Nikki could only stare, wondering if she'd stepped into some macabre version of the Twilight Zone.

A woman hung from the ceiling. She was naked. Her torso was unmarked and her skin had a bluish tint and was covered with goose bumps. She was hanging upside down, her feet tied and somehow roped to the ceiling. Her arms were free, hanging limply past her ears. Her wrists bore several small cuts, but the blood dripped rather than pulsed down the woman's fingers. Some of the cuts had scabbed over, some hadn't, indicating, perhaps, that the wounds were being monitored and opened when necessary. The woman's eyes were wide open, but unfocused, almost dreamy-looking, and barely audible moans pushed past her bloodless lips.

They weren't moans of pain, but rather pleasure.

Nikki swallowed, forcing her gaze away from the obvious bliss on the woman's pale face and studied the thing covering half of her body. It was almost slug-like in form, and it stretched from breast to groin, where its body joined with the woman's. It was moving, squirming, in what looked like ecstasy, its actions matching the woman's pleasured groans.

"What is that?” Though Nikki kept her voice soft, the words seemed to echo harshly around the cavern, again hinting it was larger than it looked.

The slug creature obviously wasn't bothered by the fact it was no longer alone. If its movements were anything to go by, the prospect of being watched seemed to excite it.

She swallowed back bile and pulled her gaze away from the bizarre sight.

"I have no idea what that is,” Michael said, voice flat and cold.

But there was something in the way he said it that made her look at him sharply. He shook his head almost imperceptibly and walked further into the cavern. She followed, trying to quell her desire to ask him what he knew. Trying to ignore the strange sounds of lust coming from above them.

The woman's blood dripped into the middle of a star etched into the cavern's hard rock floor. While the blood glistened wetly, there were deeper, older patches that suggested similar sacrifices had been performed here.

Around the star was a protecting circle of stones. These were a burnished black, just like the ones that ringed the town, but they were much smaller.

Nikki put out a hand. Energy crackled through the air, a buzz that got steadily angrier as her fingers drew close to the unseen wall that protected the star. Flickers of blue cut through the air, lightning-like wisps that lashed out at her hand. It felt foul, somehow. Depraved, even.

She clenched her fingers and dropped her hand back to her side.

Michael looked up at the woman again. “I think we've found one source of Dunleavy's energy. Whether this sacrifice feeds his demented soul, his dark gods, or the circle you say rings this town, is anyone's guess."

She nodded, keeping her gaze on the stones rather than the happenings above them. “We can't leave her here."

"She won't live, even if we do manage to get her down."

"I don't care.” Facing death was one thing. Doing so while forced to endure the ministrations of something not even remotely human was another.

She walked past him, closer to the ring. The stones reacted, seeming to glow deep within their black hearts. Sparks crawled across her skin, an unpleasant sensation that made the tiny hairs over her body stand on end. Rubbing her arms, she swept her gaze around the circle, trying to remember everything Camille and Seline had told her.

There was always a key. Always one stone that could unlock or destroy. All she had to do was find that stone. Not easy to do when they all looked the damn same.

Her gaze came to rest on the stone on the north edge of the circle. It was a little smaller, a little less obvious, than the rest.

She walked around to it. There could be no finesse about this. She didn't know enough about magic to dismantle the power of the stones. And brute force certainly couldn't dismantle a circle of this size any more than it could a circle the size of the one that ringed the town. But she'd bet this circle was set up to protect the star and its sacrifice against someone who knew something about the ways of magic, not someone armed with little more than a silver knife.

Silver was the one thing immune to magic. The only thing that could cut through a magic barrier such as this with the ease of a knife through butter.

She flicked the knife into her palm and knelt, studying the stone. Wisps of blue arced through the air, their foul energy scorching her forehead.

"Do you know what you're doing?” Michael asked, from the other side of the circle.

She met his gaze. “You'd better hope so."

The thing above them let loose a strange sort of squeal. Nikki's gaze jerked upwards. The slug had disengaged itself and was slithering around the woman's legs, heading for the ceiling. Nikki hefted her knife, in half a mind to throw it, but at that moment, the thing reached the roof and disappeared into a fissure.

