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 disappear, 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."
"I don't give a damn if we have. Kinnard intends to come for you at midnight, and I'm not going to risk him getting past me.” He brushed his thumb across her lips and gave her a crooked smile. “I may not be able to remember your name, but I know I could not live without you."
"Nor I you.” She leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on his lips. She tasted of honey and butter and all the good things in life he'd longed for since his turning, and he had finally found them.
"But I can't—"
"You can, and you will."
"Michael—"
"No. If what you say about the ceremony is true, then by simply leaving, you destroy Dunleavy's plans."
"If I leave, he will begin killing off Circle members." Dread clenched his gut, even though he wasn't entirely sure why. “What?" She blew out a breath, puffing the blond-brown strands of fringe away from her forehead. “You and I are members of an organization known as The Damask Circle. Dunleavy has gotten hold of a list of our people. If I leave before the ceremony, he'll start killing the people at the top of that list and work his way down."
It was on the tip of his tongue to say he didn't give a damn about the list or the people on it, but he just couldn't force the words out. Because he did give a damn, even if he couldn't remember why.
"So he holds all the aces."
She shrugged. “He thinks he does. Me, I think we're in pretty damn good shape.” She hesitated, her gaze dropping to his thigh. “Well, I am, anyway."
He smiled and wrapped a hand around her waist, pulling her close. Her body was warm and familiar, the rapid beat of her pulse a siren's song that called to the man in him rather than the vampire. With her breasts pressed so snugly against his chest, he couldn't help being aware of her arousal, just as she was no doubt aware of his. He wished they were home—wherever home might be. Wished he had the time to give in to passion's flame and love her as thoroughly as she deserved. But that wasn't an option right now. Not when there were a couple of madmen running around... Or were there?
He remembered what she'd said earlier, remembered what Kinnard had just said, and frowned. “Have you seen Dunleavy at all?"
Her sigh was a sound of frustration. She stepped from his embrace and reached for the still steaming cup on the kitchen bench. “Once,” she said, “Just after he'd kidnapped you."
"But not since then?"
She shook her head and leaned her hip against the bench. The sunlight streaming in through the window behind her lent warm highlights to her hair, and in that moment he realized her natural color was brown rather than the blonde he kept seeing.
"Why?” she asked.
He crossed his arms. “Because I think it's odd we haven't seen him at all."
"I thought we'd decided that all this magic happening around us had him drained and basically immobilized?"
"We did. But what if that's what we were supposed to believe?" She sipped her coffee and said, “Even if that were true, how come we haven't seen him?"
"Maybe we have. Maybe we just haven't realized it."
"You're the one who said you'd be able to see Dunleavy if he was around. Are you telling me now that's not true?"
"No. I said if Dunleavy was here, I should be able to see him, because you cannot hide the basic energy readout of a vampire."
"And Dunleavy is definitely a vampire, so why haven't you spotted him?"
"Didn't you say Dunleavy was also a shifter?"
"And a sorcerer. So?"
"So, what if he's a type of shifter we've never seen before? His energy pattern wouldn't be the same as most vampires, because most vampires come from human stock rather than nonhuman races, such as shifters."
"But even if that is the case, wouldn't you have noticed the difference? There's only us, those people down in the town, and Kinnard here.” She shuddered. “And whatever Kinnard is, he's definitely not human."
"No. He's that slug thing we saw taking advantage of the woman." Blood drained from her face. She took a quick drink of her coffee, but it didn't bring the color back to her cheeks. “I knew he was a slime bucket, but I didn't suspect—” Another tremor ran through her.
“Yuck."
"Indeed. But I'm beginning to suspect he's a whole lot more than just a nasty little creature."
"Meaning?"
"When I was talking to Kinnard in the stable, he said and did some things that got me thinking." She took another sip of her coffee, then said, “Like what?"
"He said we'd seen Dunleavy more than a dozen times already. He also said that Dunleavy was a shifter with several forms."
"I told you that yesterday."
"You told me he could be a shifter like his brother, able to take the shape of anyone he has consumed. What I'm saying is that I think Dunleavy is restricted to two other forms."
"Kinnard's obviously said something else to make you think that."
"It isn't so much what he said, but what he did."
"And that was?"
"I threw the knife at him and got him in the shoulder. Blue fire erupted across his body." She nodded. “That's consistent with silver being used against a shifter."
"Yes, but when I attacked him, he used magic to escape." She stared at him for a moment, and then her eyes widened as what he was implying hit her.
"Yes,” he confirmed softly. “I think the man we know as Kinnard is actually Dunleavy himself."
Chapter Twelve
Kinnard and Dunleavy one and the same? As much as Nikki didn't want to believe it, it did make sense. It would explain why Dunleavy was nowhere to be seen, and why Kinnard had been able to cross the pentagrams unaffected. It had been his magic rather than that of his so-called master's.
"I should have cindered the little maggot when I had hold of him earlier,” she muttered. Instead, all she'd succeeded in doing was warning him that she had some abilities that weren't under the control of his magic. No doubt he'd now try to counter that.
She rubbed her arms. Michael caught her hand and pulled her back into his embrace. She closed her eyes and pressed her cheek against his chest, listening to the slow but steady beat of his heart. She wished her own would follow suit. In many ways, this was her first official assignment for the Circle—something she'd been wanting for months now. And yet here she was, so damn scared it felt like her heart was going to gallop out of her chest.
"That's natural,” Michael said softly, “if only because it is your first mission." She pulled back enough to look him in the eye. That's not the reason I'm scared. No?
