Just a little… bit…

More.

Fang snarled at him. "You are such an asshole…"

Well, so much for creativity.

Vane focused his attention on his own rapid heartbeat and refused to hear Fang's insults.

Upside down, he wrapped one leg around the limb and expelled his breath. Vane growled in relief as the weight was mostly removed from his throbbing, bloodied wrists. He panted from the exertion while Fang continued his unheard tirade.

The limb creaked dangerously.

Vane held his breath again, terrified of moving lest he cause the branch to snap in two and send him plummeting into the putrid, green swamp water below.

Suddenly, the gators thrashed about in the water, then sped away.

"Oh shit," Vane hissed.

That was not a good sign.

There were only two things he knew of that could make the gators leave. One was if the Dark-Hunter named Talon, who lived in the swamp, returned home and reined them in. But since Talon was off in the French Quarter saving the world and not in the swamp tonight that seemed highly unlikely.

The other, far less appealing option was Daimons — those who were the walking dead, damned to kill in order to sustain their artificially prolonged lives. The only thing they prided themselves on killing more than humans were Were-Hunters. Since the Were-Hunters' lives spanned centuries and they possessed magical abilities, their souls could sustain a Daimon ten times longer than the average human.

Even more impressive, once a Were-Hunter's soul was claimed, his or her magical abilities were absorbed into the Daimons' bodies where they could use those powers against others.

It was a special gift to be a "nubby" treat for the undead.

There was only one reason for the Daimons to be here. Only one way for them to be able to rind him and Fang in this isolated swamp where Daimons didn't tread without cause. Someone had offered the two of them up as a sacrifice so that the Daimons would leave their Katagaria pack alone.