An offering, not one of Dunleavy's sacrifice sites.
He moved forward more cautiously. The tunnel curved around to the right then widened out, becoming a junction with two other tunnels. There, in the middle, lay a man. In the infrared of his vision, the stranger's body was a mass of pulsing red—but the heat of his blood was dying, just as the man was dying. He was naked, his torso marked with purple patches that indicated he'd taken a beating sometime in the last few hours. His hands and feet were tied with what looked like fishing line, the silvery thread glowing as brightly as the blood congealing on the floor near the stranger's neck. Michael stopped beside him. The man's eyes were wide and staring, and the stark look of terror seemed frozen on his face. Odd, given he wasn't yet dead.
On his neck were bite marks. Dunleavy had obviously fed off him before he'd slashed the man's neck. But he'd avoided the jugular, so the rush of blood was slower, as was the dying. Like the woman they'd discovered hanging from the ceiling, there was nothing to be done to help this man. He'd lost far too much blood, and most of his organs had already begun to shut down. Michael squatted down and lightly touched the man's face. Narrowing his gaze, he reached out with his thoughts, trying to touch the stranger's mind. For a moment, it felt like he was trying to push through treacle. Energy danced around him, burning up his back and across his shoulders. He frowned, ignoring it, concentrating on reaching the man's thoughts. The sensation fled, and suddenly he was reliving the horror inflicted on the stranger.
Dunleavy had beaten him, defiled him. Then he'd frozen the man's thoughts and actions and fed off him. The bastard might like the fear, the horror, of violating his victims sexually, but when it came to feeding, he preferred them knowing and helpless.
Oddly enough, though the sense of violence was clear and fresh in the man's dying thoughts, there were no impressions of Dunleavy himself. Just sensations. Emotions. And memories of Kinnard dragging the man into this tunnel.
Michael closed the stranger's eyes and quickly snapped his neck, giving him the death that was inevitable. He rose and moved down to look at the man's feet. Like the victim on the roof of the whorehouse, the stranger had the imprint of lips burned into his soles. Something had fed while Dunleavy had defiled his victim.
Something he suspected might resemble a slug-like creature.
A creature whose energy was similar to Kinnard's.
Whether or not the two where one and the same, he couldn't really say, because there were some differences in the flow and resonance of body heat between the two. But that could very well come from the differences of form.
He'd never heard of, or met, a shifter who took the form of a large slug, but he'd hardly lived long enough to meet all the creatures on this Earth. But he'd known vampires who fed on emotions rather than blood, and they could die just as easily as regular vampires.
What killed Dunleavy would kill his sick little minion.
He rubbed a hand across his jaw as he looked toward the nearest tunnel. The air seemed fresher, indicating there might be some sort of opening close by. Maybe the same one Kinnard had used to drag the stranger here.
But he wasn't here to find an exit. He glanced at the other tunnel. The air there was thick and rich, full of the stench of earth, water and age. Underneath all that, the slightest taint of blood. That's where he had to go.
Again, power burned across his skin, and for a moment, his thoughts became confused. He should go right, find the exit...
He shook his head, and the pressure on his mind become more intense. He swore, fighting it, fists clenched against the urge to follow the orders pressing into his mind. He'd faced telepathic assaults before, and this was very similar. But during those other attacks, his own telepathy had been strong enough not only to repel but attack. This was far stronger than anything he'd faced before, and it had its base in magic rather than mind strength. There was no attacking, only surviving. The witch was right, which meant she was probably right about other things—like the runes on his back and the magic surrounding this town. Like him knowing her more intimately than what he believed. Just thinking about her appeared to clear the force hammering through his brain. Her warm, cinnamon scent seemed to spin around him, through him, and sunshine flowed through his mind, a radiance that was at once passionate and familiar, and one that filled him with strength. He didn't only know this woman. He loved her.
Yet he hadn't really loved anyone since he'd fallen for the woman who had turned him. He hadn't even loved Christine, despite the years they'd been together.
Or was that all another lie concocted by Dunleavy and his magic? He didn't know the truth from fiction any more, and that was the most frustrating thing of this whole damn mess. He swore softly, then spun around and stalked toward the dark tunnel. The air became foul, cold, the walls slick with moisture and slime. It was a good thing the witch wasn't with him. This place would remind her too much of the tunnels that had almost snatched her life... Damn it, why couldn't he remember her name? And why did it feel like she was as vital to his life as blood itself? He had to get rid of these runes, had to remember. Had to kill Dunleavy—not only as revenge for Christine, but for snatching away his memories of the amber-eyed witch.
Ahead, moisture dripped, and the metallic taint of blood became sharper. He slowed, tasting the air, listening to the distant beat of life.
Only there wasn't one heart pounding through the silence ahead, but four. Three of them were strong, one weaker. One a sacrifice, three guards, then. Michael smiled grimly. Dunleavy wasn't giving him much credit if he only had three guards. Either that, or he was extremely confident about the abilities of his guards.
