Careful to choose one without silver (with her current luck, she’d probably stab herself), and big enough to put a nice-sized hole in an enemy, she tightly gripped the handle and headed out of the private rooms.

She half-expected to be halted as she retraced her steps out of the lair, but while the vampires watched her pass in creepy silence, not one leaped out to try and block her exit.

Thank God. She didn’t think her dagger, no matter how big or shiny, was going to do much good against them.

Regan jogged across the open fields, keeping her senses alert for any scent of Jagr.

If the imp had a brain, he would have taken his hostage halfway across the world, but Culligan had taught her that the flighty demons were content to leap first and consider later. If ever.

Of course, hoping she might stumble across Jagr was something like hoping she might find a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Still, she had to…

Regan halted, suddenly struck by a crazed thought.

Why search for a needle in the proverbial haystack when she could go directly to the source of her troubles?

If she could track down the cur that had ordered Gaynor to capture her in the first place, then eventually the imp would make an appearance. The one thing that Regan was certain of was that the imp wouldn’t want to be stuck with a furious vampire for long.

And she suddenly realized that she might actually possess the means to find the bitch.

Ignoring the urge to race as fast as possible back to Hannibal, Regan forced herself to maintain a steady pace that allowed her to continue her search for Jagr, as well as to keep guard for any lurking danger.

There was no use getting herself killed for what might very well turn out to be a wild-goose chase.

As she jogged, the sun crested the horizon, bathing the landscape in a soft haze of pale peach and rose. The light glittered off the dew clinging to the grass, fragmenting until it appeared the world was drenched in pastel.

Regan barely noticed the dazzling display. Or the dampness clinging to the hem of her jeans. She was on a mission, and nothing was going to distract her.

Choosing a more direct route back to the tea shop, Regan hid in the bushes and studied the pretty structure for long minutes.

There was a gradual stirring in the quiet neighborhood. A woman dressed in a power suit climbed into her Lexus and roared down the street. An elder man swept his front porch. A child pressed his eager face against the window.

All mundanely human, without a beastie to be seen.

Regan straightened and dashed across the street, knowing it was now or never.

Skirting the house with all its froufrou trellises and cheesy birdbaths, she allowed her nose to lead her to the kitchen window, using her considerable strength to shove up the sash a few inches and breathe in the various scents.

She grimaced at the intoxicating aromas. Holy crap. Jagr hadn’t been wrong when he accused Gaynor of hexing his food. Even with her immunity to the magic, she could feel her mouth watering in response.

Damn imps.

Closing her eyes, she concentrated on sorting through the various teas, pastries, and candies. At last, she caught and held the scent of peanut butter fudge.

As she had hoped, the smell was distinctive. Rich, creamy peanut butter with a hefty dose of imp magic.

Which meant that she wouldn’t mistake it for any other fudge that seemed to be one of the basic food groups in Hannibal.

Circling the tea shop one last time, even knowing it was a futile effort to discover some hint of Jagr or the damned imp, she at last turned on her heel and began jogging toward the east.

Gaynor had admitted that he’d smelled the river on Sadie, and since Jagr hadn’t detected a lie, she was going with the hope the cur would still be near it.

Refusing to consider the knowledge that the Mississippi River ran over two thousand miles, she jogged through the near empty streets, ignoring the howling dogs and occasional car that whizzed past.

Briefly, she wondered if Levet found a safe place to turn into stone. Although she’d heard over the years that gargoyles were close to indestructible, she didn’t know if that was true for miniature ones, and unlike Jagr, she found the tiny demon oddly charming. She would hate for him to be injured trying to help her.

Thoughts of Levet were driven from her mind as she reached the quaint, historic section of town. She turned right at the steps that led to the lighthouse on top of the bluff, and hurried past the antique and gift shops that now filled the old buildings. Thank God she’d taken the time to sniff out Gaynor’s particular recipe for fudge. The entire area reeked of the stuff.

Turning again she passed by the bed-and-breakfast that had once catered to the passing steamboats, and climbed the levee behind it. From there it was an easy jog down to the edge of the river.

