"His twin brother was a shapeshifter who could take the shape of anyone he'd consumed. There's no reason why Dunleavy can't be a shapeshifter as well as a vampire, is there?"
"No.” The stairs quivered as Michael moved up behind her. His warm breath caressed her ear as he asked, “Dunleavy has a twin?"
"A dead twin he intends to bring back to life."
Even without looking at him, she could feel his confusion as clearly as she could feel the heat of his body against her back. On some level, the link was beginning to function, magic or no magic.
"No,” he said.
"Yes."
"I have chased Dunleavy a long time. I know him well, and there is no brother." "You don't know him as well as you thought. Not then, not now."
"Woman, you speak in riddles."
"I have a good teacher."
"That comment makes as much sense as your previous comment." She grinned up at him as they strode toward the front of the whorehouse. “You'll understand it sooner or later, believe me."
"I doubt it.” His dark gaze met hers. “I'm here to catch the bastard who killed my lover, nothing more, nothing less. Whatever it is you are truly up to, I cannot, and will not, get involved any more than I am." Energy rippled across the night again, and he rolled his shoulders, as if to ease an ache. It definitely had to be the spell on him she was sensing. And if what she'd just witnessed was any indication, that spell was going to play into her hands. Dunleavy obviously believed Seline and Michael had been lovers in Hartwell long ago, and he was trying to force that to happen again. Michael was fighting the spell because deep down he knew the wrongness of what the spell was trying to enforce. Which meant that she would have to be the aggressor when it came to making love.
Though in the end, would it make any difference? Kinnard had suggested there were only two events of any real importance, and she doubted whether she and Michael becoming lovers was one of them. Especially since it actually hadn't happened the first time.
The crowd was gone from the doorway, and even though the entrance hall was lit with nothing more than candlelight, it was obvious someone had cleaned the stairs, because the blood no longer stained the wood. But no amount of cleaning could take the smell of death from the air. Her gaze went to the small room to the left of the door. The sobbing woman had gone, but a big, black haired man was sitting at the desk, his large frame squeezed into a wooden chair. Since he was wearing the same sort of khaki outfit that the red-haired man had been earlier, it was likely he was another ranger. He looked up from his notes as they entered, his gaze sweeping the two of them before he pushed to his feet.
"I'm afraid we've had to close this place down until we sort out what's happened,” he said. “The Hollis Hotel is offering you ladies free accommodation in the meantime." Nikki opened her mouth to state yet again that she wasn't a whore, but Michael put a hand on her arm, squeezing lightly. Power spun through the air, a familiar energy that caressed her senses like a summer breeze. Michael trying to enforce his will on the big man. But there was no reaction from the ranger, confirming Kinnard's earlier threat that Michael's psychic abilities would work no better than her supposed magic.
Michael frowned, but all he said was, “We're here to investigate the murder, ranger." The ranger didn't object, which again suggested Dunleavy wanted them to investigate. Though why wouldn't he? The more time they spent on this, the less time they had to find and stop him.
"I'd advise the lady stays down here, though,” the ranger said. “It's not very pleasant up there." Michael glanced at her. “You'll wait here?"
Knowing it was said more for the ranger's benefit, she nodded. He slipped his hand down her arm, and lightly squeezed her fingers before he moved away. She knew it was more a warning to behave than a gesture meant to comfort. Smiling slightly, she glanced back at the ranger. “You have any suspects?" The big man shrugged and sat back down. “The client she had booked in was late arriving, and the last man she saw left her alive and well. Ain't no telling what really happened." She frowned. “So it was the late client that found her?"
He nodded. “And Maggie, the owner, who was taking him up to the victim's room." That must have been the woman she'd heard sobbing. She wondered if the two women had known each other. Wondered if Dunleavy had chosen his victim simply because of the woman's resemblance to her .
"So no one was seen going in, or coming out, of her rooms after her previous client left her?"
"No one. Maggie saw her go to the bathroom to clean up, but she returned to her room a few minutes later.” He shrugged. “Maggie runs a fairly tight ship here. No one would have gotten in or out without her noticing."
Obviously, this man also believed that they were in the past, because whorehouses weren't legal. “But someone obviously did.” Or maybe that should be something.
"Yeah.” The big man frowned. “I checked the window. Nothing came in that way—it's stuck half open, but a kid wouldn't have fit through that gap, let alone someone strong enough to—” He cut the rest off, glancing at her apologetically. “Sorry."
She shrugged. She'd already seen the gore, and there was nothing this man could say that could be worse than the images still haunting her subconscious. “So, no one went in or out or even near the room until Maggie took the client up there?"
"No."
"And no one heard anything?"
"No."
"Don't you find that a bit odd?"
He frowned. “Why would I?"
Because there should have been noise. Should have been screaming. Should have been thumps as the various body parts were flung about ... Her stomach twisted threateningly, and she thrust the thought away.
Why would anyone in this town find the lack of all those things odd when they were all under the spell of the man who'd probably committed the crime?
Goose bumps ran up her arms, and she rubbed them. Who was next on Dunleavy's list? And did they even have a hope of stopping him?
"You should go home, Miss, and light a fire. The night is going to be a cold one."
"Right now, I don't feel particularly safe in my house.” She met the big man's gray eyes. “So, where are you staying right now?"
He raised an eyebrow. “That an offer, Miss? Because if it is, I'm on duty—" What was this fixation Dunleavy seemed to have about whores? Was there some weird reason he'd made all the women here hookers, or did it simply appeal to some sick sense of humor? “It's just curiosity, nothing more."
"Ah. Well, I'm staying at the Wheaten Hotel."
"Don't you have a house here in Hartwell?"
