Michael clattered down the old stairs and strode through the hotel's small main room and bar. As usual, it was full of people and smoke and noise. The miners were drinking hard after a day underground, and the scantily-clad saloon girls lustily plied their trade, alleviating the miners of their cash. Some of them didn't even bother going upstairs—much to the enjoyment of the surrounding men.

He shook his head. He'd never been one to enjoy such exhibitionism, though he'd seen plenty of it over the centuries he'd been alive. Had even taken part in such acts during his early years as a vampire, yet never willingly. For him, the pleasure came from one on one, not voyeurism. Obviously, in this town, he was out of step yet again.

His gaze swept across the crowd. The blonde wasn't here yet. Maybe she'd been taken to one of the other hotels, or even down to the whorehouse at the end of Main Street. There'd been four extra women brought in over the last few days, and they'd been hustled into the bars and into work pretty quickly—mainly because there were far more men than women in this town. Even the whorehouse was finding it hard keeping up with demand.

A miner reeking of sweat and alcohol stumbled towards him. Michael did a quick sidestep, but the fool still managed to hit his shoulder, sending pain washing through his body in sickening waves. For some reason, the bullet wound was slow to heal. Why, he had no idea. He'd been shot often enough in the past, and the wounds had healed within a day or so. But four days after receiving it, this wound still festered.

Not that he could even remember getting shot in the first place.

Frowning, he thrust the drunk away, cannoning him into the backs of three other men. The miner recovered quickly and swung around, fists flying. Michael snorted contemptuously, ducking the first blow and catching the second in his fist.

Wrapping his fingers around the other man's grubby hand, he squeezed tightly. Bone cracked. The other man screamed and dropped to his knees. Michael's gaze went to the men gathering behind the screaming drunk. “Do not even try it,” he warned coldly.

They swallowed, backing away, their sudden fear evident in the rapid rise of their heartbeats. The darkness in him rose, needing to taste the sweet life that coursed through the veins of these men. He clenched his free hand, fighting the desire to feed, wondering why the darkness was so strong now when he'd spent years successfully ignoring it.

He tossed the miner away from him and strode from the hotel. Though he needed to feed, he hesitated on the edge of the wooden sidewalk, his gaze going to the old house two buildings back from the whorehouse. He switched to the infrared of his vampire vision and saw that the blonde was alone in the backroom. Relief slithered through him, followed quickly by surprise. He'd never been into blondes, and he certainly wanted nothing to do with any of the women who made this hellhole their home. And yet...

This blonde had caught his interest, but it wasn't so much her looks—which were certainly stunning—but something else, something he couldn't really define. He'd felt her coming long before he'd seen her, and the awareness that surged when his gaze met hers had nearly burned his senses. The reaction in his body has been just as intense, almost suggesting familiarity with her curvaceous body.

Impossible, of course. He'd been with Christine for ten years, and there'd been no one else in that time. Memories rose like guilty phantoms, and suddenly he was kneeling in the Chicago Street yet again, with Christine in his arms, her life leaving as fast as the blood that pulsed from the bullet wound in her chest. Reliving the moment as she lay there, gasping for breath as she touched his cheek and declared her love—a love he'd never been able to return, despite all his caring.

He closed his eyes, forcing the images away yet again, but not denying the anger that surged through his veins. He would find Dunleavy and he would kill him. Maybe then Christine's ghost would finally rest in peace. He turned away, walking toward the nearest stable. He had a killer to hunt down. Dallying with a whore, however winsome he might find her, could play no part in his mission.

He slid open the barn door. The scent of hay, horse and dung drifted out to greet him, and in the semidarkness beyond, eyes gleamed as horses shifted nervously. They could sense what he was. Most animals could. He smiled grimly. Humans could certainly learn a thing or two from the beasts they used and abused.

