Michael squatted to study the footprints in the sandy soil. These prints were far heavier than those leading up to this point, which indicated someone had obviously stopped here for some time. He swept his gaze around the surrounding darkness. This was roughly where he'd seen Kinnard, so the question was what had Kinnard been watching?

Or, perhaps, waiting for?

He couldn't have been spying on them—the pump house was in the way, and he wouldn't have seen them until they'd come around it.

So why stop here? There was nothing else here but the old reservoir and lots of weeds. He rose, scanning the ground for more prints. Kinnard had disappeared very shortly after Michael had spotted him, but he couldn't have disappeared without leaving some trace. Even vampires, who could move with the speed of the wind, left footprints.

But there was nothing. It was as if Kinnard had disappeared into thin air.

Maybe he was a shape changer. The glow of his body's energy hadn't suggested any type of shape changer Michael had ever come across, but he knew better than to think that, even in all his years of existence, he'd come across every type of shifter there was.

Frowning, he followed the fall of the ground away from the pond. The weeds were still relatively thick here, providing ample protection for a rat like Kinnard. He pulled free a thick, long handful, holding them by the roots as he walked on.

The ground around him rose, until he was walking into a small valley. Hartwell had disappeared from sight, and the darkness here was deeper, though the sounds of drunken singing carried easily on the still night air. It was amazing anyone in that town was still in a fit enough state to look at a whore, let alone carouse with them.

He switched his sight to infrared, scanning the ground as he walked. After a few minutes, he saw a scuff in the soil that looked like half the heel of a boot. A few more steps and he saw two deep prints. Kinnard had not only stopped here, but if the odd impressions just in front of the boot prints were any indication, he'd knelt down.

He stopped, sweeping his gaze across the ground directly in front of him. Something was here; he was certain of it.

A crack in the dirt caught his attention. It was too straight, too perfect, to be caused by weather or the natural drying of soil.

He squatted beside the crack and ran his fingers across the dirt. Soil shifted beneath his fingertips, revealing a hardness underneath. Wood. He ran his fingers along the crack until he found a junction of two corners, then he retraced the crack until he found a similar junction on the other side. A trap door, here in the desert. It had probably once been the entrance into a mine, but now, it was obviously a rat hole.

He glanced skyward. The night was far from over, and he wasn't foolish enough to confront Dunleavy on his own ground. He'd wait until dawn, when the sunlight drove Dunleavy into sleep. When it came to the likes of a fiend like Dunleavy, it didn't pay to play fair. He'd already tried that, and Christine had paid the price for his stupidity.

He followed his own steps back, using the long weeds to brush over his prints as he retreated. Hopefully, it would disguise the fact that he'd been here. Once back at the pond, he tossed the weeds into the murky water and watched them sink.

What now?

His gaze drifted to the warm lights to his left. And even as he fought the desire to go to the witch, pain hit, flaring down his thigh as sharply as the kiss of a knife. And he knew, without knowing how, that it was her pain he was feeling.

With a curse, he spun and raced toward her.

Nikki backpedaled as the two men came at her. She had to get out of here, out of this house, get free of the threshold restriction so Michael...

Damn it, what the hell was she thinking? She wasn't helpless, had never been helpless, even without her gifts. And since joining the Circle, she'd been trained to defend herself, trained to fight. She didn't need Michael to protect her. She'd always been able to look after herself, one way or another, even before the training or his arrival in her life.

So why the hell was she suddenly running?

Or was it more a case of magic than instinct? Was there something in the barrier holding them captive that brought to life her worst fears? The very fears she'd thought long conquered?

It was a possibility she'd have to be wary of, but there was one thing she was certain of—Dunleavy couldn't kill her. He needed her alive for the ceremony. Therefore, she could fight with everything she had, while these two men would be restricted.

Or so she hoped.

She flicked her knives down into her palms, holding them in front of her even as she retreated into the middle of the room. The shifter paused, his brown eyes widening slightly, as if he recognized the fact that both blades were silver. The human merely laughed and launched at her.

She slashed at him with a knife, felt the slight resistance as the sharp point tore into flesh, then dove out of his way, hitting the floor with a grunt and rolling back to her feet.

Air stirred, and too late she saw the shifter's fist. The force of the blow against her chin sent her sprawling over the back of the sofa and onto the floor. One of her knives flew from her grasp, clattering across the floor, and her breath left in a whoosh of air as stars danced drunkenly before her eyes.

Air stirred again, warning her. She rolled to one side, barely avoiding the booted foot that crashed inches from her head. She twisted, lashing out with her legs, striking the thin man's feet and sweeping them out from underneath him. She scrambled upright as he crashed to the floor.

The shifter launched himself at her. She dodged and pivoted, smashing her heel into his side, driving him back against the wall. He hit the floor with a grunt, but he shook his head and quickly picked himself up.

She didn't give him time to recover, simply threw the knife at him. At the last moment he saw it and dodged. The knife hit the wall with a thud, burying itself hilt deep into the old wood.

The shifter leered at her. “That makes the fight a whole lot easier."

"You think so?"

She ducked the blow of the human and punched him hard in the gut. Too late, she saw the knife in his hand. She swung away, but not fast enough. The knife slashed through her skirt and bit deep into her thigh.

Both men chuckled.

"Nice start,” the thin man said. “But I've got a hankering to see a little more flesh than that, girlie."

