"We're very remote,” Michael said, his gaze skating across the building before meeting hers again. “And there's no one inside, other than the already dead."
"No strange slug creature?"
"No, unfortunately.” He turned and limped across to the next building. A naked man was sprawled near the front of the building, his body bruised and bloody, his breathing rapid but shallow. Shock for sure.
"We'd better get him inside and get him warm,” she commented.
Michael nodded, and with a grunt of effort, hauled the stranger up onto his shoulder. The surge of fresh blood down his thigh made her worry. The wound was worse than he'd led her to believe, though that was something she should be well used to. Even with his memory short-circuited, he was still playing the same old games and not telling her everything. She couldn't help the smile that teased her lips as she followed him down the street. Obviously, that was something that was never going to change.
Once they'd reached the house, they cleaned up the injured man's wounds and made him as comfortable as possible in the second bedroom. She found several extra blankets, shoving one under his feet to elevate them a little, and throwing the other over him to keep him warm.
"We're going to have to restrain him,” Michael commented, coming into the room with rope.
"We can't. He's injured."
"He's also a threat. Dunleavy could take his mind at any moment, and while you might believe the fiend has no intention of killing us before tomorrow, I'm not so sure."
Her gaze skated down to his blood-soaked thigh, and she knew he was right. They couldn't risk serious injury. She took a rope, tying one of the stranger's arms to the bed while Michael tied the other.
"Now, your turn,” she said, as she straightened.
Amusement flirted with his lips. “Woman, if you want your wicked way with me, all you have to do is ask. You don't need to tie me down."
She grinned. “Sometimes I wonder. Get into the bathroom and clean yourself up, while I go find something to bind up that wound of yours."
"The wound will heal—"
"A lot damn faster if it's treated. Stop arguing and just go."
"Is this tendency to nag a new trait, or something I know about and put up with?” he muttered as he turned away.
She grinned as she followed him out the door. “Oh, it's something you know about.” And it was a two-way street. He could nag her just as much as she nagged him.
She headed into the main room. A search through the cupboards uncovered a small medical kit. Inside were bandages and salve. She took both and walked into the bathroom.
He was standing naked in front of the basin, washing himself down with a cloth. She hesitated in the doorway, her gaze skating down the lean, familiar length of him. Even after all the months they'd been together, it seemed she could never get enough of simply looking at him. She loved watching the play of muscles under his pale skin as he moved. Loved running her hands all over him, feeling the restrained power beneath the gentleness of his caress...
Her gaze hit his thigh. The flesh was hanging in bloody chunks, and the wound bled freely, staining the back of his leg and pooling near his heel.
"Damn it, Michael, why didn't you bandage that wound right away?"
He raised an eyebrow as he looked over his shoulder. “Because I'm a vampire, and the wound will not kill me."
"But loss of blood can weaken you, and you're losing buckets of the stuff.” She knelt behind him and raised a hand. “Give me that cloth."
He did. She washed down the wound, then liberally applied the salve and bandaged it the best she could. After washing away the blood staining the back of his leg, she dropped a kiss on his butt, and rose before she was tempted to do anything else.
"You should go eat.” Her gaze met his, and her heart crashed through her chest at the desire and the love she saw blazing there.
"Yes,” he agreed softly, taking the cloth from her hand and dumping it in the sink behind him. “I should, shouldn't I?"
She placed a hand on his chest, even though all she really wanted to do was draw him close. “This is neither the time nor the place."
He caught her hand and pressed her back against the wall. “This from the woman who insisted on making love on a San Francisco bench while the rest of the world woke around us."
A smile teased her lips. “So you remember that?"
"I'm remembering lots of things. Like how much I enjoy making love to you in the afternoon."
His hand slid under her shirt and around her waist, his fingers almost molten against her back as he pressed her closer to his warm, hard body. Then his lips came down on hers, and for the longest time, there was no more talk, simply enjoyment.
After a while, his touch moved down her spine. It was a caress that spread like a wave through every nerve ending, leaving her whole body tingling in anticipation. He undid her skirt's button and zipper, and it fell with a sigh, puddling at her feet.
He pulled back, his breath warm on her lips as his gaze burned into hers. “Let's make love. Here. Now."
His words were little more than a husky growl that made her tremble with desire. But it was the desire burning bright in his dark eyes—a desire that was not only sexual, but blood need—that worried her. He was controlling the need to taste her blood, but only just.
"Michael—"
He gave her no time to finish, his mouth closing on hers again. Her protests died, squashed by the force of his kiss. By the passion behind it.
With a husky groan, he pulled back again and ripped open her shirt, the buttons pinging across the bathroom floor as he pushed the material off her shoulders. His fingers were a flame that skimmed her back as he dropped the shirt beside the skirt. Then with a slowness that denied the urgency thrumming through the link, he skimmed his hand up her stomach and began circling one breast with a finger. His gaze held hers, leaving her drowning in the dark pool of his desire as his caress gradually worked inwards, reaching, but not quite touching, the aching, sensitive center of her breast.
