by Keri Arthur
Michael nodded. “Then that cuts down our search area. There are five mines that are big enough to cater to those requirements. One of them is the Standard Mine, which we just left."
"It won't be that one. He intends to use that the night of the new moon."
He raised an eyebrow. “Couldn't he use the same area twice?"
"He could, but I doubt that he will. He has to follow a set pattern."
"Why?"
Her gaze slid from his. “Because he has a ceremony to perform on the night of the new moon, and the lead up to that ceremony does not include killing anyone else on the site."
"You sure?"
"Yes."
Despite the conviction in her voice, he very much suspected she wasn't sure. “There is one way we could easily find out."
She glanced at him, eyebrow raised. “How?"
"Vampire's can move with the speed of the wind. I could very easily check out the five mines for the presence of humans, and then come back here.” And, in the process, he could check out Kinnard's disappearance while keeping her at a safe distance from trouble, should it arise.
She stopped, crossing her arms as she looked up at him. “We both know you could have suggested that when we were standing in the middle of the Mill, so what's suddenly made you change your mind?"
"I merely wish to make your search easier."
"Crap. You've seen something, haven't you?"
The woman had to be a witch—either that, or she had some form of telepathy that somehow breached his shields, allowing her to read his thoughts. “If we continue as we are, we will not have time to search all the mines before your midnight deadline."
"Fine.” Her voice was flat, angry. “Go."
He caught her hand and raised it to his lips, inhaling her intoxicating scent as he kissed her fingers. “I won't be long."
"I believe that as much as I believe the reason you're going,” she replied tartly.
He smiled, stepped back and let the night cover him.
For several seconds Nikki glared at the spot where he'd been standing, and she silently cursed him. She'd forgotten just how frustrating he could be—which really only showed how much he'd changed in the time they'd been together.
But, thanks to the spell he was under, he was back to telling her nothing and trying to get rid of her the minute anything dangerous appeared on the horizon.
While she had no doubt he would check the mines, she also suspected he was going to check what Kinnard had been up to. If she'd noticed the old man foraging around in the shrubs, Michael surely had.
And he was about to learn yet again that she wasn't going to be left behind, where it was supposedly safe. She hitched up her skirt and walked back towards the pond.
Just as she reached the old pump-house building, a scream rent the air. She froze, a chill racing across her skin as she stared towards the town. It had come from the direction of the whorehouse and had been a sound of sheer terror. Someone was dead. Horribly dead. Of that she was certain.
And Seline had warned her about ... There will be five people killed, the old witch had said, two on the first night. Stop them, if you can.
Nikki had fallen into a trap, all right, but it wasn't the wolves. It was believing what Kinnard had said about the rangers and thinking that the rangers were the two who would lose their lives tonight. God, she was a fool.
She turned and raced down the hill. People were out in the streets, some simply standing there, some running towards the whorehouse.
She pushed past the small crowd standing in the doorway, then hesitated, glancing around. Sobbing was coming from the room to her left, but it was the stairs that drew her attention. Blood that was fresh and bright dribbled slowly down each step, its source an unknown well at the top.
Nikki swallowed, then lifted her skirt higher and carefully made her way up the stairs. It wasn't until she reached the landing that someone tried to stop her.
A big man with red hair and matching cheeks stepped forward, one large hand outstretched. She sidestepped the pool near the top stair then came to a halt, her gaze unwillingly following the needle fine trails to the doorway on the right. The door was closed, but that wasn't stopping the blood. God, what had happened in there?
"Sorry, Miss, it's better that you don't go any further.” His voice was gravelly, but gentle. “It's not very pretty."
There was a sheriff's badge on the left pocket of his khaki shirt, but it was the plastic kind they sold in toy shops. His pants were also khaki, and Nikki very much suspected she'd just found one of the missing rangers. But did that mean the others were also in this crowd, or was this another of Dunleavy's little games?
"I've had medical experience,” she lied. “I might be able to help."
"There's no one left alive in there to help, Miss. Best you go back down the stairs."
"Sorry, can't do that."
She tensed, expecting him to react, to try and force her back down the stairs, but all he did was shrug and step back. “Then let it be on your head."
Nikki's gaze went from the ranger to the door, and her stomach clenched. She didn't want to step through that doorway—no sane person would—but she had to. She was here to do a job, to stop a killer, and something in that room might provide a clue.
Gathering her courage, she stepped to the door and wrapped her fingers around the handle. After taking a deep breath to calm the churning in her stomach, she carefully opened the door.
For a moment, she simply couldn't believe what she was seeing. It looked for all the world like some youngster had gone crazy with a can of paint. Red was sprayed across the walls in insane patterns, and dripped steadily from a thickening blotch on the ceiling. Two men were covering body parts with white sheets, a tough task when there were so many parts, many of them no longer resembling anything human.
Her gaze went to the window. When she saw what was sitting on the sill, she put a hand to her mouth, holding back a scream that seemed to stick somewhere in her throat. Then her stomach rose, and all she could do was run—from the horror of the room, from the overripe smell of blood, and from the grotesque remains on the sill.
