by Keri Arthur
When the beams of sunlight began filtering through the darkness ahead, she gave a huge sigh of relief. She wiped the sweat from her eyes and tried to convince herself her reaction was due to the clingy atmosphere in the tunnels rather than fear itself.
She'd been in tunnels in San Francisco and hadn't felt like this. Nor had she when she and Michael had traveled to Jackson Hole and confronted the dead and his past. But those tunnels hadn't really reminded her of the tunnel that had trapped her. This one did.
She leapt up, grabbed either side of the opening, and hauled herself up, wriggling and cursing and wishing her butt was a little less heavy.
When she finally reached the surface, she collapsed in an ungainly, sweating heap, trying to catch her breath and wondering why her muscles were aching so much when she was supposedly so fit.
"That has to be the most inelegant exit I've ever seen,” a voice said dryly.
She bit back the urge to curse and looked around. Kinnard was sitting on the steps of the dead ranger's house, idly twirling a long reed of grass in his hand.
"What are you up to, Kinnard?” she snapped, hauling herself into a sitting position before dusting off her hands.
Kinnard's gaze slithered up her exposed legs. She snapped her skirt down, and he grinned.
"Just waiting for you to come up for air, girlie."
"Were you down in that darkness, spying again?"
"Maybe I was. Maybe I wasn't.” He flicked the blade of grass away and stood. “That vampire of yours won't be able to fight the creatures waiting at other sacrifice sites alone, you know."
She raised an eyebrow. “And just how do you know we found the sacrifice site?"
"Half the town heard the explosion. I'm surprised you and the vamp weren't more seriously hurt."
"We run fast."
"You must. Just be warned—the next time, it could be deadly."
She rose to her feet. “Or so you would like me to believe."
"Oh, I didn't mean deadly to you, girlie."
"Then what did you mean?"
His gaze slid to the town. She grabbed his arm, wrapping her fingers around his cold, almost slimy, flesh and called to the fire deep within. Flames responded, leaping from fingertip to fingertip, touching, but not really burning, his skin. Kinnard's eyes widened in surprise and, perhaps, a touch of fear.
"You hurt any more of those people down in that town,” she said, keeping her voice flat, “and I'll hunt you down and burn you to cinders."
He jerked his arm free and stepped back. His flesh was white were she'd touched, her fingerprints seemingly burned into his arms.
"You try that, and your vampire lover dies."
"I don't think your master is going to be too impressed if you kill one of the two vital elements he needs to bring his brother back to life."
Kinnard snarled at her. It was her turn to grin. “Yeah, I figured it out. I may be blonde, but I ain't dumb."
"Aren't you?” He snorted softly. “Then why are you here, rather than finding the man who will die in an hour's time?"
She stared at him, her heart racing. No one else was supposed to be killed. Dunleavy had only set that task to keep her occupied—hadn't he?
Yet, Seline had warned five would die. Surely though, the sacrifices would be in that number. Unless, of course, Emmett Dunleavy had killed more people than Seline was aware of. But if that were the case, how did Weylin know? He'd been nowhere near Hartwood when his had brother died.
Or had he?
Realizing Kinnard was waiting for a reply, she said, “Dunleavy's changing the rules already? We must be closer than I thought."
Kinnard hawked and spat. She shifted her foot, and the glob landed in the dust near her toes.
"It's Dunleavy's game you're playing. He can do what he wants."
"Not for much longer."
The old man merely grinned. “You wanna bet, girlie?"
"Not with a lecher like you."
"And not when you know the odds are on our side."
She stepped back. She wasn't about to get into a war of words with this man—not when she had a feeling that's exactly what he intended. “Remember what I said, Kinnard. You kill someone else, and you burn."
She turned and walked away, but his gaze followed her down the slope—piercing her spine and sending chills racing across her skin.
And yet, when she looked over her shoulder, Kinnard was gone. His stare had been imagination, nothing more.