"I'd take that as a sign,” Michael commented blandly.

"Maybe it's just had enough sex, and the retreat is its version of rolling over and going to sleep."

A smile tugged the corners of his mouth. “I still prefer that you don't do this."

"You know of any other way to get that woman down?"

He lifted a hand toward the circle. Energy buzzed, the sound a high pitched scream of fury. Nikki raised her eyebrows. That reaction was far stronger than the one that had greeted her. Maybe Dunleavy had expected Michael to get this far.

"No,” he said, “I'm afraid I don't."

"Well, I'm not leaving her there,” she said flatly. “And I don't care what trap Dunleavy has set, I'm going to spring it."

"Wait—"

She didn't. She slashed the knife toward the stone, backing the blow with as much force as she could muster. The air screamed, and energy lit the darkness, blue flashes of light that crawled across the blade and up her hand, burning deep. She bit her lip, ignoring the sensation, keeping her eyes on the rock. An invisible force pushed at the blade, momentarily resisting her blow. Then the knife hit the stone, and the force of it reverberated up her arm, jarring her spine.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then there was a blinding flash, the boom of an explosion, and a wall of heated air slapped across her face and threw her backwards. She hit the ground with a grunt and flung her hands over her head, trying to protect her face. Shards of stone bit through the air, tearing at her clothes, her skin. Then the weight of another hit her, protecting her from the worst of the energy borne rocks.

After a while, silence returned. Except the silence wasn't really silent, but filled with a dripping far stronger than before. Surely the woman couldn't have had that much blood left, Nikki thought, wanting to look, but at the same time not wanting to. If the force of that explosion had blown her off her feet and back a good ten feet, what had it done to the poor woman hanging above?

"You don't want to know,” Michael commented, his lips caressing her ear as he spoke. “Are you okay?"

She nodded, wondering if he even realized he'd read her thoughts. “What's that dripping?"

"Water.” He lifted himself off her and touched her arm, gently assisting her into a sitting position.

Despite his warning, she couldn't help looking. What was left of the woman didn't really resemble anything human. Just a bloody, shapeless, mass.

She briefly closed her eyes, then opened them and took a deep breath. “At least it would have been quick."

"Yes.” His confirmation didn't ease her conscience any. His thumb brushed at the moisture on her cheek, a gesture as gentle and as caring as the look in his eyes. “You gained a few cuts in the explosion."

"So did you.” She carefully wiped away the smear of blood from his chin. “Are you hurt anywhere else?"

"My back.” He shrugged. “Nothing major."

She gave him a deadpan look. “I saw your version of nothing major with your shoulder. Turn around."

"I do not think this is the time or—"

"If you'd just stop arguing about everything and do as I ask, it would have been over with hours ago."

"As usual, you exaggerate.” Amusement gleamed in his dark eyes as he turned around.

His shirt was crisscrossed with tears, revealing bloody skin underneath. Nothing deep, as he'd said, but some of the cuts did go through the runes on his back, slicing them apart. Was that why he'd been able to read her thoughts? Was one of the cut sections responsible for the shut down of the link between them?

"You're right. There's nothing here that won't wait until later."

"Maybe next time you'll believe me."

"Not when you have a history of understating wounds."

She looked past him. The black rocks were no longer in an orderly circle. Of the eight that had been present, she could see only six. Hopefully, the explosion had blown up the other two. Hopefully, it meant Dunleavy wouldn't be reusing this sacrifice site anytime soon.

She glanced at the roof, this time following the dripping water until she found the source. A fissure had opened up near the southern end of the circle, and the water was pouring steadily from that, washing across the star etched into the rock, bathing away the barely congealed blood. Though she doubted it would ever erase the deeper, darker stains.

Little rivulets of moisture were beginning to work their way towards her. She pushed to her feet, glad of Michael's support as the cavern spun briefly around her.

"I don't think Dunleavy will be able to use this place again,” she commented. “The water will make it too difficult."

He nodded. “I dare say he has other places ready to go."

"Yeah.” She dusted off her palms on her skirt. “And if they're anything like this, we'd better try to find them."

