Michael strode down the center of Main Street, scanning each hotel with the infrared of his vampire vision. For a town that only had a small number of inhabitants, there seemed to be an overabundance of drinking holes.

Unfortunately, Dunleavy didn't appear to be in any of them. Vampires had a slightly different glow under infrared, and all the people currently in the hotels were human.

So, where was he? While the fiend was young in vampire years, dusk had settled across the hills, and it would be safe enough for Dunleavy to start moving around. Yet he was nowhere to be found. Again.

Maybe he was hiding in one of the mines, though given Dunleavy's preference for all things fine, it was hard to imagine him putting up with living in the dark, dank tunnels for any length of time. The rat had to have a hole somewhere here in Hartwell. It was just a matter of finding it.

His gaze went to the blonde's home, and he frowned when he saw the blur of life inside. There was no way she could have gotten past without him noticing, so it couldn't be her. And besides, the red blur was smaller, and it seemed to have an odd energy pattern. It wasn't a vampire. Wasn't anything he could remember seeing before. It was almost as if the creature in that house wasn't even something that lived and breathed, in the normal sense of the word.

Frowning, Michael quickened his pace, striding beside the old boardwalk rather than on it to keep down the noise of his steps. The red blur froze anyway, head cocked to one side, as if listening. Then it scurried towards the rear of the house. Michael smiled grimly and blurred into the night, racing around the buildings to the back of her home.

He was just in time to catch the sneak climbing out of the rear window.

"Well, well,” he said, grabbing the man by the scruff of the neck with his good hand, and holding him dangling above the ground. “What have we got here?"

The felon squawked, his wizened face screwed up in fear, scarred hands and booted feet both swishing wildly through the air but landing nowhere. “Nothing. Let me down."

"Not until you explain what you were doing in this house."

"It's my house,” the man exclaimed. “I can damn well do what I want."

Michael gave him a shake. Though he was holding the felon tight enough to almost choke a normal man, it seemed to have very little effect on this particular man. Maybe the fool was too frightened to realize he was being choked, though it seemed to be anger rather than fear evident in his actions.

Reaching telepathically, Michael tried to read the old fool's thoughts, but nothing happened. For some reason, his telepathy skills had deserted him since he'd walked into this place. Either that or this old man had shields stronger than anything he'd ever come across, which meant, perhaps, that he was a whole lot more than he seemed.

Maybe he was connected to Dunleavy in some way. It was logical that Dunleavy would have someone to do his bidding during the daylight hours, when he was restricted to the shadows.

"If this is your house, why were you climbing through the back window?"

"I heard steps. Thought it might have been one of the miners coming after the money he's owed."

"So, you're a cheat as well as a thief?"

"I ain't.” But it was sullenly said.

"Then stop waving your hands and empty your pockets."

The old man glared. Michael shook him hard enough to rattle the old fool's teeth. With a soft curse, the thief slowly emptied his pockets. Fine silk underclothing fell to the ground.

Anger rose thick and fast, and suddenly it was all Michael could do not to kill this creature right then and there.

"A cheat, a thief, and a pervert. Perhaps I would do this town a great favor if I rid it of your presence."

"Whores don't need undergarments,” the old man muttered, his sullen words at odds with the strange flame of anger in his pale eyes.

"And you do?” Michael retorted. “Wait until I tell the miners about your little fetish. I'm sure they'll appreciate it."

The old man hawked and spat. Michael dodged the glob and squeezed his hand a little tighter. It made no more difference than before.

"The whore's probably not going to live out the night, so it won't matter if I take them for others to use."

Michael's grip tightened even further. Any other man would have died right then and there, their neck snapped. Yet there was no bone under his fingertips. Impossible, surely...

"What do you mean?” he asked, voice harsh.

"Listen to the wind, vampire. It howls for blood."

As if the old man's words were a trigger, the howls of wolves suddenly sang on the night breeze. It was a sound that spoke of hunting and the need for blood. A sound that stirred the darkness in him, despite the fact he'd fed only a few minutes ago.

He frowned, his gaze searching the darkening hills. The blonde was in trouble.

The desire—no, the need—to go to her aid pounded through his blood and itched at his feet. Yet she was nothing to him, just a luscious stranger he wouldn't have minded spending some time with had the moment been right.

So why did his heart freeze at the thought of not helping her?

He shook the old man, hard. “I don't care if the wind or the wolves howl for blood. I have other business to attend to. What's your name?"

"Kinnard.” The old man regarded him for a second, then added, “And this is something I didn't expect."

"What? Being caught?"

