The man attacked, giving Nikki no time to think, just react. She ducked his blow, slashed with the knife, cutting through the thick material of his shirt and slicing a thin line across his stomach.

The man's howl was one of fury more than pain, and he swung his fist. She fell back, but not fast enough, and the ring on his middle finger scraped across her jaw as the blow moved past. He followed the blow with another. Again she fell back, not really wanting to hurt this man, knowing by the glazed look in his brown eyes that he was attacking under Dunleavy's orders, not of his own volition.

Her retreat was stopped when her back hit the railing. She swore softly and tried to step sideways. Heard the rumbled warning close to her thigh and knew the wolf wasn't going to allow an escape that way.

Nowhere to run. No choice but to maim.

The stranger's fist bit through the air again. She dropped and spun, sweeping her leg behind his, knocking him off his feet. He landed with a crunch that shook the whole landing. She scrambled forward, tried to chop a blow across his windpipe to temporarily paralyze him. But he caught her hand in his paw-like fist and squeezed so hard pain shot up her arm, and a scream forced it way up her throat.

As if they had a will of their own, her flames appeared, dancing eagerly from her fingertips to the stranger's hand. For a second, pain was forgotten as she stared. It looked for all the world as if the flame imps had come to life.

The stranger howled and released his grip, shaking his hand in an attempt to rid himself of the slivers of flame that capered across his skin.

She switched her knife to her bruised hand, and completed the blow to the stranger's neck with her left hand. He made an odd gargling sound, his burning fingers forgotten against the greater need to breathe.

The flames died as she rose, but warmth kissed her fingertips, as if the energy of the flames was being drawn back into her body.

Which was impossible, surely. She certainly hadn't felt anything like that when Lenny had tried to kill her. But then, she'd intentionally wanted him to burn. Wanted him to hurt, to suffer.

She hadn't wanted to hurt this man. Just distract him enough to immobilize him.

Something she'd done. Did that mean she had differing levels of control available? She hoped so. She really didn't want to cinder every single person she was forced to defend herself against.

She sheathed her knife and stepped past him and onto the roof. Just in time to see a slug-like creature slither away from the naked form lying in the middle of the pentagram. It slid down through the cracks between the wooden roofing and disappeared. A shudder ran through her. Obviously, whatever that thing was, it wasn't overly choosy about who it had sex with. Male, female, near dead, dead ... It didn't really matter.

She blew out a breath and walked over to the body. It was a different man lying here, and while part of her wanted to know what had happened to the remains of the first victim, she very much suspected that it was better not to know.

He was lying in the middle of the star, his arms and legs outstretched, as if he were welcoming the death visited upon him. His expression backed this up—he was smiling, his blue eyes frozen in a look of warmth.

And like the first man they'd found on this roof, he had a small knife wound in his chest. Blood still trickled out, the flow sluggish as it crept down his side.

She glanced down at the black star etched into the roof. There was no sense of power coming from it, no tingle of energy cutting through the air. While the slug had crossed those dark lines without harm, she wasn't about to test them. If Camille and Seline had taught her anything, it was a high respect for magic. Just because she couldn't feel any energy coming from the black pentagram didn't mean it was inactive.

Still, she had to do something about it. Dunleavy was using this place to feed either his strength, or that of his dark gods. For that reason alone, it had to be destroyed, and the only means she had to do that was her fire.

That would mean destroying evidence—this man, the bloody room downstairs, the woman's remains, her head...

She swallowed and tried to ignore the gruesome images that surged into her mind. Destroying evidence was a better option than leaving this pentagram here and allowing Dunleavy to use it to kill more people. And besides, given what she'd learned about the circle in the last few months, she very much doubted whether the police would even be aware that something foul had happened here. This place would be cleaned of all evidence, the survivors would be given the best medical attention and counseling available, and their memories would be “rearranged.” How the Circle would handle the dead, she didn't know—but if she'd learned anything about the organization, it was that they took care of those hurt. The families of the dead would be compensated in some way.

She reached down inside herself for the power of the flames. This time, she intended to burn, intended to destroy, and the flames that sprang to life across her fingertips echoed that intention. They were fierce, hungry, and didn't resemble flame imps in the slightest.

The scrape of a nail made her jerk around. The wolf had stepped onto the roof, and the flames reflected in its yellow eyes, making them glow eerily.