He raised an eyebrow. “And what of the two sacrifices you were told to halt?"

"I'm beginning to think they were merely a means to keep me occupied and off the trail."

"Believe me, Dunleavy will kill those people if he said he will."

"I know. But I think we're better off trying to find the source of all his power—and destroying it—rather than running around trying to figure out who is next on his hit list.” After all, they were probably all on his hit list. She was certainly under no illusion that he'd let her and Michael go.

"We could spend days searching through these tunnels,” he said. “It's literally a maze down here."

And they didn't have days. Only hours. Forty seven of them to be precise. They had to narrow the search area down. “Where is this cavern in relation to the town?"

He hesitated. “Somewhere near the eastern edge."

Meaning that they'd ended up heading away from the Standard mine rather than towards it. “So, if the Standard mine is west, and we know for certain there's a sacrifice circle there—"

"We haven't actually seen it, so you can't say that for sure."

"Yes, we can.” Her gaze met his. “He's using compass points."

"If the magic being used is as large as you say, he'd probably have to. I doubt whether he'd be able to feed it all from one central point."

She raised an eyebrow. “You think there's a central point as well?"

"We've already found it. The roof of the whorehouse."

She closed her eyes and fought the rush of memories, although the man on the roof had died a cleaner death than the woman here. “Would they use it again? They surely must know we've discovered it.” Hadn't that been the whole point in the first place?

"I think they'll have no choice. Dunleavy probably figures we have enough keeping us occupied to be keeping a close watch on that roof."

And in reality, he'd be right. “If this place is the maze you say it is, then it might be better if you search alone. Once you find something, you can come back for me."

"I don't fancy leaving you alone, after what I discovered in Kinnard's hole."

She raised an eyebrow and mentally asked, Why?

Energy stirred the air, and his gaze narrowed in sudden concentration. Fighting the spell, Nikki thought. Fighting the commands being placed on him.

Because it seems Kinnard has taken quite a fancy to you. He answered her question through the link without even seeming to realize he'd done so. Nor did he seem to realize he'd basically recognized that she was the women in the photos and not the woman whose image she still wore.

And though she felt like dancing at the breakthrough, she controlled the urge. There was still a ways to go yet before he was totally free of the effect of the runes. And until he was, she had to play it carefully. They couldn't afford to have Dunleavy realize she wasn't Seline.

"I can protect myself. Dunleavy may think he holds all the aces, but I hold one or two little surprises up my sleeve."

"Yeah, both of them silver.” His tone held a teasing edge. “But those little stickers aren't going to be of much use if Dunleavy decides to send his goons after you."

"But he won't, because he needs me alive for the ceremony."

Michael raised an eyebrow. “You willing to bet your life on that?"

"Yes.” Seline killed Dunleavy's twin. Killed him in the midst of the ceremony and consigned his soul to hell. Which meant Seline had to be at Weylin's ceremony so that he could reverse the spell and bring his brother's spirit back to life. And she was Seline's doppelganger.

All they had to hope was that Seline was correct in her assumption that the ceremony would fail simply because she wasn't Seline.

"I'll escort you back to the entrance."

"No. I can go by myself. We need to find the other sacrifice sites before Dunleavy has a chance to protect them any further."

His concern whisked through the link, warming her soul. “I don't think—"

She placed a finger to his lips, stopping him. “Trust me. I can look after myself."

It was a phrase she'd repeated often enough, and something sparked in his eyes. Amusement or memory, it didn't much matter which, because he was getting closer and closer to breaking the chains around his memories.

"Okay."

He brushed a hand down her cheek, slid it around her neck and pulled her towards him. His kiss was both demanding and passionate. Despite knowing the danger of doing this here, she couldn't help responding just as intensely.

And with their bodies crushed so close, she was fiercely aware of every part of him. From the rush of longing burning through the link, to the way her breasts crushed against his chest, right down to the restrained hardness pressing luscious heat against her abdomen. His body remembered her, even if his mind was still chained.

He pulled away with a suddenness that made her gasp softly. Then she saw the fiery glint in his eyes. It was passion and something else. Something far deadlier.