Or perhaps it was as the witch said—Dunleavy didn't intend to kill them. Not yet, anyway. He walked forward more cautiously. There was no sound from up ahead, other than the steady beat of life. If those ahead breathed, he couldn't hear it.
The tunnel began to widen into another cavern. Ahead, light danced, spreading bright fingers across the slick black walls. Silhouetted against the flames was a wolf. The other two stood to the left and the right, lost to the darker shadows still haunting the edges of the cavern. Even with the benefit of infrared, he couldn't see them. They were obviously using as cover the boulders that lay scattered across the floor from a past landslide.
He stopped and cast away the shadows hiding his form. The wolves would know he was there by smell alone, so it didn't matter whether he was cloaked in night or not. The wolf near the flames growled a low note of warning. Michael ignored it, his gaze moving to the figure hanging from the ceiling. Unlike the first sacrifice, this one was a man, and he was currently free from the attentions of the slug creature. He was unconscious, but the beat of his heart was strong, even if it was a little erratic, indicating he hadn't been up there all that long. His torso bore the dark splash of bruises, and the stench of vomit entwined with the richness of blood. Dunleavy had obviously beaten him until he was sick, and only then had he slashed the man's wrists. The question was, was this a ritual necessity, or merely another sick perversion on Dunleavy's part? Knowing Dunleavy, it was probably the latter. He swept his gaze around the shadows beyond the flames, locating the other wolves by the beat of their hearts. Then he looked at the pack leader.
"You attack me, you die."
The wolf's lips curled, revealing gleaming canines.
"I know you can understand me, shifter. I intend to free that man, and if you get in my way, you'll pay." The wolf rose onto all fours, its low growl reverberating through the cavern. To the right and the left came the slow sound of claws clicking against stone. The other two were moving in, but they weren't yet ready to attack. Maybe they were waiting to see what their leader did. Michael moved forward. Energy surged across his back, stinging with the sharpness of bees. He frowned, trying to shrug away the sensation, with little success. The wolf crouched then sprang. Michael blurred, avoiding the wolf's lunge, then ran for the fire. He didn't want to kill the shifter, but he knew he might have no other choice. He leapt over the flames, felt the fingers of heat playing down his legs. He hit the ground on the other side and saw the star and it's accompanying circle of stone. He knew he wouldn't be able to get the man down until the circle had been broken.
The buzz of energy got stronger. He shook his head, felt the stir of air to his right. He swung, hitting the wolf square in the jaw, feeling teeth score his fist before the force of his blow knocked the creature sideways. The other wolves attacked, coming in from the left and the right. Michael dropped, allowing one to soar over his head, before twisting and kicking the other in the gut. It made an almost human grunt of pain as it hit the ground and slid into the fire, scattering the wood. Sparks flew, firefly bright in the darkness, and flames leapt high.
He rose, the bite of energy across his flesh so severe it felt like a thousand needles piercing his skin. It was hard to concentrate ... hard to think...
Too late, he became aware of the movement behind him. Teeth sank into his flesh, worrying and tearing at his skin, spilling warmth down the back of his leg. As pain flashed white hot through his body, he heard the scrape of nails. Another wolf was coming at him.
He swore and twisted around, smashing his fist against the snout of the wolf that tore at his thigh. Flesh and bone gave way under the force of the blow, but the wolf refused to release its hold. The frantic beat of the second wolf's heart warned that the creature was close. He dropped, dragging the first wolf down with him, his breath hissing from clenched teeth as the movement tore away more of his flesh. The second wolf missed by inches. It landed several feet away, scrabbling to gain purchase against the slick stone and stop the impetus of its leap before it slid into the flames. A yellow blur moved past it. Teeth gleamed. The third wolf launched—going not for extremities or torso, but straight for the neck, the jugular. Trying to kill, not maim. The witch had been wrong. Or Dunleavy's game plan had changed. He fisted the creature away, then reached around, unlocking the death grip the wolf had on his thigh. The wolf put up little fight—his blow had shattered the creature's nose, and the mere act of breathing had become a battle. One Michael ended by breaking the shifter's neck. He grabbed the creature by the front legs and rose. Agony burned through every nerve ending, its epicenter his torn and bloodied flesh. His leg buckled, and for a moment, he didn't think it would bear his weight, let alone that of the dead wolf. Forcing his knee to lock and hold, he swallowed nausea and blinked away the sudden sting of sweat. The air howled its warning, and he swung the dead wolf around, using it to batter away its pack mate. He staggered sideways, felt the caress of flames across his skin. Caught his balance, then blurred, running for the stone circle. The scrabble of claws suggested the remaining two wolves weren't far behind. And they were gaining with every step, because he could barely even run at human pace, let alone move with the inhuman speed of a vampire.
He felt rather than saw the impetus of their leap, noted the closeness of the stones, and dropped flat. Electricity buzzed across his face, and warning flickers of blue fire cut across the night. The black stones were within arm's reach, which is exactly what he'd intended.