It stepped forward, its snarl low, fierce and deadly. She stepped back, the fierce golden fire of her flames burning back the fog, allowing weak sunlight to filter in and lift some of the shadows. But sunlight only made the wolf's intentions more obvious. It would stop her anyway it deemed necessary.

From behind the wolf a figure rose. The stranger staggered to the roof's entrance, his face white, and his breathing still little more than a rasp.

"Get her,” he said, in a low, dead voice that didn't match the man or his injuries and oddly reminded her of Kinnard. “Just remember, injure, not kill."

The wolf stalked forward. She retreated, her gaze on the stranger more than the wolf. His brown eyes were still glazed, unblinking. Did that mean Dunleavy was controlling his actions, but not actually seeing what this man saw? Why else would he not react to the flames burning across her fingers?

The wolf walked around the edges of the pentagram. With the stranger blocking the exit to the stairs, she had no other choice but to back towards the far wall. Once she hit that, her only options were to either fight or risk the two-story drop.

Her gaze went to the pentagram. She had to destroy it. It was one source of Dunleavy's power, and the more they destroyed his supply options, the better chance they had. And the better chance Camille and the rest of the Circle had of getting in here to save the day should she and Michael fail.

Not that they would fail, because she had every intention of marrying her vampire, and no psycho out for revenge was going to stop her.

Her gaze went to the stranger. She couldn't let him die, though, and she very much suspected that might happen if she flamed this roof. Dunleavy had his mind, and wherever Dunleavy was, it surely wasn't close enough to see the fire until it was too late.

The wolf had reached the top of the pentagram. A few more steps and it would be within launching range. She stepped sideways, raised her burning hand, and reached for more of the power surging through her veins.

"Burn this place to cinders,” she said softly.

Fire exploded through her, around her, and the air was suddenly thick with heat. The wolf yelped, a sound full of surprise, but she wasted no time seeing what had happened to it. She'd left it an escape route—over the roof edge. Shifters were tough—it could take a two-story fall without breaking a nail.

She spun and ran for the stranger. When she was close enough, she launched herself at him, twisting in the air so that she'd hit him feet first. He didn't react, merely stood there dumbly, confirming her guess that Dunleavy wasn't using this man's eyes. She hit him hard, and sent him flailing backwards. He hit the landing's back railing, and with a crack that sounded like thunder, the wood splintered and gave way. With arms flailing, the stranger fell backwards into the fog and disappeared.

She barely had the chance to swear before the impetus of her leap took her over the edge and down into that same fogginess.

"Oh, shit,” was all she managed to say before the free fall experience was over. She hit the ground with enough force to jar every bone in her body and send her teeth through her tongue.

She slumped face first into the dirt and lay there for several minutes, trying to remember how to breathe, trying to ignore the pain pouring through every nerve ending. She'd never fallen two stories before, and it was certainly an experience she never wanted to repeat. It damn well hurt.

Concern flooded through her mind, and suddenly there were warm hands on her back, her neck, feeling for a pulse, checking that she was okay.

"I'm all right,” she murmured, and forced herself to roll over. “Just winded."

Michael's face was dark with dust, and there were smears of blood near his temple, as if he'd dragged bloody fingers through his hair. “Are you sure?"

She wiggled her fingers and moved her feet. “I'm fine. Really."

The relief and love evident in his gaze made her heart do its usual happy dance.

"I was in the mines and felt your pain.” He paused and frowned. “Odd, really."

She smiled and touched a hand to his cheek. “Not as odd as you might think. Did you find anything?"

"Another circle. I destroyed it, though the pentagram is still viable.” He glanced up at the roof of the whorehouse. Orange flames were now visible through the rapidly retreating fog. “Looks like the one up there is in the process of being destroyed, though."

She nodded and grabbed his leg, using it to help her sit up. He winced, and as she pulled her hand away, she saw the blood. “What the hell...?"

He shrugged. “Dunleavy wasn't about to let me take one of his sacrifices without a fight. He had three wolves protecting the stones. I used one of their bodies to displace the rocks."

"Since your jeans are soaked with blood, you definitely need that wound treated."

He gave her a gentle smile. “Blood is easy enough for me to replace. The man I rescued needs treatment first.” He paused, looking past her. “Who is that?"

She twisted around. The man she'd knocked off the roof was lying on his back not far away. “Dunleavy left him as a guard on the roof. He okay?"

"He breathes. His heart beats."

She glanced at Michael. “Can you touch his thoughts."

