“You’re a cold-blooded and heartless bastard, leech.”

“Roke.”

She frowned as his disembodied voice floated through the air. “What?”

“My name is Roke, not leech.”

Roke walked away despite the annoying urge to turn around and release Sally Grace from the barren cell.

Dammit, what was wrong with him?

Okay, the female was pretty. Astonishingly pretty. He’d known that from the moment he’d caught sight of her in the dungeon’s monitor. So what? Weren’t there thousands of women who were far more beautiful? Certainly they were all more charming.

The spiteful little witch had the tongue of a shrew and the temperament of a rattlesnake.

Then why did he have to force his feet to carry him out of the dungeons?

It had to be because she managed to look so pale and young and defenseless, he grimly reassured himself, grimacing as he entered the marble hallway. There was a part of him that was an instinctive protector of the weak. Perhaps it was natural to be bothered by the sight of such a small, fragile creature locked in the cells that were a level beneath the original dungeons and devised for only the most dangerous of Styx’s enemies.

A nice explanation.

Unfortunately it didn’t explain why he’d been so fascinated by the warm scent of peaches that seemed to cling to her skin. Soap? Perfume?

Or the jolt of arousal that had slammed into him when he’d allowed his gaze to trail down to her slender body, which was curved in all the right places.

He growled low in his throat. He didn’t want to be aroused by the female. Not only because she was a witch. Vampires hated magic and magic users. All magic users. Or even because she’d been a toady for the Dark Lord.

Roke was male enough to understand that his cock didn’t give a shit about the race, religion, species, or moral integrity of a potential lover. It responded to primitive needs that were disconnected from his brain.

But he’d learned long ago that only a fool gave in to his passions. Especially when it involved an unworthy female.

These days he was very selective about the women he took to his bed. He wanted a female he could respect and who understood his duty to his clan. One he could depend on not to make demands.

“And I thought I had piss-poor people skills,” a deep voice drawled.

“You do,” Roke retorted, watching the massive Aztec step through an open door to block his path.

The Anasso was casually dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt, his hair pulled into a long braid, but there was nothing casual in the heavy, pulsing power that filled the air.

Roke clenched his hands. He was too alpha not to react to the unspoken challenge in the air, although he was wise enough to keep his instincts tightly leashed.

Styx narrowed his dark eyes. “Is this mood because I asked you to keep an eye on our prisoner, or because she’s a witch?”

“I’m not a nanny,” he growled, not about to admit the arousal that continued to plague him.

Styx’s lips twitched. “Thank the gods.”

“I’m glad one of us finds this amusing.”

“You’re stuck here for now,” the king pointed out. “You can snap and snarl like a rabid hellhound or you can accept your fate with a little grace.”

Grace?

Roke hadn’t wanted to come to Chicago in the first place, but the Anasso had insisted they needed his rare talent for reading prophecies. Then, just when he was preparing to return to his clan in Nevada, the prophet, Cassandra, had claimed to have seen him in one of her visions.

Now he was stuck in this godforsaken palace of marble and gilt, so bored out of his mind that he was beginning to imagine he could be attracted to a pint-sized witch.

“Just because that damned prophet—”

“Careful, Roke,” Styx interrupted, his power edged with pinpricks of warning. “That ‘damned prophet’ is part of my family.”

Cassandra was the sister to Styx’s mate, Darcy. Both pure-blooded Weres, but well-deserving of respect.

“I, like everyone, revere the prophet. But, just because she saw me in one of her visions, the gods only know how long ago, doesn’t mean I have to be trapped in Chicago,” he clarified.

“Trapped?”

His fangs ached. He needed to bite something.

Or someone.

Perhaps a tiny female with hair the color of autumn, rich brown eyes, and the sweet scent of peaches . . .

No, dammit.

He turned to glare at the Mary Cassatt painting framed on the wall. Not that he could disguise his unease from Styx. The ancient vampire wasn’t the Anasso just because he had the biggest sword.

