The epic sound of glass shattering and hitting stone brought Erion bolting from the room that was to be the female's cell while she remained with him. His gaze went first to the guard who was staggering to his feet, cupping his balls, then to the window. That small, inconsequential window that had just allowed his prisoner to escape.

"Shit!"

No female, no balas.

Erion ignored the guard. Every predatory instinct inside him had ratcheted up to high. There was no way he could make it through the tiny crawl space; he was going to have to get outside the old-fashioned way. He tore up the stairs and down hall after hall until he reached the entryway. The light was dim, the candles nearly burned down, but he could see everything. His diamond eyes were useful in the dark. They would help him find her. They must. There was no way he was allowing his bargaining chip to escape. Panic flared inside him as he burst out the front door into the gentle rain. The boy needed him.

He sniffed the air. It wasn't easy to locate her direction in the mist. His nose was good, but it did not have the strength of Lycos's. That wolf mutore could scent a rabbit at a thousand feet in a tornado.

Scent pushed into Erion's eager nostrils and his body tensed. Ahhhh . . . There she was. His prisoner. He growled into the night and took off into the rows of sleeping grapevines. He wasn't sure what the female was-human or otherwise-but she couldn't flash; he knew that. And she had no vampire blood in her. Not yet anyway-not until she was reunited with her beloved.

He flash-ran, one stop to the next, row after row of vines, and toward the hillside, following her scent. The woman was running to Cruen for protection and mating. Cruen! Making Erion seem like the evil one. What a sick joke. In the valley between the hillocks, he stopped at a tree and ran his nose down the bark-covered trunk. What female in her right mind would agree to wed that bastard? Granted, she was a vile-tempered creature, but she was truly the most beautiful female he'd ever seen in his life. A face to die for, and a body to live for. She could stake claim to any male of her choosing, surely. Why that paven? A male so incapable of love?

Catching her scent again, he flashed over the hill, then to the outskirts of town. He stood atop the rise, his gaze panning the landscape, buildings, homes, and churches. This was human territory, and he needed to be cautious. The rain fell harder now, soaking through his clothes, causing his hair to lengthen and grow heavy, but it didn't mask the intense scent that shot up his nostrils.

It wasn't the woman, and it reminded him of Lycos. Canine. Dammit! He whirled around, flashed into the woods on the far side of the village. Where the hell had she gone? She couldn't have gotten far. He flashed again. Then again. He was dripping wet and spitting ire when he dropped down in a dark alleyway behind a pub in the village. He leaned back against the stone, cursing himself, cursing Cruen, when suddenly he caught her scent. It was mixed up in the scents of other animals, but he instantly took off toward it.

The village was quiet and dark, everyone tucked away, escaping the rain. Erion's insides shook as the woman's scent grew thicker, sweeter, inside his nostrils. He came to the edge of the church grounds and slowed. This is where she hid. He moved out of sight quickly, down the alley behind the church. He would have to come upon her without detection and attack without pity. He couldn't have her running away again.

Her scent continued to thicken with every step. It was a heady, delectable aroma that made his lower half stir, but he forced that disturbing realization away. She was bait, his bargaining chip to have Ladd back where he belonged, and he was nearly upon her. He rounded the corner, flashed ten feet ahead to the steps of the church, where he believed she took cover. But no woman stood before him, no female scream met his ears. There was only the yip of a canine whose tail was now lodged under Erion's boot.

"Damn it!" Erion stepped back and waved away the little brown-and-white beast who'd no doubt escaped his home in the village. "Get."

But the dog didn't run. He crouched down and growled.

Erion's gaze shifted to take in the churchyard beyond, then returned to the canine. "I have nothing for you, mongrel. Move on. Go back to the humans you belong to."

The dog growled again, then barked-three times in succession.

Something fell from its mouth. It was white against the black pavement. The rain quickly soaked it through, but Erion could tell it was a strip of fabric. He bent down, reached for it, but the dog snatched it back up and stood a foot away, his eyes wary.

Erion glared at the mongrel. "Come."

The animal growled again, then started to back away.

"Now, Beast," he ordered in his darkest, deepest voice. "Come to me."

The canine's eyes flashed before he bent his head and dropped the fabric into a growing puddle.

Erion watched the white strip disappear into the murky depths. Impossible, he mused. And yet . . . He glanced up, locked eyes with the dog. "You know where she is?"

The dog cocked his head to one side and yipped, then turned around and ran.

"It's like a bloody church service in here," Synjon said as he followed Lucian through the quiet, dimly lit house. "Where is everyone?"

"We've had a bit of bad luck recently."

Synjon grunted. "Welcome to the club."

"Where have you really been, Brit Boy?"

"Trying to off myself."

Lucian glanced over his shoulder, one pale eyebrow lifted sardonically. "Didn't take?"

"Sure it did. I'm a hologram."

Lucian chuckled and led Synjon into the library. "Well, you still have some fight left in you. That's good."

"Just enough for one kill." If I can just get to him.

Lucian dropped into a leather armchair and gestured for Syn to take the one opposite. But he didn't want to sit, couldn't sit. He had too much pent-up energy inside him. His hands clenched and unclenched, hungry for a weapon, and his mind urged him to plan, plot . . .

"I think I know the target," Lucian said with a grunt of satisfaction. "Mastermind, master manipulator, master fucking murderer. Cruen?"

Just the ruddy bastard's name set Syn's fangs on edge. "An easy guess, mate."

He paced back and forth in front of Lucian, his adrenaline at a fever pitch. Just like it had been for the past seven months. Ever since he'd left the South American rain forest, given Juliet's body over to the sun, then allowed himself to grieve in the arms of the veana who had saved his life when he'd wanted to end it and follow Juliet.

