Regan pressed a hand to her heart. It was bad enough that the cur was dead, and the powerful Salvatore missing, but poor Levet…
Christ, she should never have insisted that he accompany Duncan to that damn meeting.
She couldn’t seem to do anything without messing it up lately.
The Mess-Up Queen.
She should have a tiara and sash.
“It has to be Caine,” she muttered.
“That’s our assumption.”
“That bastard needs to have his ass kicked.”
Jagr shrugged, his hard muscles rippling beneath the tight black T-shirt.
Oy. He was edible.
Her mouth went dry.
“I believe Styx intends to nail his hide to the wall.”
“That’ll work.”
“Tane’s on the trail. I’m sure he’ll let Styx know if he discovers anything.” With a stiff nod, Jagr turned back toward the door.
Let him go, let him go, let him go…
“Are you leaving?” The words bypassed her brain and burst from her lips.
Once again, he grudgingly halted and turned. “I have my own lair. Or at least I did.” Without warning, that almost smile touched his lips, making her heart kick against her ribs. “The rats may have taken over while I was gone.”
Tentatively she moved toward him, half-afraid he might disappear into the night if she pressed too hard.
“They wouldn’t dare.”
He arched a golden brow. “You’re obviously unfamiliar with the rats native to Chicago. They fear no demon.”
“Perhaps no demon, but every creature fears an oversized Visigoth chief.”
His gaze deliberately skimmed over her pale face, lingering on the dark shadows beneath her eyes.
“Not every creature.”
“Well, I’ve never been very smart. If I had a brain, I’d no doubt be terrified.”
The stunning blue gaze lowered to her lips, his jaw clenching, as if in pain.
“I should go.”
Her hand lifted to touch him, only to hastily drop when he took a sharp step back.
“Will you be back?”
“Not unless Styx commands my presence.”
She swallowed the thick lump in her throat. “Oh.”
There was a tense, awkward silence that made Regan want to ram her head into the wall.
Before tonight she’d felt a lot of things when Jagr was near.
Fury, frustration, searing passion, and heart-melting tenderness.
Never, ever awkwardness.
What the hell had she done?
Slowly his gaze lifted to tangle with hers. “Do you intend to remain here?”
“No. I…” She gave a helpless shrug, unable to explain the stupid panic that attacked her each time Darcy tried to draw her deeper into their cozy clan. “No.”
“Where will you go?”
For all her determination to leave, she’d given remarkably little thought to the tedious details.
“I can’t go far. At least not until I’ve found a job and saved some money.”
His brows snapped together. Regan found herself pathetically pleased by the first real display of emotion.
“There’s no need for you to work…”
“Darcy’s already offered me money,” she hurriedly headed off his offer.
“Which you refused.”
“I’m not just being stubborn, Jagr.”
“Did I say you were?” he snapped.
“You didn’t have to,” she ruefully teased. “It was written in neon across your face.”
His scowl remained firmly intact. “Highly doubtful.”
She sighed, running a restless hand through her hair. “I want to see if I can make my way in the world like a normal person. Is that so astonishing?”
The brief glimpse of emotion was wiped away. Replaced by a coating of ice.
“You’ll never be a normal person.”
“Fine, like a normal demon.” She clenched her hands, wishing she could make someone, anyone, understand. “I need to know I can do it.”
“Who are you trying to convince, Regan?” he demanded, softly. “Me? Or yourself?”
“I’m trying to explain…” She shook her head. “Never mind.”
The tightening of his jaw was Jagr’s only response as he turned on his heel.
“I must go.”
“Jagr.”
“Dammit, Regan, what do you want from me?” he hissed, keeping his back to her.
A good question.
Unfortunately, she didn’t have a damned clue.
She only knew that watching him walk away was ripping out her heart.
“I…I want to thank you.”
He stiffened, still refusing to turn. “Thank me?”
“If it hadn’t been for you, I would have walked straight into the trap that Sadie set for me.”