"There was blood on your mouth, just a smear,” he explained, his voice soft yet strained.

Yet his teeth weren't extending, even though his demon had risen to the surface. He was gaining control again, despite the spell on his back. She nodded. “I'll meet you back at the house later."

He stepped away, then stopped again, reaching out to brush a thumb across her mouth. “Be careful."

"I will."

He wrapped the shadows around his body, disappearing from normal sight, but not her enhanced sight. He was a whitish blur that ran quickly towards the tunnel and disappeared.

She bent to retrieve her knife. The blade was nicked, the end broken. Even so, it was a useful enough weapon against a vampire or shapeshifter. She shoved it back into its sheath, walked around the star and headed for the tunnel.

And tried to ignore the weight of the earth pressing down on her as she made her way back to the entrance.

When the beams of sunlight began filtering through the darkness ahead, she gave a huge sigh of relief. She wiped the sweat from her eyes and tried to convince herself her reaction was due to the clingy atmosphere in the tunnels rather than fear itself.

She'd been in tunnels in San Francisco and hadn't felt like this. Nor had she when she and Michael had traveled to Jackson Hole and confronted the dead and his past. But those tunnels hadn't really reminded her of the tunnel that had trapped her. This one did.

She leapt up, grabbed either side of the opening, and hauled herself up, wriggling and cursing and wishing her butt was a little less heavy.

When she finally reached the surface, she collapsed in an ungainly, sweating heap, trying to catch her breath and wondering why her muscles were aching so much when she was supposedly so fit.

"That has to be the most inelegant exit I've ever seen,” a voice said dryly.

She bit back the urge to curse and looked around. Kinnard was sitting on the steps of the dead ranger's house, idly twirling a long reed of grass in his hand.

"What are you up to, Kinnard?” she snapped, hauling herself into a sitting position before dusting off her hands.

Kinnard's gaze slithered up her exposed legs. She snapped her skirt down, and he grinned.

"Just waiting for you to come up for air, girlie."

"Were you down in that darkness, spying again?"

"Maybe I was. Maybe I wasn't.” He flicked the blade of grass away and stood. “That vampire of yours won't be able to fight the creatures waiting at other sacrifice sites alone, you know."

She raised an eyebrow. “And just how do you know we found the sacrifice site?"

"Half the town heard the explosion. I'm surprised you and the vamp weren't more seriously hurt."

"We run fast."

"You must. Just be warned—the next time, it could be deadly."

She rose to her feet. “Or so you would like me to believe."

"Oh, I didn't mean deadly to you, girlie."

"Then what did you mean?"

His gaze slid to the town. She grabbed his arm, wrapping her fingers around his cold, almost slimy, flesh and called to the fire deep within. Flames responded, leaping from fingertip to fingertip, touching, but not really burning, his skin. Kinnard's eyes widened in surprise and, perhaps, a touch of fear.

"You hurt any more of those people down in that town,” she said, keeping her voice flat, “and I'll hunt you down and burn you to cinders."

He jerked his arm free and stepped back. His flesh was white were she'd touched, her fingerprints seemingly burned into his arms.

"You try that, and your vampire lover dies."

"I don't think your master is going to be too impressed if you kill one of the two vital elements he needs to bring his brother back to life."

Kinnard snarled at her. It was her turn to grin. “Yeah, I figured it out. I may be blonde, but I ain't dumb."

"Aren't you?” He snorted softly. “Then why are you here, rather than finding the man who will die in an hour's time?"

She stared at him, her heart racing. No one else was supposed to be killed. Dunleavy had only set that task to keep her occupied—hadn't he?

Yet, Seline had warned five would die. Surely though, the sacrifices would be in that number. Unless, of course, Emmett Dunleavy had killed more people than Seline was aware of. But if that were the case, how did Weylin know? He'd been nowhere near Hartwood when his had brother died.

Or had he?

Realizing Kinnard was waiting for a reply, she said, “Dunleavy's changing the rules already? We must be closer than I thought."

Kinnard hawked and spat. She shifted her foot, and the glob landed in the dust near her toes.

"It's Dunleavy's game you're playing. He can do what he wants."

"Not for much longer."

