Laylah was a little touched. And a lot embarrassed.

As nice as it was to have the demon offer his companionship, she couldn’t afford to have him tagging along, drawing unwanted attention.

“I appreciate your concern, but there’s no need for you to go with me.”

“Do you have pigeons in your belfry?” Levet demanded, climbing onto the sill next to her.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m not going to be anywhere near a Charon when he’s discovered his prisoner has escaped.”

“Good point.” She grimaced. Tane was going to be livid when he discovered she’d slipped away. Again. “Maybe we should hurry.”

The lower kitchens of the London town house had long ago been given over to Sergei. Marika had no use for them, and while she insisted the blood sacrifices be made in the cellar, there were always potions to brew and spells to prepare.

She made a point of avoiding the cavernous rooms that were lined with odd hieroglyphics scribbled on the brick walls and dried plants that hung from the open timbered ceiling. A circle had been etched into the stone floor, where a wooden altar stood holding an ancient book that made Marika shiver in disgust.

Like any vampire she hated magic.

Almost as much as she hated magic users.

And the fact that she was forced to depend on one to achieve her glorious fate only inflamed her already seething temper.

Tugging off the veiled hat she’d matched with her black Valentino gown for her evening at the opera, she carelessly tossed it aside and allowed her heavy curls to tumble about her shoulders.

The evening had begun with such promise.

She had dined on two tender wood sprites that had strayed into Green Park and a lovely Turkish businessman in Covent Garden. From there she’d made her entrance at the Royal Opera House, causing her usual stir as she made her way to her private box.

Then, in the middle of the second act of La Traviata, one of her numerous minions had intruded into her box, whispering in her ear that there were rumors of a Jinn being scented near London.

Her lips twisted with fury.

The rumors had been true enough.

She’d instantly been able to detect the lingering female scent in the tunnels.

But she’d been too late.

The Jinn was gone. Seemingly vanished into thin air.

Turning from the counter that was overflowing with a variety of nasty ingredients used in his spells, Sergei frowned at her entrance.

“Did you find her?” he stupidly demanded.

“Does it look as if I found her?” She threw her arms wide. “Twit.”

The mage shrugged off his protective cloak, revealing the elegant gray suit beneath. “You said the Jinn was scented last evening,” he said, crossing to stand directly before her. A display of his sheer arrogance considering her foul mood. She’d been known to rip out throats when she was slightly peeved. “She can’t have disappeared so quickly. Not unless …”

Her eyes narrowed. “Unless what?”

“Unless it wasn’t the Jinn we’re searching for.” He grimaced. “Or she possesses far more Jinn powers than we originally suspected.”

“You should be intimately familiar with the female’s various talents considering you held her hostage for months,” she hissed.

“I kept her locked in an iron cell that muted her powers.” He abruptly glanced over his shoulder, as if searching for an unseen watcher in the shadows of the attached pantry, then with a shake of his head he turned back to meet her icy gaze. “Besides, she will continue to gain powers for the next five hundred years or so.”

A frigid blast of energy swirled through the kitchen, stirring Sergei’s silver hair and tumbling clay bowls and copper pans from the shelves.

She’d wasted years searching for the Jinn bitch and the babe she was hiding, constantly denied the power and glory that should be hers.

And now, just when she had been teased with the promise of her scent, she’d once again been denied.

Her bloodlust was at a fever pitch.

“Assuming she lives that long,” she growled.

Sergei lifted his hand, as if he intended to touch her, only to hastily step back at the sight of her fully elongated fangs.

“Marika, don’t forget that for now we need her alive,” he attempted to soothe. “At least until we get our hands on the child.”

With a flick of her hand, the drying plants crumbled to dust. “Don’t you dare presume to lecture me.”

Sergei’s lips tightened at the loss of his rare ingredients, but he wasn’t suicidal enough to complain.

“I merely want to prevent any mistakes you might regret later.”

“Regrets?” She had wrapped her fingers around his throat, squeezing until his face turned an interesting shade of puce. “My greatest regret is ever choosing a treacherous mage whose only contribution so far has been to deceive me.”

Sergei wheezed, his blue eyes darkening with a mixture of pain and impotent fury.

“If you will release me I can try to scry for the female,” he choked out.

“You’ve tried it before only to fail.”

“She’s obviously lost the veil of protection that has kept her hidden from me.” He struggled to speak, a hint of genuine fear beginning to perfume the air. Tasty. There was nothing like terror to whet her appetite. “If nothing else I might discover a trail that will lead us to her.”

