Salvatore was on instant alert. “What?”
Before his companion could answer, the sound of Caine’s voice echoed through a speaker set in the corner of the ceiling.
“I did warn you, sweet Harley,” the cur mocked. “I wanted to keep you out of this, but you wouldn’t listen.”
“No…” She pounded her fists against the steel door. “Caine.”
“Harley, what the hell is going on?” Salvatore demanded.
“Damn you.” She pointed a finger toward Salvatore. “This is all your fault.”
Salvatore snorted. His fault? He was locked in a damned silver cage in the middle of nowhere, and it was his fault?
It wasn’t until he caught the first whiff of gas that he at last understood Harley’s outrage.
Something was being pumped into the basement.
Something powerful enough to make his knees buckle and the world go black.
Although the large wooden cabin was less than fifty miles north of St. Louis, it would have taken more than a GPS to find the house.
Not only was there acres of thick trees and a high fence that protected the estate, there was also a spell of Concealment that had been woven by the local coven of witches. If that wasn’t enough, there were large lethal wolves that prowled the outer perimeter and ate anyone who accidentally stumbled too close.
Caine had deliberately chosen this cabin to hide his unconscious prisoners. Beyond being close enough to his previous lair not to have to worry about Salvatore waking up prematurely, it was his most heavily guarded compound.
He could no longer trust Harley, or what she had told him.
If someone had been with Salvatore, then he wanted to make damned certain they couldn’t follow.
No one, absolutely no one, could sneak up on him here.
Of course, he would feel a great deal happier if he weren’t currently standing in the cramped tunnels that ran beneath the estate. He was tired, stressed on an epic scale, and in no humor to meet with the ancient Were who stood in the depths of the shadows, his eyes glowing an eerie crimson and his body wrapped in a heavy cape.
Christ, the man was nasty. Caine shivered, for the first time realizing that rather than the usual heat that radiated from Weres, the air was filled with an unpleasant chill.
Like his companion was a damned corpse.
Or a bloodsucker.
Clearing the fear from his throat, Caine tilted his chin. The Were had demanded this meeting the moment Caine had revealed that he had captured Salvatore. He had no idea how the Were had arrived so swiftly, and in truth, he didn’t want to know. But since his arrival, the arrogant dog had done nothing but complain and criticize.
Typical.
The bastard was never satisfied with Caine’s efforts.
Which was precisely why Caine tried to limit the number of reunions to one or two a decade.
“I told you I would take care of Salvatore and I did,” he said, tired of being a whipping boy for the Weres.
“You also promised you would make sure that he didn’t find the female Weres until I was prepared to act,” his companion taunted, his voice oddly hoarse, as always.
“It wasn’t my fault.”
“It never is.”
Caine’s skin prickled as he battled against his snarling wolf. When he was tense, it was always more difficult to control his shifts.
“If you think you can do better, then you take him.”