing attacked (wonders of wonders), and pressed against the rough planks, she carefully inched up high enough to peer into the window.

A battered chair, a heavy dresser, a fireplace that looked like it had been recently used.

No howling curs. No magic-wielding witch.

No Sophie. No Gaynor.

She gritted her teeth, too stubborn, or maybe it was too stupid, to concede defeat.

Straightening, she inched her way toward the attached shed, keeping herself pressed against the cabin, as if that somehow made her invisible. Hey, it was how they did it in the movies. Then pausing only a moment to lean her ear against the door, she pushed it open.

Preparing to bolt at the first hint of danger, Regan scanned the shadowed interior, not surprised to find a handful of rusting tools collecting cobwebs in the corners, or the wooden barrel that had been overturned to play table for a kerosene lamp.

The whip and numerous daggers, swords, and handguns placed on a rickety shelf were a bit more unexpected.

It was the bedraggled, nearly unrecognizable imp chained to the wall, however, that was the real showstopper.

Culligan.

Just for a moment, Regan remained frozen in the doorway.

After days of endless, grueling, relentless searching, she’d stumbled over her damned prey when she wasn’t even looking for him.

How was that for irony?

She clenched the dagger, studying the imp who’d made her life a living hell.

He looked…ghastly.

Blindfolded and leaning heavily against the chains, as if he couldn’t hold his own weight, his red hair was matted into disgusting clumps, and his white skin was marred with dirt and dried blood.

Gone was the brash, conceited demon who had taken such delight in tormenting her, and in its place was a sad, pathetic waste of a creature wearing nothing more than a red thong.

A smile of absolute pleasure curled her lips as he weakly attempted to lift his head, clearly sensing someone had entered the shed, but too disoriented to recognize her scent.

“Who’s there?” he croaked. “Please, help me. I’m being held against my will. Please…” His plea was cut short as she crossed the narrow space to rip off the blindfold. He blinked against the sunlight that spilled into the room, then his eyes widened in horror as he recognized his rescuer. “Oh, shit.”

“Hello, Culligan,” she purred, her gaze lowering to the small medallion tied around his neck. The witch’s amulet. And the reason she hadn’t sensed the bastard when she’d first approached the cabin.

“You,” he rasped, struggling against the heavy chains that held him.

“Surprise.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“I told you that you couldn’t escape me.” Reaching out, Regan ripped the amulet from the leather thong around Culligan’s neck and tucked it into her pocket. Immediately the shed was filled with the overpowering smell of plums, while her scent disappeared. Well, well. Wasn’t that convenient? Her smile widened with wicked pleasure. “Of course, at the time I didn’t expect the curs to be so rude as to steal my toy and hide him from me. I hope they didn’t break you.”

Sweat bloomed on his forehead, visions of his death dancing in his head.

“There are curs crawling all over the place,” he desperately attempted to frighten her away. “Are you trying to get caught?”

He did have a point.

A smart Were would cut out Culligan’s heart and escape before the curs returned.

Unfortunately, her mission was no longer one of simple revenge. Jagr needed her. And if it meant keeping this bastard alive and risking her neck…then so be it.

Of course, that didn’t mean she couldn’t have some fun with the jackass.

Lifting the dagger, she drew a thin line over his heart, watching the blood drip down his chest.

“Actually, there’s not a cur to be found,” she mocked.

He shuddered, although she hadn’t truly hurt him. Yet.

“It’s a trap. They’ll be here any minute.”

She pressed the dagger deeper. “Not in time to keep me from carving out your heart.”

“Wait.” He struggled to breathe, his eyes wild with delicious fear. “Let’s not be hasty, Regan.”

“Hasty?” Fury made her blood boil. “I’ve waited thirty years to kill you. It’s all I dreamed of night after night.”

“How can you say that? I’ve been like a father to you.” He squealed as the dagger slid deeper. “Okay, maybe not a father, but don’t forget I saved you from that ditch. You could have died if it weren’t for me.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Ditch, eh?”

“Maybe it was more of a culvert.”

“You worthless piece of shit, I’ve talked to Gaynor,” she hissed. “I know the curs gave me to you in Chicago.”

Terror flashed through the pale green eyes before Culligan was frantically attempting to cover his ass.

“Gaynor? You can’t believe a word he says. He deliberately tricked me into coming to Hannibal.” His face tightened. “Treacherous bastard.”

“I’d believe that treacherous bastard if he told me the sky was green before I would believe a word that came from your filthy mouth.”

