Nikki got as far as the side of the building. Once there, she lost what little she'd eaten over the day. When there was nothing more than dry heaves left, she stumbled to the back of the building and sank to the ground, leaning her head back and closing her eyes.

Dunleavy was sick.

Though she'd never doubted it, she now had proof positive. What manner of man could do something like that? God, he had to be insane. Inhuman...

The thought stopped her cold. Dunleavy wasn't human, and he couldn't be judged by those standards. He was a vampire, a worshipper of dark Gods, and a shape changer.

A monster.

And monsters didn't think like the rest of humanity. Jasper had certainly proven that.

"Are you all right?"

Michael's voice rose out of the night, soft yet filled with concern. Wishful thinking, she thought. He was probably too busy tracking down Kinnard to worry about what she was doing right now.

"Are you all right?” he repeated, his voice, and his concern, nearer. Sharper.

Suddenly he was beside her, his fingers pressing warmth into her cheeks as he held her face. “What's wrong?"

She opened her eyes. He knelt in front of her, eyes rich with worry. She touched his lips with her fingertips, trailing them down his chin and neck, and pressing them against his chest. His heart beat a rhythm that could only be described as erratic for a vampire.

She smiled, remembering another time, another place, when she'd echoed those exact same thoughts and actions. Something flickered in his eyes, and just for a moment, she thought she saw a touch of recognition. Then the spark died, leaving only normal concern.

But perhaps there lay part of her answer—by following patterns of the past and forcing memories to surface, maybe she'd undermine the spell set on him.

"Damn it, woman, will you answer me?"

Her gaze jumped to his. The concern in his eyes was stronger. As much as the spell was trying to force him to, he wasn't treating her as a stranger. “Can't you smell the blood?"

"Its sweetness rides the air,” he said. “But right now, the source of that nectar is not my major concern."

His words made her heart do strange things. Lord, how she loved this man. “I'm okay. I just need a drink."

"Then you shall have it."

He rose and disappeared, but he was back within minutes with a small bottle of water. He must have raided Kinnard's store to get it, because she couldn't imagine the hotels selling plastic bottles of water. Surely it wouldn't be in keeping with the feel Dunleavy was trying to achieve.

He handed her the water and sat beside her on the ground. His arm brushed against hers, and warmth pulsed through her body, erasing the chill, calming the churning.

"What happened in there?” he asked, thumbing toward the building at their back.

"I made a major mistake."

He frowned. “What do you mean?"

She took a gulp of water, swished it around her mouth, and then spat it out. “Kinnard told me when I arrived here earlier that Dunleavy would sacrifice two men at midnight if I did not rescue them. I thought they were the two people I knew would die tonight—"

"How did you know two people would die?"

She hesitated. “It's preordained."

He raised a dark eyebrow. “Fate can always be changed."

"Not this one,” she said glumly. And she should have known better than to blindly trust that someone like Dunleavy would play by the rules. “Anyway, I thought the two destined to die would be the two Dunleavy mentioned, which is why I was looking for them."

He gave her a speculative look—the sort of look that suggested he knew she wasn't telling the entire truth. “This town is full of men. How did you intend to define the search?"

She hesitated again, not sure how much she could safely tell him. Dunleavy had probably guessed she'd try and tell Michael the truth, and he would have factored some sort of counter into the spell holding Michael's memories hostage. “Because the missing men are rangers."

"Ah.” He considered her a moment longer, then said, “So, if two are to die tonight, was it their bodies in that room?"

Images of blood and gore and shredded body parts flitted through her mind. She shuddered and took a hasty swallow of water. It only seemed to stir her agitated stomach more.

"One definitely wasn't. Hard to say if there was another."

"Why?"

"Because there are bits everywhere."

"He tore the body apart?” There was no surprise in Michael's voice. But then, why would there be? She knew he'd seen far worse in his time, though he'd never really discussed it with her.

She nodded.

"That doesn't make sense if he needed the body for a ritual."

No, it didn't. She frowned, forcing herself to look beyond the gore in her memories. “He left a head on the windowsill.” She hesitated. “It could have been my twin."

Michael wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. Warmth leeched from his fingers and body, chasing away the chills that still ran through her. “He's trying to scare you."

"He damn well succeeded."

"You're tougher than that. It's merely the shock of it that got to you."

And how.

"Was there only one head?” he continued.

"One is more than enough, believe me."

"Not if two were meant to die tonight."

"There was lots of blood. And blood dripping from the middle of the ceiling.” She hesitated, swallowing more water before adding, “The roof."