Amusement flitted through the old man's eyes. “Oh, there's more than one of us caught right now, but only one of us realizes it."

"Enough with the riddles, Kinnard. What do you know of a man named Dunleavy?"

"I know he lives in this town."

"Where in this town?"

The old man gave him a strange smile. “Everywhere and nowhere."

Michael shook him again. “No riddles, remember."

A strange sound that might have been a laugh, or might have been a gasp for air, rumbled up Kinnard's throat. “I cannot help you in your quest, vampire, because I do not know. But, I can tell you that what you seek is right under your nose."

And he laughed, a high, cackling sound that edged insanity. Michael tossed him away in disgust. “Do not let me find you raiding this house again,” he warned flatly.

The old man picked himself up, dusted off his clothes and sniffed. His expression was an odd mix of disdain and madness. “There are many forces at work in this small town, vampire. Until you are aware of the value of all the players, I suggest you do not waste lives needlessly."

"Then I suggest you take my advice and stay away from this house."

Kinnard snorted softly and walked away. Michael watched until he'd disappeared around the corner of the whorehouse, then he picked up the undergarments and tossed them back through the window.

The wind that stirred his hair and caressed his face was full of the scent of wolves. He frowned and glanced toward the hills. As much as he wanted to continue his search for Dunleavy, he simply couldn't leave the blonde in trouble. Especially if she was the prey the wolves hunted. He sighed and ran toward the distant howling.

He wasn't all that surprised to find both the wolves and the blonde at the mill.

What did surprise him was the fact that she was standing quite calmly in the middle of the snarling pack.

He stopped ten feet away from the tableau and crossed his arms. The wolf closest to him looked over his shoulder and gave him an almost human once over. Shapeshifter, he thought, and glanced at the other four. Three were normal wolves, while the fourth was another shifter. Interesting. Shifters didn't often mix with their animal counterparts.

His gaze went back to the blonde. “And here I thought you might need assistance."

There was no sign of fear in the amazing green-brown depths of her eyes, though there were hints of amusement and frustration. The woman was definitely odd.

"They haven't been sent here to hurt me.” Her voice was a low caress that stirred memories he couldn't quite catch. “Just to harass me. Dunleavy doesn't want me to find those two men I mentioned."

He swept his gaze across the nearby buildings. “There's no life in any of these buildings."

"I figured there wouldn't be."

"Then why come here?"

"Because I had to check, regardless. Dunleavy might have hidden the prisoners here for the very reason that it was an obvious hiding spot."

Only a woman would think like that. “Do you want assistance?"

She gave him a deadpan look. “Hell, no. I'm enjoying myself standing here."

He held back his smile. “Two of these wolves are shifters, and as they'll understand every word we're saying, it might be best—"

"They won't understand,” she countered. “Because they're under Dunleavy's spell and following his orders."

"And you know this because...?"

She hesitated. “I'm a witch."

She was a witch as much as he could fly. He frowned, wondering why she was lying. And if she wasn't a witch, how did she know the shifters were spelled?

"Then why don't you magic your way out?"

She sniffed, her look so haughty he couldn't help smiling. God, she looked so damn cute he could kiss her. He quickly quelled the thought. Damn, where was his mind? He was here to avenge Christine, not dally with another woman.

"Magic cannot be raised willy-nilly,” she said, her voice bordering on disdain. “And it should always be used with care."

"That didn't really answer my question."

She hesitated again, then said, in a more normal tone, “I can't raise the magic here. The conditions aren't right for me."

He had a feeling the conditions were never going to be right for her. And that begged an interesting question. Why did she claim to be a witch when she could not raise magic?

"So, as I asked before, do you need to be rescued or not?"

"Yes, please,” she said, a touch primly.

He couldn't help smiling again—and three times in one day was something of a record. It seemed to have been forever since he'd last felt so relaxed with someone. He'd even been guarded with Christine, though he'd known her for close to ten years.

He looked past her again, searching the buildings closest to them, looking for one that was long, with exits at either end and had few windows. He found one to the side of the old wooden shack. It had windows, but they were high up and not big enough for a wolf to jump through.

"Do you think the shifters would shift shape if they were trapped?"

"Not until the spell wears off, and I doubt that'll happen until after midnight."

"Midnight being the time Dunleavy intends to kill his prisoners?"

She nodded. “So, what's the escape plan?"

"Prepare to be swept off your feet,” he said, blurring into the night.

