Damned dog.
“Then why are you covered in mud?” the King demanded.
“Do you not have anything better to do than barbeque me?”
“Barbeque?” Salvatore’s brows snapped together. “Cristo, it’s grill, not barbeque.”
“Barbeque…grill…what is the difference?” Levet huffed. “Now put me down.”
“You still haven’t explained the mud.” Salvatore leaned his head down to suck in a deep breath. “Or the fact that you reek of water sprite.”
Levet folded his arms over his chest. “Hey, a gargoyle has to have some fun.”
“Meaning that you allowed yourself to be distracted,” Salvatore growled.
“There might have been the tiniest bit of distraction, but nothing could get by me, that I assure you.”
“We shall see.”
With a flip of his hand, Salvatore rudely dropped Levet back to the ground and turned to make his way easily up the steep bank. Stumbling behind with all the grace of a drunken sailor, Levet shifted through his mind for some spell that would shrink a Were’s balls to marbles.
In the distance, he could smell the scent of Salvatore’s curs spread throughout the surrounding woods, and something else. Something that smelled like…blood.
“Cristo,” Salvatore muttered, bolting toward the small cabin with a speed that Levet couldn’t hope to match.
“What?” Huffing and puffing, Levet at last reached the open door. “What is it?”
Kneeling beside a lifeless cur that was fully shifted into wolf form, Salvatore turned his head to stab Levet with a glowing gaze.
“Nothing can get by you?” he growled. “How do you explain this?”
“Mon Dieu,” Levet breathed, stepping onto the bare wooden floor, although he stayed far away from the corpse.
Salvatore touched the cur’s head in a soft benediction. “Duncan, I presume?”
“Oui.” Levet’s stomach twisted. He hadn’t liked the treacherous cur, but he would never have wished this on him. “He was fine just an hour ago.”
“How long?”
“Well, perhaps it was closer to two or three hours ago.”
“Worthless demon,” Salvatore growled, returning his attention to the dead dog.
Levet flapped his wings. He wasn’t taking the fall for this disaster. Even if he was responsible.
“Do I look like one of your sniveling curs?” he demanded. “No, I do not. I am here only as a favor to Regan, and if you think I am going to stand here and be insulted by a lice-infested, mangy dog, then you have another thing…”
“Shut up, and come here,” Salvatore interrupted.
“Arrogant bastard.”
“Levet.”
Throwing up his hands, Levet waddled across the floor. “I am coming. Do not get your thong in a bunch.”
Slashing him an impatient frown, Salvatore pointed at the lifeless cur.
“How did he die?”
Levet’s tail twitched, warily wondering if the King had taken a recent blow to the head.
“Well, this is only a guess, but it might have something to do with that huge silver dagger sticking in his heart.”
Salvatore hissed as he yanked the dagger free and tossed it across the barren room.
“If he’d been killed by silver, he would have shifted back to human form. He was already dead when someone stuck the dagger in his heart.”
Levet frowned. “Why would someone stick a dagger into a dead cur?”
“I’m more interested in how he died.”
Holding out his hands, Levet circled the main room of the cabin, pausing at the stone fireplace, as well as the wooden table and chairs that were the only furniture.
“There’s no hex marks or magic, at least not a spell directed at him.” Sensing a faint tingle in the air, Levet hopped onto one of the chairs and grabbed the half-empty glass of wine that was left in the center of the table. “Can a cur be poisoned?”
Flowing to his feet, Salvatore studied the bottle of wine with a frown.
“Where did that come from?” he demanded.
“It was sitting on the table, along with the two glasses, when we arrived.” Levet shuddered as the air thickened with Salvatore’s power. “What is it?”
With glowing eyes, Salvatore pointed toward the hidden door that was swinging open near the fireplace.
“A trap.”
A low, mocking laugh floated through the night. “And here I thought the King of Weres was all fangs and no brains.”
Chapter 21
Drifting in some weird stage between sleep and vague awareness, Regan shifted on the wide bed and reached her hand out.