Hadn't it?
Somehow, she suspected not. He was still watching her, even if she could no longer see him. The foul caress of his gaze still burned deep.
She turned a corner and, finally, the sense of him watching disappeared. She blew out a relieved breath and let her gaze roam across the old buildings crowding the main street. It was extremely quiet. Either everyone had finally passed out from all the booze they'd consumed over the last few days, or Dunleavy had decided it was better to keep them docile and conserve his strength in the process.
Her gaze went to the two-story building at the end of the street. Though the day was still reasonably bright, the whorehouse's roof seemed oddly locked in mist. It was as if the clouds that raced the threat of rain towards them had paused for breath over that particular building. Even from where she stood, she could feel the tremble of electricity in the air.
Another chill raced through her. Something was happening up there, something she really didn't want to discover.
But what choice did she have?
She scanned the remaining buildings, sensing no life in any of them. Not that she really would. Her talent had never been sensing life, but rather unlife. Even before Michael had turned her world inside out, she'd been able to sense other creatures—even if she hadn't been fully aware of it. The circle around this town had shut down that ability, but if she and Michael shut down at least one other sacrifice site, would the rest of her abilities start to seep back?
She suspected they might. She also suspected Dunleavy would try to ensure they didn't shut down any more of his sites. He had to know Camille and a dozen other circle operatives were waiting outside the barrier, waiting for the chance to get in and hunt him down.
So how did he plan to escape?
Another tunnel, perhaps?
Her gaze hit the whorehouse again, and after a moment's hesitation, she walked toward the old building. The buzz of electricity got stronger, crawling across her skin like biting ants. The closer she got, the more her skin burned. By the time she reached the stairs, it felt like she was being eaten alive.
Biting her bottom lip and resisting the strengthening desire to scratch at her skin, she hesitated on the bottom step and stared up the stairs. The fog had closed in on the top few steps, making it impossible to see what was up there. But flashes of light bit through the gloom. Either this mist was accompanied by lightning, or someone was performing magic on the roof.
She flicked a knife down into her palm and cautiously began to climb. The old stairs creaked under her weight, the noise snapping through the misty hush surrounding her.
The lightning stopped, and so did she. She tightened her grip around the knife, her knuckles almost white. Nothing moved on the fog-bound landing above her, and no sound beyond the soft rasp of her breathing broke the silence. Yet the air itself seemed to quiver in expectation.
Someone was waiting. Someone she couldn't see.
She took another step forward and slashed at the fog with her knife. It recoiled away, reminding her, oddly, of plastic hit by flame.
She climbed on, slashing at the mist with every step. But as she neared the top landing, the retreat of the mist slowed, then stopped. She paused, staring at the wall of white a few steps above her. Was it just her imagination, or did deeper shadows lurk in the heart of the mist? There was no sound, no creak of wood, no movement to stir the white wall and indicate life—yet every instinct she had screamed she was no longer alone.
Lightning bit through the mist, blue flash
es that smelled as foul as they felt. The ants eating at her skin became more frantic, telling her that whatever was happening on the roof was reaching a peak. She had to move, or she'd be too late.
She took a step and sound rumbled towards her.
A growl she'd heard before.
The wolves were back. Yellow flashed through the white—canines, bared in warning. She raised the knife, the blade gleaming with silver fire in the fog. A wolf stepped out of the mist, teeth bared, hackles raised.
"This knife is silver,” she warned, slashing the blade back and forth through the tendrils of mist swirling between them. “Silver is deadly to shifters."
The wolf didn't react. Maybe it was a real wolf, not a shifter.
She stepped up one more step. The wolf crouched, its growl rumbling harshly through the night.
"Don't,” she warned softly. “I will kill you if I have to."
The wolf's yellow gaze met hers. There was no humanity in those glowing depths. No understanding.
A real wolf, then.
She bit her lip, but she knew she had no choice. She had to stop whatever was happening on the roof, and the only way to do that was to go through this wolf.
