"What game is this you play?"
"No game—or at least, it's not my game, but Dunleavy's."
"If Dunleavy had been near me, I'd have killed him. Or he would have killed me."
"Really? So how long have you been in Hartwell?"
"Four days?"
"And how did you get here?"
He frowned. He couldn't honestly say. Just as he couldn't say how he got the bullet wound. “What has this got to do—"
"Everything,” she cut in. “Dunleavy wants you here for the same reason he wants me here. You and I killed his brother. He wants his revenge, but he also wants to bring his brother back to life, and to do that, he needs a certain sequence of events and the main players in place. You and me." Her words were nonsense. Utter nonsense...
Yet, memories stirred. An image of this blonde, a knife held high above her head as lightning arced around her. An image of that knife plunging down, deep down, into Dunleavy's chest. The spew of blood that faded into the images of two men—one long and lanky, and the other bald and thick set, like a boxer. Men he'd seen here, in Hartwell, and somewhere else. Somewhere he should remember, but couldn't. Pain hit him then—searing, blinding pain—and suddenly he was falling to his knees as fire burned into his shoulder and blood pulsed down his arm and spread like a river across the pavement... Darkness surged, taking his sight, trying to take his mind. He hissed, closing his eyes, fighting the darkness, fighting the pain.
"Michael.” Her voice was soft, insistent. He couldn't see her, but the fire and the darkness weren't stopping her voice. Nor did it take the flame of her touch as her hands pressed into his shoulders, as if she tried to hold him down and hold him still. “You have to fight the spell. You have to remember."
"Remember what?” he ground out. “That Dunleavy killed the woman I loved? I remember that, and I will kill him for it."
"Did you truly love Christine?"
"Yes.” No . He'd cared, as much as he could care about anyone these days. But Dunleavy had taken her life, and for that, Dunleavy would pay. “What does it matter to you?"
"Christine has been dead for close to a century, Michael. It is not her death you mourn."
"No?” He laughed harshly. “Woman, you don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I? What does Christine look like?"
"Brown hair, warm amber eyes, slender—"
"Really? And here I was thinking Christine had black hair and green eyes." He frowned, trying to shake off the darkness, the pain, the impact of her words. “No—"
"Yes."
" No.” He pushed her away violently, heard a thump and slight gasp of pain. Her pain hit him like a club, filling him with remorse, filling him with anger. But with her closeness gone and her words silenced, the blackness receded. He took a deep, shuddering breath and opened his eyes. She was in the hall, struggling to rise. Her gaze met his, amber eyes filled with wariness and anger. Yet, oddly enough, he sensed that her anger wasn't aimed at him.
She puffed out her cheeks, expelling air, and wiped a hand across her forehead. It was then he saw the lump, and the bruise already beginning to darken her fair skin. Cursing his own carelessness, he rose and walked over to her. “I'm sorry,” he said, offering her a hand.
“I did not mean to lash out at you."
"Yes,” she said, placing her hand in his, “you did." He grimaced and helped her rise. He didn't release her hand immediately, because he suddenly needed her touch like a drunk needed his next drink, and her hand was safer than anything else. “Well, yes, but it wasn't so much at you, as at the pain."
"That's the spell inked onto your back at work. He doesn't want you to remember anything more than what he's given you."
"Even if I believe everything you say, how would my remembering what happened affect Dunleavy's plans?"
She sighed and rubbed her forehead wearily. “I honestly don't know." There were dark shadows under her eyes and redness in them. He touched a hand to her cheek, gently running his finger down to the lips he longed to sample again. “Perhaps you should sleep. We can talk more in the morning."
Her gaze searched his for a moment, and a sweet smile touched her mouth. “I don't want to sleep alone tonight."
Her breath whispered across his hand, her lips warm and moist against his fingertips. The scent of cinnamon and honey and life teased both his senses and his memories, but those memories remained tantalizingly out of reach.
