Kiss the Night Good-bye

  "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 t
he boot prints were any indication, he'd knelt down.

  He stopped, sweeping his gaze across the ground directly in front of him. Something was here; he was certain of it.

  A crack in the dirt caught his attention. It was too straight, too perfect, to be caused by weather or the natural drying of soil.

  He squatted beside the crack and ran his fingers across the dirt. Soil shifted beneath his fingertips, revealing a hardness underneath. Wood. He ran his fingers along the crack until he found a junction of two corners, then he retraced the crack until he found a similar junction on the other side. A trap door, here in the desert. It had probably once been the entrance into a mine, but now, it was obviously a rat hole.

  He glanced skyward. The night was far from over, and he wasn't foolish enough to confront Dunleavy on his own ground. He'd wait until dawn, when the sunlight drove Dunleavy into sleep. When it came to the likes of a fiend like Dunleavy, it didn't pay to play fair. He'd already tried that, and Christine had paid the price for his stupidity.

  He followed his own steps back, using the long weeds to brush over his prints as he retreated. Hopefully, it would disguise the fact that he'd been here. Once back at the pond, he tossed the weeds into the murky water and watched them sink.

  What now?

  His gaze drifted to the warm lights to his left. And even as he fought the desire to go to the witch, pain hit, flaring down his thigh as sharply as the kiss of a knife. And he knew, without knowing how, that it was her pain he was feeling.

  With a curse, he spun and raced toward her.

  * * * *

  Nikki backpedaled as the two men came at her. She had to get out of here, out of this house, get free of the threshold restriction so Michael...

  Damn it, what the hell was she thinking? She wasn't helpless, had never been helpless, even without her gifts. And since joining the Circle, she'd been trained to defend herself, trained to fight. She didn't need Michael to protect her. She'd always been able to look after herself, one way or another, even before the training or his arrival in her life.

  So why the hell was she suddenly running?

  Or was it more a case of magic than instinct? Was there something in the barrier holding them captive that brought to life her worst fears? The very fears she'd thought long conquered?

  It was a possibility she'd have to be wary of, but there was one thing she was certain of—Dunleavy couldn't kill her. He needed her alive for the ceremony. Therefore, she could fight with everything she had, while these two men would be restricted.

  Or so she hoped.

  She flicked her knives down into her palms, holding them in front of her even as she retreated into the middle of the room. The shifter paused, his brown eyes widening slightly, as if he recognized the fact that both blades were silver. The human merely laughed and launched at her.

  She slashed at him with a knife, felt the slight resistance as the sharp point tore into flesh, then dove out of his way, hitting the floor with a grunt and rolling back to her feet.

  Air stirred, and too late she saw the shifter's fist. The force of the blow against her chin sent her sprawling over the back of the sofa and onto the floor. One of her knives flew from her grasp, clattering across the floor, and her breath left in a whoosh of air as stars danced drunkenly before her eyes.

  Air stirred again, warning her. She rolled to one side, barely avoiding the booted foot that crashed inches from her head. She twisted, lashing out with her legs, striking the thin man's feet and sweeping them out from underneath him. She scrambled upright as he crashed to the floor.

  The shifter launched himself at her. She dodged and pivoted, smashing her heel into his side, driving him back against the wall. He hit the floor with a grunt, but he shook his head and quickly picked himself up.

  She didn't give him time to recover, simply threw the knife at him. At the last moment he saw it and dodged. The knife hit the wall with a thud, burying itself hilt deep into the old wood.

  The shifter leered at her. “That makes the fight a whole lot easier."

  "You think so?"

  She ducked the blow of the human and punched him hard in the gut. Too late, she saw the knife in his hand. She swung away, but not fast enough. The knife slashed through her skirt and bit deep into her thigh.

  Both men chuckled.

  "Nice start,” the thin man said. “But I've got a hankering to see a little more flesh than that, girlie."

  "You've seen as much as you're going to,” she muttered, grabbing the hand that held the knife even as she kicked him in the nuts.

  He dropped with a hiss of pain. She pulled the knife from his slack grip and spun, slashing with the blade as the shifter came at her. The knife scored his chest, cutting both shirt and flesh as easily as butter.

  He roared in anger, lashing at her with a clenched fist. She ducked the blow, heard the crash of glass behind her, the scream of air. Not knowing what was happening, but certain retreat was better than valor at this particular moment, she dropped to the floor and rolled away.