"You've seen as much as you're going to,” she muttered, grabbing the hand that held the knife even as she kicked him in the nuts.

He dropped with a hiss of pain. She pulled the knife from his slack grip and spun, slashing with the blade as the shifter came at her. The knife scored his chest, cutting both shirt and flesh as easily as butter.

He roared in anger, lashing at her with a clenched fist. She ducked the blow, heard the crash of glass behind her, the scream of air. Not knowing what was happening, but certain retreat was better than valor at this particular moment, she dropped to the floor and rolled away.

The shifter hit the ground and didn't move. She climbed to her feet and saw why. Three feet of wooden railing was sticking out of his chest, the rest of it buried deep inside. He'd been dead before he hit the ground.

There was a gargled cry, and she swung to see the second man scramble to his feet. He dove at her, his eyes wide with shock and grief, his mouth open in a scream that never passed his thin lips. She sidestepped him and stabbed with the knife, feeling the brief resistance of flesh before the knife slid deep. The thin man dropped and didn't move.

She took a deep, shuddering breath and looked at the window. Michael stood there, his dark eyes filled with a fury she could feel through the link.

"What the hell are you doing here?” he said, voice flat and all the more deadly because of it.

"Investigating what happened to the ranger who owned this house.” She bent and retrieved her knife, wiping the blood from the blade on the dead man's shirt, while trying not to think about the fact that she'd killed him.

"And you didn't think to mention this need earlier?"

She shrugged. “You ran before I could."

"So you were intending to mention it after you'd seduced me? Somehow, I seriously doubt that."

The anger she could feel edged his soft tones this time, and she couldn't help smiling. The spell might have taken his memories of her away, but deep down, some part of him remembered how she usually acted.

"I wasn't thinking of anything much beyond seduction,” she said honestly. “But given I wasn't successful, I turned my mind to other things."

"You could have turned it to sleep."

"But there might be some clue here to find. I didn't want Dunleavy erasing it before I got the chance to investigate."

"Given those two men were in the house, waiting to attack you, it's a fair bet that any clues that were here are long gone."

"Not necessarily.” She retrieved her second knife, and shoved it back into her wrist sheath. “Is there anyone else in this house?"

He frowned, his gaze narrowing slightly as it went beyond her. “No. Only a dead man."

"Then that's were I'm headed."

"You are the most frustrating, annoying woman I have ever had the displeasure of knowing."

She raised her eyebrows, trying to hide her grin and not being very successful. “It's a trait that'll grow on you, believe me."

"I doubt it,” he muttered, stepping back from the window. “I'll keep watch out here."

Her grin broke free. “Like you have any other choice."

He scowled at her. “Just hurry up. That leg of yours needs attention."

"No more than your shoulder does,” she bit back and spun, heading down the hall. Truth was she could feel the blood running down her leg. While she couldn't exactly bleed to death any more, blood loss could still weaken her, and she certainly couldn't afford that.

The dead man waited in the room at the end of the hall. She stopped in the doorway and turned on the light. He was lying on his bed, as naked as the day he was born. Unlike the man who'd been sacrificed on the roof, though, this man had obviously fought to survive. The signs of a struggle showed in the tangle of the bed covers, the bruising on his body, and the shredded remains of pajamas on the floor. They told a story of violation as much as death, and bile rose in her throat.

She swallowed heavily and forced herself to step closer. There were bite marks on his neck and deep bruising around his mouth, indicating a hand had been clamped over it for a long time. Her gaze skated down his body and rested on his feet. She thought of the odd burn marks on the soles of the other man and shifted slightly to see better. This man, too, bore the kiss of lips.

And suddenly she remembered Kinnard's reaction as he'd sucked in the anger of the miners, the way his body seemed to flesh out and glow with renewed health.

Kinnard fed on emotions. He'd fed on the man on the roof, and he'd fed here, on this man, while his master had bastardized this ranger and sucked away his life.

They were both monsters.

Which in itself was no real revelation, and certainly not much of a clue as to how they might track down Dunleavy.

Frowning, she turned and studied the rest of the room. There was nothing here that jumped out at her and said “evidence.” Frown increasing, she backtracked and went into the other rooms leading off the hall. One was a bathroom and held the ranger's shaving gear, a couple of towels, and some shampoo. The other was a second bedroom. The bed was messy, indicating someone had slept there. Is that how Dunleavy got in? Had the ranger invited him in to stay the night?

She'd never know for sure, but it was certainly possible. She walked around the bed, but she didn't find anything that seemed out of place, so she headed back into the main room. Stopping in the middle, she looked around again. Maybe Michael was right. Maybe Dunleavy had cleaned up, and the attack of those two men was nothing more than an attempt to follow the sequence of past events. Yet ... instinct itched. There was something here, something Dunleavy had missed. She was sure of it.

Her gaze came to rest on the small mat in front of the door. She hadn't noticed it when she'd come in, having been more interested in what lay beyond the silence of the room.

It was full of mud. But it didn't look as if it had rained in this area for some time, so where had the mud come from?

She knelt beside the mat and picked up a clump. It was more clay than soil, and darker in color than what was around here. Possibly, it had come from one of the mines. But if that were the case, why wasn't it caked with the reddish soil that surrounded the town? Vampires couldn't fly, she knew that much for certain, and while Dunleavy might also be a shape changer, he took human form rather than animal.