"The roof,” he agreed and removed the warmth of his arm from her shoulders. “You stay here while I check."

"Like hell.” She scrambled upright, all awkward arms and legs compared to his elegance. “I'm here for a reason, too, remember, and like it or not, you and I have to be a team on this."

He gave her a look that said, Yeah, right. But he didn't try to stop her from following as he turned and made his way around the back of the building.

The stairs were around the far side—an old, rickety, bleached-wood structure that barely seemed capable of supporting a gnat, let alone the two of them.

"Don't say it,” she warned, as Michael glanced at her.

"One at a time, then."

With the whole structure seeming to sway in the barely existent breeze, she could hardly disagree. He turned, running up the stairs so fast his feet barely seemed to touch each step. She followed more warily, trying to ignore the shudder that went through the wood as she climbed.

Unlike many of the other buildings that still remained in the old town, the whorehouse had a flat wooden roof. The sides of the building rose a good three feet above the roofline, providing a nice amount of shelter from prying eyes in the street or nearby buildings. Shelter someone had obviously needed.

She stopped on the last step, her gaze on Michael rather than what lay in the middle of the roof.

"Here's your ritual killing,” he said, squatting on his heels. “Complete with pentagram."

She took a deep breath and let her gaze drift left. Compared to what lay in the room below, this killing was almost sterile. A black star had been etched onto the roof, and a man lay in the middle of it. Candles sat on each point of the star, their bluish flame shooting odd colored shadows across the surrounding walls, and lending the man's skin a weird, almost luminous glow. He was naked, his body white and flaccid. His hair was dark and still looked damp, and his cheeks and chin were free of stubble, as if he'd cleaned up before coming here to die. This impression was reinforced by the fact there was no terror in his face, and his eyes were closed. He would have looked asleep, were it not for the two inch wound in his chest, and the tiny trickle of dried blood that ran from the cut and down his left side.

"There's not enough blood,” she said.

Michael glanced at her. “The knife went in through the chest and out through the back. Gravity took care of the blood, I'm afraid."

"So it's his blood dripping from the ceiling below?"

He nodded. “There's a lot more than blood missing from this body, though."

She stared at him for a moment, silently debating whether she really needed to hear the rest of it. “What do you mean?” she asked reluctantly.

"I mean, he has no heart. It's been sucked out of his body. As has his brain."

Her stomach threatened to rebel again as her gaze went from the small wound in his chest to his hair, and she realized it wasn't water that dampened his hair. Yet there was no obvious cut near his head that she could see—not from this angle, anyway. And she wasn't about to change angles. Her stomach couldn't take such a discovery right now.

"How?"

He glanced at her, one eyebrow raised. “You're the witch. You tell me."

Had she been Seline, she probably could have. As it was, she didn't have a clue. “Dunleavy worships the dark Gods."

"The pentagram has been drawn in black soot, and the candles are black. There's definitely black magic at work, so possibly, he was sacrificing to his Gods."

"And they answered the call, taking the heart and the brain."

"Either that,” he replied grimly, “or Dunleavy has a taste for the brains and heart of his victims."

"Vampires can't eat."

"My point exactly. So why was Dunleavy sacrificing to his Gods?"

"To help maintain his strength, and therefore the strength of the barrier,” she said, frowning as she studied the man's feet. They were burned in the arch—and the burn marks oddly resembled lips.

"Barrier? What barrier?"

Her gaze jumped to Michael's, and she suddenly realized what she'd said. There was no reaction from Michael other than puzzlement, yet the tingle of energy seemed to touch the night air.

Was it the spell on Michael reacting to her words, the pentagram, or just her imagination?

Could spells even work like that? It was so damn frustrating that she didn't know. Playing it by ear, when there was so much at stake, was not something she wanted to do, and yet she had very little choice. She couldn't afford to call Camille—not out here in the open and so close to the town, anyway. She had no idea what the range of scanners was, but she wasn't about to risk someone's life to discover it. Especially when Camille probably couldn't tell her anything more about the spell on Michael without actually seeing the runes on his back.

She softly cleared her throat and answered his question. “There's a magical barrier around this town, preventing anyone from getting in or out."

"Really?” His expression was neither believing nor disbelieving, and his voice was flat, which, in the past, had always meant skepticism.

"Really."

"Then how did you get in?"

"Dunleavy wants me here. You're not the only one in this town after revenge, you know."

He raised an eyebrow. “And knowing this, you still came here?"

"I had no choice."

"There is always a choice when it comes to death."

