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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 un life. 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.
