"The woman will be my hostage, nothing more," he said coldly.
"Of course."
Sensing Viper's lingering amusement, Styx impatiently pointed toward the picture. It was, after all, the reason he had come here in the first place.
"Do you know the location of the establishment she is standing in front of?"
"It's familiar." Pausing a moment, Viper gave a nod of his head. "Yes. It's a Goth bar. I'd say four, no wait. . . live blocks south of here."
"I thank you, old friend." Styx was swiftly on his feet. He reached out to take the picture and replaced it in his pocket.
Viper pressed himself to his feet and placed a restraining hand on Styx's arm.
"Wait, Styx."
He swallowed back his surge of impatience. He didn't have time to linger. The sooner he captured the woman, the sooner he would know if she was indeed of importance to the Weres.
"What is it?"
"What are you going to do?"
"I told you. I intend to take the woman."
"Just like that?" Viper demanded.
Styx frowned in confusion. "Yes."
"You cannot go alone. If the Weres are keeping watch they are sure to try to stop you."
"I do not fear a pack of dogs," Styx retorted in a scornful tone.
Viper refused to relent. "Styx."
Styx heaved a sigh. "I will have my Ravens near," he promised, referring to the five vampires who had been his constant companions for centuries.
They were as much a part of him as his own shadow.
The silver-haired vampire was still not satisfied. "And where will you take her?"
"To my lair."
"Good God." Viper gave a sharp laugh. "You can't take that poor woman to those damp, disgusting caves."
Styx frowned. In truth he hadn't really considered the less than welcoming atmosphere of the caves he inhabited.
To him they were simply a place to remain safely out of the sun.
"Most of the caves are quite comfortable."
"It's bad enough that you're taking the woman hostage. At least take her someplace that has a decent bed and a few amenities."
"What does it matter? She is nothing more than a human."
"It matters because she is a human. Christ, they are more fragile than dew fairies." With swift, gliding steps, Viper moved toward the desk that consumed a large part of his office behind the balcony. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a sheet of paper. After scribbling a few lines, he dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out a small key. Returning to Styx, he placed both in his hands. "Here."
"What is this?" Styx demanded.
"A key to my estate north of the city. It's quiet and isolated enough for your purpose, but far more pleasant than your lair." He pointed to the paper. Those are the directions. I'll alert Santiago and the rest of my staff to expect you."
Styx opened his mouth to protest. Perhaps his lair was not the most elegant or luxurious of places, but it was well protected and, more importantly, he was familiar with the surrounding landscape.
Still, he supposed there was something to be said for providing a bit of comfort for the woman.
As Viper had pointed out, humans were tediously fragile, and Styx knew that they were prone to a puzzling array of illnesses and injury. He needed her alive if she were to be of any worth.
Besides, it would keep him in a position to keep an eye on Salvatore.
"Perhaps it would be best to remain close enough to the city to negotiate with the Weres," he admitted.
"And close enough to call for assistance if you need it." Viper insisted.
"Yes." Styx pocketed the key. "Now I must go."
"Take care, old friend."
Styx gave a somber nod of his head. "That I can promise."
Gina, a redheaded, freckle-faced waitress was leaning negligently against the bar when the three men stepped into the Goth nightclub.
"Yowser, stud alert!" she shouted over the head-throbbing bang of the nearby band. "Now that is some grade A prime beef."
Lifting her head from the drink she was mixing, Darcy Smith glanced toward the latest patrons. Her brows lifted in surprise.
As a rule Gina was not overly particular. She considered anything remotely male and standing on two legs as grade A.
But on this occasion, well . . . even grading on a curve they reached A status.
Darcy whistled beneath her breath as she studied the two closest to her. Definitely poster boys for the steroid generation, she acknowledged, eyeing the bulging muscles that looked chiseled from marble beneath their tight T-shirts and Fitted jeans. Oddly both had shaved their heads. Maybe to set off the dangerous scowls that marked their handsome faces, or to emphasize the air of coiled violence they carried with them.
It worked.
In contrast, the man standing behind them was built along far slighter lines. Of course, the elegant silk suit couldn't entirely hide the smooth muscles. Nor did the long black curls that brushed his shoulders soften the dark, aquiline features.
With absolute certainty Darcy knew that it was the smaller man who was the most dangerous of the trio.
There was a fierce intensity that crackled about him as he led his henchmen toward the thick crowd.
"The one in the suit looks like a mobster," she observed in critical tones.
"A mobster in an Armani suit." Gina flashed a smile. " I've always had a weakness for Armani."
Darcy rolled her eyes. She had never had an interest in designer clothes, or the sort of men who felt it necessary to wear them.
A good thing considering men in Armani suits were hardly a dime a dozen in her world.
More like once in a blue moon.
"What's he doing here?" she muttered.
The crowd at the underground bar was the usual mixture. Goths, metalheads, stonies, and the truly bizarre.
Most came to enjoy the heavy-rock bands, and to throw themselves around the cramped dance floor in wild abandon. A few preferred the back rooms that offered a wide variety of illegal pursuits.
Hardly the sort of place to attract a more sophisticated clientele.
CIA gave her hair a good fluff before reaching for her tray. "Probably here to stare at the natives. People with money always enjoy nibbing elbows with the riffraff." The woman grimaced, her expression older than her years. "As long as they don't get too dirty in the process."
Darcy watched the waitress efficiently sashay her way through the rowdy crowd with a small smile. She couldn't entirely blame CIA for her cynical nature. Like herself, the waitress was alone in the world, and without the education or resources to hope for a brilliant career.
Darcy, however, refused to allow bitterness to touch her heart. What did it matter if she was forced to take whatever job might come along?
Bartender, pizza delivery, yoga instructor, and occasionally a nude model for the local art school. Nothing was beneath her. Pride was highly overrated when a girl had to put food on the table.
Besides, she was saving for something better.
One day she would have her own health food store, and nothing was going to be allowed to stand in her path.
Certainly not a defeatist attitude.
Kept busy pouring drinks and washing glasses, Darcy didn't notice when the latest arrivals took a place at the bar. Not until their glares and flexing muscles had managed to warn off the rest of the patrons and she found herself virtually alone with them.
Feeling a strange flare of unease, she forced her feet to carry her toward the waiting men. It was ridiculous, she chastised herself. There were over a hundred people in the room. The men couldn't possibly be a threat.
Instinctively halting before the man in the suit, she swallowed a small gasp as she met the golden brown eyes that smoldered with a heat that was nearly tangible.
Yikes.
A wolf in silk clothing.
She wasn't sure where the inane thought came from and she was quick to squash it. The man was a customer. She was there to offer him service.
Nothing more, nothing less.
Plastering a smile on her face, she put a small paper coaster in front of him.
"May I help you?"
A slow smile curved his lips to reveal startlingly white teeth. "I most certainly hope so, cara," he drawled with a faint accent.
The hairs on the back of her neck stirred as his golden gaze made a lazy survey of her black T-shirt and too short miniskirt.
There was a hunger in those eyes that she wasn't certain was entirely sexual.
More like she was a tasty pork chop.
Yikes, indeed.
"Can I get you a drink?" She forced a brisk, professional edge to her voice. It was a voice she had discovered could wilt an erection at a hundred paces.
The stranger merely smiled. "A Bloody Mary."
"Spicy?"
"Oh, very."
She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "And your friends?"
"They are on duty."
Her gaze shot toward the men looming behind their leader with their arms crossed. Frick and Frack, without a brain between them.
"You're the boss." Moving to the back of the bar she mixed the drink, adding a stalk of celery and an olive before returning to set it on the coaster. "One Bloody Mary."