"Not always. Sometimes the choice is taken from us.” She kept her gaze on his and filled the link between them with images of the time he'd snatched the choice from her, giving her a piece of his life force, joining them spiritually, and forever altering the direction of her life.

Something flickered in his eyes, and just for an instant, annoyance surged through the link. The spark died as quickly as it had begun, but her hopes soared. It was a breakthrough, minuscule maybe, but nevertheless something she could continue to work on.

"Sometimes the choice is taken for a very good reason,” he said, voice clipped.

"I know that."

He stared at her for a moment longer, and the buzz of energy riding the night got stronger. He shook his head and returned his gaze to the body. “What do we do with the body and the pentagram?"

"Leave it.” She didn't have the skill to deal with the pentagram, and until the pentagram had been deactivated, or de-spelled, or whatever, she wasn't about to touch it. Or the body within it.

"Is that wise? It might yet be feeding strength to Dunleavy and his Gods."

"I don't think we have any other choice right now.” She rubbed her arms against a sudden chill, unsure as to whether it was the cold night air or a premonition of worse to come.

He rose and moved towards her. “I'm going downstairs to check the room. I suggest you go back home—” He broke off, frowning a little. “You said earlier you knew a man named Kinnard?"

"Know of him. We're not friends or anything. Why?"

"He was in your home earlier. I caught him coming out of a window with a pocket full of underclothing."

The creep had been going through her clothes? Just the thought of it made her want to throw up again. “I hope you smacked him one."

A smile touched his lips. “I told him I'd kill him if I found him near the house again, but the creep insisted it was his place."

"Then I'm moving out.” Though what other place in this Godforsaken town was likely to be any safer from Kinnard's prying fingers?

She studied the night beyond the walls. Pale yellow light flickered from a half dozen windows along the street below them, but a brighter light, more white than yellow, was a lone beacon two streets away, on what was the edge of the remaining buildings. Was that where the rangers lived? Would a ranger's house provide any sort of safety from Kinnard's inquisitiveness?

And if it did, as instinct suggested it might, how could she get Michael invited inside?

"If Dunleavy did invite you here to exact revenge,” he commented. “It might not be wise to remain alone."

She raised an eyebrow. “You're offering to move in with me?"

"I'm here to find a killer, not baby-sit."

"Then what are you suggesting? That I move in with another man?"

"No."

It was sharply said, and she smiled. The magic might have forced his memories away, but his territorial instincts were well and truly intact.

"What then?"

He thrust a hand through his dark hair, and she noted the blood on his shirt again. “You're still bleeding."

"It is of no consequence—"

"You were shot with silver,” she cut in. “That wound needs special attention."

"And how would you know I was shot with silver?"

"I know a lot more than you do right now, vampire. Instead of trying to get rid of me, you might want to sit down and listen."

"What I need to do right now is to get downstairs and see what Dunleavy has done."

"Then I'll come with you."

He raised an eyebrow. “Can you stomach a return to that room?"

"No. But I want to question the woman who found the victim."

"Why?"

"Because I want to find out what form Dunleavy was wearing when he entered that room.” She turned and carefully made her way down the stairs.

"Dunleavy's not a shapeshifter. He's a vampire."

"His twin brother was a shapeshifter who could take the shape of anyone he'd consumed. There's no reason why Dunleavy can't be a shapeshifter as well as a vampire, is there?"

"No.” The stairs quivered as Michael moved up behind her. His warm breath caressed her ear as he asked, “Dunleavy has a twin?"

"A dead twin he intends to bring back to life."

Even without looking at him, she could feel his confusion as clearly as she could feel the heat of his body against her back. On some level, the link was beginning to function, magic or no magic.

"No,” he said.

"Yes."

"I have chased Dunleavy a long time. I know him well, and there is no brother."

"You don't know him as well as you thought. Not then, not now."

"Woman, you speak in riddles."

"I have a good teacher."

"That comment makes as much sense as your previous comment."

She grinned up at him as they strode toward the front of the whorehouse. “You'll understand it sooner or later, believe me."

"I doubt it.” His dark gaze met hers. “I'm here to catch the bastard who killed my lover, nothing more, nothing less. Whatever it is you are truly up to, I cannot, and will not, get involved any more than I am."

Energy rippled across the night again, and he rolled his shoulders, as if to ease an ache. It definitely had to be the spell on him she was sensing. And if what she'd just witnessed was any indication, that spell was going to play into her hands. Dunleavy obviously believed Seline and Michael had been lovers in Hartwell long ago, and he was trying to force that to happen again. Michael was fighting the spell because deep down he knew the wrongness of what the spell was trying to enforce. Which meant that she would have to be the aggressor when it came to making love.

