“When you find the pack, do not approach them,” Jagr warned. “I don’t want them spooked before I discover why they were shooting at us, and what connection they have to the imp.”
“Fine, but I expect payment for trailing after a bunch of stinking curs.”
Jagr grasped one of the stunted horns and hauled Levet up to glare into his wide eyes.
“Your payment is that you get to keep your wings. Understood?”
“Hey, let go.”
Jagr dropped the demon back to the ground. “Don’t return until you’ve found the curs.”
“Goth bully.” With a flick of his tail, Levet turned to waddle away.
Jagr grimaced. No doubt both Darcy and Shay would rake him over the coals when he returned to Chicago. They possessed a bizarre fondness for the gargoyle. But for the moment, all he cared about was finding the curs and ending their threat to Regan.
At his side, Regan raked a glance over his large body. “Why does he keep calling you a Goth? I’d say you’re more…ghetto chic.”
Ghetto chic?
“I was once a Visigoth chief.”
“Christ.” Her eyes widened in shock. “Exactly when did you get changed into a vampire?”
With a flinch, Jagr turned to enter the cave, the bags of clothing banging against his legs. The night of his turning was something he never discussed.
Not with anyone.
With a snort of disgust at his retreat, Regan followed on his heels.
“Hello, Mr. Freeze. What the hell are you doing now?”
“I need to speak with Salvatore.”
The elegant bedroom in the St. Louis mansion was a decadent feast for the senses. Gold-veined marble walls reflected the glow of the priceless chandelier, the lacquer furniture was designed for accommodating the most adventurous sexual fantasies, and even the high ceiling was painted with naughty satyrs seducing Rubenesque angels.
Lying in the middle of the Olympic-sized bed drenched in gold satin and black velvet, Salvatore Giuliani was jerked from his fleeting pleasure by the persistent buzz of his private cell phone.
His hand reached for the phone even as the woman straddling his na**d body prepared to impale herself on his stiff erection.
“Don’t answer it,” the beautiful cur with long crimson hair and pale green eyes moaned, her lips trailing over his chest. “Please, lover.”
“Get off, Jenna,” he growled, his golden brown eyes glowing as the wolf inside him stirred with anger.
“Call them back later.”
“Get the hell off.”
With a sweep of his arm, Salvatore knocked the cur aside, rising from the bed in one smooth motion.
“Bastard,” Jenna rasped, sprawled spread-eagle across the rumpled sheets, her eyes sparkling with excitement at his rough treatment.
“You have no idea,” Salvatore drawled.
Turning his back on the woman, he reached for the phone, his brows drawing together at the unfamiliar number. Only a handful of people were allowed to dial his private line. Those who called without permission usually found themselves missing their throat. And occasionally their spleen. Flipping open the phone, he held it to his ear. “Who is this?”
“Jagr.” The cold, dark voice was edged with the revolting arrogance that was as much a part of a vampire as his fangs. Filthy leeches. “I was sent by Styx to retrieve the Were.”
“Did you find her?”