The old man merely grinned. “You wanna bet, girlie?"

"Not with a lecher like you."

"And not when you know the odds are on our side."

She stepped back. She wasn't about to get into a war of words with this man—not when she had a feeling that's exactly what he intended. “Remember what I said, Kinnard. You kill someone else, and you burn."

She turned and walked away, but his gaze followed her down the slope—piercing her spine and sending chills racing across her skin.

And yet, when she looked over her shoulder, Kinnard was gone. His stare had been imagination, nothing more.

Hadn't it?

Somehow, she suspected not. He was still watching her, even if she could no longer see him. The foul caress of his gaze still burned deep.

She turned a corner and, finally, the sense of him watching disappeared. She blew out a relieved breath and let her gaze roam across the old buildings crowding the main street. It was extremely quiet. Either everyone had finally passed out from all the booze they'd consumed over the last few days, or Dunleavy had decided it was better to keep them docile and conserve his strength in the process.

Her gaze went to the two-story building at the end of the street. Though the day was still reasonably bright, the whorehouse's roof seemed oddly locked in mist. It was as if the clouds that raced the threat of rain towards them had paused for breath over that particular building. Even from where she stood, she could feel the tremble of electricity in the air.

Another chill raced through her. Something was happening up there, something she really didn't want to discover.

But what choice did she have?

She scanned the remaining buildings, sensing no life in any of them. Not that she really would. Her talent had never been sensing life, but rather unlife. Even before Michael had turned her world inside out, she'd been able to sense other creatures—even if she hadn't been fully aware of it. The circle around this town had shut down that ability, but if she and Michael shut down at least one other sacrifice site, would the rest of her abilities start to seep back?

She suspected they might. She also suspected Dunleavy would try to ensure they didn't shut down any more of his sites. He had to know Camille and a dozen other circle operatives were waiting outside the barrier, waiting for the chance to get in and hunt him down.

So how did he plan to escape?

Another tunnel, perhaps?

Her gaze hit the whorehouse again, and after a moment's hesitation, she walked toward the old building. The buzz of electricity got stronger, crawling across her skin like biting ants. The closer she got, the more her skin burned. By the time she reached the stairs, it felt like she was being eaten alive.

Biting her bottom lip and resisting the strengthening desire to scratch at her skin, she hesitated on the bottom step and stared up the stairs. The fog had closed in on the top few steps, making it impossible to see what was up there. But flashes of light bit through the gloom. Either this mist was accompanied by lightning, or someone was performing magic on the roof.

She flicked a knife down into her palm and cautiously began to climb. The old stairs creaked under her weight, the noise snapping through the misty hush surrounding her.

The lightning stopped, and so did she. She tightened her grip around the knife, her knuckles almost white. Nothing moved on the fog-bound landing above her, and no sound beyond the soft rasp of her breathing broke the silence. Yet the air itself seemed to quiver in expectation.

Someone was waiting. Someone she couldn't see.

She took another step forward and slashed at the fog with her knife. It recoiled away, reminding her, oddly, of plastic hit by flame.

She climbed on, slashing at the mist with every step. But as she neared the top landing, the retreat of the mist slowed, then stopped. She paused, staring at the wall of white a few steps above her. Was it just her imagination, or did deeper shadows lurk in the heart of the mist? There was no sound, no creak of wood, no movement to stir the white wall and indicate life—yet every instinct she had screamed she was no longer alone.

Lightning bit through the mist, blue flashes that smelled as foul as they felt. The ants eating at her skin became more frantic, telling her that whatever was happening on the roof was reaching a peak. She had to move, or she'd be too late.

She took a step and sound rumbled towards her.

A growl she'd heard before.

The wolves were back. Yellow flashed through the white—canines, bared in warning. She raised the knife, the blade gleaming with silver fire in the fog. A wolf stepped out of the mist, teeth bared, hackles raised.

"This knife is silver,” she warned, slashing the blade back and forth through the tendrils of mist swirling between them. “Silver is deadly to shifters."

The wolf didn't react. Maybe it was a real wolf, not a shifter.

She stepped up one more step. The wolf crouched, its growl rumbling harshly through the night.