He frowned. Energy buzzed around them, a sharper heat than that coming from the flames above them. “I should be able to, but it feels like I'm fighting my way through molasses."

Because of the runes. At least she'd be able to tackle them again—given he was covered in dirt, he was definitely taking a bath. “Where's the man you rescued?"

In answer, he rose and offered her a hand. She placed her fingers in his, her skin trembling at the sheer warmth of his touch. He pulled her to her feet, but didn't move immediately, instead touching her bruised chin with his free hand.

"I know you,” he said softly. “Love you."

Elation winged through her soul. The wall around his memories was breaking down—and though she wished it would happen a little faster, at least it was happening.

"And I you,” she whispered, then added through the link, but when you remember my name, do not utter it out loud.

Why?

Again, despite the spell, he didn't seem to think it strange for them to be connecting this way—even though he'd tried to use telepathy moments ago and couldn't. But maybe that was because Dunleavy didn't actually know about the deeper connection between them. He'd blocked Michael's memories and, therefore, his path to the link, but as the memories seeped back, so did his access to the mind link.

Because Dunleavy thinks I am someone I'm not.

Seline.

Yes.

I knew that name didn't suit you. He brushed a kiss across her lips, and then he gently squeezed the hand he held before stepping away. “We need to take care of Dunleavy's victim. I think he's in shock."

As he would be, since he'd basically been left to bleed to death. “We'd better move the other man first. Wouldn't want the building falling on him."

Michael raised an eyebrow. “You save him, and you're just saving another weapon Dunleavy can use against us."

"He's not helping willingly, and I'm not leaving him here to die."

Michael didn't look too enthusiastic about the task, but he hobbled over to the stranger and hauled him to an old water trough, dumping him inside. “The concrete will protect him from the heat,” he commented. “That good enough?"

She nodded and glanced up as something exploded on the roof. Sparks flew high, blue and black shards that glittered like diamonds against the bright flames. The candles, perhaps. Black smoke curled upwards, oddly reminding her of the slug creature as it worked its way through the rapidly disappearing mist.

A chill ran through her. Was that thing still in the building? While she damn well hoped so, she very much suspected it wouldn't be so easy to kill.

She turned her back on the burning building and wondered why no one was coming to douse the flames. Even Dunleavy couldn't want the outside interest such a fire might evoke.

"We're very remote,” Michael said, his gaze skating across the building before meeting hers again. “And there's no one inside, other than the already dead."

"No strange slug creature?"

"No, unfortunately.” He turned and limped across to the next building. A naked man was sprawled near the front of the building, his body bruised and bloody, his breathing rapid but shallow. Shock for sure.

"We'd better get him inside and get him warm,” she commented.

Michael nodded, and with a grunt of effort, hauled the stranger up onto his shoulder. The surge of fresh blood down his thigh made her worry. The wound was worse than he'd led her to believe, though that was something she should be well used to. Even with his memory short-circuited, he was still playing the same old games and not telling her everything. She couldn't help the smile that teased her lips as she followed him down the street. Obviously, that was something that was never going to change.

Once they'd reached the house, they cleaned up the injured man's wounds and made him as comfortable as possible in the second bedroom. She found several extra blankets, shoving one under his feet to elevate them a little, and throwing the other over him to keep him warm.

"We're going to have to restrain him,” Michael commented, coming into the room with rope.

"We can't. He's injured."

"He's also a threat. Dunleavy could take his mind at any moment, and while you might believe the fiend has no intention of killing us before tomorrow, I'm not so sure."

Her gaze skated down to his blood-soaked thigh, and she knew he was right. They couldn't risk serious injury. She took a rope, tying one of the stranger's arms to the bed while Michael tied the other.

"Now, your turn,” she said, as she straightened.

Amusement flirted with his lips. “Woman, if you want your wicked way with me, all you have to do is ask. You don't need to tie me down."

She grinned. “Sometimes I wonder. Get into the bathroom and clean yourself up, while I go find something to bind up that wound of yours."

"The wound will heal—"

"A lot damn faster if it's treated. Stop arguing and just go."

"Is this tendency to nag a new trait, or something I know about and put up with?” he muttered as he turned away.

She grinned as she followed him out the door. “Oh, it's something you know about.” And it was a two-way street. He could nag her just as much as she nagged him.

She headed into the main room. A search through the cupboards uncovered a small medical kit. Inside were bandages and salve. She took both and walked into the bathroom.