"I cannot,” he said softly, releasing her hand and stepping back. “It would not be right." With little more than a fingertip against his chest, she stopped his retreat and drew him back just as easily. “Why wouldn't it be right? It's what I want, and it's what you want."
"I came here to avenge Christine. Nothing more, nothing less."
"You avenged Christine long ago. This is about you and me, nothing else." The pulse at her neck was little more than a wild flutter, a rhythm that called to the darkness in him. A rhythm that called to the man. Her nipples were pebbles pressing against his chest, her skin so warm that sweat formed where their bodies brushed.
He wanted her, there was no denying that. But he'd spent a lifetime denying desire, and this was no different than the need for blood. He might want her, but it wasn't right to take her. Still ... He wasn't made of stone. He was flesh and blood, and even after all these years, there were some desires that could not be completely repressed.
He leaned forward and kissed her sweet mouth—softly, seductively. “I cannot,” he whispered, his lips so close to hers he could taste her every breath.
"I am not who you think I am,” she said, her voice a husky whisper that tore at his resolve.
"I do not know who you are,” he replied, stepping back. This time, she didn't try to stop him. “Right now, I'm not sure of anything more than the fact that Dunleavy is out there, and I have to find him."
"Dunleavy will find us."
"Perhaps he will. But for tonight, it's best if I continue my search. You will be safe enough here alone." For one brief second, he allowed himself the pleasure of simply looking at her, letting his gaze travel down the long length of her neck, taking in her small but perfectly formed breasts, the sharpness of her breathing, the thunder of her heart.
He had a sudden image of loving her, of losing himself to pleasure deep inside her, feeling the warmth and love and hunger of her response. The fierceness of his own response. He clenched his fists against the need to reach out, to make the image a reality. He quickly turned away, leaving behind both her and the emotions she seemed to raise.
The woman was definitely a witch. There was no other explanation for what was happening between them.
Was there?
He wasn't sure, and that was perhaps the most frightening aspect of this entire night.
Nikki took a deep breath and somehow resisted the urge to scream in frustration. She wanted Michael so badly she ached, yet at the same time, part of her rejoiced at his resolve. He wasn't seeing her, but Seline, and despite the intense attraction, he was resisting. She wanted to think it was just as much an innate desire to remain faithful to her , to the love they shared, as much as the deep down knowledge that he and Seline had never been lovers.
She would have to crack his resolve soon, if she was to have any hope of breaking the pattern of events. She should've pushed more tonight—and would have, if it hadn't been for the spell and the horrible affect it seemed to have on him.
She'd felt his pain—it had been nothing more than an echo of heat running through the link between them, but still the pain had been bad. But it was the look on his face, and his violent reaction, that told her how bad.
She yawned hugely, leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes. He was right about one thing—she needed to sleep. It had been a long, frustrating, and very tiring day, and she had a feeling tomorrow wouldn't be any better.
But she couldn't go to sleep just yet. Not until she'd investigated the house belonging to the ranger known as Jimmy. If he was dead in his house, it had to mean he'd invited Dunleavy into his home. While she wasn't absolutely certain Dunleavy had a telepathic link with everyone who wore his spells, she couldn't risk the fact that he didn't, either. She had to presume he'd know, sooner or later, that the big man had told her about Jimmy. Had to presume that if there was evidence there to find, he'd make sure it was quickly destroyed.
She pushed away from the wall and did up her shirt as she made her way out to the main room. After digging out a jacket from her pack, she pulled it on and headed out the door. She didn't bother locking it. The only two people likely to come here right now were the only two people not likely to be stopped by locks. She just had to hope the threshold would stop Dunleavy, if not Kinnard. The night air was colder than it had seemed half an hour ago. Or maybe it was simply a matter of her still being overheated. She shivered and shoved her hands into her pockets as she made her way down the steps and up the dusty road to the house on the corner.
The light still burned brightly, shining out the windows like a beacon. She glanced at the door, then moved to a side window and peered inside.