She briefly hesitated before she turned south, grimly refusing to glance toward the bluff where she’d shared the cave with Jagr. The curs would want a place outside of town where they could easily hunt away from prying eyes.

If she didn’t find some sign of them within a few hours, she would backtrack and try her luck north of town.

Not much of a plan, but it was better than sitting in Tane’s lair and pacing holes in the carpet.

Well, at least marginally better, she acknowledged three hours later, tugging her jeans free of yet another thornbush from hell. Scouring the banks and steep bluffs along the river was not only time-consuming, but it was wearisome work, even for a pureblooded Were. Clearly the whole Huck Finn lifestyle was far more romantic in books than real life.

With a sigh, she leaned against a rock that jetted from the river. She was only a handful of miles south of Hannibal, but she might as well have been in the middle of nowhere.

There was no sound of traffic, no laughter of children, no barking dogs. In fact, there wasn’t even the call of a bird…

Regan shoved herself upright.

She might be in the middle of nowhere, but there should have been the usual wildlife scurrying through the dense trees. A bird, a squirrel, a curious raccoon.

The fact that there wasn’t could only mean that there was something dangerous in the area. Something that had been around long enough to drive them away.

Feeling her strength return, along with a flood of hope, Regan grimly headed up the steeply angled bank, using the dagger to hack through the thicker foliage. At least the damned thing was going to come in handy for something.

Regan reached the top of the bluff and slowed her pace to a mere crawl. If she were right (not at all a certainty), there was a pack of curs roaming these woods and they had the witch’s spell to keep then hidden from her senses.

It seemed a good idea to try to avoid tripping over one.

Slipping silently from tree to tree, she listened carefully, depending on her superior sight and hearing to warn her of any danger. The sun slowly moved overhead, warning that time was passing, but Regan ignored the urge to rush. This was supposed to be a…what did they call it? A recon mission. A search and get-out-alive sort of deal.

On the point of accepting she was wasting her time, again, she was hit by the unmistakable scent of peanut butter fudge. Yes! She continued forward and at last caught sight of a tin roof through the trees.

A cabin. It had to be.

Her heart lodged in her throat as she edged cautiously closer. Yep. Definitely a cabin. Peering through the trees, she studied the wooden structure. It wasn’t much. Just a few unpainted boards slapped together with a door and two windows. The attached shed wasn’t much better, only without the windows, and leaning to the point it threatened to become detached from the rusty tin roof.

A place that had gone past charming, straight to rustic.

And not at all the setting she would have pictured for a pack of curs with authority issues.

Of course, that’s what usually made a good hiding place a good hiding place.

Crouching behind yet another bush, Regan kept a watch on the building, her nerves stretched tight by the uncanny silence. The place appeared deserted, but she wasn’t stupid.

Isolated cabin. Seemingly abandoned.

It was a trap waiting to happen.

It was also the closest thing to a clue she’d found all day.

Gathering her courage, Regan slipped silently toward the cabin, her heart pounding so loudly she feared it would give her away. Astonishingly, nothing attacked (wonders of wonders), and pressed against the rough planks, she carefully inched up high enough to peer into the window.

A battered chair, a heavy dresser, a fireplace that looked like it had been recently used.

No howling curs. No magic-wielding witch.

No Sophie. No Gaynor.

She gritted her teeth, too stubborn, or maybe it was too stupid, to concede defeat.

Straightening, she inched her way toward the attached shed, keeping herself pressed against the cabin, as if that somehow made her invisible. Hey, it was how they did it in the movies. Then pausing only a moment to lean her ear against the door, she pushed it open.

Preparing to bolt at the first hint of danger, Regan scanned the shadowed interior, not surprised to find a handful of rusting tools collecting cobwebs in the corners, or the wooden barrel that had been overturned to play table for a kerosene lamp.

The whip and numerous daggers, swords, and handguns placed on a rickety shelf were a bit more unexpected.

It was the bedraggled, nearly unrecognizable imp chained to the wall, however, that was the real showstopper.