He was standing naked in front of the basin, washing himself down with a cloth. She hesitated in the doorway, her gaze skating down the lean, familiar length of him. Even after all the months they'd been together, it seemed she could never get enough of simply looking at him. She loved watching the play of muscles under his pale skin as he moved. Loved running her hands all over him, feeling the restrained power beneath the gentleness of his caress...

Her gaze hit his thigh. The flesh was hanging in bloody chunks, and the wound bled freely, staining the back of his leg and pooling near his heel.

"Damn it, Michael, why didn't you bandage that wound right away?"

He raised an eyebrow as he looked over his shoulder. “Because I'm a vampire, and the wound will not kill me."

"But loss of blood can weaken you, and you're losing buckets of the stuff.” She knelt behind him and raised a hand. “Give me that cloth."

He did. She washed down the wound, then liberally applied the salve and bandaged it the best she could. After washing away the blood staining the back of his leg, she dropped a kiss on his butt, and rose before she was tempted to do anything else.

"You should go eat.” Her gaze met his, and her heart crashed through her chest at the desire and the love she saw blazing there.

"Yes,” he agreed softly, taking the cloth from her hand and dumping it in the sink behind him. “I should, shouldn't I?"

She placed a hand on his chest, even though all she really wanted to do was draw him close. “This is neither the time nor the place."

He caught her hand and pressed her back against the wall. “This from the woman who insisted on making love on a San Francisco bench while the rest of the world woke around us."

A smile teased her lips. “So you remember that?"

"I'm remembering lots of things. Like how much I enjoy making love to you in the afternoon."

His hand slid under her shirt and around her waist, his fingers almost molten against her back as he pressed her closer to his warm, hard body. Then his lips came down on hers, and for the longest time, there was no more talk, simply enjoyment.

After a while, his touch moved down her spine. It was a caress that spread like a wave through every nerve ending, leaving her whole body tingling in anticipation. He undid her skirt's button and zipper, and it fell with a sigh, puddling at her feet.

He pulled back, his breath warm on her lips as his gaze burned into hers. “Let's make love. Here. Now."

His words were little more than a husky growl that made her tremble with desire. But it was the desire burning bright in his dark eyes—a desire that was not only sexual, but blood need—that worried her. He was controlling the need to taste her blood, but only just.

"Michael—"

He gave her no time to finish, his mouth closing on hers again. Her protests died, squashed by the force of his kiss. By the passion behind it.

With a husky groan, he pulled back again and ripped open her shirt, the buttons pinging across the bathroom floor as he pushed the material off her shoulders. His fingers were a flame that skimmed her back as he dropped the shirt beside the skirt. Then with a slowness that denied the urgency thrumming through the link, he skimmed his hand up her stomach and began circling one breast with a finger. His gaze held hers, leaving her drowning in the dark pool of his desire as his caress gradually worked inwards, reaching, but not quite touching, the aching, sensitive center of her breast.

Perspiration skated her skin. His whisper-soft stroking moved to her other breast, and by the time he'd finished circling to the center, she was close to screaming with frustration.

His mouth claimed hers again, urgently, passionately. His hands skimmed her waist, catching the sides of her panties, thrusting them down. Then he stroked her, teased her, until the shudders of pleasure became almost too much to bare. At that moment, he lifted her, claiming her in the most basic way possible.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, holding him close as he thrust and surged inside her. Her body quivered with the sensations tumbling through her, her thighs clenching him tight as the pressure built and built, until she felt so tightly strung that everything would surely break. Then everything did break, and she was unraveling, groaning, with the intensity of the orgasm flowing through her.

His kiss became as fierce as his body, then his mouth left hers, and his teeth grazed her neck. She jerked away before he could pierce her skin. He groaned, his need for her blood so fierce it burned down the link between them. She caught his face between her hands, pulling him away from her neck, kissing him. The sharpness of his canines grazed her tongue, warning her that the danger was not over yet. Yet it was a danger that oddly heightened her desire, revived her need for him. She knew it was as much the glamour of vampire in need of blood as the desire that still surged between them.

No blood, she warned forcefully.

He groaned, his kiss becoming almost savage. She thrust the link wide open, and their minds joined with a fierceness that was far greater than anything they'd reached physically. It was mind, body and soul. For one glorious moment, they were one person, one entity. One heart. One soul. And nothing, not even blood lust, stood a chance against that oneness.

