She was faster and stronger than humans, temperatures didn’t trouble her, she could see perfectly in the dark, and she had a remarkable ability to heal any wound not inflicted with silver.
Her feet briefly faltered. It was that ability to heal that had…
No. Not now.
She had to focus. She would grieve the past once Culligan was dead.
For the past ten hours she’d been on the imp’s trail, following his scent from St. Louis to the edge of Hannibal. She could almost taste her revenge when his trail mysteriously vanished on the outskirts of town. She didn’t know how the son of a bitch had managed to disappear into thin air, but it wasn’t going to stop her.
One way or another, she was finding the man who had held her captive for the past thirty years, and paying him back a hundredfold.
Not bothering to knock, Regan shoved open the door to the shack and stepped in. It was a cramped space, the walls covered with glossy pamphlets proclaiming all the wondrous sights to see in Hannibal, and one narrow window that overlooked the park.
At first glance the place looked empty, but Regan didn’t miss the cigarette smoke that hung in the air. Moving to the Formica counter at the far end of the room, she banged on the small silver bell.
There was the muffled sound of cursing, then a door behind the counter was shoved open, and a shaggy head poked out.
“Yeah?” The boy, who couldn’t have been more than eighteen, with a nose too big for his narrow face, stiffened as his pale eyes skimmed over Darcy’s long, golden blond hair and down her slender body. Slowly they lifted to study the green eyes that dominated her pale heart-shaped face. A goofy smile curved his lips as he stepped into the room and leaned against the counter. “Helloooo. What’s up?”
“I’m looking for a friend.”
“You just found him, doll. Give me ten minutes to lock up, and I’m all yours.”
As if.
Regan resisted the urge to smash the overlarge nose, barely. Instead, she pulled out the folded page she had ripped from a magazine before leaving St. Louis.
“Have you seen an RV that looks like this?”
The kid barely glanced at the picture. “Do I look like that freak from Monk? I take the money, I give them a card to put on their dash, and that’s the end of it. I don’t give a shit what their RV looks like.”
“You would have noticed this one. The driver has long red hair and eyes like a cat. He’s very…distinctive.”
“There’s no one here who doesn’t have gray hair and dentures.” The boy shuddered. “I have nightmares that one day I’ll look out there and nothing will be left but corpses and rotting RVs.”
“Charming.”
The goofy smile widened. “You could take my mind off the nasty geriatrics and their imminent death. I have a cot in the back.”
Regan once again eyed the protruding beak. Targets didn’t come more tempting. Unfortunately, she couldn’t afford to attract attention. Humans always made such a fuss over bit of blood and a few broken bones.
“Not even if you came giftwrapped,” she muttered, turning to leave.
“Hey…”
Whatever he had to say was cut off as Regan slammed the door and jogged toward the nearby road leading into Hannibal.
This was the last RV park in the area. Her only hope now was that she could pick up Culligan’s trail somewhere in town.
He couldn’t have just vanished.
Not only was Culligan a greedy sadist, but he was also a pathetic imp. Unlike many of his kind, he didn’t have the skill to create portals to travel. Hell, he could barely form a hex.
Which meant he was either in his RV, or on foot.
Five hours later, she’d jogged through every street in town, finding nothing more than the usual drunken humans and a handful of sprites dancing in the gathering fog.
Damn. She was hungry, weary to the bone, and in no condition to battle Culligan, even if she did run across him. As much as it ticked her off, it was time to call it a night.
Angling back toward the main highway that snaked through town, Regan ignored the scent of food that wafted from the few fast-food restaurants that remained open. She had stolen money from Salvatore before leaving St. Louis, but it would only last so long. For now she preferred the protection of four walls and a locked door while she slept to easing the empty ache in her belly.
She returned to the hotel that she’d booked earlier (one of a dozen that had Mark Twain emblazoned in the name), in the hopes she would need a place to stash a beaten and bloody imp. That hope was shot to hell for the moment, but at least she could look forward to a hot shower and clean bed.