“Jagr?”
Her voice was no more than a ragged whisper, but there was a movement to the side, and the edge of the mattress dipped down as someone settled next to her.
“Not Jagr, I’m afraid. Just a sister who has longed to meet you.”
Cracking her eyes open a bare slit, Regan stilled as she caught sight of the tiny heart-shaped face that was all too familiar.
Christ.
The woman looked just like her. Same blond hair, although Darcy’s was cut short and spiked. The same green eyes. The same slender body. Even the same stubborn line of their jaw.
Twins without a doubt, but Regan suspected that the two of them would never be mistaken for one another.
It would take only a glance at Darcy’s serene expression and sweet smile to recognize the difference.
There was nothing serene or sweet about Regan.
Careful not to jar her aching head, Regan scooted up the pile of pillows and glanced around the gold and ivory room that seemed to go on forever.
Holy crap.
Everything was big.
Big and shiny.
Polished marble walls. Gilded furnishings. Cut crystal chandeliers. Hell, there was enough glitz and glitter to please Elton John.
Obviously Darcy liked her bling.
Regan…well, not so much.
Maybe it was her years of living in a trashy RV, but she felt unnerved lying beneath the cupids that danced across the vaulted ceiling. Talk about Versailles overkill.
“Where am I?”
Seeming almost as out of place among the elegance as Regan felt, Darcy tucked her feet beneath her as she settled more comfortably on the mattress. Certainly she didn’t dress like a queen. Not with those faded jeans and oversized T-shirt.
“Styx brought you to Chicago so you could heal in safety.”
“This is your home?”
“Yes.” Darcy chewed her bottom lip, studying Regan’s tight expression. “Please don’t be angry with Styx. He only did what he thought best.”
Yeah, big surprise there. Regan had known she was going to be hauled to Chicago the moment she called Styx and requested his help.
Everything had a price.
That didn’t mean she had to like it.
“And he didn’t consider asking my opinion?” she demanded dryly.
“You’ve spent the past few days in the company of a vampire.” Darcy wrinkled her nose. “When do they ever ask for another’s opinion?”
Well, hell, how could she argue with that logic? She rolled her eyes.
“I suppose there’s always a chance hell will freeze over.”
“A very remote chance.”
Regan tilted her chin. “He should have at least waited until I was conscious.”
Reaching out, Darcy grasped Regan’s hand in a warm grasp. “The blame is mine, Regan. Styx knew how desperate I was to have you here, and he doesn’t mind trampling over anyone in his quest to please me. I swear, a mated vampire should have to wear a blinking warning sign for the safety of others.”
Mated vampire.
The image of a huge, blond, ruthlessly beautiful Visigoth chief scorched through her mind.
Regan flinched. She’d tried so hard to ignore the looming thoughts of Jagr.
So stupid.
He was a two hundred and fifty pound gorilla squatting smack-dab in the middle of her brain. She wouldn’t be able to concentrate on anything until she knew he was all right.
“I suppose Jagr is here as well?” She tossed out the words as if she couldn’t care less.
“Jagr?” Darcy frowned at the unexpected question. “Actually, I think he stayed in Hannibal to try and discover if Salvatore has any clues to finding our sister.”
“Oh.” Her gut twisted with disappointment. He wasn’t even in Chicago. She hadn’t seen that coming.
As if sensing Regan’s distress, Darcy tugged a rolling table closer to the bed, and whipped aside the linen cloth that was covering it.
“I brought a tray. I thought you might be hungry after your healing.”
“I’m starving,” Regan admitted, knowing she needed to eat to regain her strength. Turning her head toward the tray, she grunted in disbelief. “Good God.”
Darcy laughed. “I wasn’t sure what you wanted.”
Regan studied the mounds of eggs, ham, pancakes, fresh fruit, toast, fried potatoes, sausage links, and warm biscuits.
“So you brought everything?”
“I want you to feel at home, Regan.”