Perspiration skated her skin. His whisper-soft stroking moved to her other breast, and by the time he'd finished circling to the center, she was close to screaming with frustration.
His mouth claimed hers again, urgently, passionately. His hands skimmed her waist, catching the sides of her panties, thrusting them down. Then he stroked her, teased her, until the shudders of pleasure became almost too much to bare. At that moment, he lifted her, claiming her in the most basic way possible.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, holding him close as he thrust and surged inside her. Her body quivered with the sensations tumbling through her, her thighs clenching him tight as the pressure built and built, until she felt so tightly strung that everything would surely break. Then everything did break, and she was unraveling, groaning, with the intensity of the orgasm flowing through her.
His kiss became as fierce as his body, then his mouth left hers, and his teeth grazed her neck. She jerked away before he could pierce her skin. He groaned, his need for her blood so fierce it burned down the link between them. She caught his face between her hands, pulling him away from her neck, kissing him. The sharpness of his canines grazed her tongue, warning her that the danger was not over yet. Yet it was a danger that oddly heightened her desire, revived her need for him. She knew it was as much the glamour of vampire in need of blood as the desire that still surged between them.
No blood, she warned forcefully.
He groaned, his kiss becoming almost savage. She thrust the link wide open, and their minds joined with a fierceness that was far greater than anything they'd reached physically. It was mind, body and soul. For one glorious moment, they were one person, one entity. One heart. One soul. And nothing, not even blood lust, stood a chance against that oneness.
Together, they fell screaming over the edge, plunging into a sea of bliss more powerful than anything she'd experienced before.
When she remembered how to breathe agai
n, she rested her forehead against his, and said, “Wow."
"Indeed.” He kissed her forehead and lowered her to the ground. Hunger still burned through the link, and she looked up quickly. Heat still burned in his eyes, and his body trembled as he fought the urge to slake his hunger.
"You were right. I should have fed first.” He brushed a hand across her cheek, stepped away and bent to pick up his clothes. “We were extremely lucky hunger and the magic didn't get the better of me."
"I think self control had more to do with it than luck."
"Maybe. But I won't be so foolish next time."
Next time, hopefully, they'd be free of Dunleavy's magic, and there wouldn't be a need to be careful. “Watch yourself out there. Dunleavy's going to be a little pissed about us destroying another of his pentagrams."
He nodded and zipped up his pants. “I want you to walk around the house and make sure all the windows and doors are locked."
She raised an eyebrow. “Why? Dunleavy's a vampire. He can't come into a house unless invited."
"Maybe. But we don't yet know what, exactly, Kinnard is, and I'd rather he didn't know you're here alone."
"He's going to know that if he sees you outside."
"I'll blur, so he won't even see me."
She had a suspicion Kinnard knew exactly what they were up to, no matter what they were doing. She flicked a knife down into her palm then flipped it, handing it to him hilt first. “Take this with you. It's silver, so no matter what Kinnard is, it'll affect him."
"I do not need a weapon to take care of a worm like Kinnard."
"That worm is too cagey to let you get anywhere near him. At least you might be able to throw the knife and nick him."
He stared at her a second longer, then took the knife and put it through his belt at the back of his jeans. “I won't be long. You be careful."
"Always am."
"Yeah, right,” he said dryly and headed for the front door.
Nikki locked it after he left. Then she gathered her clothes and walked into the bedroom to get another shirt. After dressing, she checked all the windows, making sure they were locked and shuttered. Not that she thought it would help. She had a suspicion if Kinnard wanted to get in here, he could. It was a certainty that the slug thing would be able to.
Goose bumps ran across her skin, and she rubbed her arms. What was that thing? She didn't know, but she knew someone who would. Camille. She bit her lip, wondering if she dare risk calling the old witch. But what would it gain her, other than a bit more knowledge? Was it worth the price of someone's life?
The answer was definitely no. As much as she hated working blind, that's exactly what they had to keep doing.
She blew out a breath and headed into the main room. Michael wasn't the only one who needed to eat to keep up his strength. It was way past time she ate something, too. And way, way, past time she got some caffeine into her system.
Because she had a feeling she was going to need every ounce of energy she had access to over the next twenty four hours.
* * * *
Michael had almost finished taking his fill from a sweet brown mare when he realized he was no longer alone in the stables. He retracted his teeth, licking the last droplets of blood from the brown's neck to help heal the wound, then gave her a reassuring pat and stepped to the stall door.
Kinnard leaned against the opposite stall, a malicious gleam in his gray eyes. “Human blood is far sweeter, vampire. Have you not sampled your witch's blood yet?"
Energy stirred around him, and the need to taste her blood began to course through his system. But he'd resisted it while in the throes of passion, and its flame was nowhere near as strong now. The question was why did Kinnard and his master want him to taste her so badly? Given the depth of the need they were trying to force into his mind, he'd surely kill her.
Was that what they wanted? For him to kill her?
It couldn't be, though, not if the witch was right and they needed her alive for the ceremony.