Keeping her head lowered, she limped across the nondescript lobby, nodding toward the nondescript front desk clerk, and climbing the nondescript stairs. No matter how tired she might be, she wasn’t willing to enter the elevator. She’d been trapped the majority of her life in a tiny silver cell. Not an act of God, or a promised date with the Jonas Brothers could haul her back into one.
She reached the fifth floor, absently rubbing her arms as a chill crawled over her. Strange. She never felt the cold. Obviously, she was even more tired than she thought.
Halting at her door, she slid her card into the lock and pressed it open. It wasn’t until steely arms wrapped about her that she realized the danger.
Shit. The cold prickling over her skin wasn’t from the temperature, it was from a damned vampire. And she had waltzed into his arms as if she didn’t have any more sense than a freaking human.
Momentarily frozen with shock, Regan was abruptly catapulted into action as the vampire kicked shut the door and attempted to drag her further into the dark room.
Calling upon her waning strength, Regan pretended to slump in her attacker’s arms, pulling them far enough downward so that when she abruptly slammed her head backward, she managed to hit him flush in the face.
There was a muffled curse, but the arms holding her hostage didn’t loosen. In fact, they tightened with a brutal force, hiking her closer as the heavy body slammed her to the carpeted floor, landing on top of her and knocking the air from her lungs.
She was well and truly trapped, but that didn’t stop her from struggling. Okay, it was more like a fish futilely flopping on the bank of a river. Still, it made her feel like she was doing something. Just like she used to taunt and mock Culligan, despite the fact that he was bound to beat the hell out of her for it.
“What do you want?” she gritted. “Tell me now or I swear I’ll stake you.”
A dark, utterly male chuckle whispered over her face. “And they claim I have no social skills.” There was a pause, and Regan sensed the vampire’s mind reach out to brush against hers. “Hold still.”
She tried to free a leg so she could knee him in the nuts. “That shit doesn’t work on me, vampire.”
He growled low in his throat. “Regan, stop this. I don’t want to hurt you.”
Regan stilled in shock. “How do you know my name?”
There was a prickle of power, and suddenly the lamp beside the bed flared with light.
“I was sent by Darcy to bring you to Chicago.”
Regan barely heard the low, slightly raspy words. Holy…crap.
She was a woman who’d spent her life surrounded by demons, many who could make GQ models weep with envy, but none could compare to the vampire currently lodged on top of her.
A delicious, heart-stopping, edible hunk of eye candy.
His body was hard and chiseled with more muscles than any man had a right to possess. His long hair, two shades a paler gold than hers, was pulled into a tight braid, emphasizing the ice-blue eyes. His features appeared to be carved from the finest marble, the lines and angles so perfect they could only have been formed by the hand of a master. His nose was aquiline, his cheekbones angular beneath the smooth ivory skin, his brow wide, and his lips…they were hard, but precisely chiseled. The sort of lips that made a woman wonder what they would feel like exploring hot, intimate places.
A shocking heat clenched her lower muscles, infuriating Regan. Christ, the demon was here at the bidding of her interfering sister, not to offer relief to a lonely, sex-starved Were.
Not that she would spread her legs, even if this was just a random encounter, she sternly told herself. Okay, he was hot enough to make her bones melt, and the scent of raw male power was making her head dizzy, but…
Stop it, you idiot. This wasn’t a man. He was a lethal vampire who could drain her dry in a heartbeat.
“Darcy sent you?” she snapped.
The frozen blue eyes narrowed, his nose flaring as if catching scent of her stupid awareness. Which was ridiculous. Wasn’t it?
“Yes.”
“Well, who died and made her queen?” she mocked.
“The Anasso.”
Regan blinked in confusion. “What?”
His gaze briefly swept over her pale face before lifting to clash with her uneasy glare.
“You asked who died to make Darcy queen,” he retorted. “Her mate Styx killed the previous King of Vampires, which made him the current leader, and your sister queen.”
Well, of course she was a freaking queen.