"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 un life. 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 flashes 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.