"You and your master are sick, you know that?"
He merely grinned. "Lastly, just let me warn you that it ain't just humans wandering around this place now."
And he was one of those nonhumans. Though what he was exactly, she wasn't sure. "Is that it?"
"For now." His smile faded, his eyes becoming almost luminous in the harsh sunlight. "I'll take you to your assigned accommodation. Just remember, the afternoon draws into evening, and the first two men will be sacrificed at midnight."
His voice had dropped several octaves, becoming rich and strong. It was the voice of the man in the van—the man with the ethereal gray eyes.
"You must think me quite a foe if you choose to speak through your servant rather than in person, Weylin," she said tartly.
The old man's eyebrow rose. "I will not make the same mistake as my brother—I will not underestimate you."
There wasn't much she could say to that, so she waited. After a moment, the old man turned and led the way down the slope.
"You have a name?" she asked, as they passed a beautiful old wooden church that looked intact enough to still be in use.
"Kinnard." He glanced over his shoulder, his grin wide but eyes cold. "You should know that."
She raised her eyebrows, feigning a casualness she didn't feel. "Why?"
"Because it was you who almost killed me."
"Really? Then next time I shall have to ensure I do a better job."
"There ain't going to be a next time." His eyes gleamed with maliciousness. "Because I shall have my revenge."
She had a feeling his form of revenge had nothing to do with killing her. Goose bumps ran across her skin, and she resisted the temptation to rub her arms. "That's only if you win. I wouldn't start counting chickens before they've hatched, Kinnard."
He snorted. "Blondie, I can't lose. Not this time."
"And why would you think that?"
"Because this time, all the odds have been stacked on one side. And it ain't yours."
She'd been fighting the odds half her life, so it was really nothing new. And this time, she had an extra incentive—a wedding. And she had every intention of getting to that wedding and marrying Michael.
"We'll see," was all she said.
He led her into a street that once must have been the main street. Most of the old wooden buildings were still intact, and from the noise coming from them, many of them were occupied. She frowned, letting her gaze run past dusty windows. If the yells, curses and slurred speech were anything to go by, most of the unseen men, and a good portion of the women, were drunk. Maybe it was easier for Weylin to control them that way. And if that were the case, then maybe her first duty should be to find a way to cut the supply of booze.
Though in many ways that would be pretty useless. This was Weylin's game, and for the moment, he held all the cards. If she cut one booze supply, he'd just set up another.
Awareness skittered across her skin. She looked up quickly, her heart pounding as her gaze searched the second story of the nearest hotel. A shadow stirred the frayed remains of curtains in the solitary window.
Michael. Watching her.
She wanted to run to him and tell him she was all right, that she wasn't dead. But she couldn't. Weylin was undoubtedly watching, and right now, she couldn't afford to do anything that would give away the fact that she was not Seline.
But oh, how she longed to see him. Hold him.
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She had to maintain control. Had to. Otherwise their wedding plans might be put on hold—permanently.
But her gaze kept finding its way back to that window, and her skin burned with the intensity of his gaze.
Yet there was no hum of awareness in the link between them. No indication that he had any idea who she truly was. Weylin had planted his magic deep.
"Found the boyfriend, then," Kinnard said.
She'd been so intent on trying to see Michael that the sudden sound of the old man's sharp voice made her jump. Her gaze swiveled to his. "And what if I have?"
He gave her his stained and creepy smile again. "Nothing. You two were at it like rabbits the first time, so we're expecting nothing less this time."
Was he testing her? Or did he truly think that? "Then I guess I'll just have to disappoint you."
His grin grew larger. "I doubt that you will, especially if the intense awareness I just felt is anything to go by."
She raised an eyebrow. "And how would you be feeling something like awareness when this place is supposedly a psi dead-zone?"
"Darlin', this may be a dead-zone, but you and I both know it doesn't stop personal magic. And to answer the question you were really asking, emotions are like blood to me."
"Meaning you're some kind of psychic vampire?"
He didn't directly answer, simply paused as they passed another bar, and breathed deep. "Ah, anger.
Sweeter than wine, that is."
As he spoke, a man came flying backwards out of the bar, and he landed on his back at their feet. His nose was bloody, and he reeked of sweat and alcohol. Obviously, drinking was more important than bathing in this place.
Kinnard nudged the man with the toe of his boot, and without looking at either of them, the drunk climbed to his feet and staggered back inside. If the abuse and sounds of flesh hitting flesh were anything to go by, the fight was continuing right where it had left off.
Kinnard seemed to positively glow.
"Don't need to tell you that Hartwell is one hell of a lawless town, do I, now?" he said, as he continued on down the dusty street.
"It was a hundred years ago." Seline had said Hartwell had the reputation of being one the most lawless towns in the West, with killing an everyday event. She hoped like hell Weylin only intended to imitate the feel of Hartwell—surely he wouldn't want his captives killing each other. Not until he'd finished the ceremony and raised his brother's spirit, anyway.
"A pretty girl like you could cause a hell of a commotion in a town like this," he commented.
She forced a smile. "A pretty girl like me did cause one hell of a commotion one hundred years ago. I can still protect myself, Kinnard, with or without the use of magic."
"I'm guessing we'll be seeing that boast in action all too soon. There aren't many women in this town, and the few that are here are finding themselves in good demand."
That chilled her more than anything else he'd said. Everyone in this town—beyond her, Kinnard, and Weylin—was here through force. Those women had no choice. They were merely playing a role, and in many ways, what Weylin was doing to them was more despicable than the threat of killing the rangers.
Kinnard stepped onto the wooden sidewalk and walked towards a small house. She followed, eyeing the old building somewhat dubiously. It was in much the same condition as the surrounding buildings, but it seemed to have a definite sag in the middle. The old wood was gray, much of it gaping and splintered, though at least the roof looked fairly solid. The door and one front window were also intact, and the cracked and peeling paint was a bright yellow that contrasted starkly against the gray. The concrete steps leading up to the door were broken and wobbled dangerously under her weight.
"Your boudoir," Kinnard said, opening the door with a rusty key and stepping to one side.
She held out her hand. He gave her another smile and placed the key in her hand, his fingers clammy as they brushed hers.
She repressed a shudder and said, "I'll take it from here, thanks."
He glanced at his watch. "Dinner is served nightly between six and seven over at The Hollis Hotel. Miss it, and you don't get nothing unless you buy something from the store."
She'd brought money, so that was no problem. "So Weylin's intending to make a killing, literally and monetarily?"