So how did he get so much mud on his feet and yet not pick up any dirt from the street?

She shoved the clump into her pocket and opened the door. Michael was standing just beyond the threshold.

His gaze slid down her body to her leg. “You're dripping blood onto the floor."

She looked down and saw that he was right. “Damn."

"And are you intending to bleed to death in the doorway, or will you step over the threshold so I can take you home and tend to your wound?"

"I can look after my own wounds, thanks."

He simply gave her a look that said, "Of course you can, but you won't be," and held out a hand. She placed her fingers in his and stepped over the threshold. He immediately swung her into his arms and raced her back to the house. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the ride. Enjoyed the momentary closeness.

Yet, this close, she was aware of the tension growing in his limbs. The quivering in his muscles that spoke of desire, but not sexual desire. If the spell that contained them brought to life the worst of her fears, wouldn't it also be working on Michael, causing his darker desires to surface?

"What do you have in the way of salves and bandages?” he asked, as he placed her on the sofa.

She studied him, seeing the tautness in his shoulders, the tightness around his eyes. “You are not tending my wounds until you let me look after yours."

"Woman, I am not bleeding to death—"

"Neither am I.” She placed a hand against his lips, felt the slight elongation of his teeth. They weren't fully out, meaning he was retaining some control, but still, she dare not risk it. If he drank from her, he could kill her. He was her creator—he might have given her life eternal when he'd shared his life force, but he could also take it away. “You hunger for my blood, Michael. You can't tend to my wound until you tend to the need surging through your veins."

He scowled at her. “I am not a monster who is driven to lust at the sight of blood."

"I know. But the spell placed on you is trying to force that very reaction. Trust me. Go feed, then come back and let me fix your shoulder."

He pushed away from her. “If I go, I will not be coming back."

He'd be back. Because of the spell and because of the bond they shared, a bond and a love that couldn't be erased as easily as memories.

"That's your choice. I'll be here if you change your mind."

He didn't say anything, simply turned and walked out. The door slammed shut with enough force to rattle the windows. She winced and slowly pushed to her feet. After treating and bandaging the knife wound, she hobbled into the bedroom, dumped her bags on the bed, and dug out the T-shirt and sweatpants she intended to sleep in.

Once changed, she swept back the covers, fluffed the pillow and stopped. She didn't want to go to bed alone. She wanted to go to bed with Michael, to go to sleep with his arms wrapped around her, his breath whispering warmth past her ear, and his body hugging her with heat.

God, it seemed like ages since she'd been with him.

She yawned hugely then shook her head. Not alone, damn it. She just couldn't. She'd spent far too many years alone, and she wasn't about to do it again when the man she loved was only a stone's throw away.

She grabbed a blanket off the bed, and trundled back into the main room. As she switched on the TV, she wondered what Michael's reaction would be to it. After all, in his mind he was living in the past, and TV certainly hadn't been around one hundred years ago, But then, the past wasn't being perfectly created, so there was every chance he would simply accept what didn't fit. She turned the sound down to a murmur, then made herself comfortable on the sofa and tucked the blanket in around her.

Michael would be back, of that she was certain. All she had to do was wait.

And figure out a way past his admirable but annoying reluctance to get into bed with her.

Michael strode down the street, annoyed at himself as much as the witch who seemed to know him so well. Damn! He had better control than this. He'd fed earlier tonight and shouldn't have needed to feed again for a least another day or so.

But the need for blood thrummed through his veins, and not just any blood. He wanted her blood, wanted to taste the sweet life that flowed under her creamy flesh. His teeth elongated further at the thought, and he swore.

Maybe she was right. Maybe there was a spell on him. There could be no other explanation for the desire that raced through his veins. He'd spent too long denying the darkness to have it raise its head this easily, this quickly.

And if it was some sort of spell, maybe she would know how to stop it.

Darkness swirled and pain hit, a blinding jolt that had him stumbling and falling. He shook his head free of the pain and climbed back to his feet. He frowned and tried to catch the trail of his thoughts but couldn't. His gaze hit the stable. That's where he'd been heading.

He drank his fill from a brown mare, then retreated. He stopped in the street, his gaze sweeping the darkness. The drunken revelry had eased, and though he could see life and movement in a few of the rooms above the various hotels, most of the miners had apparently collapsed into an exhausted and drunken sleep. He couldn't see the strange blur of energy that was Kinnard. Couldn't see Dunleavy. Damn it, the men had to be here, somewhere.

Or did they?

He frowned and glanced under his feet. Maybe the rat was back in his hole.

And maybe his reluctance to search that hole had nothing to do with the desire to wait for the day, but had everything to do with the spell the witch insisted lay on him. He'd certainly never worried about cornering a fiend on his own ground before, and he certainly had nothing to lose by doing so now—or did he?

The nagging sense that he did wouldn't leave him alone. Yet the only one he truly cared about these days was his brother Patrick, and Patrick was still on a ship on his way here to America.

He strode down the street, but his gaze went to the blonde's house as he came out of Main Street. Light still shone from her window. She wasn't asleep yet. Part of him wanted to go there and discover what she was up to, but he resisted the temptation. He was here to kill Dunleavy. It was high time he began concentrating on that.

A short time later he arrived at the trap door. The sandy soil was still free of footprints. He wedged his fingers under the wooden hatch, feeling along the edge until found the catch and released it.