  The shifter hit the ground and didn't move. She climbed to her feet and saw why. Three feet of wooden railing was sticking out of his chest, the rest of it buried deep inside. He'd been dead before he hit the ground.

  There was a gargled cry, and she swung to see the second man scramble to his feet. He dove at her, his eyes wide with shock and grief, his mouth open in a scream that never passed his thin lips. She sidestepped him and stabbed with the knife, feeling the brief resistance of flesh before the knife slid deep. The thin man dropped and didn't move.

  She took a deep, shuddering breath and looked at the window. Michael stood there, his dark eyes filled with a fury she could feel through the link.

  "What the hell are you doing here?” he said, voice flat and all the more deadly because of it.

  "Investigating what happened to the ranger who owned this house.” She bent and retrieved her knife, wiping the blood from the blade on the dead man's shirt, while trying not to think about the fact that she'd killed him.

  "And you didn't think to mention this need earlier?"

  She shrugged. “You ran before I could."

  "So you were intending to mention it after you'd seduced me? Somehow, I seriously doubt that."

  The anger she could feel edged his soft tones this time, and she couldn't help smiling. The spell might have taken his memories of her away, but deep down, some part of him remembered how she usually acted.

  "I wasn't thinking of anything much beyond seduction,” she said honestly. “But given I wasn't successful, I turned my mind to other things."

  "You could have turned it to sleep."

  "But there might be some clue here to find. I didn't want Dunleavy erasing it before I got the chance to investigate."

  "Given those two men were in the house, waiting to attack you, it's a fair bet that any clues that were here are long gone."

  "Not necessarily.” She retrieved her second knife, and shoved it back into her wrist sheath. “Is there anyone else in this house?"

  He frowned, his gaze narrowing slightly as it went beyond her. “No. Only a dead man."

  "Then that's were I'm headed."

  "You are the most frustrating, annoying woman I have ever had the displeasure of knowing."

  She raised her eyebrows, trying to hide her grin and not being very successful. “It's a trait that'll grow on you, believe me."

  "I doubt it,” he muttered, stepping back from the window. “I'll keep watch out here."

  Her grin broke free. “Like you have any other choice."

  He scowled at her. “Just hurry up. That leg of yours needs attention."

  "No more than your shoulder does,” she bit back and spun, heading down the hall. Truth was she could feel the blood running down her leg. While she couldn't exactly bleed to death any more, blood loss could still weaken her, and she certainly couldn't afford that.

  The dead man waited in the room at the end of the hall. She stopped in the doorway
and turned on the light. He was lying on his bed, as naked as the day he was born. Unlike the man who'd been sacrificed on the roof, though, this man had obviously fought to survive. The signs of a struggle showed in the tangle of the bed covers, the bruising on his body, and the shredded remains of pajamas on the floor. They told a story of violation as much as death, and bile rose in her throat.

  She swallowed heavily and forced herself to step closer. There were bite marks on his neck and deep bruising around his mouth, indicating a hand had been clamped over it for a long time. Her gaze skated down his body and rested on his feet. She thought of the odd burn marks on the soles of the other man and shifted slightly to see better. This man, too, bore the kiss of lips.

  And suddenly she remembered Kinnard's reaction as he'd sucked in the anger of the miners, the way his body seemed to flesh out and glow with renewed health.

  Kinnard fed on emotions. He'd fed on the man on the roof, and he'd fed here, on this man, while his master had bastardized this ranger and sucked away his life.

  They were both monsters.

  Which in itself was no real revelation, and certainly not much of a clue as to how they might track down Dunleavy.

  Frowning, she turned and studied the rest of the room. There was nothing here that jumped out at her and said “evidence.” Frown increasing, she backtracked and went into the other rooms leading off the hall. One was a bathroom and held the ranger's shaving gear, a couple of towels, and some shampoo. The other was a second bedroom. The bed was messy, indicating someone had slept there. Is that how Dunleavy got in? Had the ranger invited him in to stay the night?

  She'd never know for sure, but it was certainly possible. She walked around the bed, but she didn't find anything that seemed out of place, so she headed back into the main room. Stopping in the middle, she looked around again. Maybe Michael was right. Maybe Dunleavy had cleaned up, and the attack of those two men was nothing more than an attempt to follow the sequence of past events. Yet ... instinct itched. There was something here, something Dunleavy had missed. She was sure of it.