"Don't,” she warned softly. “I will kill you if I have to."

The wolf's yellow gaze met hers. There was no humanity in those glowing depths. No understanding.

A real wolf, then.

She bit her lip, but she knew she had no choice. She had to stop whatever was happening on the roof, and the only way to do that was to go through this wolf.

She raised her foot to take the next step, and at that moment, the wolf launched. She threw herself sideways, hitting the wall of building with enough force to crack the wooden boards, and slashed at the wolf with the knife. The blade scoured the creature's side, but did little in the way of damage. But the animal landed awkwardly and tumbled down to the next landing. She hitched up her skirt and ran the last few steps to the top landing.

Only to discover the wolf wasn't alone.

The smell of blood and approaching death stung the tunnel's dank air. Michael paused, breathing deep the smell, feeling the richness of it through every pore. The source wasn't far ahead.

The darkness in him stirred, then settled. For whatever reason his demon had risen, he was again regaining control. As much as he enjoyed the taste of blood on the air, he had no intention of sampling the offering.

And that's what waited ahead.

An offering, not one of Dunleavy's sacrifice sites.

He moved forward more cautiously. The tunnel curved around to the right then widened out, becoming a junction with two other tunnels. There, in the middle, lay a man.

In the infrared of his vision, the stranger's body was a mass of pulsing red—but the heat of his blood was dying, just as the man was dying. He was naked, his torso marked with purple patches that indicated he'd taken a beating sometime in the last few hours. His hands and feet were tied with what looked like fishing line, the silvery thread glowing as brightly as the blood congealing on the floor near the stranger's neck.

Michael stopped beside him. The man's eyes were wide and staring, and the stark look of terror seemed frozen on his face. Odd, given he wasn't yet dead.

On his neck were bite marks. Dunleavy had obviously fed off him before he'd slashed the man's neck. But he'd avoided the jugular, so the rush of blood was slower, as was the dying. Like the woman they'd discovered hanging from the ceiling, there was nothing to be done to help this man. He'd lost far too much blood, and most of his organs had already begun to shut down.

Michael squatted down and lightly touched the man's face. Narrowing his gaze, he reached out with his thoughts, trying to touch the stranger's mind. For a moment, it felt like he was trying to push through treacle. Energy danced around him, burning up his back and across his shoulders. He frowned, ignoring it, concentrating on reaching the man's thoughts. The sensation fled, and suddenly he was reliving the horror inflicted on the stranger.

Dunleavy had beaten him, defiled him. Then he'd frozen the man's thoughts and actions and fed off him. The bastard might like the fear, the horror, of violating his victims sexually, but when it came to feeding, he preferred them knowing and helpless.

Oddly enough, though the sense of violence was clear and fresh in the man's dying thoughts, there were no impressions of Dunleavy himself. Just sensations. Emotions. And memories of Kinnard dragging the man into this tunnel.

Michael closed the stranger's eyes and quickly snapped his neck, giving him the death that was inevitable. He rose and moved down to look at the man's feet. Like the victim on the roof of the whorehouse, the stranger had the imprint of lips burned into his soles.

Something had fed while Dunleavy had defiled his victim.

Something he suspected might resemble a slug-like creature.

A creature whose energy was similar to Kinnard's.

Whether or not the two where one and the same, he couldn't really say, because there were some differences in the flow and resonance of body heat between the two. But that could very well come from the differences of form.

He'd never heard of, or met, a shifter who took the form of a large slug, but he'd hardly lived long enough to meet all the creatures on this Earth. But he'd known vampires who fed on emotions rather than blood, and they could die just as easily as regular vampires.

What killed Dunleavy would kill his sick little minion.

He rubbed a hand across his jaw as he looked toward the nearest tunnel. The air seemed fresher, indicating there might be some sort of opening close by. Maybe the same one Kinnard had used to drag the stranger here.

But he wasn't here to find an exit. He glanced at the other tunnel. The air there was thick and rich, full of the stench of earth, water and age. Underneath all that, the slightest taint of blood. That's where he had to go.

Again, power burned across his skin, and for a moment, his thoughts became confused. He should go right, find the exit...