Soil puffed skywards as he dropped the hatch to the ground, revealing a set of stairs leading down into a deeper darkness. He could feel no sign of life within, but the smell coming out was of dank earth and sour, unwashed human. Kinnard, not Dunleavy. Switching to infrared, he slowly entered the rat's hole.

And it was a hole, not the tunnel he'd half expected. It was round, small, and shored up with wood that had bent under the weight of the earth. There was a bed covered with several foul-looking blankets, a small table on which sat a candle and some matches, several cases of booze stacked next to this, and little else. Except pictures. They were everywhere, filling almost every inch of the rough-hewn walls.

Unable to see just what the pictures were with his infrared, he switched back to normal vision, swept several photos off the wall and moved back to the entrance. At least there the starlight provided a little light.

It was a woman. A woman with shoulder-length brown hair that shone with auburn highlights in the sunlight. A woman with pixie features and rich amber eyes. A woman he somehow knew, and yet he didn't know her.

Rage swept through him, a rage unlike anything he'd ever experienced before. He spun, sweeping more photos off the wall, bringing them to the light. Kinnard had obviously been watching her for some time. There were photos of her laughing. Photos of her eating with an older man. Photos of her in a large, bubble-filled tub with a dark haired man whose face he couldn't see. Photos taken through her window as she changed clothes.

His rage grew, until every muscle shook with the need to find Kinnard and kill him. To rip his body limb from limb, as Dunleavy had ripped that woman's.

Instead, he turned, tearing the photos from the wall and piling them on the filthy bed linen. When the last of the photos had been taken down, he grabbed the matches and set the pile afire.

The rat would know he'd been there, but Michael didn't particularly care. He waited until the bedclothes had caught, then he climbed up the stairs and slammed the hatch shut on the smoke.

And stood there, scanning the night, shaking with anger and wondering why.

There was still no sign of Kinnard or Dunleavy, but rats usually had more than one hole. And as much as he needed to find them, he suspected he needed answers more. There was only one person in this town who seemed to know what was going on. And, oddly enough, that woman had eyes the same color as the woman in the photo. He suspected it was more than coincidence. Suspected that there was a hell of a lot more happening here than what he'd originally thought.

His simple need to kill Dunleavy suddenly didn't seem so simple any more.

He ran swiftly to her house and went inside, only to stop just inside the door. She lay on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, her pretty face serene in sleep.

He couldn't wake her. She needed sleep more than he needed answers.

He took a deep breath and released it slowly, trying to calm the turmoil and anger still surging inside. He closed the door and walked across to her, tucking his arms under her body and carefully lifting her.

She stirred, murmuring something he couldn't quite catch, and snuggled closer to his chest. God, it felt so right holding her like this.

Pushing the thought away, he found her bedroom and placed her gently into bed. She didn't stir as he tucked the rest of the blankets around her. In the darkness, her blonde hair looked almost brown, but her face was nothing like the woman in those pictures. So why did he have the certainty that, somehow, the two were related?

It was so damn frustrating, this not knowing. He turned and pulled down the blind, determined that Kinnard would not be spying on this woman. Then he stripped and lay down beside her, under the top blanket but not the rest. A possibly dangerous move, given her earlier attempts to seduce him, but the need to simply lie here and hold her close was one that would not be denied right now.

Nikki woke to the realization that she was no longer on the sofa. And no longer alone.

Michael lay with her, his arm wrapped around her waist and his body pressed against her back, warming her spine, despite the layer of blankets between them.

She smiled. Sometimes love could not be ignored, no matter how strong the magic or the will.

She shifted slightly and realized then she was still in her T-shirt and sweat pants. Damn. Seducing him when she was naked would be a hell of a lot easier. And she had a feeling if she took time to undress in the middle of the action, he might take off again. He was determined to be honorable, which was absolutely wonderful in one respect, but not what she wanted right now.

She slipped free of his arm and carefully got out of bed. He stirred and she froze, watching as he turned onto his other side. He flung out a hand, as if searching for her, but quickly settled back to slumber. She stripped, then carefully pulled back the first blanket and climbed in beside him.

Knowing she couldn't allow him time to think, only react, she pressed herself against the length of him. The heat of him flowed around her, through her, burning her skin, stirring the desire long held at bay. She'd always found it a little weird that he was so warm given he was a vampire, but as he'd often said, he was undead, not dead dead.

She slid her hand down his firm, flat stomach and touched him intimately. His response was immediate. Instinctive.

As his body leapt to life, he made a sound that was almost a growl and turned around, pulling her into his arms. Then he was kissing her as if his very life depended on it, and whatever slivers of control she'd had were totally and irreparably smashed by the force of it. By the passion behind it. God, she loved this man. And right now she needed him more than she needed to breathe.

His hands seemed to be everywhere, urgent yet gentle, leaving her shuddering with pleasure and yet aching for more. He kissed her, caressed her, until need, deep and primal, rushed through her, and all she could think about was getting him inside, feeling him fill her, complete her.

She pushed him onto his back and climbed on top, claiming him in the most basic way possible. He groaned, his hands sliding to her hips, pressing her down harder.

Then they began to move, and thought became impossible. All she could do was savor the sensations flowing through her. There was nothing slow, nothing gentle, about this lovemaking. It was all passion and heat and desperation, and she'd never felt anything so damn good in her life.

