As Jagr stepped through the door, Styx was on his feet, his lifted brow revealing he was well aware of his companion’s tangled emotions, although he was smart enough not to comment.

Instead he listened in silence as Jagr revealed Duncan’s attempted negotiations with the Weres, and the cur’s promise he could reveal the location of Regan’s missing sister.

As he finished, Styx pulled a cell phone from his pocket and swiftly dialed Salvatore’s number.

Absently, Jagr listened to the short, tense argument, his body flaring with awareness as he felt Regan entering the room behind him.

He deliberately kept his gaze on Styx’s imposing form as she halted beside him, not that it mattered. She had only to be near for him to drown in her jasmine-scented presence.

With an audible snap, Styx closed his phone and stuffed it into the pocket of his leather pants. Perhaps not surprisingly, Regan took a step closer to Jagr.

Styx was overwhelming under the best of circumstances. With the scowl marring his stark features, and his massive body tense with annoyance, any creature not brain-dead would be wary.

Either unaware, or simply ignoring the prickles in the air, Styx lifted a hand to smooth over the raven hair he’d pulled into a braid that hung nearly to his knees.

Darcy was never going to drag the proud vampire fully into the twenty-first century.

“The meeting with Duncan is set for dawn,” Styx revealed, his voice hard. “He refused to offer the location.”

“Refused?” Jagr shook his head. “Arrogant dog.”

Styx grimaced. “He has proclaimed it Were business and I have no authority to interfere, although Darcy may have a different opinion when I tell her.”

“Good God, you actually listen to your mate’s opinion?” Regan demanded, her tone overly sweet.

Jagr frowned, but Styx seemed to find the jab amusing. “Believe me, it was a hard-earned talent,” he admitted with a low chuckle.

Jagr’s frown deepened as he glared at his king. Traitor.

“Do you intend to return to Chicago?”

Styx briefly closed his eyes, testing the air. “It is too late to make the journey tonight,” he concluded, opening his eyes. “And I would prefer to clean up any loose ends before leaving.”

Jagr gave a dip of his head. “Speaking of loose ends, I have an imp to track down.”

“The dawn is only two hours away,” Styx warned.

Jagr patted one of the numerous daggers strapped to his body. “This won’t take long.”

“I will join you.” Styx took a step forward. “Once the imp is dead, we can search the cabin that Regan found. It could be the remaining curs have returned there.”

“Which means you’ll need me if you want to find the place,” Regan said, a smug smile curving her lips.

“There’s no need. We can follow your trail,” Jagr said, unable to halt the futile words even as Regan was sticking a finger in his face.

“Don’t even start. I’m coming.”

The two stood there, glaring at one another, until Styx moved forward to slap Jagr on the back.

“I would suggest you let it go, old friend,” Styx warned, leaving the room.

Jagr didn’t concede defeat as much as give into the inevitable. Regan was a force of nature he didn’t know how to control.

In silence, he followed Styx out of the lair and to the waiting Porsche parked in the circle drive. He even managed to hold his tongue as Regan climbed into the back, and he took his position in the passenger seat.

He’d barely shut the door when Styx revved the powerful engine and hurtled them through the empty streets, his lips twisted in what Jagr strongly suspected was a smile of amusement.

What the hell happened to vampire solidarity?

Bastard.

At least the car was able to make the trip at a pace just short of light speed, and directing Styx through the back roads, he at last held up his hand.

“Stop here.” He pointed toward the frilly house on the corner. “The tea shop is just ahead.”

The Porsche came to a halt, and they climbed out to stand in the shadows of a dogwood tree.

A dogwood that was currently decorated with a familiar, albeit considerably worse for the wear, truck.

Styx studied the ruined vehicle with a lift of his brows. “Tane’s?”

“It was.” Jagr glanced toward Regan, who was looking decidedly guilty. “Your handiwork?”

“Hey, I’d never driven before.” She gave an awkward lift of her shoulder. “Besides, it was already a piece of junk.”