He glanced down at the dagger stuck directly over his heart, licking his lips.

“Right, I get it. You’re angry. I didn’t treat you as well as I should have. That doesn’t mean we can’t come to an…understanding.”

Her sharp laugh echoed through the small shed. “Understanding?”

“Anything. Just tell me what you want.”

A few days ago what she wanted was this imp dead. Slowly, painfully, and by her hand.

Now she had to accept that there were more important things.

Jagr.

And the truth of her past.

“What I want is answers,” she rasped.

“Fine. Whatever.”

“Tell me how you got your nasty hands on me when I was a baby.”

“I told you I found you in a…” He screamed as Regan pushed the dagger a hair’s breadth from his heart. “Shit.”

“One more lie, and you’re dead,” she warned. “You didn’t find me in a ditch.”

Cowering with a fear that warmed Regan’s vengeful soul, Culligan gave up on his lame story.

“Okay, okay.” He sucked in a careful breath. “I was in Chicago, minding my own business, I might add, when I was approached by a cur who claimed he had some hot cargo he needed to unload in a hurry.”

“I was the hot cargo?”

“You and your sisters,” he clarified. “The curs had blundered and attracted the attention of the local social services agency. The humans had already taken one of the babies, but the curs managed to slip away with the other three.”

Regan stiffened. Well, that little tidbit would please Darcy. According to Salvatore, her sister had never been able to discover how she’d ended up in the hands of humans. And of course, she now knew how Culligan had managed to get a pureblooded Were in his power, if not how the curs had gotten a hold of her and her sisters in the first place.

“They tried to hush it all up, but the rumors hit the streets, and the curs were afraid that the word might reach the ears of the Weres. They needed to get rid of the evidence before they were caught red-handed.”

“What happened to my sisters?” she demanded, astonished to discover that the answer actually mattered.

What happened to the lone wolf who didn’t give a crap about her family? The one who would rather have her eyes clawed out than be invited to Thanksgiving dinner?

Jagr happened, a soft voice whispered in the back of her mind.

He’d made her…soft. Damn him.

Unaware of her inner conflict, Culligan gave another glance at the knife stuck in his chest.

“One stayed with the humans, and one they smuggled to curs out of state. They gave you to me, and the other…I don’t know.”

Her teeth clenched. “The curs have one of my sisters?”

“I haven’t seen her, but they claim to have one. They’re supposedly doing some kind of experiments on her.”

The air was squeezed from her lungs. “What kind of experiments?”

“Do I look like a scientist?” The petulant words became a screech of agony as she twisted the knife. “Ow. Damn you, it’s something about making the curs more powerful. That’s all I know, I swear.”

So the suspicion that the mysterious Caine was obsessed with creating the cur version of Frankenstein wasn’t as farfetched as it seemed. Christ. Was the man a nut job? Who knew what could happen if he started screwing with the ancient magic that turned a human to a cur.

Of course, had Salvatore been any different? He’d deliberately altered the DNA of her and her sisters to produce females who wouldn’t shift. And he did it so they could become some sort of broodmares to resurrect the fading Weres.

Damn arrogant men and their God complexes.

In a perfect world, women would be in charge.

“If the curs have my sister, then what do they want with me?” she gritted.

“My only guess is that you’re the backup in case your sister kicks the bucket before they’re done experimenting with her.”

“Bastards.”

Culligan shivered. “You have no idea. Release me, Regan, and I can help.”

“You know where they’re holding my sister captive?”

“I…” His ready lie faltered on his lips as her eyes narrowed in warning. “No, not…exactly, but…”

“Worthless,” she muttered, abruptly realizing that was the perfect word to describe this sorry excuse for a demon.

Culligan was a weak, greedy fool who offered nothing to the world.

He didn’t even make a decent villain.

Her grip tightened on the handle of the dagger, her bitter, choking thirst for revenge somehow lessened by the thought. It was as if she’d just hauled the boogeyman out of the closet, and discovered he was nothing more than a spineless slug.

Culligan quivered as she unwittingly dug the knife deeper. “Dammit, watch that thing.”

In answer, Regan leaned forward, her expression ruthless. She’d pressed her luck far enough. It was time to get the information she’d come for.

“This is my last question. And believe me when I tell you, your life depends on your answer.” The tip of the blade rested against his throbbing heart. “Where’s Jagr?”

“What? Who?”

“The vampire who…who Darcy sent to Hannibal.” She struggled to hide her aching dread. Culligan would only try to use it to his advantage. “Gaynor took him through a portal. Where would he go?”