The fever burning between them became a furnace that made breathing difficult, and deep inside the pleasure built, until her whole body burned with the need for release. She clung to him, clung to that edge, staring deep into his beautiful black eyes, willing him to remember this, remember her. For a moment, she thought she saw a response—a spark of joy, a spark of love.

Then pleasure spiraled beyond her control, and her climax hit, the convulsions stealing her breath and tearing a strangled sound from her throat. He came a heartbeat later, his body slamming into hers, the force of it echoing through every fiber of her being.

Once the shudders had subsided, she leaned forward and gently kissed his lips. He wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her in place as he lengthened the kiss.

"You do not play fair, woman,” he said eventually, eyes sparkling as amusement touched his lips.

"I never said I intended to."

"This does not mean I will work with you."

She grinned. “You won't have any other choice, because you won't be able to keep your hands off me."

He chuckled softly, then rolled them over so that he was lying on top. “Nothing like being comfortable with your own sexuality."

She kissed him again, soft and lingering. “It's more a case of being comfortable about us."

"There is no us—not beyond this, anyway."

She didn't bother disputing his claim. Until more of his memory returned, or until she was able to soap away some of the spell on his back, there wasn't much point. “Why do you stink of smoke?"

The amusement and tenderness died in his eyes, the black depths becoming hard. Furious. “Because I made a bonfire of some pictures I discovered in Kinnard's rat hole."

She frowned. “What sort of pictures?"

"Photos of a woman with brown hair and amber eyes. Her features were that of the dead woman we saw earlier.” He ran a finger down her cheek, sending warm tingles of desire shooting through the rest of her. Desire hadn't finished with her yet—but then, that wasn't exactly unusual when they made love. “But her eyes were rather like yours."

While the thought that Kinnard had been not only watching her, but taking photos of her, left her cold. The fury so evident in Michael's dark eyes, and the fact that he'd burned every one of those photos, made her heart sing. Deep down, he knew her, spell or no spell.

And if he could now see her eyes were amber, did that mean the spell concealing her identity was fading, or that he was beginning to see beyond it?

"Kinnard will know you did it."

"I don't care."

She smiled. “So where was this rat hole?"

"Near the old reservoir.” His voice was distracted as he slid a little further down her body and began to trace the outline of her breasts with a soft fingertip.

"Near where he was hiding in the bushes?"

The look in his eyes set her pulse racing again. “You don't miss much."

Neither did he. Especially when it came to getting her aroused. His touch was moving in on her breasts in ever tightening circles, sending goose bumps fleeing excitedly across her skin. “No."

It came out breathlessly, and he chuckled—a throaty sound as seductive and as arousing as his touch. “You may have started this, woman, but I intend to finish it—and a lot more leisurely this time."

She had no problem at all with that, and normally she would have been right there with him. But there was the situation and the spell to consider as well. “Stinking like a bonfire? That's not at all seductive, you know."

His breath was warm on her skin as he dropped a kiss on a nipple. “Didn't seem to bother you a few moments ago."

"That's because my sense of smell was still half asleep."

"So what will it take to get you concentrating on the business at hand?"

"A bath.” She grinned. “We can share, if you like."

"I like.” He shifted back up, kissed her fiercely then rolled out of bed. “I shall go prepare it."

"And I'll get the soap and the salve for your shoulder."

"Hah,” he said, as he walked out. “I knew there was an ulterior motive."

"Yep. I went to all the trouble of seducing you just so I can tend to your wound."

"I wouldn't be at all surprised."

Grinning at the dry edge to his voice, she climbed out of bed and grabbed the second of her packs. The salve for wounds was there, but the soap Camille had given her to help wash the symbols off Michael's skin was gone. She swore softly. When he'd gone through her things, Kinnard must have recognized what it was and stolen it.

"And if you intend treating all my wounds with seduction first,” Michael continued, the sound of running water almost smothering his voice, “then I might be tempted to get wounded a little more."

She grabbed the salve, some clothes, a towel and a washcloth, and headed for the bathroom. Steam was beginning to fill the room, and she reached for the small window, intending to open it.

"Don't.” He caught her hand and pulled her close against him. His body was warm and hard against hers, and he was more than ready to play again. She couldn't help smiling. Vampires certainly had great stamina. And, thanks to the fact she now shared his life force, so did she.

"Keep your windows and blinds closed at all times,” he continued softly. “I don't want Kinnard spying on you."

She kissed him, then reached passed him, opening the small cabinet above the hand basin. Sitting right beside the toothpaste and toothbrush was a cake of soap. She grabbed it and tossed it into the water. It was better than nothing. “If you don't turn it off soon, that water is going to overflow."

"The water has bad timing.” He turned off the water and stepped into the bath. “What about your wound?"

"It wasn't bad, and I heal fast.” She unwound the bandage, and shifted her leg so he could see there was little more than a pink scar on her thigh.

"Unusually fast,” he commented and offered her a hand. “Coming in?"

She tossed the washcloth into the water, placed her fingers in his and stepped in carefully. The water was almost too hot. She eased down, sighing softly as the water lapped at her breasts and began to relax her muscles.

He pulled her back against him, then grabbed the soap and began washing her breasts and belly. When she could stand the tortuous pleasure no more, she grabbed the soap and cloth from him and turned around.