He walked down to the end stall and unlatched the door. The brown mare snorted warily, tossing her head. He spoke soft words of encouragement, hypnotizing her with his voice as much as with his gaze. When she was still, he sank his teeth into the soft flesh under her neck and took his fill from her.

He'd barely finished when he heard the footstep. He wrapped the shadows around himself, stepping into the corner of the stall. For several seconds, there was no sound beyond the tremulous beat of a heart and the restless stirring of the other horses.

Yet without even looking, he knew who it was. The blonde. And the amazing awareness that seemed to surge between them was even stronger this close, surging through his veins like life itself.

"Michael?"

Her voice came out of the dusky shadows that hovered the near main entrance, her tone soft, warm, and somehow familiar. Heat chased the awareness through his veins, and suddenly he wanted this woman with a fierceness that had him shaking. Why? What was it about her that had him responding so intensely?

Or was it nothing more than some sort of magic? Dunleavy was a sorcerer. Michael had found that out the hard way—and still bore the healing scars down his back. Maybe his reaction to this woman had nothing to do with desire, and everything to do with some sort of trick.

"I know you're here, Michael. We need to talk."

She hadn't moved. Though he could taste her tension, hear the rapid beat of her heart, he couldn't feel fear. Which was strange, because if she knew his name, she probably knew what he was.

He flicked the curtain of darkness away from himself and exited the stall. Her eyes widened slightly, and as her gaze raked him, then came to a halt on his shoulder, he'd swear he saw the brief sheen of tears in her glorious green eyes.

As if she knew he had a wound under his shirt.

After relocking the stall door, he took several steps towards her, then stopped. This close, her eyes weren't really green but a strange green-brown, as if the green was backlit by a light that was warm amber. Right now, those strange-colored eyes were filled with such promises that the ache in his groin became even more painful.

He crossed his arms, resisting the pull he felt towards her as he watched the warmth flush across her exotic cheeks. Her full lips pursed, then opened slightly, as if she couldn't drag in enough air. Perhaps the intense attraction went both ways.

He let his gaze slide down. Her breasts were voluptuous, their peaks hardening through the tightly-buttoned checked shirt even as he watched. Her skirt was brown, and though it swirled lightly around her feet, it was slit up the sides to her knees and would undoubtedly reveal tantalizing flashes of leg when she moved. He ached to explore what was still hidden, to slide his hand up the silky flesh of her thighs and discover paradise...

"What do you want?” His voice came out harsh, roughened as much by need as anger at his own reaction. Good lord, he wasn't so starved for sex that he'd take his ease on a whore. He hadn't been that desperate for a long, long time.

She studied him for a moment, and then licked her lips. Like a lamb caught in the stare of a wolf, he watched, as if hypnotized.

And that only succeeded in making him angrier. There had to be magic involved. What else could account for such a strong and instant attraction?

"We need to talk,” she repeated eventually.

"So you said. About what?"

His voice was still harsh, but if she sensed his anger, she wasn't showing any fear. Either she was as stupid as a mule, or she was more capable of looking after herself than she appeared. Or, as he'd originally thought, she was protected by some form of magic. He could probably discover the truth if he stepped closer, but instinct suggested he shouldn't. He didn't know why, but for the moment, he was following instinct.

"I know why you're here in Hartwell,” she said softly.

"Do you now?"

She shifted, affording him a glimpse of lightly tanned leg and thick boots. Not the shoe of choice for a whore, normally. “You're here to hunt down and kill a man by the name of Dunleavy."

He continued to glare at her. She shifted again, yet still there was no sign of fear in her mannerisms—no tremor in her voice, no avoidance of his eyes, no fluttering, nervous movements. Maybe the little fool didn't even realize he could snap her neck in the blink of an eye.

"What makes you think that?” he asked.

"Because I'm hunting him, too."

He couldn't stop the laugh that escaped. “You? Hunting a man like Dunleavy? Sweetheart, he'd eat you up in half a second."

Her eyes darkened imperceptibly at the endearment. “No, he won't. Nor will you."