Together, they fell screaming over the edge, plunging into a sea of bliss more powerful than anything she'd experienced before.

When she remembered how to breathe again, she rested her forehead against his, and said, “Wow."

"Indeed.” He kissed her forehead and lowered her to the ground. Hunger still burned through the link, and she looked up quickly. Heat still burned in his eyes, and his body trembled as he fought the urge to slake his hunger.

"You were right. I should have fed first.” He brushed a hand across her cheek, stepped away and bent to pick up his clothes. “We were extremely lucky hunger and the magic didn't get the better of me."

"I think self control had more to do with it than luck."

"Maybe. But I won't be so foolish next time."

Next time, hopefully, they'd be free of Dunleavy's magic, and there wouldn't be a need to be careful. “Watch yourself out there. Dunleavy's going to be a little pissed about us destroying another of his pentagrams."

He nodded and zipped up his pants. “I want you to walk around the house and make sure all the windows and doors are locked."

She raised an eyebrow. “Why? Dunleavy's a vampire. He can't come into a house unless invited."

"Maybe. But we don't yet know what, exactly, Kinnard is, and I'd rather he didn't know you're here alone."

"He's going to know that if he sees you outside."

"I'll blur, so he won't even see me."

She had a suspicion Kinnard knew exactly what they were up to, no matter what they were doing. She flicked a knife down into her palm then flipped it, handing it to him hilt first. “Take this with you. It's silver, so no matter what Kinnard is, it'll affect him."

"I do not need a weapon to take care of a worm like Kinnard."

"That worm is too cagey to let you get anywhere near him. At least you might be able to throw the knife and nick him."

He stared at her a second longer, then took the knife and put it through his belt at the back of his jeans. “I won't be long. You be careful."

"Always am."

"Yeah, right,” he said dryly and headed for the front door.

Nikki locked it after he left. Then she gathered her clothes and walked into the bedroom to get another shirt. After dressing, she checked all the windows, making sure they were locked and shuttered. Not that she thought it would help. She had a suspicion if Kinnard wanted to get in here, he could. It was a certainty that the slug thing would be able to.

Goose bumps ran across her skin, and she rubbed her arms. What was that thing? She didn't know, but she knew someone who would. Camille. She bit her lip, wondering if she dare risk calling the old witch. But what would it gain her, other than a bit more knowledge? Was it worth the price of someone's life?

The answer was definitely no. As much as she hated working blind, that's exactly what they had to keep doing.

She blew out a breath and headed into the main room. Michael wasn't the only one who needed to eat to keep up his strength. It was way past time she ate something, too. And way, way, past time she got some caffeine into her system.

Because she had a feeling she was going to need every ounce of energy she had access to over the next twenty four hours.

Michael had almost finished taking his fill from a sweet brown mare when he realized he was no longer alone in the stables. He retracted his teeth, licking the last droplets of blood from the brown's neck to help heal the wound, then gave her a reassuring pat and stepped to the stall door.

Kinnard leaned against the opposite stall, a malicious gleam in his gray eyes. “Human blood is far sweeter, vampire. Have you not sampled your witch's blood yet?"

Energy stirred around him, and the need to taste her blood began to course through his system. But he'd resisted it while in the throes of passion, and its flame was nowhere near as strong now. The question was why did Kinnard and his master want him to taste her so badly? Given the depth of the need they were trying to force into his mind, he'd surely kill her.

Was that what they wanted? For him to kill her?

It couldn't be, though, not if the witch was right and they needed her alive for the ceremony.

"Animal blood has certain advantages over human. Not that a worm like you would ever know the difference.” He switched to his vampire vision and studied the haze of life coursing through Kinnard's gnarled body. He'd been right earlier—Kinnard and the slug had very similar energy patterns. He reached back for the knife in his belt, holding the hilt in his fist. The blade resting against his wrist and arm, concealed from Kinnard's prying gaze. “What are you doing here, Kinnard?"

"I came with a warning, vampire. If you or the witch destroy any more pentagrams, the people remaining alive in this town will die."

He raised an eyebrow. “You kill those people, and you take away your boss's source of power for the circle protecting this town."

Kinnard hawked and spat. “Doesn't much matter now, because the new moon is less than a day away. He has enough power to ensure the strength of the circle until then."

The truth? Or a lie Kinnard and his master were desperate for them to believe? “Where is Dunleavy?"

Kinnard's smile was mocking. “You've seen him more than a dozen times already, vampire."