"Your turn,” she said, and made a swiveling motion with her fingers. “Back first."

The black markings on his back were thick and ugly, and more intricate than what she'd been told to expect. And the wound on his shoulder was red and angry looking. She took care of that first, easing away the scab, washing away the infection. Though he didn't say anything, he flinched a number of times, indicating the wound was sorer than he'd admitted. Once both ends of the wound were clean, she began working on his back, carefully scrubbing at the drawings.

He didn't give her long enough, though. Maybe it was the spell protecting itself and forcing him to move out of her reach, or maybe it was just desire. Either way, he turned around and took the soap from her, putting it on the edge of the bath. Then he grabbed her legs and slid her forward until she was sitting between his thighs.

She wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck. “This is nice,” she said with a grin.

"Not as nice as this,” he murmured, placing his hands against her butt and pushing her forward just a little more.

The heat of him slipped deep inside, and from that moment on, there was no more talk. He loved her long, stroking deep as he caressed and nipped and kissed. The pressure began to build low in her stomach, fanning through the rest of her in waves as warm as the bath water, until it become a molten force that flowed across her skin. It was a heat far warmer than the turbulent water, a heat that made her tremble, twitch and groan.

His breathing became harsh, his tempo more urgent. His fierceness pushed into her, into that place where only sensation existed, and then he pushed her beyond it.

He came with her, his lips capturing hers, kissing her urgently as his warmth spilled into her and his body went rigid against hers.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Then he sighed and kissed her neck. “Ah, Nikki,” he murmured. “Eternity may come and go, but I will never be able get enough of you.

She froze, holding on tight to the elation that wanted to race through her soul. “What did you just say?"

Even as she asked the question, energy stirred, tingling across her skin where they still touched. The spell enforcing itself once more. Obviously, Dunleavy had set the spell to react to certain words, and maybe even certain thoughts.

He pulled back, blinking slightly. “As much as I am enjoying myself, I am here to catch a killer. I really should be going."

Damn, damn, damn. “Not until I put some salve on that wound."

"I'm a vampire. It'll heal.” He climbed out of the bath and grabbed a towel.

"That wound was caused by silver. The salve will help with the infection the silver caused."

"And how would you know the wound was caused by silver?"

She followed him out of the water and began drying herself. “I'm a witch. We know these things."

He cupped a hand to her cheek, his fingers warm against her skin. “You're a witch all right. I'm just not sure you're the kind that performs real magic."

She turned her face, pressing a kiss into his palm. “No?"

"No,” he agreed softly. “Though I'm tempted to think there's something close to magic happening between us."

"That's not magic. That's something far stronger."

He raised an eyebrow. “And what might that be?"

"Love."

"Love?” A smile touched his lips. “Woman, I barely even know you."

"You've known me far longer than you think. And why can't you remember my name?"

He frowned, and dropped his hand. “I told you, it doesn't sound right."

"It sounds a hell of a lot better than being called woman all the time."

"This conversation is getting ridiculous. And I have a killer to hunt down before the sun gets too high.” He began to dress.

She snatched up her shirt. “We have a killer to hunt, you mean."

"You cannot—"

"I will not be left behind.” She thrust her hands on her hips and glared at him. And damn if it didn't feel like old times. “No matter what you do or say, I'm going, so quit arguing and just accept the fact."

Something flashed in his eyes. Anger perhaps. Or maybe even recognition. They'd certainly had this argument more than once in the past.

"I will not be responsible for your safety."

"I'm not asking you to be responsible for me."

He met her glare with one of his own, but after a few minutes he shook his head and stepped back. “On your own head be it, then."

"Fine.” She hesitated, then added, “The sun being up won't make a bit of difference to Dunleavy, you know."

"Why not? He's a vampire and younger than me."

"But he's also a sorcerer. He's using his magic to kiss the night good-bye."

"Then why can't he be found—by day or by night?"

"I don't know. Maybe he's shifting into other forms."

"Even in other forms, I'd see him with infrared. Shapeshifting would not alter a vampire's basic heat pattern."

"Then maybe he's using magic to hide his form."

"Magic to create the barrier that supposedly confines us. Magic that apparently controls me as well as everyone else in this town. Magic to hide Dunleavy's own form, and magic to feed his dark gods.” He raised an eyebrow. “Even for one as young and strong as Dunleavy, that's an awful lot of magic happening at one time. I doubt there'd be much left of him right now."

"Maybe that's why you can't find him. Maybe he can't move. Maybe Kinnard is not only the creepy sidekick, but Dunleavy's eyes and hands."

"Kinnard wouldn't be able to perform the sacrifice ceremony in Dunleavy's place, though."

"No. So maybe Dunleavy is conserving all his strength for the ceremonies, and Kinnard is doing everything else.” Which might mean it was Kinnard, not Dunleavy, who had torn that woman apart. Goose bumps fled across her skin, and despite the air's warmth, she shivered. She had a feeling the true extent of Kinnard's evil had yet to be revealed.

Michael studied her for a moment, eyes slightly narrowed. “Which would mean Dunleavy would be somewhere unlikely to be found very easily."

She nodded and zipped up her skirt. “Like deep inside a mine.” She hesitated, frowning. “You haven't searched any of the mines yet?"

He hesitated. “No."

