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"I should have been in San Francisco to meet Patrick, but tracking down Dunleavy took time, and I was in Hartwood longer than I expected."
"So he landed in San Francisco and met Jasper."
"No, Jasper's twin. From what I could gather, the two became lovers." She raised her eyebrows. “I thought a vampire couldn't survive on another vampire's blood?"
"They can't, but that doesn't stop them from having sex." Well, no, she thought, feeling dumb for even asking such a question. “How long were they lovers?"
"Not long. There were only a few days between Patrick's arrival in the golden city and mine. He'd only been dead a few hours when I found him."
"So how did you know it was Jasper's brother who killed him?"
"Because Jasper and his brother were little more than fledglings, and neither were exactly careful about the clues they left behind with their victims."
Yet Jasper had been canny enough to survive the fledgling stage, and clever enough, after Patrick's death, to taunt Michael with the death of more friends down through the years. “So why did your brother take up with someone like that?"
Michael shrugged. “He was a knight at heart. He liked trying to save people." Yet even the gentlest of knights could not save someone with hearts as black as Jasper's and his brother's. “Even if you'd arrived on time, you don't know that Patrick wouldn't have met the same death. One thing I learned from my years on the streets was the fact that fate cannot often be sidestepped."
"I know that. Accepting it is a different matter."
"Patrick made his own choices. You can't be held accountable for that."
"No.” He took a breath, kissed her forehead and turned around. She continued scrubbing his back. The black lines were fading, but the buzz of energy was just as strong, and the welts rippled across his skin in a red wave.
"So,” she said, suspecting she'd better keep him talking, keep him distracted from the magic striking him.
“How are we going to kill Kinnard—Dunleavy—when he can protect himself with magic?"
"I don't know. Magic is not my field of expertise.” His gaze met hers in the mirror. “And as much as I want you to leave, I have to say that this is one case where I think I need help." "Well, you've got mine, whether you want it or not. Even if Dunleavy wasn't threatening to kill all and sundry, I wouldn't leave you here to fight him alone."
His amusement ran through the link. I seem to remember hearing words to that effect before. Once or twice, she replied with a grin. Aloud, she added, “Dunleavy warned us against destroying any more pentagrams. What if he meant just the ones he's using to feed energy to the circle protecting this town? What if we destroyed the one he intends to use for the sacrifice?"
"Would it achieve anything?"
"Well, it might delay the ceremony for a while.” And even a few minutes could make a difference between finding and not finding Dunleavy.
"He'll have it protected."
"Then we take the protection out, too."
Michael nodded. “And then begin the hunt for Dunleavy himself." It was a plan. Not much of a plan, but better than nothing.
He twisted around, grabbed the cloth from her hands and tossed it into the sink. “Let's get moving." She didn't argue, just turned around and walked into the bedroom to grab her coat. The day was rapidly cooling, and the mines would probably feel like an ice chest tonight. She checked their hostage, happy to see he was breathing easier, then walked into the main room.
Michael was at the sink, washing the blood from her knife. He flipped it and handed it to her hilt first.
"The pentagram he'll be using in the ceremony will no doubt be protected by a larger circle of stone than the ones he has around his sacrifice pentagrams,” she said, slipping the knife back into its sheath, “I doubt whether my knives will be strong enough to move large rocks." He nodded and bent, searching through the cupboards underneath the sink. “You do realize he can perform the ceremony without the benefit of a pentagram. All it really does is protect him and his victim from attacks from unwanted spiritual sources."
"But he's trying to raise his brother's spirit. If he tries it without the pentagram, he risks bringing something far worse into being."
"There is nothing worse that Emmett Dunleavy,” Michael said grimly. “You ready?" She wanted to say no, if only because she had no desire to scramble around mine shafts again. But she didn't have any choice. So she nodded and headed for the door.
The day had definitely gotten colder. The thick gray clouds crowding the sky were now accompanied by a fierce wind that held the bite of winter. She shivered and hastily buttoned her coat. He pressed a hand into her back, guiding her towards the mine entrance near other ranger's house, but they'd barely taken three steps when a scream ripped through the air. She stopped, her heart in her mouth and a chill racing across her skin as she stared towards the town. It had been a sound of sheer terror, and one she'd heard before—yesterday, when the mutilated body had been discovered in the whorehouse.
She swallowed, though it didn't ease the sudden dryness in her throat, and glanced up at Michael. His expression was grim, but he didn't say anything, just grabbed her hand and pulled her into a run. The screaming went on and on. But as they entered Main Street, it stopped. In many ways, the ensuing silence was far worse.
Michael glanced at her. “It's The Hollis Hotel."
It would be. That's where the women who'd been living in the whorehouse had been sent. They climbed the steps and walked through the double, half-glass doors. The interior of the hotel was small, dark and smoky. Men sat in the shadows, visible only through the sudden glow coming from the tips of their cigars as they sucked deep. Others leaned against the small bar, nursing drinks that looked as unsavory as the men themselves. The air was thick with the scent of unwashed flesh, beer and urine, the three combining to make a stomach-churning stench. None of the men seemed inclined to investigate the screams, nor did they seem to think the sudden silence or Michael's and Nikki's entrance worthy of notice. Michael pulled her past the bar. Her gaze collided with the barman's as he dried a glass with a tea towel as grubby as the floor, and she noted the curious blankness in his eyes. On one level his mind was obviously working—he was cleaning the glass, pouring beers when they were needed. But she doubted he'd be capable of anything more than that. Dunleavy obviously hadn't allowed it. They climbed a rickety set of stairs. At the end of the short hall sat a woman. She was hugging her knees close to her chest and resting her face on her knees, her dark hair spilling like a curtain around her exposed legs. Though she was no longer screaming, her whole body shook. Shock, or fear, or a combination of both.