"Animal blood has certain advantages over human. Not that a worm like you would ever know the difference.” He switched to his vampire vision and studied the haze of life coursing through Kinnard's gnarled body. He'd been right earlier—Kinnard and the slug had very similar energy patterns. He reached back for the knife in his belt, holding the hilt in his fist. The blade resting against his wrist and arm, concealed from Kinnard's prying gaze. “What are you doing here, Kinnard?"
"I came with a warning, vampire. If you or the witch destroy any more pentagrams, the people remaining alive in this town will die."
He raised an eyebrow. “You kill those people, and you take away your boss's source of power for the circle protecting this town."
Kinnard hawked and spat. “Doesn't much matter now, because the new moon is less than a day away. He has enough power to ensure the strength of the circle until then."
The truth? Or a lie Kinnard and his master were desperate for them to believe? “Where is Dunleavy?"
Kinnard's smile was mocking. “You've seen him more than a dozen times already, vampire."
"So the witch was right. He's a shapeshifter?"
"A shifter with several forms. He might even be the man you think you've tied so securely in that house of yours."
Energy caressed the air again as Kinnard spoke. Michael rolled his shoulders, trying to shake the sensation. The man tied to the bed wasn't a vampire. Wasn't Dunleavy, as much as Kinnard and the magic wanted him to believe otherwise.
"Does anything resembling truth ever come out of your mouth?” he asked.
Kinnard's mocking smile grew. “More often than you think, vampire."
"Right now, what I'm thinking is that we'd be better off with you dead."
Kinnard snorted. “As fast as you think you are, you're no match—"
Michael didn't give him the time to finish. He threw the knife as hard and as fast as he could. Kinnard squawked and blurred, moving with vampire speed. He was fast all right, but not quite fast enough, because the blade bit into his shoulder rather than his heart. Almost instantly, blue fire began to lick from the wound, stealing across his skin as the sharp smell of burning flesh stung the air. Kinnard's scream was high and inhuman. Energy lashed the air, flaying Michael's skin, burning across his back and shoulders. He ignored it and launched at Kinnard, intending to finish what the knife had started. Kinnard's eyes widened, and he threw out a hand, as if that alone would stop the impetus of Michael's leap. White light flashed, temporarily blinding.
Then it was gone. And so was Kinnard.
Michael hit the ground and rolled to feet, looking around. The bloody knife was sitting on the straw at his feet, but Kinnard himself seemed to have disappeared into thin air. Yet the smell of burned flesh and the scent of fresh blood still stung the air, indicating the old man was still close. He picked up the knife, then swept his gaze around the rafters and saw the faint haze of life in the far corner.
"You'll pay for that, vampire,” Kinnard spat. His voice was harsh, cold and somehow younger. “Or your witch will. I shall feast on her body, and then I shall take her life, sending her soul to hell in exchange for my brother's."
"Over my dead body."
"Oh, that's part of the plan, never fear.” Kinnard's voice was fading away, the haze of his life shifting, mutating. “Enjoy her while you can, vampire, because at midnight, she will be mine."
Kinnard's energy squeezed through the cracks in the stable's wooden roof. Michael ran for the door, but by the time he had it open and got outside, Kinnard was gone. And no amount of searching could find him.
Michael swore and punched the nearby wall. The old wood splintered, sending several slivers into his skin. His flesh immediately began to burn, and he cursed his own stupidity. After more than three hundred years of existence, he should know better than to hit wood ... he stopped. Three hundred?
Energy danced across his skin, and the questions crowding his mind faded. But they didn't completely disappe
ar, and he knew, without doubt, that the runes that appeared to be no more than scars on his back were at the center of his memory loss. It was time to get them removed—as much as that same magic might try and prevent it.
He tore out the splinters and shook his hand to free it of the burning. Another thing he was certain of was the fact Kinnard was not getting hold of the witch. If he had to drag her out of this town kicking and screaming, then he damn well would.
And why did that thought seem oddly familiar?
He frowned, but he knew his memory wasn't going to get any clearer until he did something about the runes. And for that, he needed the witch's help.
He made his way back down the street. The old whorehouse had almost burned to the ground, but no one seemed worried about it. He scanned the nearby buildings, noting the stir of life in several of them. The whores were still plying their trade with the few miners who were awake, yet the beat of life pounding through their veins spoke of stress rather than pleasure.
He reached out with his thoughts, trying to touch their minds. Again, it felt as if he were trying to reach past a thick wall of molasses. This time though, he touched enough surface thoughts to realize he wasn't the only one being controlled. Those women weren't whores. Kinnard had snatched them from the street and brought them here to play that part.
And there wasn't a damn thing he could do to stop it. Not when his psi abilities were being so illusive. He cursed softly, turned away and walked back to the witch's house.
She was in the small kitchen area and glanced around as he entered, but her welcoming smile quickly faded. “What's wrong?"
He placed the bloody knife on the table and continued toward her. “Kinnard was waiting for me in the stables."
Her gaze skated down his body then rose again. “You're okay?"
"Yes. He merely came to give me a warning.” He stopped in front of her, cupping her cheek with a hand. “You have to leave."
She rolled her eyes. “Please, we've been through this a hundred times before."