She didn't bother asking why, because she had a suspicion the answer was simple—Dunleavy had no intention of being found by Michael, so he'd put some sort of diversion magic in the runes on Michael's back. Which would explain why they were so intricate—they had an awful lot of ground to cover.

"Then perhaps that's where we should start our search."

His frown was deepening, and the tingle of energy was beginning to caress the air. She wished she understood exactly how the runes worked, and whether the magic was built to regenerate, or whether the energy needed for the runes to perform was siphoned from Dunleavy, as needed. Seline had been unable to help her on that one, simply because there were so many variations. All she'd been able to suggest was that Nikki keep pushing, because no magic was everlasting. Even blood magic, the most powerful of all and the one Dunleavy was probably using to sacrifice to his dark Gods, had its limits.

"We don't know for sure,” Michael said.

She remembered the mud she'd found on the mat in the ranger's house. “Wait a minute."

She ran into the bedroom, strapped on her wrist knives and dug the dirt ball out of her jacket pocket.

"Here,” she said, dropping the mud into his hand. “What do you make of that?"

"It's clay from the mines,” he said immediately and met her gaze. “What of it?"

"It was all over the ranger's doormat last night."

"So?"

"So, if the ranger walked from the mines to the house, how come there's no reddish soil in the mix?"

His gaze went back to the clay. “Because he didn't walk from the mine to the house."

"Exactly. Either he was carried, or there's another way to get from the mine to that house."

"The rat has one hole. Maybe he has a tunnel or two as well.” His gaze met hers again. “It was very observant of you to find this."

She grinned. “I'm an observant sort of girl. Shall we go investigate?"

He hesitated, and in the silence, the buzz of energy was as loud as the whine of a mosquito. He dropped the clay to the floor and brushed his hands. “Let's go look,” he said, voice flat, yet full of determination.

She shoved on her shoes and headed for the front door. “Since the mud was on the mat near the front door, the tunnel entrance has to be very close to the steps."

He opened the front door and ushered her through with a gentle press of his hand against her spine. “As you said, he can't have flown in."

The day was almost overly bright, the sun hot despite the earliness of the hour. She squinted up at the sky. Despite the warmth, dark clouds gathered on the horizon. “Could he be using the mines to get around?"

But why would he bother if he could walk around in daylight unharmed? she wondered, even as she asked the question.

"Probably. It would certainly explain why I've been unable to find him."

She glanced at him. “Meaning?"

"Meaning, I can't see through earth. No vampire can."

She raised her eyebrows. “Why not?"

"Why can't we cross thresholds uninvited?” He shrugged. “It's just one of those things that is."

As they approached the ranger's house, she returned her gaze to the sandy soil, briefly scanning for anything that seemed out of place. “How come, when all vampires know the rules, no vampire knows why?"

His smile made her heart do a little dance. “How come some women just can't seem to stay out of trouble?"

"It's not polite to answer a question with a question."

"It is when I don't have the answer to the question."

She grinned. “If you're not careful, I'll hit you with questions you can answer."

He touched her arm, gently stopping her. “Like what?” He squatted down and swept his hand across the dirt. Red dust puffed, revealing wood.

"Like asking about your brother."

"How do you know I have a brother?"

His voice was distracted as he ran his fingers along the edge of the wood. After a moment, there was a faint click. He opened the door, revealing the darkness of a tunnel. Red dust flew as he let the door to drop to the ground.

She twitched her nose, fighting the urge to sneeze as she stared into the foul smelling darkness. There was no sound, no hint of life coming from the mine. Not that she really expected there to be. “I know you have a brother the same way I know you turned him."

"I wasn't the one responsible for turning him. I merely nursed him through it."

Surprise rippled through her. “Really?"

"Really."

"Then where is he now?"

"On a boat, on his way here from England."

So he hadn't been in America long when Jasper killed him. But how had Jasper killed him when Jasper had to have been little more than a fledgling at the time? “Why is he coming here?"

He glanced at her. “Because he misses his baby brother."

"Really?"

A smile touched his lips. “Really."

"Are you supposed to be meeting him, then?"

"Yes, in San Francisco, once I take care of this mess.” He frowned and shadows crossed his eyes. He didn't say anything, yet she felt the surge of anger and sorrow. Deep down, he knew Patrick was long dead, and all these years later, he still quietly grieved that fact.

Was Patrick dead because Michael hadn't been there to meet him? Was that the reason for the anger she'd sensed in him when they'd first met? Had his need for revenge been fueled just as much by guilt as anger?

"Was Patrick much older than you when he was turned?"

Michael scrubbed a hand across his jaw and, for a moment, looked as if he wouldn't answer. Then he glanced down at the hole and said softly, “No. He took the ceremony earlier than I. But he wasn't in such a hurry to die, and he didn't turn until his heart gave out when he was in his forties."

"He had a heart attack?"

"No. Living was tough back then, and forty was a fairly old age."

"And you were by his side?"

He nodded. “By then, I'd had reasonable control of my blood lust, and I had left Elizabeth. Patrick had caught sight of me a few years earlier, and he told me he knew what I was. He made me promise to be by his deathbed, because the man who had turned him was dead, and he didn't want to hurt or kill anyone while in the fledgling stage."

She raised her eyebrows. Was he implying Patrick was gay? Was that why he'd been headed for San Francisco? Was the city so liberal in its thinking way back then? She didn't know, but even if it wasn't, it surely wouldn't have bothered a vampire all that much.