Though in the end, would it make any difference? Kinnard had suggested there were only two events of any real importance, and she doubted whether she and Michael becoming lovers was one of them. Especially since it actually hadn't happened the first time.

The crowd was gone from the doorway, and even though the entrance hall was lit with nothing more than candlelight, it was obvious someone had cleaned the stairs, because the blood no longer stained the wood. But no amount of cleaning could take the smell of death from the air.

Her gaze went to the small room to the left of the door. The sobbing woman had gone, but a big, black haired man was sitting at the desk, his large frame squeezed into a wooden chair. Since he was wearing the same sort of khaki outfit that the red-haired man had been earlier, it was likely he was another ranger. He looked up from his notes as they entered, his gaze sweeping the two of them before he pushed to his feet.

"I'm afraid we've had to close this place down until we sort out what's happened,” he said. “The Hollis Hotel is offering you ladies free accommodation in the meantime."

Nikki opened her mouth to state yet again that she wasn't a whore, but Michael put a hand on her arm, squeezing lightly. Power spun through the air, a familiar energy that caressed her senses like a summer breeze. Michael trying to enforce his will on the big man. But there was no reaction from the ranger, confirming Kinnard's earlier threat that Michael's psychic abilities would work no better than her supposed magic.

Michael frowned, but all he said was, “We're here to investigate the murder, ranger."

The ranger didn't object, which again suggested Dunleavy wanted them to investigate. Though why wouldn't he? The more time they spent on this, the less time they had to find and stop him.

"I'd advise the lady stays down here, though,” the ranger said. “It's not very pleasant up there."

Michael glanced at her. “You'll wait here?"

Knowing it was said more for the ranger's benefit, she nodded. He slipped his hand down her arm, and lightly squeezed her fingers before he moved away. She knew it was more a warning to behave than a gesture meant to comfort. Smiling slightly, she glanced back at the ranger. “You have any suspects?"

The big man shrugged and sat back down. “The client she had booked in was late arriving, and the last man she saw left her alive and well. Ain't no telling what really happened."

She frowned. “So it was the late client that found her?"

He nodded. “And Maggie, the owner, who was taking him up to the victim's room."

That must have been the woman she'd heard sobbing. She wondered if the two women had known each other. Wondered if Dunleavy had chosen his victim simply because of the woman's resemblance to her.

"So no one was seen going in, or coming out, of her rooms after her previous client left her?"

"No one. Maggie saw her go to the bathroom to clean up, but she returned to her room a few minutes later.” He shrugged. “Maggie runs a fairly tight ship here. No one would have gotten in or out without her noticing."

Obviously, this man also believed that they were in the past, because whorehouses weren't legal. “But someone obviously did.” Or maybe that should be something.

"Yeah.” The big man frowned. “I checked the window. Nothing came in that way—it's stuck half open, but a kid wouldn't have fit through that gap, let alone someone strong enough to—” He cut the rest off, glancing at her apologetically. “Sorry."

She shrugged. She'd already seen the gore, and there was nothing this man could say that could be worse than the images still haunting her subconscious. “So, no one went in or out or even near the room until Maggie took the client up there?"

"No."

"And no one heard anything?"

"No."

"Don't you find that a bit odd?"

He frowned. “Why would I?"

Because there should have been noise. Should have been screaming. Should have been thumps as the various body parts were flung about ... Her stomach twisted threateningly, and she thrust the thought away.

Why would anyone in this town find the lack of all those things odd when they were all under the spell of the man who'd probably committed the crime?

Goose bumps ran up her arms, and she rubbed them. Who was next on Dunleavy's list? And did they even have a hope of stopping him?

"You should go home, Miss, and light a fire. The night is going to be a cold one."

"Right now, I don't feel particularly safe in my house.” She met the big man's gray eyes. “So, where are you staying right now?"

He raised an eyebrow. “That an offer, Miss? Because if it is, I'm on duty—"

What was this fixation Dunleavy seemed to have about whores? Was there some weird reason he'd made all the women here hookers, or did it simply appeal to some sick sense of humor? “It's just curiosity, nothing more."

"Ah. Well, I'm staying at the Wheaten Hotel."

"Don't you have a house here in Hartwell?"