"So the witch was right. He's a shapeshifter?"

"A shifter with several forms. He might even be the man you think you've tied so securely in that house of yours."

Energy caressed the air again as Kinnard spoke. Michael rolled his shoulders, trying to shake the sensation. The man tied to the bed wasn't a vampire. Wasn't Dunleavy, as much as Kinnard and the magic wanted him to believe otherwise.

"Does anything resembling truth ever come out of your mouth?” he asked.

Kinnard's mocking smile grew. “More often than you think, vampire."

"Right now, what I'm thinking is that we'd be better off with you dead."

Kinnard snorted. “As fast as you think you are, you're no match—"

Michael didn't give him the time to finish. He threw the knife as hard and as fast as he could. Kinnard squawked and blurred, moving with vampire speed. He was fast all right, but not quite fast enough, because the blade bit into his shoulder rather than his heart. Almost instantly, blue fire began to lick from the wound, stealing across his skin as the sharp smell of burning flesh stung the air. Kinnard's scream was high and inhuman. Energy lashed the air, flaying Michael's skin, burning across his back and shoulders. He ignored it and launched at Kinnard, intending to finish what the knife had started. Kinnard's eyes widened, and he threw out a hand, as if that alone would stop the impetus of Michael's leap. White light flashed, temporarily blinding.

Then it was gone. And so was Kinnard.

Michael hit the ground and rolled to feet, looking around. The bloody knife was sitting on the straw at his feet, but Kinnard himself seemed to have disappeared into thin air. Yet the smell of burned flesh and the scent of fresh blood still stung the air, indicating the old man was still close. He picked up the knife, then swept his gaze around the rafters and saw the faint haze of life in the far corner.

"You'll pay for that, vampire,” Kinnard spat. His voice was harsh, cold and somehow younger. “Or your witch will. I shall feast on her body, and then I shall take her life, sending her soul to hell in exchange for my brother's."

"Over my dead body."

"Oh, that's part of the plan, never fear.” Kinnard's voice was fading away, the haze of his life shifting, mutating. “Enjoy her while you can, vampire, because at midnight, she will be mine."

Kinnard's energy squeezed through the cracks in the stable's wooden roof. Michael ran for the door, but by the time he had it open and got outside, Kinnard was gone. And no amount of searching could find him.

Michael swore and punched the nearby wall. The old wood splintered, sending several slivers into his skin. His flesh immediately began to burn, and he cursed his own stupidity. After more than three hundred years of existence, he should know better than to hit wood ... he stopped. Three hundred?

Energy danced across his skin, and the questions crowding his mind faded. But they didn't completely disappear, and he knew, without doubt, that the runes that appeared to be no more than scars on his back were at the center of his memory loss. It was time to get them removed—as much as that same magic might try and prevent it.

He tore out the splinters and shook his hand to free it of the burning. Another thing he was certain of was the fact Kinnard was not getting hold of the witch. If he had to drag her out of this town kicking and screaming, then he damn well would.

And why did that thought seem oddly familiar?

He frowned, but he knew his memory wasn't going to get any clearer until he did something about the runes. And for that, he needed the witch's help.

He made his way back down the street. The old whorehouse had almost burned to the ground, but no one seemed worried about it. He scanned the nearby buildings, noting the stir of life in several of them. The whores were still plying their trade with the few miners who were awake, yet the beat of life pounding through their veins spoke of stress rather than pleasure.

He reached out with his thoughts, trying to touch their minds. Again, it felt as if he were trying to reach past a thick wall of molasses. This time though, he touched enough surface thoughts to realize he wasn't the only one being controlled. Those women weren't whores. Kinnard had snatched them from the street and brought them here to play that part.

And there wasn't a damn thing he could do to stop it. Not when his psi abilities were being so illusive. He cursed softly, turned away and walked back to the witch's house.

She was in the small kitchen area and glanced around as he entered, but her welcoming smile quickly faded. “What's wrong?"

He placed the bloody knife on the table and continued toward her. “Kinnard was waiting for me in the stables."

Her gaze skated down his body then rose again. “You're okay?"

"Yes. He merely came to give me a warning.” He stopped in front of her, cupping her cheek with a hand. “You have to leave."

She rolled her eyes. “Please, we've been through this a hundred times before."

"I don't give a damn if we have. Kinnard intends to come for you at midnight, and I'm not going to risk him getting past me.” He brushed his thumb across her lips and gave her a crooked smile. “I may not be able to remember your name, but I know I could not live without you."

