So, Dunleavy was intending to hide the evidence? Why would he bother when he had no intention of letting any of them out of here alive?
She crossed her arms and leaned against the wall. “When are you next on duty?"
"Tomorrow."
"What about the other rangers?"
"Also tomorrow."
"What time?"
"About noon.” He shrugged. “Ain't nothing going to happen before then." Did that mean Dunleavy didn't intend to kill anyone before then, or was the information another red herring?
"And is Jimmy the only missing ranger?"
"Yeah.” He frowned. “Haven't see Mike for a few days, though." Was Mike the man on the roof? Probably. She wondered how many other bodies they'd find in and around Hartwell before the new moon dawned. She rubbed her arms and glanced toward the stairs. Michael was taking a long damn time.
As if he'd heard the thought, he appeared at the top of the stairs. The barely glowing candles lining the stairwell threw yellow light across his features, even as it allowed the rest of his body to get lost in the darkness. His face was expressionless, as were his dark eyes, but his fury hit her with the force of a cyclone, almost flattening her against the wall.
"I need you to come up here—if you think you can handle it again.” His voice was as flat as his expression.
She pushed away from the wall and slowly walked up the stairs.
"What?” she said, when she'd reached the top.
He merely pointed her into the room. She took a deep breath, gathered her courage, and went inside. It was just as bad the second time. Worse perhaps, because all the white sheets only emphasized the utter mutilation that had occurred.
She stopped several paces inside the door, clenching her hands against the need to turn tail and run.
“What did you find?"
"Look at the window sill."
She closed her eyes. “I've seen what's sitting on the sill. I don't need to see it again." "Then do you remember what you said?"
What on earth was he going on about? “Of course I remem—" She stopped, suddenly realizing what he meant.
She'd told him the head had been the image of her.
But she wasn't wearing her own face.
She was wearing Seline's.
Chapter Eight
Michael grabbed the witch's arm and spun her around. Her face was pale, her odd-colored eyes slightly panicked. Part of him wanted to do nothing more than wrap his arms around her and offer the comfort she so obviously needed.
But he couldn't. Dunleavy had been treating him as a fool for some time now, and until he was sure who was friend and who was foe, he couldn't afford to trust anyone. Even a woman who got to him in ways he couldn't even begin to describe.
"What game are you playing? Or was it simply an attempt to gain my sympathy, and perhaps my trust?"
"I'm not playing anything.” Yet her gaze slid from his, confirming her lie.
"Then why did you make the statement that that woman is the image of you?" She licked her lips, but she still refused to meet his gaze. He tucked a finger beneath her chin, bringing her gaze back to his. Her eyes were big and round, the green almost consumed by warm amber. It was a far prettier color.
"Give me the truth."
"Not here,” she said softly. “Please, just trust me for a few minutes more." Almost against his will, he leaned forward and lightly kissed her lips. She tasted as sweet as the finest wine and, somehow, so very familiar. “You think I trusted you earlier?">"His twin brother was a shapeshifter who could take the shape of anyone he'd consumed. There's no reason why Dunleavy can't be a shapeshifter as well as a vampire, is there?"