"Yeah, but the Wheaten is closer to the...” He paused and frowned, as if trying to remember why he wasn't staying in his own home. Nikki wondered if Dunleavy needed them close to keep control. It would probably be hard to pull the strings of your puppets if they were spread far and wide.
"I have to stay close, what with the murders happening and stuff,” he finished eventually.
"And all the rangers are staying here?"
"All but Jimmy. Haven't seen him for a couple of days." Meaning Jimmy was probably dead. “Which house is Jimmy's?"
"The yellow one at the junction of King and Prospect Streets." Which, if the map Seline had drawn was correct, was about where she'd seen the light coming from.
“So, where is your place?"
"Five houses down from Jimmy's."
"And it's currently vacant?"
"Yeah."
"If you're staying here, I don't suppose you'd mind renting me your house for a few days, then, would you?"
The big man blinked, for a moment looking lost. Dunleavy obviously hadn't considered her asking that question.
"I guess.” His voice was hesitant. “It ain't much of a house, though." It'd have to be better than the place Kinnard had dumped her in. And if the rangers were living here over summer and autumn, it would surely have hot water and good heating. "We don't need much,” she said, almost stumbling over her words in her hurry to get them out. Dunleavy might not have realized she'd ask this question, but he could still stop her if she wasn't fast enough. It just depended on what sort of spell he'd bound this man with—and how much of a link he had with his puppets. “Is it okay if Michael stays there as well?"
"Michael?"
"The man upstairs."
The ranger's bewilderment increased. “I guess."
"You don't mind Michael stepping over the threshold of your home any time he pleases?" He frowned. “No, I guess not. But like I said, it ain't much." Relief slithered through her. She wasn't sure if the invitation worked secondhand like this, but if it did work, it couldn't be recanted.
And if Dunleavy was holding everyone in this section of town to keep them close and accessible, that suggested having them stay at their own homes made them in accessible. Being a vampire, he couldn't cross a threshold uninvited, and even though he controlled their minds, he couldn't force that invitation, because it had to be freely given.
So possibly, they were safe from Dunleavy when they were in that house. Whether they'd be safe from Kinnard was another matter, yet instinct suggested they might be. Why, she wasn't sure. But right now, instinct was about the only thing she could depend on.
She reached into her skirt pocket and pulled out a couple of bills. “Advance payment,” she said, handing them over.
The ranger visibly brightened. “I was running low on drinking money. This will come in handy."
"I thought you were on duty."
"I am. But I'm off in another hour or so."
She frowned. “Will anyone take over your post here?"
"Don't think so. Won't be a need, will there?"
"What about the body?"
"It'll be taken care of."
She raised an eyebrow. “By whom?"
The ranger waved a hand. “By people."
"What people?"
"Undertakers, and the like."
So, Dunleavy was intending to hide the evidence? Why would he bother when he had no intention of letting any of them out of here alive?
She crossed her arms and leaned against the wall. “When are you next on duty?"
"Tomorrow."
"What about the other rangers?"
"Also tomorrow."
"What time?"
"About noon.” He shrugged. “Ain't nothing going to happen before then." Did that mean Dunleavy didn't intend to kill anyone before then, or was the information another red herring?
"And is Jimmy the only missing ranger?"
"Yeah.” He frowned. “Haven't see Mike for a few days, though." Was Mike the man on the roof? Probably. She wondered how many other bodies they'd find in and around Hartwell before the new moon dawned. She rubbed her arms and glanced toward the stairs. Michael was taking a long damn time.
As if he'd heard the thought, he appeared at the top of the stairs. The barely glowing candles lining the stairwell threw yellow light across his features, even as it allowed the rest of his body to get lost in the darkness. His face was expressionless, as were his dark eyes, but his fury hit her with the force of a cyclone, almost flattening her against the wall.
"I need you to come up here—if you think you can handle it again.” His voice was as flat as his expression.
She pushed away from the wall and slowly walked up the stairs.
"What?” she said, when she'd reached the top.
He merely pointed her into the room. She took a deep breath, gathered her courage, and went inside. It was just as bad the second time. Worse perhaps, because all the white sheets only emphasized the utter mutilation that had occurred.
She stopped several paces inside the door, clenching her hands against the need to turn tail and run.
“What did you find?"
"Look at the window sill."
She closed her eyes. “I've seen what's sitting on the sill. I don't need to see it again." "Then do you remember what you said?"
What on earth was he going on about? “Of course I remem—" She stopped, suddenly realizing what he meant.
She'd told him the head had been the image of her.
But she wasn't wearing her own face.
She was wearing Seline's.
Chapter Eight
Michael grabbed the witch's arm and spun her around. Her face was pale, her odd-colored eyes slightly panicked. Part of him wanted to do nothing more than wrap his arms around her and offer the comfort she so obviously needed.
But he couldn't. Dunleavy had been treating him as a fool for some time now, and until he was sure who was friend and who was foe, he couldn't afford to trust anyone. Even a woman who got to him in ways he couldn't even begin to describe.
"What game are you playing? Or was it simply an attempt to gain my sympathy, and perhaps my trust?"
"I'm not playing anything.” Yet her gaze slid from his, confirming her lie.
"Then why did you make the statement that that woman is the image of you?" She licked her lips, but she still refused to meet his gaze. He tucked a finger beneath her chin, bringing her gaze back to his. Her eyes were big and round, the green almost consumed by warm amber. It was a far prettier color.
"Give me the truth."
"Not here,” she said softly. “Please, just trust me for a few minutes more." Almost against his will, he leaned forward and lightly kissed her lips. She tasted as sweet as the finest wine and, somehow, so very familiar. “You think I trusted you earlier?"