The veana who had left him while he slept.

Petra.

Crickey, just bringing her name to the surface of his mind made the guilt pulse inside him. Juliet's murderer was still out there, breathing . . . his only thought should be on how best to take that breath away.

"I've been in South America," Syn offered as he moved from one side of the room to the other. "I buried the one he killed."

"Juliet," Lucian said softly.

Pausing for a moment near the armchair, Synjon nodded. "Now it's Cruen's turn to be laid out in the sun. But I'm having a hard time getting to him."

Lucian nodded. "As are we."

"Is it revenge you seek for your imprisonment? Your Breeding Male status?"

"It is for the abduction of Ladd, the young balas."

Syn stopped pacing, his brows knit together in a frown. "He took a balas?"

"He would take, torture, or kill anything to further his cause," Lucian said, menace flashing in his almond gaze.

Cruen was truly a bug that needed to be crushed. "We will find him, Frosty. If we work together."

Lucian's mouth spread in a wicked grin. "I like when we're on the same side."

"Enjoy it. Who knows how long it's going to last?"

"You going to crash here? You're welcome."

Syn grunted, moved away from the Roman brother and toward the picture window. "I won't be sleeping, but yeah, I'll be here for a while. Until the deed is done and the blood is spilled."

"You going to be all right around my veana?"

Synjon turned to look at the paven, his head cocked to one side. "Maybe the question should be, Are you going to be all right with me around your veana?"

"I'm no charitable bastard, London, but you look like you could use all the friends you can get."

"I don't need friends," Synjon said, returning to the picture window and the view of a pair of late-night lovers sucking face across the street. "I need warriors."

Hellen's lungs expanded as she moved quickly through the dark village, the pain and pressure begging her to slow, but she ignored it. By this time, her sisters had to have arrived at Cruen's compound. The enchanted coach would've seen to it, made sure they reached their destination. Her fiance had to be pissed, and Hellen prayed the male wouldn't take it out on Levia and Polly. She had to get there, and her only chance now was returning to Hell and to her father.

She hadn't made the mistake of thinking the vampire wouldn't come after her. She knew he would. That male was determined to have her, determined to use her to get something back from Cruen. Or maybe it was just to punish him-the black-haired, crystal-eyed bloodsucker seemed to hate her betrothed.

Whatever the reason for his thievery, Hellen hadn't been about to wait around and see if he and her new mate could work things out. With a knee to the balls, she'd gotten her chance, and ran away from the castle as fast as she could manage. Rain soaked, she'd slipped through a cracked section of the gate, ripping her dress before heading for the hill and into the woods.

It had been a moderately rugged terrain and the rain and lack of light were no help, but she'd managed. Her only regret was that she didn't have her longbow. If the bloodsucker did manage to find her, it would come in handy. She'd make sure she got off a perfect shot.

Between the eyes.

No. Through the heart.

Did bloodsuckers have hearts?

Avoiding homes with lights blazing and heading back into the shadows, Hellen kept her body on high alert, her eyes, though relentlessly coated with rainwater, searching for the way back, the way home. Finding her way back to the Underworld and standing before Abbadon wouldn't be met well, but the Devil would be hard-pressed to blame her for the abduction-and if she was very lucky, maybe even praise her for escaping and returning home.

She hated the feeling that bloomed inside her when she thought of her father. He was the Demon King, vile and hated and cruel and without compassion-had sold his child to the highest bidder-and yet the need to feel his pride, even his love, had always been strong within her.

All of it was moot, though. She wasn't going anywhere if she couldn't find a portal, and she'd been searching for quite a while. The portals into the Underworld had been created by Abbadon in case one of his citizens found themselves aboveground. No one knew exactly where they were. There were many, and they were undetectable by humans-by anyone other than a demon. They released heat, attracted a demon's DNA, but so far Hellen had felt only the cold night and rain.

She wondered where the dark-haired bloodsucker was, how close he was, and if he would punish her greatly if he got his hands on her again.

A pinprick of lust shot through her.

Idiot, she thought, pushing on. Attracted to anger and power and unpredictability. Her father had raised her to respond to such prized qualities.

The small village was dark and quiet, except for the constant patter of the rain. She kept moving, down the streets, keeping to the shadows, desperate to feel the heat of home. After rounding the square for the third time, she started to think about the impending daylight. Perhaps she should go now, before dawn, abandon this village for the next.

But her thought, her burgeoning plan, dissolved in the sudden onslaught of warmth at her back. She whirled in its direction, sighed at its safe, familiar feeling. Rain continued to pelt her head, keep her clothes stuck to her skin, but she ran toward it, toward the small church and its graveyard beyond.

The closer she drew, the hotter the air and the rainwater became. It will be good to be home, she thought, entering the graveyard, even for a short time. No matter how horrible the place where you grew up, it still bore a strange comfort. She'd start afresh, acquire new vials of the draught that kept her sexual desire frozen, and have her father deliver her to Cruen in person.

Yes. It would all work out.

She would be what she was meant to be.

The willing sacrifice.

She wove in and out of the headstones, following the heat like a beacon. Her sisters would be safe and happy. Poor Polly and Levia. They had to be so frightened.

Sudden and nearly painful heat shocked her, and she came to a halt before a massive blue glow. Hellfire. It erupted from the grave of one Pierre Contrale. Relief moved through her and she rushed to the grave and nearly leaped inside the blue fire when a gritty, feral voice halted her.

The bloodsucker's mouth hovered close to her ear as the jagged tip of a knife met the small of her back.

"Take a step inside that flame, bitch, and you will know a slow and pain-filled death."