He swept her into his arms, ignoring the twinge in his shoulder as he raced toward the building. She gasped, her heart a wild tattoo against his chest as she snuggled closer. He couldn't help noticing again that she was not as voluptuous, not as soft, as she appeared. Yet in many ways, he found her lissomeness more appealing.

Behind them, the wolves stirred, howling their anger as they lunged after them. He opened the door of the building and ran through the cobwebbed darkness, his footsteps a whisper that barely stirred the thick dust. Behind them came the clatter of claws as the wolves entered.

He opened a second door and ran on. The exit wasn't that far away—but neither were the wolves. Given the fierceness of their snarling, he wasn't putting much weight on her assertion that they weren't intending to harm her.

He opened the last door, glanced over his shoulder, and saw a big gray wolf launch itself at him. He slammed the door shut, heard the thud and saw the door tremble.

He placed the blonde back on her feet. “Hold this tight,” he said, indicating the doorknob.

Her fingers slid warmly across his. “Where are you going?"

"To lock the other door."

She nodded. He ran around the building and closed the other door. Then he hunted around the nearby buildings for something to secure the doors. Eventually, he found some long lengths of rope in what looked to have been a tool shed. He lashed the handle and tied it back to a rock outcrop. Then he raced back to the blonde.

She looked around as he approached. “You took your time.” Her words were punctuated by thumps against the door.

He showed her the rope then began lashing the door. “Do you have a name?” he asked, realizing he couldn't keep referring to her as “the blonde."

She hesitated again. “Seline."

He looked at her as he began securing the other end of the rope to the door handle of the building directly opposite. “Really?"

"Really.” She crossed her arms and looked somewhat defensive. “Why?"

"Because you don't look like a Seline."

She raised a dark eyebrow. “Then what do I look like?"

He shrugged. “Something softer."

A smile twitched her lips. “Softer? Do I look the soft type to you?"

His gaze did a tour down her body, then rose to meet hers again. Heat touched her cheeks, and awareness and longing burned in her amazing eyes.

"I think you're cotton candy with a steel core,” he said softly.

She smiled. “You could be right.” Her gaze lingered on his for a moment, and then she glanced down and frowned. “You're bleeding."

A fact he knew, as he could smell the blood. It wasn't much more than a trickle though, and would undoubtedly dry up soon. He shrugged. “Got shot a few days ago. The wound is taking time to heal."

"You'd better let me look at it."

"It's fine."

"But it might get infected."

"I said, it's fine."

She still persisted. “But if it was silver—"

"Damn it woman, I do not need or want your help—with anything."

She raised an eyebrow, her expression closed, yet green-tinted eyes filled with anger and frustration. “Fine. I'll just be leaving to continue my search for those men, then."

He frowned. “Alone?"

"Yeah. Why not?"

"Because you are a woman, and this is a rough town. And because wolves come in all forms."

She shrugged. “I can protect myself."

"So you've said before.” And he was no more inclined to believe her now than he was then, despite the fact she'd tipped him on his ass earlier.

He glanced at the town below them. Lights shone warmly from the hotels and the whorehouse, but there seemed to be little activity anywhere else. Dunleavy hadn't been down there at dusk, and previous night searches had proven useless. He had a feeling tonight's search would prove just as useless.

And as much as he didn't want this woman's help, he also couldn't bear the thought of her wandering out here alone. Why, he had no idea. It wasn't as if she meant anything to him. Lord, he'd only just met the woman. Yet, at the same time, it seemed as if he'd known her forever.

He met her gaze again. “Perhaps I should accompany you on your endeavor."

She raised her eyebrows. “Why? I thought you didn't want my help?"

"I don't. But if you insist on wandering out here alone, then I shall accompany you. I intended to search beyond the main boundaries of the town tonight, anyway."

"So this is not so much an offer of help, but a way of protecting me while you continue your own search."

"Precisely.” He turned and offered her an arm. “May I escort you free of this mill? The paths tend to be uneven."

"My sight is as good as yours, vampire.” She brushed past his offered arm and strode away, as if to prove her point.

He chuckled softly. He'd never met such a fiercely independent woman before, and while it was annoying, it was also extremely refreshing. Would she be this feisty in bed? Somehow, he suspected the answer would be yes.

He followed her, enjoying the sway in her walk, the flash of calf. She hitched her skirt up as she reached the longer grass, revealing lithe, well muscled legs. Not a woman who spent most of her time on her back, that was for sure.

He lengthened his stride to catch up with her. “So, what does the witch do when she is not hunting killers?"

"I do not spend my time whoring with drunk or sober louts.” She cast him a sideways glance. “What does the vampire do?"

