Kiss The Night Goodbye

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. Her gaze came to rest on the small mat in front of the door. She hadn't noticed it when she'd come in, having been more interested in what lay beyond the silence of the room. It was full of mud. But it didn't look as if it had rained in this area for some time, so where had the mud come from?



She knelt beside the mat and picked up a clump. It was more clay than soil, and darker in color than what was around here. Possibly, it had come from one of the mines. But if that were the case, why wasn't it caked with the reddish soil that surrounded the town? Vampires couldn't fly, she knew that much for certain, and while Dunleavy might also be a shape changer, he took human form rather than animal. So how did he get so much mud on his feet and yet not pick up any dirt from the street?



She shoved the clump into her pocket and opened the door. Michael was standing just beyond the threshold.



His gaze slid down her body to her leg. “You're dripping blood onto the floor." She looked down and saw that he was right. “Damn."



"And are you intending to bleed to death in the doorway, or will you step over the threshold so I can take you home and tend to your wound?"



"I can look after my own wounds, thanks."



He simply gave her a look that said, "Of course you can, but you won't be," and held out a hand. She placed her fingers in his and stepped over the threshold. He immediately swung her into his arms and raced her back to the house. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the ride. Enjoyed the momentary closeness.



Yet, this close, she was aware of the tension growing in his limbs. The quivering in his muscles that spoke of desire, but not sexual desire. If the spell that contained them brought to life the worst of her fears, wouldn't it also be working on Michael, causing his darker desires to surface?



"What do you have in the way of salves and bandages?” he asked, as he placed her on the sofa. She studied him, seeing the tautness in his shoulders, the tightness around his eyes. “You are not tending my wounds until you let me look after yours."



"Woman, I am not bleeding to death—"



"Neither am I.” She placed a hand against his lips, felt the slight elongation of his teeth. They weren't fully out, meaning he was retaining some control, but still, she dare not risk it. If he drank from her, he could kill her. He was her creator—he might have given her life eternal when he'd shared his life force, but he could also take it away. “You hunger for my blood, Michael. You can't tend to my wound until you tend to the need surging through your veins."



He scowled at her. “I am not a monster who is driven to lust at the sight of blood."



"I know. But the spell placed on you is trying to force that very reaction. Trust me. Go feed, then come back and let me fix your shoulder."



He pushed away from her. “If I go, I will not be coming back." He'd be back. Because of the spell and because of the bond they shared, a bond and a love that couldn't be erased as easily as memories.



"That's your choice. I'll be here if you change your mind." He didn't say anything, simply turned and walked out. The door slammed shut with enough force to rattle the windows. She winced and slowly pushed to her feet. After treating and bandaging the knife wound, she hobbled into the bedroom, dumped her bags on the bed, and dug out the T-shirt and sweatpants she intended to sleep in.



Once changed, she swept back the covers, fluffed the pillow and stopped. She didn't want to go to bed alone. She wanted to go to bed with Michael, to go to sleep with his arms wrapped around her, his breath whispering warmth past her ear, and his body hugging her with heat. God, it seemed like ages since she'd been with him.



She yawned hugely then shook her head. Not alone, damn it. She just couldn't. She'd spent far too many years alone, and she wasn't about to do it again when the man she loved was only a stone's throw away. She grabbed a blanket off the bed, and trundled back into the main room. As she switched on the TV, she wondered what Michael's reaction would be to it. After all, in his mind he was living in the past, and TV certainly hadn't been around one hundred years ago, But then, the past wasn't being perfectly created, so there was every chance he would simply accept what didn't fit. She turned the sound down to a murmur, then made herself comfortable on the sofa and tucked the blanket in around her. Michael would be back, of that she was certain. All she had to do was wait. And figure out a way past his admirable but annoying reluctance to get into bed with her.

*** Copyright: Novel12.Com