It was the fear he smelled first, a pheromone-laden scent almost irresistible to the hellhound within him. She was here — somewhere.

Risk Leidolf spun on one worn boot heel, searching the dim interior of the bar for his latest assignment. He didn’t have much information: young and pretty, Lusse had said. She hadn’t bothered to tell him anything more. It didn’t matter. Whatever Lusse’s latest target brought to the fight — talents or temptations — she would be no match for him. They never were.

The room was a kaleidoscope of sounds, smells and emotions — an onslaught that would be overwhelming to a less experienced hunter, but sadly for his prey, it would barely slow Risk down. He inhaled, dissecting the surrounding scents. Stale beer and human sweat. He shoved them aside.

Emotion was what he sought. What he craved.

A tinge of desperation wafted toward him. He ignored it, too. Despair and what followed, guilt and sorrow, held no appeal for Risk. No, much as he wished it different, adrenaline was what lured him — fear, anger. They called to him, making him a slave to urges he wished he could forget.

Clearing his senses, he concentrated, listening to the low murmur of voices around him. It was quiet for a bar, but an undercurrent ran through the place, a vibration of danger humming around him like a tuning fork held to his ear.

The bar held secrets, but Risk was unconcerned. He had one job tonight — to retrieve the female for Lusse, and save himself from another period of service in the kennels. Torture he could handle, but being forced to live with the other hounds, fighting daily just to survive, perhaps even losing the small piece of territory he had secured for himself in this world, that would surely drive him mad.