She raised her foot to take the next step, and at that moment, the wolf launched. She threw herself sideways, hitting the wall of building with enough force to crack the wooden boards, and slashed at the wolf with the knife. The blade scoured the creature's side, but did little in the way of damage. But the animal landed awkwardly and tumbled down to the next landing. She hitched up her skirt and ran the last few steps to the top landing.
Only to discover the wolf wasn't alone.
* * * *
The smell of blood and approaching death stung the tunnel's dank air. Michael paused, breathing deep the smell, feeling the richness of it through every pore. The source wasn't far ahead.
The darkness in him stirred, then settled. For whatever reason his demon had risen, he was again regaining control. As much as he enjoyed the taste of blood on the air, he had no intention of sampling the offering.
And that's what waited ahead.
An offering, not one of Dunleavy's sacrifice sites.
He moved forward more cautiously. The tunnel curved around to the right then widened out, becoming a junction with two other tunnels. There, in the middle, lay a man.
In the infrared of his vision, the stranger's body was a mass of pulsing red—but the heat of his blood was dying, just as the man was dying. He was naked, his torso marked with purple patches that indicated he'd taken a beating sometime in the last few hours. His hands and feet were tied with what looked like fishing line, the silvery thread glowing as brightly as the blood congealing on the floor near the stranger's neck.
Michael stopped beside him. The man's eyes were wide and staring, and the stark look of terror seemed frozen on his face. Odd, given he wasn't yet dead.
On his neck were bite marks. Dunleavy had obviously fed off him before he'd slashed the man's neck. But he'd avoided the jugular, so the rush of blood was slower, as was the dying. Like the woman they'd discovered hanging from the ceiling, there was nothing to be done to help this man. He'd lost far too much blood, and most of his organs had already begun to shut down.
Michael squatted down and lightly touched the man's face. Narrowing his gaze, he reached out with his thoughts, trying to touch the stranger's mind. For a moment, it felt like he was trying to push through treacle. Energy danced around him, burning up his back and across his shoulders. He frowned, ignoring it, concentrating on reaching the man's thoughts. The sensation fled, and suddenly he was reliving the horror inflicted on the stranger.
Dunleavy had beaten him, defiled him. Then he'd frozen the man's thoughts and actions and fed off him. The bastard might like the fear, the horror, of violating his victims sexually, but when it came to feeding, he preferred them knowing and helpless.
Oddly enough, though the sense of violence was clear and fresh in the man's dying thoughts, there were no impressions of Dunleavy himself. Just sensations. Emotions. And memories of Kinnard dragging the man into this tunnel.
Michael closed the stranger's eyes and quickly snapped his neck, giving him the death that was inevitable. He rose and moved down to look at the man's feet. Like the victim on the roof of the whorehouse, the stranger had the imprint of lips burned into his soles.
Something had fed while Dunleavy had defiled his victim.
Something he suspected might resemble a slug-like creature.
A creature whose energy was similar to Kinnard's.
Whether or not the two where one and the same, he couldn't really say, because there were some differences in the flow and resonance of body heat between the two. But that could very well come from the differences of form.
He'd never heard of, or met, a shifter who took the form of a large slug, but he'd hardly lived long enough to meet all the creatures on this Earth. But he'd known vampires who fed on emotions rather than blood, and they could die just as easily as regular vampires.
What killed Dunleavy would kill his sick little minion.
He rubbed a hand across his jaw as he looked toward the nearest tunnel. The air seemed fresher, indicating there might be some sort of opening close by. Maybe the same one Kinnard had used to drag the stranger here.
But he wasn't here to find an exit. He glanced at the other tunnel. The air there was thick and rich, full of the stench of earth, water and age. Underneath all that, the slightest taint of blood. That's where he had to go.
Again, power burned across his skin, and for a moment, his thoughts became confused. He should go right, find the exit...
