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His gaze swept across the crowd. The blonde wasn't here yet. Maybe she'd been taken to one of the other hotels, or even down to the whorehouse at the end of Main Street. There'd been four extra women brought in over the last few days, and they'd been hustled into the bars and into work pretty quickly—mainly because there were far more men than women in this town. Even the whorehouse was finding it hard keeping up with demand.
A miner reeking of sweat and alcohol stumbled towards him. Michael did a quick sidestep, but the fool still managed to hit his shoulder, sending pain washing through his body in sickening waves. For some reason, the bullet wound was slow to heal. Why, he had no idea. He'd been shot often enough in the past, and the wounds had healed within a day or so. But four days after receiving it, this wound still festered.
Not that he could even remember getting shot in the first place. Frowning, he thrust the drunk away, cannoning him into the backs of three other men. The miner recovered quickly and swung around, fists flying. Michael snorted contemptuously, ducking the first blow and catching the second in his fist.
Wrapping his fingers around the other man's grubby hand, he squeezed tightly. Bone cracked. The other man screamed and dropped to his knees. Michael's gaze went to the men gathering behind the screaming drunk. “Do not even try it,” he warned coldly.
They swallowed, backing away, their sudden fear evident in the rapid rise of their heartbeats. The darkness in him rose, needing to taste the sweet life that coursed through the veins of these men. He clenched his free hand, fighting the desire to feed, wondering why the darkness was so strong now when he'd spent years successfully ignoring it.
He tossed the miner away from him and strode from the hotel. Though he needed to feed, he hesitated on the edge of the wooden sidewalk, his gaze going to the old house two buildings back from the whorehouse. He switched to the infrared of his vampire vision and saw that the blonde was alone in the backroom. Relief slithered through him, followed quickly by surprise. He'd never been into blondes, and he certainly wanted nothing to do with any of the women who made this hellhole their home. And yet... This blonde had caught his interest, but it wasn't so much her looks—which were certainly stunning—but something else, something he couldn't really define. He'd felt her coming long before he'd seen her, and the awareness that surged when his gaze met hers had nearly burned his senses. The reaction in his body has been just as intense, almost suggesting familiarity with her curvaceous body. Impossible, of course. He'd been with Christine for ten years, and there'd been no one else in that time. Memories rose like guilty phantoms, and suddenly he was kneeling in the Chicago Street yet again, with Christine in his arms, her life leaving as fast as the blood that pulsed from the bullet wound in her chest. Reliving the moment as she lay there, gasping for breath as she touched his cheek and declared her love—a love he'd never been able to return, despite all his caring. He closed his eyes, forcing the images away yet again, but not denying the anger that surged through his veins. He would find Dunleavy and he would kill him. Maybe then Christine's ghost would finally rest in peace. He turned away, walking toward the nearest stable. He had a killer to hunt down. Dallying with a whore, however winsome he might find her, could play no part in his mission. He slid open the barn door. The scent of hay, horse and dung drifted out to greet him, and in the semidarkness beyond, eyes gleamed as horses shifted nervously. They could sense what he was. Most animals could. He smiled grimly. Humans could certainly learn a thing or two from the beasts they used and abused.
He walked down to the end stall and unlatched the door. The brown mare snorted warily, tossing her head. He spoke soft words of encouragement, hypnotizing her with his voice as much as with his gaze. When she was still, he sank his teeth into the soft flesh under her neck and took his fill from her. He'd barely finished when he heard the footstep. He wrapped the shadows around himself, stepping into the corner of the stall. For several seconds, there was no sound beyond the tremulous beat of a heart and the restless stirring of the other horses.
Yet without even looking, he knew who it was. The blonde. And the amazing awareness that seemed to surge between them was even stronger this close, surging through his veins like life itself.
"Michael?"
Her voice came out of the dusky shadows that hovered the near main entrance, her tone soft, warm, and somehow familiar. Heat chased the awareness through his veins, and suddenly he wanted this woman with a fierceness that had him shaking. Why? What was it about her that had him responding so intensely?
Or was it nothing more than some sort of magic? Dunleavy was a sorcerer. Michael had found that out the hard way—and still bore the healing scars down his back. Maybe his reaction to this woman had nothing to do with desire, and everything to do with some sort of trick.
"I know you're here, Michael. We need to talk."
She hadn't moved. Though he could taste her tension, hear the rapid beat of her heart, he couldn't feel fear. Which was strange, because if she knew his name, she probably knew what he was. He flicked the curtain of darkness away from himself and exited the stall. Her eyes widened slightly, and as her gaze raked him, then came to a halt on his shoulder, he'd swear he saw the brief sheen of tears in her glorious green eyes.
As if she knew he had a wound under his shirt.
After relocking the stall door, he took several steps towards her, then stopped. This close, her eyes weren't really green but a strange green-brown, as if the green was backlit by a light that was warm amber. Right now, those strange-colored eyes were filled with such promises that the ache in his groin became even more painful.
He crossed his arms, resisting the pull he felt towards her as he watched the warmth flush across her exotic cheeks. Her full lips pursed, then opened slightly, as if she couldn't drag in enough air. Perhaps the intense attraction went both ways.
He let his gaze slide down. Her breasts were voluptuous, their peaks hardening through the tightly-buttoned checked shirt even as he watched. Her skirt was brown, and though it swirled lightly around her feet, it was slit up the sides to her knees and would undoubtedly reveal tantalizing flashes of leg when she moved. He ached to explore what was still hidden, to slide his hand up the silky flesh of her thighs and discover paradise...
"What do you want?” His voice came out harsh, roughened as much by need as anger at his own reaction. Good lord, he wasn't so starved for sex that he'd take his ease on a whore. He hadn't been that desperate for a long, long time.
She studied him for a moment, and then licked her lips. Like a lamb caught in the stare of a wolf, he watched, as if hypnotized.
And that only succeeded in making him angrier. There had to be magic involved. What else could account for such a strong and instant attraction?
"We need to talk,” she repeated eventually.
"So you said. About what?"
His voice was still harsh, but if she sensed his anger, she wasn't showing any fear. Either she was as stupid as a mule, or she was more capable of looking after herself than she appeared. Or, as he'd originally thought, she was protected by some form of magic. He could probably discover the truth if he stepped closer, but instinct suggested he shouldn't. He didn't know why, but for the moment, he was following instinct.
"I know why you're here in Hartwell,” she said softly.
"Do you now?"
She shifted, affording him a glimpse of lightly tanned leg and thick boots. Not the shoe of choice for a whore, normally. “You're here to hunt down and kill a man by the name of Dunleavy." He continued to glare at her. She shifted again, yet still there was no sign of fear in her mannerisms—no tremor in her voice, no avoidance of his eyes, no fluttering, nervous movements. Maybe the little fool didn't even realize he could snap her neck in the blink of an eye.
"What makes you think that?” he asked.
"Because I'm hunting him, too."
He couldn't stop the laugh that escaped. “You? Hunting a man like Dunleavy? Sweetheart, he'd eat you up in half a second."
Her eyes darkened imperceptibly at the endearment. “No, he won't. Nor will you."