“Somehow I doubt you would have been so easily captured,” he said dryly.
Her lips twisted. Her pride might want to believe his words, but she’d had plenty of time to consider her rash flight to Hannibal.
“I appreciate your confidence in my skills, but we both know I was so consumed with my need for revenge, I wasn’t thinking clearly. If it hadn’t been for you I…”
“I don’t need your gratitude, Regan,” he unexpectedly intruded, his voice harsh. “Just take care of yourself.”
And with that, he was wrenching open the door and disappearing into the waiting shadows.
Stunned by his abrupt departure, Regan grasped a nearby marble statue as her knees threatened to buckle.
Every instinct screamed at her to run after Jagr and wrap her arms around him. To beg him to toss her over his shoulder, and cart her to his hidden lair.
To…
With a crack loud enough to wake the dead, the arm of the statue snapped off in her hand. With a muttered curse, she hastily tossed the dismembered limb onto the floor.
“God, I’m such an idiot.”
Chapter 23
One month later…
The quaint pub near Wrigley Field was the trendy sort of place that attracted locals, as well as a number of tourists who came for the hot wings and stayed for the cold beer.
Regan had quite literally stumbled across the joint when she’d been on the search for a place to live, and before she knew it, she’d rented one of the retro-shabby apartments above the pub and was working as a dishwasher to supplement the money that Darcy had adamantly insisted she take before leaving the mansion.
Not that she regretted her choice.
The owner of the building and pub, Tobi Williams, was a tiny, thirty-something woman with short, spiky pink hair, dark eyes, and enough piercings to make a metal detector explode.
In many ways she reminded Regan of her sister. She was perky, incurably optimistic, and yet a shrewd enough businesswoman to have taken a dilapidated building she’d inherited from her father and turned it into a raging success.
She also had a heart as big as Chicago.
Within two days of Regan moving in, Tobi had not only offered her a job washing dishes, but she’d badgered and hounded Regan to allow her to sell the drawings that Regan had created to fill her long, lonely nights.
Regan had been reluctant at first.
The simple ink-on-canvas etchings of local streets and various tourist spots were more doodles than masterpieces. Who the hell would waste their hard-earned money on them?
Only a week later, however, Tobi had managed to sell ten of the smaller etchings and four of the larger ones, handing over a wad of cash that Regan had promptly stashed into her nest egg. Now she could barely keep up with the demand.
Stacking away the last of the dishes, Regan wiped down the stainless steel sinks. It was well past midnight and the kitchen had shut down an hour ago. The bar would stay open until three a.m., but Regan’s duties were done.
Still, she made no move to climb the back steps to her apartment.
It wasn’t that she didn’t love her new home, she grimly assured herself.
Granted it was small, with Brady Bunch furnishings and the constant smell of hot wings, but it was hers. Completely and utterly hers.
Proof positive of her independence.
Yippee kiyah.
Trying to shake her strange sense of melancholy, Regan jerked off the large apron that covered her cotton shorts and skimpy T-shirt. The Illinois weather had taken a turn toward spring, and standing in front of a hot, steaming sink for hours didn’t help. If it wouldn’t have shocked the natives, she would come to work wearing nothing.
She’d just tossed the apron into the laundry basket when the swinging doors were shoved open, and Tobi danced into the kitchen waving around a small business card.
“I told you, I told you, I told you,” she sang as she twirled to a halt directly in front of Regan.
Regan rolled her eyes at her friend’s antics. “Christ, Tobi, you’re making me dizzy.”
Tobi flashed her charming grin, looking about sixteen in her polka dot sundress that revealed her numerous tattoos.
“I told you.”
“Yes, well, you’ve told me that the old man who lives in 4B is actually an alien who missed his ride home on the mother ship. You told me that terrorists are training sharks to attack our beaches. And that your dead mother communicates to you through tea leaves,” Regan said dryly. “You’re going to have to be a bit more specific.”