The room was small and neat, the cream-colored walls bare of decoration. There were a couple of wooden chairs sitting around an old table, and to one side of that, a leather sofa. She shifted a little and saw the TV. Buffy the Vampire Slayer , she thought, and smiled at the odd appropriateness of it. The sound was turned down, however, and she couldn't see anyone watching the show. She pulled away, letting her gaze roam across the darkness. The sensation that the night had eyes rippled across her skin, yet she couldn't actually sense anyone out there. Not that she would if the barrier was preventing the psychic talents she'd long depended upon from working. Maybe it was just nerves. Maybe it wasn't.
She pushed up the sleeves of her coat, ensuring she had easy access to the knives strapped to her wrists. Then she walked around to the front door and tested the handle. It wasn't locked.
"Hello?” she said, as she pushed the door open.
No one answered—not that she expected anyone to, even if there was anyone alive in the house. She listened to the silence for a moment, then stepped inside.
The smell hit her immediately. It was the smell of death. The smell of decay. She closed her eyes, fighting the instinct to just turn around and leave. She'd seen death plenty of times before, and nothing she'd see here was likely to be as bad as what she'd seen in the whorehouse earlier tonight. Dunleavy had been out to shock her, for whatever sick reason. But here it would be a calculated death, a death designed either as a booster for his own strength or that of his dark Gods. She walked over to the TV. The back of the unit was hot, indicating it had been running for some time. She switched it off and walked across to the sofa. The newspaper sitting on the sofa was Wednesday's news, and the coffee cup sitting on the floor was half filled with congealed milk. Her gaze drifted to the doorway to her right. Death waited for her down that small hall, and there was no use putting off the discovery. Not if she wanted to get some sleep tonight. She'd barely taken three steps into the hall when the sense of wrongness hit her. She froze, listening to the silence, to the creaks of the old house, to the sound of her own breathing. And knew she was no longer alone.
Something, or someone, was here with her.
And suddenly she remembered what else Seline had said about that first night in Hartwell. Two men had attacked her, one human, one not.
Two men waited for her in the darkness ahead.
One was human. One wasn't.
Michael had rescued Seline that first time, but Michael couldn't rescue her here, because he couldn't cross the threshold uninvited.
She took a step back, and all hell broke loose.
Chapter Nine
Michael squatted to study the footprints in the sandy soil. These prints were far heavier than those leading up to this point, which indicated someone had obviously stopped here for some time. He swept his gaze around the surrounding darkness. This was roughly where he'd seen Kinnard, so the question was what had Kinnard been watching?
Or, perhaps, waiting for?
He couldn't have been spying on them—the pump house was in the way, and he wouldn't have seen them until they'd come around it.
So why stop here? There was nothing else here but the old reservoir and lots of weeds. He rose, scanning the ground for more prints. Kinnard had disappeared very shortly after Michael had spotted him, but he couldn't have disappeared without leaving some trace. Even vampires, who could move with the speed of the wind, left footprints.
But there was nothing. It was as if Kinnard had disappeared into thin air. Maybe he was a shape changer. The glow of his body's energy hadn't suggested any type of shape changer Michael had ever come across, but he knew better than to think that, even in all his years of existence, he'd come across every type of shifter there was.
Frowning, he followed the fall of the ground away from the pond. The weeds were still relatively thick here, providing ample protection for a rat like Kinnard. He pulled free a thick, long handful, holding them by the roots as he walked on.
The ground around him rose, until he was walking into a small valley. Hartwell had disappeared from sight, and the darkness here was deeper, though the sounds of drunken singing carried easily on the still night air. It was amazing anyone in that town was still in a fit enough state to look at a whore, let alone carouse with them.
He switched his sight to infrared, scanning the ground as he walked. After a few minutes, he saw a scuff in the soil that looked like half the heel of a boot. A few more steps and he saw two deep prints. Kinnard had not only stopped here, but if the odd impressions just in front of the boot prints were any indication, he'd knelt down.