"Nor I you.” She leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on his lips. She tasted of honey and butter and all the good things in life he'd longed for since his turning, and he had finally found them.

"But I can't—"

"You can, and you will."

"Michael—"

"No. If what you say about the ceremony is true, then by simply leaving, you destroy Dunleavy's plans."

"If I leave, he will begin killing off Circle members."

Dread clenched his gut, even though he wasn't entirely sure why. “What?"

She blew out a breath, puffing the blond-brown strands of fringe away from her forehead. “You and I are members of an organization known as The Damask Circle. Dunleavy has gotten hold of a list of our people. If I leave before the ceremony, he'll start killing the people at the top of that list and work his way down."

It was on the tip of his tongue to say he didn't give a damn about the list or the people on it, but he just couldn't force the words out. Because he did give a damn, even if he couldn't remember why.

"So he holds all the aces."

She shrugged. “He thinks he does. Me, I think we're in pretty damn good shape.” She hesitated, her gaze dropping to his thigh. “Well, I am, anyway."

He smiled and wrapped a hand around her waist, pulling her close. Her body was warm and familiar, the rapid beat of her pulse a siren's song that called to the man in him rather than the vampire. With her breasts pressed so snugly against his chest, he couldn't help being aware of her arousal, just as she was no doubt aware of his. He wished they were home—wherever home might be. Wished he had the time to give in to passion's flame and love her as thoroughly as she deserved.

But that wasn't an option right now. Not when there were a couple of madmen running around...

Or were there?

He remembered what she'd said earlier, remembered what Kinnard had just said, and frowned. “Have you seen Dunleavy at all?"

Her sigh was a sound of frustration. She stepped from his embrace and reached for the still steaming cup on the kitchen bench. “Once,” she said, “Just after he'd kidnapped you."

"But not since then?"

She shook her head and leaned her hip against the bench. The sunlight streaming in through the window behind her lent warm highlights to her hair, and in that moment he realized her natural color was brown rather than the blonde he kept seeing.

"Why?” she asked.

He crossed his arms. “Because I think it's odd we haven't seen him at all."

"I thought we'd decided that all this magic happening around us had him drained and basically immobilized?"

"We did. But what if that's what we were supposed to believe?"

She sipped her coffee and said, “Even if that were true, how come we haven't seen him?"

"Maybe we have. Maybe we just haven't realized it."

"You're the one who said you'd be able to see Dunleavy if he was around. Are you telling me now that's not true?"

"No. I said if Dunleavy was here, I should be able to see him, because you cannot hide the basic energy readout of a vampire."

"And Dunleavy is definitely a vampire, so why haven't you spotted him?"

"Didn't you say Dunleavy was also a shifter?"

"And a sorcerer. So?"

"So, what if he's a type of shifter we've never seen before? His energy pattern wouldn't be the same as most vampires, because most vampires come from human stock rather than nonhuman races, such as shifters."

"But even if that is the case, wouldn't you have noticed the difference? There's only us, those people down in the town, and Kinnard here.” She shuddered. “And whatever Kinnard is, he's definitely not human."

"No. He's that slug thing we saw taking advantage of the woman."

Blood drained from her face. She took a quick drink of her coffee, but it didn't bring the color back to her cheeks. “I knew he was a slime bucket, but I didn't suspect—” Another tremor ran through her. “Yuck."

"Indeed. But I'm beginning to suspect he's a whole lot more than just a nasty little creature."

"Meaning?"

"When I was talking to Kinnard in the stable, he said and did some things that got me thinking."

She took another sip of her coffee, then said, “Like what?"

"He said we'd seen Dunleavy more than a dozen times already. He also said that Dunleavy was a shifter with several forms."

"I told you that yesterday."

"You told me he could be a shifter like his brother, able to take the shape of anyone he has consumed. What I'm saying is that I think Dunleavy is restricted to two other forms."

"Kinnard's obviously said something else to make you think that."

"It isn't so much what he said, but what he did."

"And that was?"

"I threw the knife at him and got him in the shoulder. Blue fire erupted across his body."

She nodded. “That's consistent with silver being used against a shifter."

"Yes, but when I attacked him, he used magic to escape."

She stared at him for a moment, and then her eyes widened as what he was implying hit her.

"Yes,” he confirmed softly. “I think the man we know as Kinnard is actually Dunleavy himself."