"Yeah, but the Wheaten is closer to the...” He paused and frowned, as if trying to remember why he wasn't staying in his own home. Nikki wondered if Dunleavy needed them close to keep control. It would probably be hard to pull the strings of your puppets if they were spread far and wide.

"I have to stay close, what with the murders happening and stuff,” he finished eventually.

"And all the rangers are staying here?"

"All but Jimmy. Haven't seen him for a couple of days."

Meaning Jimmy was probably dead. “Which house is Jimmy's?"

"The yellow one at the junction of King and Prospect Streets."

Which, if the map Seline had drawn was correct, was about where she'd seen the light coming from. “So, where is your place?"

"Five houses down from Jimmy's."

"And it's currently vacant?"

"Yeah."

"If you're staying here, I don't suppose you'd mind renting me your house for a few days, then, would you?"

The big man blinked, for a moment looking lost. Dunleavy obviously hadn't considered her asking that question.

"I guess.” His voice was hesitant. “It ain't much of a house, though."

It'd have to be better than the place Kinnard had dumped her in. And if the rangers were living here over summer and autumn, it would surely have hot water and good heating.

"We don't need much,” she said, almost stumbling over her words in her hurry to get them out. Dunleavy might not have realized she'd ask this question, but he could still stop her if she wasn't fast enough. It just depended on what sort of spell he'd bound this man with—and how much of a link he had with his puppets. “Is it okay if Michael stays there as well?"

"Michael?"

"The man upstairs."

The ranger's bewilderment increased. “I guess."

"You don't mind Michael stepping over the threshold of your home any time he pleases?"

He frowned. “No, I guess not. But like I said, it ain't much."

Relief slithered through her. She wasn't sure if the invitation worked secondhand like this, but if it did work, it couldn't be recanted.

And if Dunleavy was holding everyone in this section of town to keep them close and accessible, that suggested having them stay at their own homes made them inaccessible. Being a vampire, he couldn't cross a threshold uninvited, and even though he controlled their minds, he couldn't force that invitation, because it had to be freely given.

So possibly, they were safe from Dunleavy when they were in that house. Whether they'd be safe from Kinnard was another matter, yet instinct suggested they might be. Why, she wasn't sure. But right now, instinct was about the only thing she could depend on.

She reached into her skirt pocket and pulled out a couple of bills. “Advance payment,” she said, handing them over.

The ranger visibly brightened. “I was running low on drinking money. This will come in handy."

"I thought you were on duty."

"I am. But I'm off in another hour or so."

She frowned. “Will anyone take over your post here?"

"Don't think so. Won't be a need, will there?"

"What about the body?"

"It'll be taken care of."

She raised an eyebrow. “By whom?"

The ranger waved a hand. “By people."

"What people?"

"Undertakers, and the like."

So, Dunleavy was intending to hide the evidence? Why would he bother when he had no intention of letting any of them out of here alive?

She crossed her arms and leaned against the wall. “When are you next on duty?"

"Tomorrow."

"What about the other rangers?"

"Also tomorrow."

"What time?"

"About noon.” He shrugged. “Ain't nothing going to happen before then."

Did that mean Dunleavy didn't intend to kill anyone before then, or was the information another red herring?

"And is Jimmy the only missing ranger?"

"Yeah.” He frowned. “Haven't see Mike for a few days, though."

Was Mike the man on the roof? Probably. She wondered how many other bodies they'd find in and around Hartwell before the new moon dawned. She rubbed her arms and glanced toward the stairs. Michael was taking a long damn time.

As if he'd heard the thought, he appeared at the top of the stairs. The barely glowing candles lining the stairwell threw yellow light across his features, even as it allowed the rest of his body to get lost in the darkness. His face was expressionless, as were his dark eyes, but his fury hit her with the force of a cyclone, almost flattening her against the wall.

"I need you to come up here—if you think you can handle it again.” His voice was as flat as his expression.

She pushed away from the wall and slowly walked up the stairs.

"What?” she said, when she'd reached the top.

He merely pointed her into the room. She took a deep breath, gathered her courage, and went inside. It was just as bad the second time. Worse perhaps, because all the white sheets only emphasized the utter mutilation that had occurred.

She stopped several paces inside the door, clenching her hands against the need to turn tail and run. “What did you find?"

"Look at the window sill."

She closed her eyes. “I've seen what's sitting on the sill. I don't need to see it again."

"Then do you remember what you said?"

What on earth was he going on about? “Of course I remem—"

She stopped, suddenly realizing what he meant.

She'd told him the head had been the image of her.

But she wasn't wearing her own face.

She was wearing Seline's.