Remains that were the image of her.
Chapter Seven
Nikki got as far as the side of the building. Once there, she lost what little she'd eaten over the day. When there was nothing more than dry heaves left, she stumbled to the back of the building and sank to the ground, leaning her head back and closing her eyes.
Dunleavy was sick.
Though she'd never doubted it, she now had proof positive. What manner of man could do something like that? God, he had to be insane. Inhuman...
The thought stopped her cold. Dunleavy wasn't human, and he couldn't be judged by those standards. He was a vampire, a worshipper of dark Gods, and a shape changer.
A monster.
And monsters didn't think like the rest of humanity. Jasper had certainly proven that.
"Are you all right?"
Michael's voice rose out of the night, soft yet filled with concern. Wishful thinking, she thought. He was probably too busy tracking down Kinnard to worry about what she was doing right now.
"Are you all right?” he repeated, his voice, and his concern, nearer. Sharper.
Suddenly he was beside her, his fingers pressing warmth into her cheeks as he held her face. “What's wrong?"
She opened her eyes. He knelt in front of her, eyes rich with worry. She touched his lips with her fingertips, trailing them down his chin and neck, and pressing them against his chest. His heart beat a rhythm that could only be described as erratic for a vampire.
She smiled, remembering another time, another place, when she'd echoed those exact same thoughts and actions. Something flickered in his eyes, and just for a moment, she thought she saw a touch of recognition. Then the spark died, leaving only normal concern.
But perhaps there lay part of her answer—by following patterns of the past and forcing memories to surface, maybe sh
e'd undermine the spell set on him.
"Damn it, woman, will you answer me?"
Her gaze jumped to his. The concern in his eyes was stronger. As much as the spell was trying to force him to, he wasn't treating her as a stranger. “Can't you smell the blood?"
"Its sweetness rides the air,” he said. “But right now, the source of that nectar is not my major concern."
His words made her heart do strange things. Lord, how she loved this man. “I'm okay. I just need a drink."
"Then you shall have it."
He rose and disappeared, but he was back within minutes with a small bottle of water. He must have raided Kinnard's store to get it, because she couldn't imagine the hotels selling plastic bottles of water. Surely it wouldn't be in keeping with the feel Dunleavy was trying to achieve.
He handed her the water and sat beside her on the ground. His arm brushed against hers, and warmth pulsed through her body, erasing the chill, calming the churning.
"What happened in there?” he asked, thumbing toward the building at their back.
"I made a major mistake."
He frowned. “What do you mean?"
She took a gulp of water, swished it around her mouth, and then spat it out. “Kinnard told me when I arrived here earlier that Dunleavy would sacrifice two men at midnight if I did not rescue them. I thought they were the two people I knew would die tonight—"
"How did you know two people would die?"
She hesitated. “It's preordained."
He raised a dark eyebrow. “Fate can always be changed."
"Not this one,” she said glumly. And she should have known better than to blindly trust that someone like Dunleavy would play by the rules. “Anyway, I thought the two destined to die would be the two Dunleavy mentioned, which is why I was looking for them."
He gave her a speculative look—the sort of look that suggested he knew she wasn't telling the entire truth. “This town is full of men. How did you intend to define the search?"
She hesitated again, not sure how much she could safely tell him. Dunleavy had probably guessed she'd try and tell Michael the truth, and he would have factored some sort of counter into the spell holding Michael's memories hostage. “Because the missing men are rangers."
"Ah.” He considered her a moment longer, then said, “So, if two are to die tonight, was it their bodies in that room?"
Images of blood and gore and shredded body parts flitted through her mind. She shuddered and took a hasty swallow of water. It only seemed to stir her agitated stomach more.
"One definitely wasn't. Hard to say if there was another."
"Why?"
"Because there are bits everywhere."
"He tore the body apart?” There was no surprise in Michael's voice. But then, why would there be? She knew he'd seen far worse in his time, though he'd never really discussed it with her.
She nodded.
"That doesn't make sense if he needed the body for a ritual."
No, it didn't. She frowned, forcing herself to look beyond the gore in her memories. “He left a head on the windowsill.” She hesitated. “It could have been my twin."
Michael wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. Warmth leeched from his fingers and body, chasing away the chills that still ran through her. “He's trying to scare you."
"He damn well succeeded."
"You're tougher than that. It's merely the shock of it that got to you."
And how.
"Was there only one head?” he continued.
"One is more than enough, believe me."
"Not if two were meant to die tonight."
"There was lots of blood. And blood dripping from the middle of the ceiling.” She hesitated, swallowing more water before adding, “The roof."
"The roof,” he agreed and removed the warmth of his arm from her shoulders. “You stay here while I check."
"Like hell.” She scrambled upright, all awkward arms and legs compared to his elegance. “I'm here for a reason, too, remember, and like it or not, you and I have to be a team on this."
He gave her a look that said, Yeah, right. But he didn't try to stop her from following as he turned and made his way around the back of the building.