He shook his head, and the pressure on his mind become more intense. He swore, fighting it, fists clenched against the urge to follow the orders pressing into his mind. He'd faced telepathic assaults before, and this was very similar. But during those other attacks, his own telepathy had been strong enough not only to repel but attack. This was far stronger than anything he'd faced before, and it had its base in magic rather than mind strength. There was no attacking, only surviving.
The witch was right, which meant she was probably right about other things—like the runes on his back and the magic surrounding this town. Like him knowing her more intimately than what he believed.
Just thinking about her appeared to clear the force hammering through his brain. Her warm, cinnamon scent seemed to spin around him, through him, and sunshine flowed through his mind, a radiance that was at once passionate and familiar, and one that filled him with strength.
He didn't only know this woman. He loved her.
Yet he hadn't really loved anyone since he'd fallen for the woman who had turned him. He hadn't even loved Christine, despite the years they'd been together.
Or was that all another lie concocted by Dunleavy and his magic? He didn't know the truth from fiction any more, and that was the most frustrating thing of this whole damn mess.
He swore softly, then spun around and stalked toward the dark tunnel. The air became foul, cold, the walls slick with moisture and slime. It was a good thing the witch wasn't with him. This place would remind her too much of the tunnels that had almost snatched her life...
Damn it, why couldn't he remember her name? And why did it feel like she was as vital to his life as blood itself? He had to get rid of these runes, had to remember.
Had to kill Dunleavy—not only as revenge for Christine, but for snatching away his memories of the amber-eyed witch.
Ahead, moisture dripped, and the metallic taint of blood became sharper. He slowed, tasting the air, listening to the distant beat of life.
Only there wasn't one heart pounding through the silence ahead, but four.
Three of them were strong, one weaker. One a sacrifice, three guards, then.
Michael smiled grimly. Dunleavy wasn't giving him much credit if he only had three guards. Either that, or he was extremely confident about the abilities of his guards.
Or perhaps it was a
s the witch said—Dunleavy didn't intend to kill them. Not yet, anyway.
He walked forward more cautiously. There was no sound from up ahead, other than the steady beat of life. If those ahead breathed, he couldn't hear it.
The tunnel began to widen into another cavern. Ahead, light danced, spreading bright fingers across the slick black walls. Silhouetted against the flames was a wolf. The other two stood to the left and the right, lost to the darker shadows still haunting the edges of the cavern. Even with the benefit of infrared, he couldn't see them. They were obviously using as cover the boulders that lay scattered across the floor from a past landslide.
He stopped and cast away the shadows hiding his form. The wolves would know he was there by smell alone, so it didn't matter whether he was cloaked in night or not.
The wolf near the flames growled a low note of warning. Michael ignored it, his gaze moving to the figure hanging from the ceiling. Unlike the first sacrifice, this one was a man, and he was currently free from the attentions of the slug creature. He was unconscious, but the beat of his heart was strong, even if it was a little erratic, indicating he hadn't been up there all that long. His torso bore the dark splash of bruises, and the stench of vomit entwined with the richness of blood. Dunleavy had obviously beaten him until he was sick, and only then had he slashed the man's wrists. The question was, was this a ritual necessity, or merely another sick perversion on Dunleavy's part? Knowing Dunleavy, it was probably the latter.
He swept his gaze around the shadows beyond the flames, locating the other wolves by the beat of their hearts. Then he looked at the pack leader.
"You attack me, you die."
The wolf's lips curled, revealing gleaming canines.
"I know you can understand me, shifter. I intend to free that man, and if you get in my way, you'll pay."
The wolf rose onto all fours, its low growl reverberating through the cavern. To the right and the left came the slow sound of claws clicking against stone. The other two were moving in, but they weren't yet ready to attack. Maybe they were waiting to see what their leader did.
Michael moved forward. Energy surged across his back, stinging with the sharpness of bees. He frowned, trying to shrug away the sensation, with little success.