Something, or someone, was here with her.
And suddenly she remembered what else Seline had said about that first night in Hartwell. Two men had attacked her, one human, one not.
Two men waited for her in the darkness ahead.
One was human. One wasn't.
Michael had rescued Seline that first time, but Michael couldn't rescue her here, because he couldn't cross the threshold uninvited.
She took a step back, and all hell broke loose.
Chapter Nine
Michael squatted to study the footprints in the sandy soil. These prints were far heavier than those leading up to this point, which indicated someone had obviously stopped here for some time. He swept his gaze around the surrounding darkness. This was roughly where he'd seen Kinnard, so the question was what had Kinnard been watching?
Or, perhaps, waiting for?
He couldn't have been spying on them—the pump house was in the way, and he wouldn't have seen them until they'd come around it.
So why stop here? There was nothing else here but the old reservoir and lots of weeds. He rose, scanning the ground for more prints. Kinnard had disappeared very shortly after Michael had spotted him, but he couldn't have disappeared without leaving some trace. Even vampires, who could move with the speed of the wind, left footprints.
But there was nothing. It was as if Kinnard had disappeared into thin air. Maybe he was a shape changer. The glow of his body's energy hadn't suggested any type of shape changer Michael had ever come across, but he knew better than to think that, even in all his years of existence, he'd come across every type of shifter there was.
Frowning, he followed the fall of the ground away from the pond. The weeds were still relatively thick here, providing ample protection for a rat like Kinnard. He pulled free a thick, long handful, holding them by the roots as he walked on.
The ground around him rose, until he was walking into a small valley. Hartwell had disappeared from sight, and the darkness here was deeper, though the sounds of drunken singing carried easily on the still night air. It was amazing anyone in that town was still in a fit enough state to look at a whore, let alone carouse with them.
He switched his sight to infrared, scanning the ground as he walked. After a few minutes, he saw a scuff in the soil that looked like half the heel of a boot. A few more steps and he saw two deep prints. Kinnard had not only stopped here, but if the odd impressions just in front of the boot prints were any indication, he'd knelt down.
He stopped, sweeping his gaze across the ground directly in front of him. Something was here; he was certain of it.
A crack in the dirt caught his attention. It was too straight, too perfect, to be caused by weather or the natural drying of soil.
He squatted beside the crack and ran his fingers across the dirt. Soil shifted beneath his fingertips, revealing a hardness underneath. Wood. He ran his fingers along the crack until he found a junction of two corners, then he retraced the crack until he found a similar junction on the other side. A trap door, here in the desert. It had probably once been the entrance into a mine, but now, it was obviously a rat hole.
He glanced skyward. The night was far from over, and he wasn't foolish enough to confront Dunleavy on his own ground. He'd wait until dawn, when the sunlight drove Dunleavy into sleep. When it came to the likes of a fiend like Dunleavy, it didn't pay to play fair. He'd already tried that, and Christine had paid the price for his stupidity.
He followed his own steps back, using the long weeds to brush over his prints as he retreated. Hopefully, it would disguise the fact that he'd been here. Once back at the pond, he tossed the weeds into the murky water and watched them sink.
What now?
His gaze drifted to the warm lights to his left. And even as he fought the desire to go to the witch, pain hit, flaring down his thigh as sharply as the kiss of a knife. And he knew, without knowing how, that it was her pain he was feeling.
With a curse, he spun and raced toward her.
* * * *
Nikki backpedaled as the two men came at her. She had to get out of here, out of this house, get free of the threshold restriction so Michael...
Damn it, what the hell was she thinking? She wasn't helpless, had never been helpless, even without her gifts. And since joining the Circle, she'd been trained to defend herself, trained to fight. She didn't need Michael to protect her. She'd always been able to look after herself, one way or another, even before the training or his arrival in her life.
So why the hell was she suddenly running?
Or was it more a case of magic than instinct? Was there something in the barrier holding them captive that brought to life her worst fears? The very fears she'd thought long conquered?
It was a possibility she'd have to be wary of, but there was one thing she was certain of—Dunleavy couldn't kill her. He needed her alive for the ceremony. Therefore, she could fight with everything she had, while these two men would be restricted.
Or so she hoped.