He shook his head, and the pressure on his mind become more intense. He swore, fighting it, fists clenched against the urge to follow the orders pressing into his mind. He'd faced telepathic assaults before, and this was very similar. But during those other attacks, his own telepathy had been strong enough not only to repel but attack. This was far stronger than anything he'd faced before, and it had its base in magic rather than mind strength. There was no attacking, only surviving.

The witch was right, which meant she was probably right about other things—like the runes on his back and the magic surrounding this town. Like him knowing her more intimately than what he believed.

Just thinking about her appeared to clear the force hammering through his brain. Her warm, cinnamon scent seemed to spin around him, through him, and sunshine flowed through his mind, a radiance that was at once passionate and familiar, and one that filled him with strength.

He didn't only know this woman. He loved her.

Yet he hadn't really loved anyone since he'd fallen for the woman who had turned him. He hadn't even loved Christine, despite the years they'd been together.

Or was that all another lie concocted by Dunleavy and his magic? He didn't know the truth from fiction any more, and that was the most frustrating thing of this whole damn mess.

He swore softly, then spun around and stalked toward the dark tunnel. The air became foul, cold, the walls slick with moisture and slime. It was a good thing the witch wasn't with him. This place would remind her too much of the tunnels that had almost snatched her life...

Damn it, why couldn't he remember her name? And why did it feel like she was as vital to his life as blood itself? He had to get rid of these runes, had to remember.

Had to kill Dunleavy—not only as revenge for Christine, but for snatching away his memories of the amber-eyed witch.

Ahead, moisture dripped, and the metallic taint of blood became sharper. He slowed, tasting the air, listening to the distant beat of life.

Only there wasn't one heart pounding through the silence ahead, but four.

Three of them were strong, one weaker. One a sacrifice, three guards, then.

Michael smiled grimly. Dunleavy wasn't giving him much credit if he only had three guards. Either that, or he was extremely confident about the abilities of his guards.

Or perhaps it was as the witch said—Dunleavy didn't intend to kill them. Not yet, anyway.

He walked forward more cautiously. There was no sound from up ahead, other than the steady beat of life. If those ahead breathed, he couldn't hear it.

The tunnel began to widen into another cavern. Ahead, light danced, spreading bright fingers across the slick black walls. Silhouetted against the flames was a wolf. The other two stood to the left and the right, lost to the darker shadows still haunting the edges of the cavern. Even with the benefit of infrared, he couldn't see them. They were obviously using as cover the boulders that lay scattered across the floor from a past landslide.

He stopped and cast away the shadows hiding his form. The wolves would know he was there by smell alone, so it didn't matter whether he was cloaked in night or not.

The wolf near the flames growled a low note of warning. Michael ignored it, his gaze moving to the figure hanging from the ceiling. Unlike the first sacrifice, this one was a man, and he was currently free from the attentions of the slug creature. He was unconscious, but the beat of his heart was strong, even if it was a little erratic, indicating he hadn't been up there all that long. His torso bore the dark splash of bruises, and the stench of vomit entwined with the richness of blood. Dunleavy had obviously beaten him until he was sick, and only then had he slashed the man's wrists. The question was, was this a ritual necessity, or merely another sick perversion on Dunleavy's part? Knowing Dunleavy, it was probably the latter.

He swept his gaze around the shadows beyond the flames, locating the other wolves by the beat of their hearts. Then he looked at the pack leader.

"You attack me, you die."

The wolf's lips curled, revealing gleaming canines.

"I know you can understand me, shifter. I intend to free that man, and if you get in my way, you'll pay."

The wolf rose onto all fours, its low growl reverberating through the cavern. To the right and the left came the slow sound of claws clicking against stone. The other two were moving in, but they weren't yet ready to attack. Maybe they were waiting to see what their leader did.

Michael moved forward. Energy surged across his back, stinging with the sharpness of bees. He frowned, trying to shrug away the sensation, with little success.

