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him when he was done with Tearloch.

“The question, poppet, is not when I’ll return,” he taunted, “but whether I’ll return.”

There was a rattle of chains followed by a low, wholly feminine hiss of fury.

“Damn you.”

Chapter 3

London, England

Dusk shrouded the narrow streets of London as the two men halted near a high hedge.

One was a slender, impossibly beautiful man with skin the color of rich cream and long copper hair he kept tamed in a tight braid. He might have passed for human if not for the metallic shimmer to the sterling silver eyes, and thick scent of herbs that clung to his tattered robe, which blended into the green bushes behind him.

The other was equally slender, although he didn’t possess the same unearthly grace, or beauty. He was of an indeterminate age with high Slavic cheekbones, and an icy blue gaze that held a cunning intelligence. And under normal circumstances he was stylishly dressed in a Gucci suit with his shoulder-length silver hair smoothed from his narrow face.

But these were far from normal circumstances.

After nearly three weeks hiding in the Florida swamps, Sergei Krakov was tired, filthy, and wishing to the gods he’d never become involved with the child he held in his arms.

Well, at least he was home now, he silently attempted to ease his raw nerves, heaving a sigh as his gaze ran over the eighteenth-century terrace house near Green Park.

The historical society claimed the building had been designed by Robert Adam. And pedestrians often halted to gawk at the classic beauty of the aging bricks, the elegant portico, and the tall windows with carved stone swags set above them. A brave few had even attempted to catch a glimpse through the door at the carved marble staircases and grand rooms that were filled with Chippendale furniture and priceless works of art.

A mistake that often led to their deaths when Marika-the-vampire had used the house as her lair.

With a curse, Sergei shut down any thought of his previous mistress.

It wasn’t because he was horrified at the memory of watching the vampire female have her head chopped off by her own niece. After four centuries of being the bitch’s whipping boy, he was happy as hell to see her turned into a pile of ash.

But for all her vicious temper and addiction to causing pain, she had been a powerful partner in crime. What demon was stupid enough to cross a vampire who was teetering on the edge of insanity? She was definitely a “kill first and ask questions later” kind of gal.

Now he was without her protection, which might have been fine if he’d been allowed to escape the Russian caves without having to barter for his safe passage with yet another lunatic, this time a crazed Sylvermyst, and a child who had been created by the most evil of all evils.

Perfect.

On cue, Tearloch poked him with the tip of the massive sword he was never without. Not even in his sleep.

Which was the only reason that Sergei hadn’t tried to strangle the bastard before now.

Or turned him into a frog.

“What is this place?” the dark fey demanded.

“Civilization.” Sergei breathed in the damp air. Summer had arrived, but the fog remained. Ah, good ol’ London. “You’re welcome to skulk around in the filthy swamps, but I’ve had enough. I want a bath and a bed with satin sheets.”

“Pampered human,” Tearloch sneered, his gaze roaming over the line of tidy houses. “These walls make you weak.”

“Mage, not human,” Sergei corrected in cold tones, allowing the air to fill with a hint of his magic. “And I don’t need to live like an animal to prove my powers.” He deliberately paused. “Do I?”

The fey snorted, although he made no effort to prove his superiority.

At the moment the two men were precariously balanced between hate and need. One misstep and they would erupt into violence that might very well leave them both dead.

“Does Ariyal know of this lair?” he instead demanded.

“What does it matter?” Sergei shrugged. “The vamps are obviously holding him hostage or he would already have tracked us down.”

The silver eyes narrowed. “Don’t be so certain. There could be any number of reasons he has not yet come in pursuit.”

At last convinced that the house was empty and that no enemies lurked among the shadows, Sergei tucked the motionless child beneath his ragged jacket and crossed the street.

“If you’re scared of the traitor then feel free to return to the muck,” he muttered.

Predictably Tearloch was directly on his heels.

“I’m