"You think?"

"I know."

Maybe it was time to show the little idiot she was playing with fire. At the very least, if he managed to scare the wits out of her, she'd run so far and so fast he actually might be able to concentrate on what he had to do. With dusk fast approaching, he could ill afford to be standing here exchanging verbal blows with a lady of ill repute.

"What if I tell you that I could be by your side in the blink of an eye, drinking your blood while you moaned in ecstasy? What would you say to that?"

"I'd say that if you tried, I'd knock you on your ass so fast your head would ring."

He smiled slightly. The witch had spirit, that was for sure. “Then perhaps I should try."

She didn't say anything, just flexed her fingers and continued to watch him. He couldn't help admiring her courage.

He stepped to the right, deep into the gathering shadows, and wrapped the cloak of darkness around himself. Then he ran toward her so fast the wind of his approach flung her smoky-blonde hair backwards, as if offering the long column of her neck in supplication.

Though he had no intention of tasting any human, the darkness still rose. If there was a spell on this woman, then maybe it was not one of seduction, but one designed to court the darkness within him. Maybe Dunleavy sought to shatter the bonds Michael had secured around his demon, hoping it would send him back to the hell from which he'd emerged long ago.

He stopped close to her, and her scent spun around him—honey, sunshine and cinnamon. A warm, somehow familiar, scent that stirred him in ways that went beyond the physical.

She sidestepped him and placed a hand on his chest, even though he was still wrapped in shadows. That surprised him. Few humans could do what she'd just done.

He threw off the cloak of night and reached out, wrapping his fingers lightly around her neck, caressing the warm pulse that fluttered so rapidly with a thumb.

"I could break your neck so easily."

Her eyes widened a little, and the flutter under his fingers grew quicker. “Do that, and you destroy your future."

He raised an eyebrow. “How so? You are nothing but a whore."

Something flashed in her eyes—an amber fire that did strange things to his breathing. “Are you so sure of that that you're willing to kill me?"

"Perhaps.” After all, what future did he really have to look forward to? The years that stretched before him where as endless and as dark as the ones behind.

He stepped closer. Her breath caught, yet the look in her eyes was more anticipatory than fearful. “Who are you working for?"

"No one."

He closed the remaining distance between them. Her rapid breaths caressed his cheek with warmth, and her breasts pressed against his chest. Awareness surged across his skin—an elemental force that was all passion, all heat.

"I don't believe you."

"I'm here to stop Dunleavy, nothing more, nothing less.” Her strange-colored eyes searched his, and heat bloomed fiercer in her cheeks. She licked her lips, and it was all he could do not to taste their moistness for himself. Lord, he didn't know what it was about this woman, but she'd hooked him in her web faster than a spider's caught a fly.

"But,” she continued softly, breathlessly, “I'll need your help, if I'm to succeed."

"You could be right,” he murmured and gave in to temptation, briefly kissing her sweet lips. It felt like he was dipping a toe into heaven. Felt like he was coming home. “But I have no intention of helping you."

"I could make it worth your while."

"Oh, I'm sure you could.” He slid his hand down her back. Even through the thick woolen shirt he could feel the heat of her skin. Like him, she seemed to burn. “Only I do not need a partner. Dunleavy is mine to kill."

"Dunleavy is more than you think he is. And he intends to sacrifice two men in a ritual tonight. We have to stop him."

He caressed the firm cheeks of her rear. A quiver ran through her, and her pupils widened slightly, evidence of the desire he could almost smell. Holding her gaze, daring her to stop him, he slid his hand back up to the band of her skirt and began to tug free her shirt.

"There is no ‘we’ in any of this, and I do not care if Dunleavy sacrifices a hundred men—not if the bloody trail leads me to him."

"That is a very selfish and unproductive attitude."

Smiling coldly, he undid the bottom button of her shirt and moved up to the next one. “I am a very selfish man, and I'm prone to taking what I want, when I want."