The stairs were around the far side—an old, rickety, bleached-wood structure that barely seemed capable of supporting a gnat, let alone the two of them.
"Don't say it,” she warned, as Michael glanced at her.
"One at a time, then."
With the whole structure seeming to sway in the barely existent breeze, she could hardly disagree. He turned, running up the stairs so fast his feet barely seemed to touch each step. She followed more warily, trying to ignore the shudder that went through the wood as she climbed.
Unlike many of the other buildings that still remained in the old town, the whorehouse had a flat wooden roof. The sides of the building rose a good three feet above the roofline, providing a nice amount of shelter from prying eyes in the street or nearby buildings. Shelter someone had obviously needed.
She stopped on the last step, her gaze on Michael rather than what lay in the middle of the roof.
"Here's your ritual killing,” he said, squatting on his heels. “Complete with pentagram."
She took a deep breath and let her gaze drift left. Compared to what lay in the room below, this killing was almost sterile. A black star had been etched onto the roof, and a man lay in the middle of it. Candles sat on each point of the star, their bluish flame shooting odd colored shadows across the surrounding walls, and lending the man's skin a weird, almost luminous glow. He was naked, his body white and flaccid. His hair was dark and still looked damp, and his cheeks and chin were free of stubble, as if he'd cleaned up before coming here to die. This impression was reinforced by the fact there was no terror in his face, and his eyes were closed. He would have looked asleep, were it not for the two inch wound in his chest, and the tiny trickle of dried blood that ran from the cut and down his left side.
"There's not enough blood,” she said.
Michael glanced at her. “The knife went in through the chest and out through the back. Gravity took care of the blood, I'm afraid."
"So it's his blood dripping from the ceiling below?"
He nodded. “There's a lot more than blood missing from this body, though."
She stared at him for a moment, silently debating whether she really needed to hear the rest of it. “What do you mean?” she asked reluctantly.
"I mean, he has no heart. It's been sucked out of his body. As has his brain."
Her stomach threatened to rebel again as her gaze went from the small wound in his chest to his hair, and she realized it wasn't water that dampened his hair. Yet there was no obvious cut near his head that she could see—not from this angle, anyway. And she wasn't about to change angles. Her stomach couldn't take such a discovery right now.
"How?"
He glanced at her, one eyebrow raised. “You're the witch. You tell me."
Had she been Seline, she probably could have. As it was, she didn't have a clue. “Dunleavy worships the dark Gods."
"The pentagram has been drawn in black soot, and the candles are black. There's definitely black magic at work, so possibly, he was sacrificing to his Gods."
"And they answered the call, taking the heart and the brain."
"Either that,” he replied grimly, “or Dunleavy has a taste for the brains and heart of his victims."
"Vampires can't eat."
"My point exactly. So why was Dunleavy sacrificing to his Gods?"
"To help maintain his strength, and therefore the strength of the barrier,” she said, frowning as she studied the man's feet. They were burned in the arch—and the burn marks oddly resembled lips.
"Barrier? What barrier?"
Her gaze jumped to Michael's, and she suddenly realized what she'd said. There was no reaction from Michael other than puzzlement, yet the tingle of energy seemed to touch the night air.
Was it the spell on Michael reacting to her words, the pentagram, or just her imagination?
Could spells even work like that? It was so damn frustrating that she didn't know. Playing it by ear, when there was so much at stake, was not something she wanted to do, and yet she had very little choice. She couldn't afford to call Camille—not out here in the open and so close to the town, anyway. She had no idea what the range of scanners was, but she wasn't about to risk someone's life to discover it. Especially when Camille probably couldn't tell her anything more about the spell on Michael without actually seeing the runes on his back.
She softly cleared her throat and answered his question. “There's a magical barrier around this town, preventing anyone from getting in or out."
"Really?” His expression was neither believing nor disbelieving, and his voice was flat, which, in the past, had always meant skepticism.
"Really."
"Then how did you get in?"
"Dunleavy wants me here. You're not the only one in this town after revenge, you know."
He raised an eyebrow. “And knowing this, you still came here?"
"I had no choice."
"There is always a choice when it comes to death."
"Not always. Sometimes the choice is taken from us.” She kept her gaze on his and filled the link between them with images of the time he'd snatched the choice from her, giving her a piece of his life force, joining them spiritually, and forever altering the direction of her life.
Something flickered in his eyes, and just for an instant, annoyance surged through the link. The spark died as quickly as it had begun, but her hopes soared. It was a breakthrough, minuscule maybe, but nevertheless something she could continue to work on.
"Sometimes the choice is taken for a very good reason,” he said, voice clipped.
"I know that."
He stared at her for a moment longer, and the buzz of energy riding the night got stronger. He shook his head and returned his gaze to the body. “What do we do with the body and the pentagram?"
"Leave it.” She didn't have the skill to deal with the pentagram, and until the pentagram had been deactivated, or de-spelled, or whatever, she wasn't about to touch it. Or the body within it.