"For the most part, try to stay out of trouble."

"Some things never change,” she muttered. “Vampires, no matter what the age, are a close-mouthed lot."

He raised an eyebrow. “You've associated with vampires previously?"

"Yeah.” She looked at him, and there was something in her eyes that strangely stirred him. “You might even say I love one."

"If the feelings are returned, then why are you here alone?"

She ducked her gaze away from his. “Because my vampire went away."

"Ah. I'm sorry."

She shrugged. “It doesn't matter."

It mattered a lot, if the sense of hurt and frustration he was picking up from her was anything to go by. Though why he was picking such things up from her was something he didn't know. “Would it help if I say vampires rarely stay in relationships for long?"

Her gaze came back to his. Amusement touched the amber-lit green depths. “So I've been told.” She hesitated. “Have you had many long-term relationships?"

"Very few."

"How many is very few?"

He raised an eyebrow. “That is none of your business."

She smiled, and he couldn't help feeling her amusement came from a joke he should be able to share.

"You called me a whore, but I can count the number of men I've had on a couple of fingers. Can you say the same, vampire?"

He studied her for moment, wondering why this seemed so important to her. Wondering why the thought of her having had a couple of lovers tore at him so. “That depends on what you term a relationship."

"More than just sex. And more than a few nights."

"Ah, well.” He paused, thinking back through the long years of aloneness. “Maybe three."

Her eyebrows raised. “Really?"

"Really.” His voice was a little sharper than he'd intended. “Watching someone you love grow old and die is never easy. Mostly, it's better not to love."

"Then why not make your lover a vampire?"

"Are you always this damn nosy, woman?"

"Yes. And I tend to nag when I don't get the answers I want."

"All women nag. It's an ability I'm sure you're born with."

Amusement touched her eyes. “And it seems men are born with the innate ability to sidestep questions."

"Then let me answer yours. Turning your lover into a vampire almost never works, because the fledgling stage of vampirism is basically a madness that can last ten or twenty years."

They skirted the old pump house situated on the southern edge of the pond and continued on. The scent of another person touched the air, and he raked his gaze across the night. The old man was rustling about in the bushes lining the far edge of the pond. Hunting or spying? Or something else entirely? Maybe he should check out those bushes once day had broken again. He wasn't sure why he thought daylight would affect Kinnard when he wasn't a vampire, especially when he'd seen Kinnard moving about in daylight, though not during the midday hours.

"And that,” he continued firmly, returning his thoughts to the blonde and her questions, “is all you're going to get out of this vampire."

She raised an eyebrow, amusement rich in her eyes. “You're very touchy when it comes to personal matters."

"You don't know me, so you can't say what I am or am not."

"I wouldn't bet on that, Michael."

Actually, he wouldn't bet on it, either. He had a vague suspicion this woman knew him better than anyone else alive. Maybe she was a witch.

"Any idea where this so-called ceremony might take place?"

She shook her head. “I suspect it's probably happening in one of the mines, but there's so many, we could never check them all in one night."

He could. Or he could at least check which of the mines currently had life in them, and go from there. But Dunleavy would sense his presence the minute he got anywhere near those mines, and the fiend had proven adept at disappearing in the past. Which again left him with the woman and the possibility of using her as a decoy.

An option he didn't like, and one that had not worked well in the past.

His gaze went back to the bushes. Kinnard had gone. Interesting. “Does Dunleavy intend to kill the men in some sort of ceremony, or does he merely execute them?"

"There's no ‘merely’ about an execution."

He glanced down at her. “If he merely kills them, it could take place anywhere. If he intends to perform a ritual, wouldn't that lessen the search area? Don't such ceremonies require specific locations?"

She hesitated. “Yes."

Again, he got the impression that he knew more about magic than she did. “Such as?"

She bit her lip, her expression one of fierce concentration. It was the sort of look an unprepared student might have when asked a question by a teacher. “It would need to have limited access. And depending on the type of ritual he performs, it would need to be big enough to cater not only to the protection circle, but a ritual fire and perhaps a sacrifice table."

Michael nodded. “Then that cuts down our search area. There are five mines that are big enough to cater to those requirements. One of them is the Standard Mine, which we just left."

"It won't be that one. He intends to use that the night of the new moon."

He raised an eyebrow. “Couldn't he use the same area twice?"

"He could, but I doubt that he will. He has to follow a set pattern."

"Why?"

Her gaze slid from his. “Because he has a ceremony to perform on the night of the new moon, and the lead up to that ceremony does not include killing anyone else on the site."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

Despite the conviction in her voice, he very much suspected she wasn't sure. “There is one way we could easily find out."