Culligan glared, although he was smart enough not to struggle. “How the hell would I know? In case you missed the memo, I’ve been a little tied up since coming to Hannibal.”

Without warning, Regan yanked the knife from the imp’s chest and pressed it to his most precious jewels.

“Gaynor’s been your friend for centuries. You have to know something.”

Panic flashed through the green eyes. As expected, the idiot was far more afraid of being castrated than killed.

“Are you a complete psycho?”

“That’s what thirty years of torture will do to a perfectly nice girl.” Her voice could have rivaled Jagr’s for ice. “Now start talking, or lose it.”

Sweat poured down his body as he struggled to find his voice. “All I can tell you is that in the past, Gaynor always had an underground lair with a cell he could use to trap lesser demons.”

She frowned. “Why would he trap demons?”

“You can make a fortune in ransom if you find demons with clans or families who are willing to pay to get them back.”

“Christ.” She shook her head in disgust. There should be an open season on imps. “Would this cell be strong enough to hold a vampire?”

Culligan shrugged. “If he has it properly hexed.”

“Where would it be?”

A cunning expression slid over the lean features. The jackass intended to try and con her. Or at least he intended to until she dug the knife into one of his danglies.

“Arrg.”

His eyes crossed, and Regan waited to see if he would pass out. When he didn’t, she leaned close enough to touch nose to nose.

“Where would it be?”

“It would be close to his business…” The words came out in small, pained gasps. “That tea shop he’s running.”

Regan froze, a sick sensation clutching her stomach. “How can you be certain?”

“Gaynor might be able to conjure a portal, but he barely has any more strength than I do. He can’t travel over a few hundred feet if he has a passenger. If he took your vampire, he couldn’t have gone far.”

“If he was there, why wouldn’t I sense him?”

“The hexes would block any scent.”

“Damn.”

Regan straightened abruptly, stepping away from Culligan as she cursed her stupidity. What an idiot she was. If she hadn’t been in such a panic to find Jagr, then maybe she wouldn’t have overlooked the most obvious.

God, he might have been right beneath her feet while she was creeping around the tea shop…

She gave a sharp shake of her head.

Dammit, she’d wasted enough time.

She had to get to Jagr.

Whirling on her heel, she headed for the door, intent on returning to the tea shop. Even if she couldn’t move Jagr until night fell, she needed to find him.

To be near him.

How frightening was that?

Regan was stepping from the shed when a voice behind her abruptly reminded her that Culligan was still chained to the wall.

“Hey, wait, where are you going? You can’t leave me here.”

Turning, she regarded him with a hint of surprise. In her hurry to reach Jagr, she’d simply forgotten him.

The imp who’d made her life a misery for thirty years.

The imp who she’d pledged to torture and kill.

It no doubt revealed some deep, earth-shattering change in her psyche, but she didn’t have time to care.

“Actually, I can,” she retorted, consoling whatever thirst for revenge that might linger with the knowledge the curs seemed to be doing a bang-up job of making Culligan miserable.

As if reading her mind, Culligan struggled frantically against the shackles that held him.

“They’ll kill me. Do you want that on your conscience?”

She slowly lifted her brows. “Frankly, Culligan, I don’t give a damn.”

As exit lines went, it was pretty damned excellent, and Regan couldn’t halt a smug smile as she stepped out of the shed and slammed the door behind her.

Later she might regret not slicing him open and using his entrails as fish bait, but for now she was content to leave his torture in the hands of the curs.

The smile and contentment lasted all of two seconds.

Just long enough for the familiar male cur to step from the trees.

Duncan.

For an odd, timeless moment they simply stared at one another in shock. Then without warning, he lifted his arm to throw something directly at her face.

Regan instinctively ducked, expecting a knife or sword to lodge itself in the door behind her.

Instead, there was a brilliant explosion, and she had only a second to acknowledge that she’d failed Jagr when the world went black.

The sun was painting the horizon with its last fading rays when Regan struggled to shake the painful cobwebs out of her head.

Freaking hell. She felt as if she’d been hit by a cement truck.

At last, ignoring the bursts of agony in the back of her head, she forced open her reluctant eyes. Well…shit. She should have kept them closed.

Not that pretending this was all a horrible nightmare would change the fact that she was currently tied to a tree with chains that held enough silver to sap her strength and leave raw burns on her skin. Or that she’d been moved from the cabin to one of the small islands covered in trees and underbrush that dotted the middle of the river.