The wolf crouched then sprang. Michael blurred, avoiding the wolf's lunge, then ran for the fire. He didn't want to kill the shifter, but he knew he might have no other choice. He leapt over the flames, felt the fingers of heat playing down his legs. He hit the ground on the other side and saw the star and it's accompanying circle of stone. He knew he wouldn't be able to get the man down until the circle had been broken.

The buzz of energy got stronger. He shook his head, felt the stir of air to his right. He swung, hitting the wolf square in the jaw, feeling teeth score his fist before the force of his blow knocked the creature sideways. The other wolves attacked, coming in from the left and the right. Michael dropped, allowing one to soar over his head, before twisting and kicking the other in the gut. It made an almost human grunt of pain as it hit the ground and slid into the fire, scattering the wood. Sparks flew, firefly bright in the darkness, and flames leapt high.

He rose, the bite of energy across his flesh so severe it felt like a thousand needles piercing his skin. It was hard to concentrate ... hard to think...

Too late, he became aware of the movement behind him. Teeth sank into his flesh, worrying and tearing at his skin, spilling warmth down the back of his leg. As pain flashed white hot through his body, he heard the scrape of nails. Another wolf was coming at him.

He swore and twisted around, smashing his fist against the snout of the wolf that tore at his thigh. Flesh and bone gave way under the force of the blow, but the wolf refused to release its hold. The frantic beat of the second wolf's heart warned that the creature was close. He dropped, dragging the first wolf down with him, his breath hissing from clenched teeth as the movement tore away more of his flesh.

The second wolf missed by inches. It landed several feet away, scrabbling to gain purchase against the slick stone and stop the impetus of its leap before it slid into the flames.

A yellow blur moved past it. Teeth gleamed. The third wolf launched—going not for extremities or torso, but straight for the neck, the jugular. Trying to kill, not maim.

The witch had been wrong. Or Dunleavy's game plan had changed.

He fisted the creature away, then reached around, unlocking the death grip the wolf had on his thigh. The wolf put up little fight—his blow had shattered the creature's nose, and the mere act of breathing had become a battle. One Michael ended by breaking the shifter's neck.

He grabbed the creature by the front legs and rose. Agony burned through every nerve ending, its epicenter his torn and bloodied flesh. His leg buckled, and for a moment, he didn't think it would bear his weight, let alone that of the dead wolf. Forcing his knee to lock and hold, he swallowed nausea and blinked away the sudden sting of sweat. The air howled its warning, and he swung the dead wolf around, using it to batter away its pack mate. He staggered sideways, felt the caress of flames across his skin. Caught his balance, then blurred, running for the stone circle.

The scrabble of claws suggested the remaining two wolves weren't far behind. And they were gaining with every step, because he could barely even run at human pace, let alone move with the inhuman speed of a vampire.

He felt rather than saw the impetus of their leap, noted the closeness of the stones, and dropped flat. Electricity buzzed across his face, and warning flickers of blue fire cut across the night. The black stones were within arm's reach, which is exactly what he'd intended.

The wolves twisted in midair, trying to reach him as they flew over his prone form. Maybe they weren't aware of the danger of the black stones. Maybe they simply didn't understand the magic involved.

Either way, they hit the invisible shield, and the magic reacted. Blue fire flared brightly, surrounding the two wolves in tendrils of flame, burning them, consuming them, with very little fanfare.

Once the two were little more than ash and scraps of bone that dusted the air around him, Michael pushed into a sitting position. Firming his grip on the dead wolf, he swung it as hard as he could at the nearest stone. Most circles like this were created to protect against intrusion from magic, the living, or the undead. Very few were designed for protection against the dead dead, simply because, in most cases, there was no need.

The circle didn't react to the wolf's body when it hit the nearest stone and sent it ricocheting away. With a sound that was almost a sigh, the circle's energy faded away.

Michael blew out a relieved breath. Now to get the man down from the ceiling. His gaze followed the line of rope holding the stranger up, and he saw that it was attached to the large boulder lying at the northern edge of the circle. He pushed to his feet, and hobbled over. Releasing the knot, he carefully lowered the stranger until he was far enough down to catch hold of him, and then he pulled him out of the pentagram area before lowering him completely to the floor.

At that moment, pain hit him.

Not his pain.

Nikki's.