She glanced at him, eyebrow raised. “How?"

"Vampire's can move with the speed of the wind. I could very easily check out the five mines for the presence of humans, and then come back here.” And, in the process, he could check out Kinnard's disappearance while keeping her at a safe distance from trouble, should it arise.

She stopped, crossing her arms as she looked up at him. “We both know you could have suggested that when we were standing in the middle of the Mill, so what's suddenly made you change your mind?"

"I merely wish to make your search easier."

"Crap. You've seen something, haven't you?"

The woman had to be a witch—either that, or she had some form of telepathy that somehow breached his shields, allowing her to read his thoughts. “If we continue as we are, we will not have time to search all the mines before your midnight deadline."

"Fine.” Her voice was flat, angry. “Go."

He caught her hand and raised it to his lips, inhaling her intoxicating scent as he kissed her fingers. “I won't be long."

"I believe that as much as I believe the reason you're going,” she replied tartly.

He smiled, stepped back and let the night cover him.

For several seconds Nikki glared at the spot where he'd been standing, and she silently cursed him. She'd forgotten just how frustrating he could be—which really only showed how much he'd changed in the time they'd been together.

But, thanks to the spell he was under, he was back to telling her nothing and trying to get rid of her the minute anything dangerous appeared on the horizon.

While she had no doubt he would check the mines, she also suspected he was going to check what Kinnard had been up to. If she'd noticed the old man foraging around in the shrubs, Michael surely had.

And he was about to learn yet again that she wasn't going to be left behind, where it was supposedly safe. She hitched up her skirt and walked back towards the pond.

Just as she reached the old pump-house building, a scream rent the air. She froze, a chill racing across her skin as she stared towards the town. It had come from the direction of the whorehouse and had been a sound of sheer terror. Someone was dead. Horribly dead. Of that she was certain.

And Seline had warned her about ... There will be five people killed, the old witch had said, two on the first night. Stop them, if you can.

Nikki had fallen into a trap, all right, but it wasn't the wolves. It was believing what Kinnard had said about the rangers and thinking that the rangers were the two who would lose their lives tonight. God, she was a fool.

She turned and raced down the hill. People were out in the streets, some simply standing there, some running towards the whorehouse.

She pushed past the small crowd standing in the doorway, then hesitated, glancing around. Sobbing was coming from the room to her left, but it was the stairs that drew her attention. Blood that was fresh and bright dribbled slowly down each step, its source an unknown well at the top.

Nikki swallowed, then lifted her skirt higher and carefully made her way up the stairs. It wasn't until she reached the landing that someone tried to stop her.

A big man with red hair and matching cheeks stepped forward, one large hand outstretched. She sidestepped the pool near the top stair then came to a halt, her gaze unwillingly following the needle fine trails to the doorway on the right. The door was closed, but that wasn't stopping the blood. God, what had happened in there?

"Sorry, Miss, it's better that you don't go any further.” His voice was gravelly, but gentle. “It's not very pretty."

There was a sheriff's badge on the left pocket of his khaki shirt, but it was the plastic kind they sold in toy shops. His pants were also khaki, and Nikki very much suspected she'd just found one of the missing rangers. But did that mean the others were also in this crowd, or was this another of Dunleavy's little games?

"I've had medical experience,” she lied. “I might be able to help."

"There's no one left alive in there to help, Miss. Best you go back down the stairs."

"Sorry, can't do that."

She tensed, expecting him to react, to try and force her back down the stairs, but all he did was shrug and step back. “Then let it be on your head."

Nikki's gaze went from the ranger to the door, and her stomach clenched. She didn't want to step through that doorway—no sane person would—but she had to. She was here to do a job, to stop a killer, and something in that room might provide a clue.

Gathering her courage, she stepped to the door and wrapped her fingers around the handle. After taking a deep breath to calm the churning in her stomach, she carefully opened the door.

For a moment, she simply couldn't believe what she was seeing. It looked for all the world like some youngster had gone crazy with a can of paint. Red was sprayed across the walls in insane patterns, and dripped steadily from a thickening blotch on the ceiling. Two men were covering body parts with white sheets, a tough task when there were so many parts, many of them no longer resembling anything human.

Her gaze went to the window. When she saw what was sitting on the sill, she put a hand to her mouth, holding back a scream that seemed to stick somewhere in her throat. Then her stomach rose, and all she could do was run—from the horror of the room, from the overripe smell of blood, and from the grotesque remains on the sill.

Remains that were the image of her.