"And right now you think you can just take me?"

Another button gone, two more to go. His anticipation rose. “Yes."

"You'd be wrong, you know."

He raised an eyebrow, but his attention was more on what was about to be revealed than what she was saying. “You're the one who said you could make it worth my while."

"Only if we work together. I don't believe in free samples before the agreement."

The last button came undone, and he pushed her shirt open. Her breasts were far smaller than what they'd appeared, but as glorious as he'd imagined. Yet it was the scar at the base of her neck that held his gaze.

"What is this?” he said, wondering at the anger that surged through him.

"A cut."

"I can see that. How did you get it?"

"By being stupid.” She shrugged, her gaze on his, as if searching for something.

He frowned and forced himself to concentrate on trying to get rid of her, rather than trying to understand the puzzle she presented. He skimmed his fingers across her flat stomach, his gaze holding hers as he gradually worked his fingers inwards, reaching, but not quite touching the hard, pebbled center.

"I can feel your desire, little one. Do not try and deny it."

"I'm not.” She moved with a suddenness that surprised him, pushing him backwards as she hooked her foot around his leg. He ended up on his ass at her feet, just as she'd warned he would.

He couldn't help laughing. “The whore has spirit."

She crossed her arms, but made no attempt to cover her breasts. “Just why do you think I'm a whore?"

He rose and dusted the hay from his butt. “Because the only women in this town are whores, and because no decent woman allows a complete stranger to undress her."

One dark blond eyebrow winged upwards. “What if that woman knows the man in question will play a major role in her future?"

He laughed again. Maybe he should keep this woman around, just so her inane comments could lighten the darkness of his life. “I do not need, nor do I want, a woman in my life. Not as a partner, not as a lover, not even as a short-term bedmate.” Not until he'd avenged Christine's death, anyway. He owed her that much.

Her gaze skated down his body, and a smile tugged her lush lips. “Sections of your body are denying that statement."

"Something no decent woman would say out loud."

Her smile grew. “I never claimed to be decent, just that I wasn't a whore."

"Then, Miss Whatever-you-are, I suggest you return to your house and lock your doors. Night is coming on, and this town can get mighty unpleasant."

"I told you before. I need to rescue the two men."

"Then do it on your own.” He half turned away, then stopped. He couldn't let her go without tasting her again, even if every instinct said it was wrong. Wrapping a hand around the back of her neck, he pulled her roughly into his arms and claimed her mouth as fiercely as he wished he could claim her body.

Then he released her, spun and walked away.

Nikki wasn't sure whether to throw something at Michael's back or run after him. Damn it, every inch of her thrummed with desire, a desire that was obviously shared, and yet he was walking away.

She took a deep breath and released it slowly, but it did little to ease the ache.

Seline had warned her this would happen—not so much the frustration, but Michael refusing her help. Apparently, he'd done much the same one hundred years ago. Which meant she was following the chain of events rather than breaking them.

But, damn it, she hadn't really expected him to refuse to help her. She had expected the love they shared to transcend the spell and make wanting her seem as natural as night following day. Yet he was resisting even that. Obviously, the spell that held him was strong, and she was going to have to work a lot harder to get him to accept her in any way.

She sighed and buttoned her shirt. Now what? Part of her wanted to follow Michael, but she sensed this would only anger him and make him even more reluctant to help her. Somehow, she had to prove she could be useful to him. Hard to do when the shield around this town had put a dampener on most of her psychic gifts.

Or had it?

Frowning, she glanced at the nearby pitchfork and reached for her kinetic energy. There was zip in the way of a response, and the fork stubbornly remained where it was. Yet, some of her gifts were working. She'd been able to sense that Kinnard wasn't human, had known where Michael was without looking. Maybe the shield around this town resembled the magic that had been in the Circle's testing room—and if that were the case, it meant she at least had her flames for protection.