Distracted by his words, Marika tossed the mage aside, her violent fury morphing to curiosity.

“Yes,” she said slowly, “why would she be so careless after so long?”

Sergei straightened, his hand instinctively smoothing his black silk tie.

“Perhaps the greatest question is what brings her to London,” he muttered.

She smiled with mocking amusement, the fey blood she’d consumed earlier still bubbling like champagne through her veins.

She’d intended to find a partner at the Opera to screw her senseless while she was still high, but watching Sergei squirm was almost as fun.

“Ah. Poor Sergei.” She clicked her tongue. “Are you worried she’s come into her powers and decided to seek revenge on the mage who tore her from her Sunnybrook Farm and kept her caged like an animal?”

He again glanced over his shoulder, rubbing the back of his neck.

“She couldn’t possibly know I’m here. I kept my scent disguised while she was in my care.”

“In your care?” she drawled. “I doubt she recalls your hospitality so kindly.”

Sergei shifted uneasily, returning his attention to Marika.

“I also shrouded myself in illusion when I allowed her out of her cell. She has no means to recognize me.”

She lifted her hand to toy with the perfect strand of pearls about her neck.

“Something brought her to London.”

The mage abruptly tensed. “You don’t suppose …”

“What?”

“Could Kata be calling to her?”

“Laylah,” Marika breathed. “Is that the female’s name?”

“How would I know?” He waved a dismissive hand. “I never bothered to ask.”

“Such an idiot,” she snarled, longing to drain the fool dry.

It was bad enough that Sergei’s greed had put her plans to return the Dark Lord and stand at his side as his reigning queen on hold, but his brutal treatment of the female had ensured the mongrel would go to any lengths to avoid being found.

“Kata’s connection to the girl is remarkable,” he hastily said, anxious for a distraction.

“Yes,” she agreed. She’d sensed Kata’s ability to speak mind to mind with her child from the moment the brat was born. Unfortunately Marika had been left out of the loop, despite her own lingering connection to Kata. “And the only reason dearest sister is still breathing.”

“If she thought her daughter was in danger she might be able to summon the necessary strength to shake off the spells that hold her,” Sergei said, scowling as Marika tilted back her head to laugh with rich amusement. “Did I say something funny?”

“I was savoring the irony.”

“Irony?”

“Kata has endured centuries of torture to protect her precious daughter.” Anticipation warmed her dead heart. Kata’s stirring. The scent of Jinn. The growing unrest among the demon world. Surely they had to be premonitions that her glorious destiny was at hand? “How brilliant would it be if she were the one to lead her straight into our hands?”

“It would be even more brilliant if the female has the child with her,” Sergei muttered.

“It doesn’t matter. Once I have her in my hands she will reveal the location of the babe. I can be …” She glanced down at her long nails painted the rich color of blood. “Quite persuasive.”

Sergei grimaced in memory of what those nails could do to tender flesh. Then, with a tiny shudder he moved across the room to a locked cabinet protected by a series of symbols etched into the wooden door.

He waved his hand over the heavy, old-fashioned lock, muttering soft words that made Marika’s skin crawl.

“What are you doing?” she snapped. The mage knew she hated having spells performed in her presence.

“I need a piece of the female.” He opened the cabinet to withdraw a small, cedar box. Flipping open the lid he pulled out a strand of crimson hair he’d clipped from the mongrel’s head while he kept her as his prisoner. “This should be enough for a simple scrying.” Arrogant bastard.

Whirling on her heel Marika led the way to the lower cellar. Soon, she tried to soothe her irritated nerves. Soon she would have her niece in her clutches and her need for the mage would be at an end.

She intended to savor his slow, painful death with a bottle of 1787 Chateau Margaux she had hidden in her private lair.

In silence they moved down the narrow stairs, crossing the cellar to the back chamber. Marika gave the altar a wide berth, halting beside the shallow depression in the floor.

Sergei followed her, bending down to toss the hair into the depression, watching as the crimson strand floated on top of the water.

He did his usual hand waving and muttered his strange words, his handsome face settled in lines of concentration and his silver hair floating about his shoulders as his power filled the air.

No doubt such a sight impressed the hell out of the Russian Czars who’d kept Sergei in luxurious style before Marika had decided she had need of his services. She, however, wanted him to be done with stupid mumbo jumbo and tell her where the hell she could find the Jinn mongrel.

“Well?” she gritted.