Torture.

The Dutch masterpieces hanging on the walls crashed to the floor at Jagr’s flare of fury.

“Do you wish the Were rescued?”

Styx grimaced. “Salvatore already freed her from Culligan, although the damned imp managed to slip away before Salvatore could eat him for dinner.”

Jagr’s brief flare of hope that the night wasn’t a total waste was brought to a sharp end. Slaughtering bastards who tormented the weak was one of his few pleasures.

“If the woman was rescued, why do you need me?”

Styx straightened, his bulk consuming a considerable amount of the office space.

“Salvatore’s only interest in Regan was installing her as his queen and primary breeder. He is determined to secure his power base by providing a mate who is capable of restoring the purebloods’ dwindling population. Unfortunately, once he freed Regan, he discovered she was infertile.”

“So she was of no use.”

“Precisely.” The towering Aztec was careful to keep his composure, but even an idiot could sense he wouldn’t mind making a snack of the Were king. “That is why he contacted Darcy. He intended to send Regan to Chicago so she could be under my protection until he established her in the St. Louis Were pack.”

“And?”

“And she managed to escape while he was conferring with the local pack master.”

Jagr grunted in disgust. “This Salvatore is pathetically inefficient. First he allows the imp to escape, and then the woman. It’s little wonder the Weres are declining in number.”

“Let us hope you are more efficient.”

Jagr rose to his feet, his expression cold. “Me?”

“Darcy is concerned for her sister. I want her found and brought to Chicago.”

“The woman has made it fairly obvious she doesn’t want to come.”

“Then it will be your job to convince her.”

Jagr narrowed his gaze. He wasn’t a damned Mary Poppins. Hell, he would eat Mary Poppins for breakfast.

“Why me?”

“I’ve already sent several of my best trackers to St. Louis, but you’re my finest warrior. If Regan has managed to run into trouble, you will be needed to help rescue her.”

There were no doubt worse things than chasing after a genetically altered Were who clearly didn’t want to be found, but he couldn’t think of one off the top of his head.

In the outer room, the sounds of a string quartet resumed, along with soft “ohhs” and “ahhs” from the audience as the dew fairies continued their delicate dance. Jagr could suddenly think of one thing worse than chasing after the Were.

Remaining trapped in this hellhole.

“Why should I do this?” he rasped.

“Because what makes Darcy happy makes me happy.” Styx moved until they were nose to nose, his power digging into Jagr’s flesh. “Clear enough?”

“Painfully clear.”

“Good.” Styx stepped back and released his power. Slipping his hand beneath his leather coat, he pulled out a cell phone and tossed it to Jagr. “Here. The phone has the numbers of the brothers who are searching for Regan, as well as contacts in St. Louis. It also has my private line. Contact me when you find Regan.”

Jagr pocketed the phone and headed for the door. There was no point in arguing. Styx was struggling to force the vampires out of their barbaric past, but it wasn’t a freaking democracy.

Not even close.

“I will leave within the hour.”

“Jagr.”

Halting at the door, Jagr turned with a searing fury. “What?”

Styx didn’t so much as flinch. “Do not forget for one moment that Regan is precious cargo. If I discover you have left so much as a bruise on her pretty skin, you won’t be pleased with the consequences.”

“So I’m to track down a rabid Were who doesn’t want to be found, and haul her to Chicago without leaving a mark?”

“Obviously the rumors of your extraordinary intelligence were not exaggerated, my brother.”

With a hiss, Jagr turned and stormed through the shattered opening. “I’m not your brother.”

Viper monitored Jagr’s furious exit with a wary gaze.

Actually it hadn’t gone as bad as he had feared. No death or mutilation. Not even a maiming.

Always a plus.

Still, he knew Jagr too well. Of all his clansmen, he had always known that the ancient Visigoth was the most feral. Understandable after what he’d endured, but no less dangerous. He was beginning to regret having brought the tortured vampire to Styx’s attention.

Slipping past the seated demons who were once again enthralled with the dew fairies, Viper returned to the office, finding Styx staring out the window.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” he muttered, his gaze taking in his priceless paintings, lying shattered on the floor.

Styx turned, his arms folded over his chest. “A premonition? Shall I contact the Commission and inform them they have a potential Oracle?”

Viper arched a warning brow. “Only if you want me to lock you in a cell with Levet for the next century.”

Styx gave a sharp bark of laughter. “A nice bluff, but Levet has decided that he is the only one capable of tracking Darcy’s missing sister. He left for St. Louis as soon as Salvatore informed me that Regan had slipped from his grasp.”

“Perfect, now we have two loose cannons charging about Missouri. I’m not sure the natives will survive.”

“You believe Jagr is a loose cannon?”

Viper grimaced, recalling the night that Jagr had appeared at his lair requesting asylum. He had encountered any number of lethal demons, most of whom wanted nothing more than to kill him. He’d never, however, until that night, looked into the eyes of another and seen only death.

“I think beneath all that grim control, he’s a step from slipping into madness.”

“And yet you allowed him to become a clansman.”

Viper shrugged. “When he petitioned, my first inclination was to refuse. I could sense he was not only dangerously close to the edge, but that he was powerful and aggressive enough to challenge me as clan chief. He’s a leader by nature, not a follower.”

“So why allow him into Chicago?”

“Because he swore an oath to disappear into his lair and not offer any trouble.”

“And?” Styx prodded.

“And I knew he wouldn’t survive if he were without the protection of a clan,” Viper grudgingly admitted. “We both know that despite your attempts to civilize the vampires, some habits are too deeply ingrained to be easily changed. A rogue vampire with that much power would be seen as a threat to any chief. He would be destroyed.”

“So you took mercy.”

Viper frowned. He didn’t like being thought of as anything but a ruthless bastard. He hadn’t become clan chief because of any sensitivity bullshit. He was leader because the other vampires were scared he’d rip out their undead hearts.

“Not mercy—it was a calculated decision,” he growled. “I knew if the need ever arose, he would prove an invaluable ally. Of course, I assumed that I would need him as a warrior, not as a babysitter for a young, vulnerable Were. I’m not entirely comfortable sending him on such a mission.”

Styx grasped the medallion that always hung about his neck, revealing he was not nearly as confident in his decision as he would have Viper believe.

“I need Regan found, and Jagr has the intelligence and skills that are best suited to track her and keep her safe. And he possesses an even more important quality.”

“It can’t be his sparkling personality.”

“No, it’s his intimate knowledge of the anguish Regan has suffered.” Styx regarded him with a somber expression. “He, better than any of us, will understand what Regan needs now that she has been freed from her tormentor.”

Chapter 1

The campground a few miles south of Hannibal, Missouri, was like any other campground.

Oversized RVs parked on the barren ground, a row of portable potties in the back, and a small shack near the front entrance where the humans paid for the privilege of being crammed next to people they wanted to throttle by the end of their vacation.

Regan Garrett knew all about the throttling thing firsthand.

Granted, she wasn’t human, but she had spent the majority of her life in one campground or another. They were breeding grounds for homicide.

Indifferent to the threat of impending mass murder, Regan swiftly jogged through the neat columns of RVs. She had deliberately waited until it was late enough that the old folks would have their dentures in a glass and their wrinkled asses in bed, while the younger parents would be comatose after a day of unrelieved suffering at the hands of their children.

Midnight in Hannibal, and not a creature was stirring.

Reluctantly, she turned to jog back toward the shack that had its door closed against the late March air. The chill didn’t trouble Regan, despite the fact she was wearing nothing more than a pair of jeans and a sleeveless knit top. She might not possess the ability to shift or procreate, but she did have most of the werewolf’s talents.