Jagr’s fangs lengthened as the footsteps edged toward his seemingly unconscious form.

His first thought was that there was no scent. An impossibility without the assistance of a witch. His second thought was that the intruder hadn’t bothered to close and lock the door.

Freedom.

With grim effort, he leashed his brutal surge of hope.

There would be no escape until he’d dealt with the enemy who was stalking slowly toward him.

With his eyes closed and the creature’s scent masked, Jagr silently measured the sound of the footsteps.

Closer, closer, closer…

There was a stir of air as the intruder knelt beside him, clearly believing he was dead, or at least incapacitated.

It would be the last mistake the fool ever made.

Preparing to attack, Jagr allowed the bloodlust he’d so desperately tried to keep at bay to flow freely through his body. With his strength muted by the damned hexes, he needed the fury to fuel his powers.

“Jagr.”

The soft voice cut through the silence, but Jagr was past hearing. His only thought was to kill the enemy so he could reach the door and escape.

With a movement too swift for even the most skilled demon to avoid, Jagr shot his arm upward, grasping his enemy around the throat.

There was a gurgling moan as he wrenched his eyes open, staring at the pale, beautiful face poised above him.

Something flickered in the back of his mind. Some strange alarm that clamored for attention, but the bloodlust made his gaze flicker with a haze of red, obscuring the delicate features and drowning out the distress that clutched at his heart.

Kill.

He had to kill to be free.

With a low roar, he surged to his feet, still holding his prey by the neck. It was surprisingly slender. As easy to snap as a twig.

“Jagr,” a voice rasped. “It’s Regan.”

Regan.

The bloodlust faltered.

That name…

With a rough motion, he jerked the squirming captive closer, burrowing his head into the curve of her neck. Nothing. No scent. No explanation for why he was halting his killing blow.

“Jagr…please,” the voice pleaded, a hand touching his face in with a soft, familiar touch.

Jagr shook his head, dropping the creature as he struggled to clear his mind.

Instinct howled for blood, but a more powerful force refused to give into the screaming need.

He knew this woman, a voice whispered in the back of his fogged mind. She was…

His.

His to protect.

Shuddering against the fierce desire to attack, Jagr wrapped his arms around himself. Shit. He truly was going mad.

“Jagr?” The woman painfully struggled to her feet, either too courageous, or too stubborn, to remain down. “Are you hurt?”

“Stay back,” he growled in warning.

“What’s wrong?”

“I…” He gave another shake of his head. “Why can I not smell you?”

Beautiful green eyes widened, then with a jerky rush she reached into the pocket of her too-tight jeans to reveal a small amulet. She licked her lips as he tracked her every movement, his fangs exposed and his eyes no doubt glowing with hunger. He didn’t need to smell her fear to recognize it.

Careful to keep her motion slow and unthreatening, the female tossed the amulet toward the open door.

Immediately the sweet scent of midnight jasmine filled the cell, threading its way through the crimson veil of his bloodlust.

Drinking in the heady aroma, Jagr felt a stirring of excitement deep in the pit of his stomach.

“That scent,” he breathed. “I’ve smelled it before.”

“Yes.” With a frown she stepped forward, as if to touch him.

Jagr took a hasty step back, knowing that he was far from stable. Just as he knew that something would break inside him if he accidentally injured the woman.

“Do not.”

As if sensing the danger throbbing in the air, the female stood perfectly still, her expression troubled.

“I’m here to help you,” she said softly. “But we don’t have much time. I managed to slip past the curs on guard, but without the amulet they’ll soon catch my scent and come to investigate.”

Jagr growled, his fangs aching. Curs. Yes. He’d always hated the bastards.

“Where?”

She frowned. “What?”

He snapped his teeth with impatience. “Never mind. I will find them on my own.”

Whirling on his heel, Jagr headed for the open door. His rage pulsed and the bloodlust still thundered through his body. He needed to kill. And if he didn’t want it to be the woman in front of him, then he needed other prey.

The curs would do just fine.

The woman called out, but he ignored her plea to remain. He was a vampire on the hunt, and anything foolish enough to cross his path was dead.

Four long strides took him through the outer chamber and to the narrow flight of stone steps. Those he consumed in two swift bounds. A wooden door blocked his path at the top of the stairs, but one swing of his arm smashed through the fragile barrier.

Splinters flew through the air, spreading before Jagr as he stepped through the mangled frame. There was a yip as a cur keeping guard was hit with the small, but painful missiles. A yip that became a howl of agonized pain as Jagr grabbed him by the hair and tossed him across what appeared to be a kitchen.

Jagr watched the slender man smack painfully into the wall, leaving a trail of blood as he crumpled to the floor. The cur lived, but before Jagr could concentrate on yanking the bastard’s heart out, there was the sound of footsteps from outside the house.

Bending down, Jagr yanked out the silver-bladed daggers he always kept hidden in his boots. A part of him might relish the thought of ripping apart his enemies with his bare hands, but bloodlust didn’t equal stupidity.

Until he knew just how many curs were prowling around the place, he wasn’t going to take any chances.

There was a low snarl and Jagr listened as one of the approaching sets of footsteps shifted from two legs to four. Jagr widened his stance, a dagger clutched in each hand, his lips pulling back to reveal his lethal fangs.

Showtime.

The shifted cur entered first, crashing through a set of French doors that led to a back terrace. It was large by cur standards, the height of a good-sized pony and thickly muscled beneath the shaggy brown fur. But it was the long, razor sharp teeth that could slice through bone that was the true danger. Even a vampire could be killed if his head was snapped off.

There was another snarl as the cur launched his heavy body directly at Jagr. The brainless animal was too far gone to have the sense to realize it was a suicide mission.

Which suited Jagr just fine.

Braced for the impact, he barely moved when the cur smashed into his body. Instead, he easily avoided the teeth aimed at his throat and slid the two daggers deep into the beast’s chest.

The glowing eyes of the cur widened, a death rattle in its throat the only sound it made as it slid off the daggers and tumbled backward. He was changed back to a man, a very dead man, by the time he hit the floor.

Jagr had no time to admire his handiwork as two more curs appeared through the destroyed French door, both rushing forward in unison.

With deadly accuracy, Jag threw one of the daggers. It spun through the air, end over end, shimmering with brilliant flares of silver as the slanting moonlight caught it. The charging cur, stuck midway in his shift to wolf, had no chance to avoid the blade as it sunk deep into his chest.

The second attacker screamed in fury as his companion dropped to the ground. But he did, astonishingly, have enough sense to avoid a direct attack.

Slowly circling Jagr, the cur battled his instinctive need to shift. His eyes glowed and his skin rippled as his wolf struggled to free itself.

Jagr flashed a taunting smile. “Are we going to dance or fight, dog?”

The cur snapped his teeth, reaching beneath his shirt to pull out a large handgun.

“In a rush to die, vampire?”

“Not before dinner.”

With a slow grin, Jagr released his coiled power. The frigid blast exploded through the room, knocking pans from the shelves and shattering the windows. The remaining cur screamed as he was tossed through the air and pinned to the wall by the tangible force.

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.