"I think he is."
Michael clasped her hand, but the warmth of his touch did little to ease the coldness creeping through her. "How is something like that possible? He's a vampire—I thought you guys were impervious to just about everything."
"We normally are, but I think we can safely say this goes beyond the realms of what can be considered normal."
The vampire's body was closing in on itself, collapsing as quickly as a tent. Steam was rising from most of his body, and the stench of burning flesh was thick enough to carve. Though his face was little more than a skeleton, his eyes were alive with horror.
Whoever or whatever was doing this to him hadn't had the decency to take that awareness away. He was little more than a puddle, and yet he could still think. Could still feel.
Bile rose in her throat. She wrenched her hand from Michael's and stumbled away, losing behind the nearest car what she'd eaten on the aircraft. He touched her back, holding her gently until the shudders had passed, then offered her a handkerchief.
"You should have stayed in the terminal, like I asked," he chided softly.
She straightened and wiped her mouth. What she needed now was a drink and an explanation, not an
I-told-you-so. "Did you honestly expect me to wait?" she muttered.
He smiled, a warmth she felt deep inside, and tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear. His fingers trailed heat across her chilled skin. "I guess I didn't."
"What just happened? How can someone simply melt away like that?"
Though his dark gaze was emotionless, his unease surged briefly down the link between them. "They say the human body is ninety-percent water. I guess melting is not beyond the realms of possibility."
"Obviously, seeing it just happened." Sarcasm bit through her words. She crossed her arms and glared at him. "But my real question is how ? Melting is not something often attached to the human condition, you know."
He shrugged, studying the empty uniform and puddled water, all that remained of the younger vampire.
"I think we're dealing with some form of black magic."
She blinked. "Magic?"
He nodded. "I'll have to talk to Seline, since she's the expert in that field. But it really happened too quickly for it to be anything else."
" Magic?" she repeated dumbly.
He glanced at her, amusement flitting through his eyes. "It's as real as vampires, and just as dangerous."
Fear rose, squeezing her throat tight. "Then whoever's behind all this knows we're here. They killed him to stop him talking."
"I doubt it. Even in the terminal, he didn't look well. Whatever happened to him was happening then, I think."
"But why send a vampire—and a sick one at that—to greet guests? That doesn't make any sense."
"And probably won't until we discover exactly what is happening at the resort."
She thrust a hand through her hair. "I don't like the feel of this, Michael."
"Then go home."
She snorted softly. "Go home. Keep safe. Is that your answer to everything?"
"It's only sensible. You're out of your league on this one."
Yeah, right. And wouldn't sending her home suit him right down to the ground—at least then he wouldn't have to worry about her hanging around upsetting his precious resolves. "And you're not? You've already admitted black magic is not a field you're familiar with. Besides, I made a commitment to find Matthew
Kincaid, and I have no intention of going anywhere until I do." And no intention of going anywhere once she did.
Annoyance stirred around her. She frowned, wondering why the link surged to life only when his emotions got the better of his control.
"Matthew may not even be at the resort," he said steadily.
"Then I'll use his watch to discover his exact position and rescue him." She raised an eyebrow. "You're not going to get rid of me that easily, you know."
"So you keep saying." He sighed and gestured toward the airport terminal. "We'd better get back and see if we can find our chauffeur."
"And what about him?" she said, pointing to the wet remains.
"Let his employers worry about him." He grabbed the cart then lightly touched her arm. "Let's go."
They walked back to the terminal. There were fewer people around this time. Most of their fellow passengers had obviously found transportation to whisk them from the airport. Michael grabbed a soda from a dispensing machine and handed it across to her. She sipped it warily, not wanting to upset her stomach but needing to get rid of the bitter taste in her mouth.
Just inside the main doors, a chauffeur dressed in blue and red waited, holding a sign with the name
Kelly marked on it. With him was another couple—a man in his mid-sixties and his much younger, very busty, blonde wife.
"I'm Kelly," Michael said. "Sorry we're late. My wife was feeling sick and had to get some fresh air."
The driver nodded. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, his plain face suntanned and bored looking.
"Would you mind if we take Mr. and Mrs. Rodeman with us? It appears their chauffeur has disappeared."
"Really? Well, sure, that's no problem." He held out his hand to the older man. "Michael Kelly."
"Lucas Rodeman and my wife, Ginger."
There was more than a hint of pride in the old man's voice. He touched his wife's arm, patting her gently.
It reminded Nikki of the time Jake had won the amateur's trophy at the local golf club. He'd caressed the trophy in much the same manner—as if he couldn't quite believe his luck and just had to keep touching it to ensure it was real.
"Hello," Ginger said, her voice throaty and mellow.
She held out a limp-looking hand. Michael shook it quickly, then touched Nikki's back, his hand sliding a little, as if wiping away the feel of the woman's fingers.
She held out her hand. "Nikki." She shook Lucas's hand and moved on to Ginger's.
The blonde's fingers wrapped around hers—cold, clammy, and holding little strength. Yet heat rushed up
Nikki's arm at her touch, burning through her body, her mind. She stared at the blonde's vacant blue eyes and saw only fire. Fingers of red heat reached out, flooding her mind with images. A figure in black, chanting words that compelled. Ghostly forms that were nothing more than flame rising from the rocks, bending before the will of the words. Anger and humiliation and a hurt so deep it burned the air around it…
The blonde's eyes widened slightly. Under the harsh brightness of the terminal lights, a myriad of scars seemed to cobweb the left side of her face and neck. Nikki wrenched her hand away, her legs suddenly weak.
Michael's hands went around her waist, steadying her. "Are you okay?"
Concern filled the air, and his voice seemed to be a million miles away. She didn't answer. Couldn't answer. Her throat was so dry it felt like it had been burned. Darkness whirled through her mind, and her whole body was trembling as if her strength had been sucked away by heat.
As consciousness slipped, she stared into the blonde's eyes and knew one thing.
Ginger Rodeman wasn't human.
Chapter Nine
Michael held onto Nikki tightly as she collapsed. She was limp and shivering, yet her skin burned so fiercely he could feel the heat though her clothes.
He gathered her in his arms and glanced at the chauffeur. "Would you mind grabbing the bags for me?"
"Is she going to be okay?" Concern flitted across Rodeman's pudgy features. "She doesn't have anything contagious, does she?"
"No, I just think she's eaten something that disagreed with her on the plane," Michael said, though he knew it was anything but.
Rodeman seemed placated by his comment. Michael touched the old man's thoughts—he wasn't thinking of anything more than getting his wife to the hotel—and bed. Ginger was a different matter entirely. Her thoughts were a vast well of emptiness. It was almost as if there was nothing there.