"So who turned him?"

"I don't know. He never told me."

"But it was a man?"

He looked at her again, answering what she hadn't asked rather than what she had. “Patrick's bisexual. He's the reason the Kelly line still lives on in Ireland."

"Then you never had kids?"

"No.” He raised an eyebrow. “A fact I suspect you already knew."

She grinned. “Just confirming these things while you're under the influence."

"Of what?"

"A spell that has apparently frayed your natural reticence when in comes to speaking about your past."

"Woman, you speak in riddles."

"Yeah, makes a nice change, doesn't it?"

He shook his head. “Enough of this ridiculousness. Wait here while I check to see what waits below."

She didn't argue, just watched him disappear down the hole. “It's not a very wide tunnel,” he said, after a few minutes.

"Rats don't need wide tunnels,” she commented, squatting down. The sunlight filtering into the tunnel barely lifted the gloom, and Michael was little more than a shadow. “Is it safe enough?"

"It appears so."

"Then move aside, because I'm coming in."

She hung her legs over the edge and eased herself down. Hands grabbed her hips, catching her weight and lowering her the rest of the way. It was further down than she'd first thought. He didn't release her immediately, his gaze burning into hers. “You will do what I tell you to down here, won't you?"

"Always."

He gave her the sort of look that said he didn't believe her. Grinning, she rose up on her toes, gave him a quick kiss and said, “After you."

For a moment, he did nothing more than simply look at her. Even though the sunlight filtering in from above barely lit the shadows, she could see the questions in his eyes. See the doubts. It didn't really matter whether those doubts were of the situation or of her. The mere fact he doubted was a start.

And while there was no response in the link between them, he'd said her name while making love. Somewhere deep inside him, the spell was beginning to fade. All she had to do was keep pushing. Keep doing and saying things that were echoes of times past. Keep trying to wash the runes from his back.

"This tunnel probably runs down to the town,” he said, his soft tone echoing around them, mingling with the insistent buzz of energy. “If Dunleavy can't move far, he might need to be near his food source."

"But the ceremony he'll perform to bring his brother back to life will be done in the Standard mine. If he can't move far, he won't be far from there."

"I doubt—"

She raised an eyebrow. “Do you actually have doubts, or is it the spell on your back making you think that way?"

"I do feel a pressure to go down rather than up the tunnel.” He hesitated. “So, up it is."

He caught her hand, his fingers warm and strong against hers as he tugged her forward. The darkness surrounding them quickly faded as her eyes adjusted. It was like she was looking at a negative—the air was black, everything else various shades of gray. And while this allowed her to see in darkness almost as well as Michael, she wasn't about to let go of his hand. The last time she'd been in a tunnel like this, the damn thing had collapsed on her, and she'd almost died. And while sharing his life force now meant she couldn't really die, she wasn't about to go through a repeat of the pain.

She pushed the memories away and peered past Michael. The walls of the tunnel were rough-hewn, the roof supported by aging beams of wood that were darkened by moisture and time. From a distance up ahead came a soft but steady dripping, and while the ground beneath them was dry, the air was stale and damp.

There didn't seem to be any sort of incline, suggesting the tunnel was burrowing deeper into the hill. The creaks and groans of the supports seemed to be growing louder, as if they were having trouble bearing the weight of the earth above them.

She shivered and somehow resisted the urge to glance upwards and inspect the roof.

Michael stopped abruptly. “I smell blood."

The air smelled no different to her, but she wasn't as attuned to blood as he was. Nor did she ever want to be. “Old or new?"

He hesitated. “Both."

"A sacrifice site?"

"Possibly. It seems to be coming from the right, which means there's probably a junction in the tunnel up ahead."

"So let's check it out."

Something sparked through the link between them—a brief surge of resignation and amusement combined. She reached out, trying to touch that spark, trying to bring his awareness of her out into the open. For a moment, their thoughts combined, wrapping her in joy and love, then energy surged between them, and the spark died.

But not for long, she suspected, barely able to resist the urge to dance. Her Michael was closer to the surface than ever before.

"You should stay here,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “But I'm guessing you won't."

"And you'd be guessing right.” She squeezed his fingers lightly. “Can you sense anything else?"

"At this stage, no."

He tugged her forward again. They'd barely walked a dozen steps when they reached a T-intersection. There was nothing to be seen either way but more rough-hewn tunnel.

"Still nothing?” she asked.

"There's a heartbeat. It's faint, but very fast.” He frowned at her. “Its beat is more one of pleasure than pain."

She raised her eyebrows. “There's a difference."

His smile was slow and sexy and made her heart do a dance.

"Oh, yes."

"How?"

"Now is not the time for an explanation,” he said, voice dry. “Perhaps we should see what's going on ahead, first."

"Then let's do it."

They moved quickly down the right-hand tunnel. The air became thick and chilled and slapped wetly across her skin. Water splashed into the silence, growing ever louder the closer they got to the source. The rough-hewn walls gave way to natural rock, and the beams supporting the roof became few and far between.

The tunnel opened into a cavern. Her footsteps seemed to echo, lending the cavern a feeling of vastness. Michael stopped, and his anger boiled through the link.

"What?” she said, even as she looked up.

And saw what he saw.

It wasn't water dripping.

It was blood.