She hoped so, because the only weapons she'd dared to sneak in were two sets of knives—one set strapped to her wrists, the other currently strapped to her thighs. She hadn't dared risk anything else, just in case her packs had been searched. But as good as she was with her knives, she really didn't want to depend on them. Nor did she want to depend on the maneuvers she'd learned in self-defense. She had a feeling Weylin Dunleavy would be able to counter either of them easily enough.

She tucked the ends of her shirt back into her skirt and walked to the rear door. Dusk was settling in across the sky, painting the clouds a vibrant red. No rain tomorrow, at least. She let her gaze slide across the houses that remained in the small back street, but she couldn't sense life in any of them. That didn't mean there wasn't life, just that there was no no-longer-human life, such as vampires. Given Kinnard's earlier warning, there could be shapeshifters and God only knew what else in the half dozen, sad-looking buildings dotting the street, and she wouldn't sense those until she got closer to them.

Michael wasn't anywhere close, but that didn't surprise her. He was here for one reason—to reenact past events. She was here to disrupt them and stop Weylin—if she could.

She thrust that thought away. Of course she'd stop him. She had a damn wedding half-planned, and she had every intention of finally going out to buy her wedding dress.

Her gaze roamed beyond the buildings. The night crept shadowy fingers across the hills, and nothing seemed to be moving.

Where would Dunleavy sacrifice the two rangers?

Seline had told her that the sacrifices on the night of the new moon would be performed in a side shaft in the main mine, but Nikki doubted Dunleavy would risk using that site for these minor sacrifices, if only because some ritual sites needed purifying before reuse, and he wouldn't want to be doing that every night.

So, where else?

In its prime, Hartwell had had close to one hundred and fifty working mines. She'd never be able to search all of them, but then, many of them would undoubtedly be sealed up. This place was a State Park, and neither the rangers nor the local authorities would want people wandering at will into unsafe or unsound mines.

Which meant that, maybe, all she had to do was look for signs of recent use around the mine entrances. But where to start?

She bit her lip for a moment, then swung left. Dust stirred under her boots, swirling through the air. She sneezed.

"Bless you,” a cold voice said to her right.

Nikki jumped and swung around, but she resisted the impulse to flick a knife into her palm simply because she recognized the voice.

"You spying, Kinnard?” She eyed the old man warily as he walked from the shadows of a small lane alongside the barn.

"Of course.” He hawked and spat. Nikki quickly shifted her boot to avoid the blob, and suspected he did it purely to piss her off. Kinnard grinned. “The emotion of sexual awareness is almost as drink-worthy as anger. You and that vampire of yours fairly set the air alight."

"I'm happy for you,” she muttered. “What do you want?"

"I came to remind you that dinner is now being served."

He came to spy, more likely. Obviously, he was Dunleavy's eyes and ears, and he had probably followed her simply to see if she was playing the game or not.

And maybe following Kinnard should be her plan of attack once she'd rescued the rangers. It might be the only way she was going to figure out where Dunleavy was. If he was a vampire, as Seline had said, then she should be able to sense him the minute she got near him. But he was also an adept of magic and would probably be wearing some form of concealment—if he hadn't totally changed shape. After all, his twin had been a shapeshifter. There was every chance that Weylin was one, too.

"I'm not eating tonight, thanks,” she said.

"Ain't much but beans in the store, you know. And they're worth a King's ransom.” His gaze skated down her. “Of course, for a pretty thing like you, I'll do a special price."

Revulsion stirred. “No, thanks."

Kinnard raised an eyebrow. “Too good for me, huh? Well, that'll change. It did last time."

Meaning Seline had slept with this wizened old maggot? Somehow, Nikki doubted it. She stepped back. “If you'll excuse me, I have rangers to find."

"Ah, yes.” Humor lit his pale eyes. “That reminds me—I've been sent to give you a hint and a warning. Wolves prowl the eastern rim. Get past them, and you might just find your rangers."