“I need to be with my clan.”

“Cassandra doesn’t have random visions,” Styx reminded him with a growing impatience. “It has to be important.”

Roke shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “Your lair isn’t the center of the universe. Something important could just as easily happen in Nevada.”

There was a long pause and Roke could physically feel the weight of Styx’s searching gaze.

“Roke, is there something going on I should know about?” he asked. “Some reason you’re so eager to leave?”

“I’ve wanted to leave since the day I got here,” he reminded his companion, there was enough truth in his words to divert the persistent vampire. “Besides, the prophet hasn’t had another vision. Maybe whatever is supposed to happen is years away.”

“Until we know what the danger is, I won’t allow you to be without our protection.”

“I’ve been taking care of myself for a very long time,” he muttered.

“Now you have us.”

“Lucky me.”

Styx slammed a hand on his shoulder. “Damn straight.”

Nefri ignored Santiago as she moved with blinding speed out of the kitchen and up the narrow stairs.

No, that was not entirely true.

Who could ignore a six-foot-plus male who was only a step behind her as she made her way down the narrow hall? Especially when he was nearly quivering with the need to pull her behind him and take the lead. A typical male with a big sword and bigger ego who always wanted to be in charge.

Or maybe he merely wanted to protect her, a renegade voice whispered in the back of her mind.

A voice that she easily crushed as the stench of rotting flesh became nearly overwhelming.

“Dios,” Santiago muttered. “What has that gargoyle done?” Levet abruptly stepped around a corner, his gray skin an ashen shade in the moonlight. “I did nothing beyond locate a room hidden behind a spell of illusion,” he said, defending himself.

Santiago made a sound of disgust. “That’s why we didn’t catch the stench miles away.”

Nefri muttered an ancient curse, infuriated by the knowledge she’d allowed Santiago’s arrival to distract her. She’d been too long behind the Veil. The constant peace and sense of security had dulled her senses and made her sloppy. “I should have searched for illusions the moment I arrived,” she chastised herself.

“Ah yes, I forgot that little talent,” Santiago drawled, referring to her rare ability to break through lesser spells.

“I wish I had left the illusion in place.” Levet shifted uneasily, his wings drooping. “I do not believe you want to see what has been done, ma chérie.”

Nefri was certain he was right. The smell alone was enough to make her stomach clench. And there was something else. Something as dark and ancient as time.

But she’d been sent by the Oracles for a reason. She couldn’t turn her back on her duty.

“Merci, Levet, but I must know what’s happened.”

“A massacre,” the tiny gargoyle breathed, reluctantly stepping aside as Nefri rounded the corner and moved toward the open door.

She’d barely reached the edge of the threshold when Santiago was angling to put his body between her and whatever was waiting inside, his sword drawn and his fangs exposed.

She rolled her eyes at his protective manner. She was one of the most powerful demons ever to walk the earth. The last thing she needed was a knight in shining armor. But even as the clan chief in her warned she needed to nip his Neanderthal behavior in the bud, another part was wryly accepting that Santiago was far too stubborn to be properly trained.

A knowledge that should have annoyed her, not sent a tiny thrill of excitement shooting through her heart.

The inane thought was swiftly forgotten as Santiago came to a sharp halt, his broad back tensing. “What the . . .” He made a sound of disgust. “Cristo. It looks like the set of Saw.”

She frowned in confusion. “What?”

“A horror flick.”

Nefri shuddered. Her time behind the Veil meant that she wasn’t always up to date with human entertainment, but she did know that the current trend in films included a lot of blood and violence.

Steeling her nerves, she forced herself to step past Santiago’s large body and studied the carnage spread across the room.

Levet had been right.

It was bad.

Even by demon standards.

The victims were all human, some male and some female, although it was nearly impossible to tell in the hideous mix of body parts, some of which were still shackled to the walls while others were piled in the middle of the blood-soaked floor.