“I would suggest you keep your keys close at hand, my lord,” he said, dryly.

“Ha. Very funny.” With a toss of her head, Regan moved down the street, her back rigid.

Styx smiled. “Although I hate to question Regan’s skill in demolition, I have to admit she is a mere amateur in destroying cars compared to Levet. That gargoyle possesses an exquisite ability to mangle even the finest vehicle. Just ask Viper.”

“Considering Viper’s unnatural obsession with his cars, I would rather not provoke any unpleasant memories.”

“Wise choice,” Styx drawled.

“I occasionally have moments of self-preservation.” His gaze was instinctively drawn to Regan as she paced impatiently just across the street from the tea shop. “Although not nearly so many as I might hope for.”

Styx laid a surprisingly gentle hand on his shoulder. “I would tell you that it gets easier, but I try to make it a policy not to lie any more than necessary.”

Jagr winced as a sharp pang pierced his heart. “Our time together draws to an end.”

“Only the Oracles can read the future. Cezar is proof of that.”

Jagr’s lips twisted. Cezar’s mate had turned out to be one of the rare Oracles, a fate that Jagr wouldn’t wish on anyone.

Bad enough to have a bad-tempered Were with a commitment phobia.

“I don’t need an Oracle to tell me that Regan is determined to remain a true lone wolf.”

Obviously weary of waiting, Regan planted her hands on her hips and glared at the two vampires.

“Are we doing this, or what?”

Styx slanted Jagr an amused glance. “Bossy little thing, isn’t she?”

“You have no idea.”

Throwing up her hands in defeat, Regan turned on her heel and marched across the street to the silent tea shop.

“Maybe we should make sure she doesn’t run into trouble,” Styx murmured.

“If only it was possible.” Jagr was swiftly rushing after her tiny form, a sudden urgency lending him speed as she disappeared through the gate of the picket fence and rounded the back of the house. Even at a distance, the scent of rotting peaches filled the air. “Regan.”

She came to an abrupt halt, her expression wary. “I smell it. Is he dead?”

“Yes.” Jagr didn’t need to see Gaynor’s body to feel the violence that shrouded the house. “And his death wasn’t pleasant. There’s a lot of blood.”

Appearing from the shadows, Styx studied the broken French doors. “There are three dead curs, and one unconscious, as well as the dead imp. I sense no one else.”

Jagr’s gaze searched the dark garden, his instincts tingling with an unmistakable warning.

“That doesn’t mean they aren’t prowling around,” he growled. “Those damn amulets make it impossible to be certain.”

Styx frowned. “We should make a quick sweep of the house.”

“You go.” Jagr continued his wary survey. “We’ll stay here.”

“Jagr…”

He placed a finger over Regan’s lips to halt her protest. “No, Regan, this has nothing to do with protecting you.”

Styx stepped closer. “What is it?”

“Nothing I can put my finger on. I just think we should keep guard.”

The ancient vampire nodded, not questioning Jagr’s vague unease.

“I trust your instincts, my brother. I will not be long.”

Chapter 19

Regan watched as the very large, very scary Styx disappeared through the French doors before turning to study Jagr with a frown.

She felt strangely numb as the smell of death and violence wrapped around her.

Maybe not surprising after the last few days.

There was only so much a woman, even one accustomed to demon brutality, could bear without going into emotional overload.

That didn’t mean, however, she was oblivious to the danger that continued to haunt her.

She had only to glance at Jagr’s tight expression to be reminded.

“What do you sense?” she whispered.

“We’re being watched.” Without even glancing in her direction (a seeming trend this evening), Jagr tugged two daggers from his boots and handed her one. “Here.”

Gingerly taking the dagger, she grimaced at the long, lethally sharp blade.

“Silver?”

“Yes. Try not to stick yourself.”

“I know where I’d like to stick it.”

Expecting a sharp response, Regan was caught off guard as Jagr slowly turned, his expression somber.