Might not, too, she suspected. “And when I free the rangers, Weylin promises to release them?"

"Gotta like a woman with confidence.” He gave her a stained smile. “They can join the miners in the bar, but they can't go free."

No one can. The unsaid words hung in the air between them. Nikki swallowed to ease the dryness in her throat. “He'd better keep his promises, Kinnard."

He snorted, “And what are you going to do if he doesn't, girlie? This is our game, and you're playing by our rules."

"Rules can change.” Would change, if she had anything to say about it. “And remember, old man, neither you nor your master know as much about me as you think you do."

Chew on that, she thought, spinning around and walking away. His gaze burned a hole into her back long after she'd turned a corner and headed for the nearby hills.

Once she'd passed the last of the old buildings, she stopped. The hills rose above her, dark and silent expanses of dirt and sage bush. To her left, halfway up the hill, stood the Standard Mill, which had once processed ore from the Standard Mine, the largest and most profitable of all the mines in the area. A series of wooden poles led from the mill to the hilltop, the remains of a gondola system that had once carted the ore from the mine to the mill. She couldn't see the mine entrance from where she stood, and she had no intention of going there tonight. But that was where she'd have to go come the night of the new moon.

Her gaze came back to the mill. Kinnard had suggested that the rangers were being held in the eastern section, but she didn't believe him. The mill was certainly far enough away from town to hold prisoners, but as one of the few, almost whole, structures that remained outside of the town, it was also a very obvious hiding spot.

Would Weylin do the obvious? Probably not. But instinct was pressuring her to check out the mill, and right now, all she really had to go on was instinct.

Picking up her skirt, she walked toward the mill. The wind stirred, brushing cold fingers across her cheeks even as it teased long strands of hair away from her ponytail. It was still somewhat jolting to see blonde rather than brown, and she was damn glad there'd been no mirrors in the old house. It was an unreal sensation to look in the mirror and see someone else's reflection staring back.

She wondered why Seline and Michael had never been intimate. While she knew, from comments that Camille had made, that Seline wasn't actually blonde but dark haired, Nikki very much suspected the rest of the image she wore was pretty much the real Seline. Put dark hair with the green eyes and voluptuous figure, and it was pretty damn amazing that any man, vampire or not, had resisted her. And from comments Michael had made in the past, she knew Seline was not one to shy away from intimate situations if the chance presented itself. So, why had the two of them never been more than friends? It was curious, to say the least. And though she'd asked Michael, she'd never got more than his standard ‘because'.

Maybe this was her chance to learn more about him and the past he was still reluctant to talk about. While she could hardly talk to him about Seline, there was lots of other information she could mine. Centuries of it, in fact. The Michael who'd been in the stable was the Michael she loved—and yet, at the same time, he wasn't. Seline had warned her that he'd be rougher, darker. Harder. And in some respects, he'd been all of those. But he'd also seemed a whole lot more talkative, too. Her Michael played his cards very close. Maybe it was something he'd learned from Seline. Maybe they'd had no other choice once the Circle had begun making serious dents in the fields of bad guys.

The mill loomed. She slowed and swept her gaze across the nearest buildings. There were a good half dozen smaller buildings surrounding one larger cluster, which she guessed would probably be the main mill works. Most of the buildings were clad in sheets of corrugated steel, but there were a few that were all wood. It was to one of these she found herself walking towards.

That fact bought her up short.

Was it instinct that had bought her here, or something else?

She stood still and listened. Sheets of metal rattled on the roof of a nearby building, and the wind whispered through shattered windows, a forlorn sound that chased goose bumps across her skin. A takeout container rolled along the well-worn path that ambled through the buildings, blown in from God knew where.

No one seemed to be here, and yet ... something was.

She licked her lips and took a step back.

A rumble of sound rose from the night behind her.

She froze, knowing she'd fallen into Weylin's trap.

The wolves weren't patrolling the eastern perimeter. They were right here in this mill. With her.