Kiss The Night Goodbye (Nikki & Michael 4)

He stared at her a second longer, then took the knife and put it through his belt at the back of his jeans.

“I won't be long. You be careful."

"Always am."

"Yeah, right,” he said dryly and headed for the front door. Nikki locked it after he left. Then she gathered her clothes and walked into the bedroom to get another shirt. After dressing, she checked all the windows, making sure they were locked and shuttered. Not that she thought it would help. She had a suspicion if Kinnard wanted to get in here, he could. It was a certainty that the slug thing would be able to.

Goose bumps ran across her skin, and she rubbed her arms. What was that thing? She didn't know, but she knew someone who would. Camille. She bit her lip, wondering if she dare risk calling the old witch. But what would it gain her, other than a bit more knowledge? Was it worth the price of someone's life?

The answer was definitely no. As much as she hated working blind, that's exactly what they had to keep doing.

She blew out a breath and headed into the main room. Michael wasn't the only one who needed to eat to keep up his strength. It was way past time she ate something, too. And way, way , past time she got some caffeine into her system.

Because she had a feeling she was going to need every ounce of energy she had access to over the next twenty four hours.

* * * *

Michael had almost finished taking his fill from a sweet brown mare when he realized he was no longer alone in the stables. He retracted his teeth, licking the last droplets of blood from the brown's neck to help heal the wound, then gave her a reassuring pat and stepped to the stall door. Kinnard leaned against the opposite stall, a malicious gleam in his gray eyes. “Human blood is far sweeter, vampire. Have you not sampled your witch's blood yet?" Energy stirred around him, and the need to taste her blood began to course through his system. But he'd resisted it while in the throes of passion, and its flame was nowhere near as strong now. The question was why did Kinnard and his master want him to taste her so badly? Given the depth of the need they were trying to force into his mind, he'd surely kill her.

Was that what they wanted? For him to kill her?

It couldn't be, though, not if the witch was right and they needed her alive for the ceremony.

"Animal blood has certain advantages over human. Not that a worm like you would ever know the difference.” He switched to his vampire vision and studied the haze of life coursing through Kinnard's gnarled body. He'd been right earlier—Kinnard and the slug had very similar energy patterns. He reached back for the knife in his belt, holding the hilt in his fist. The blade resting against his wrist and arm, concealed from Kinnard's prying gaze. “What are you doing here, Kinnard?"

"I came with a warning, vampire. If you or the witch destroy any more pentagrams, the people remaining alive in this town will die."

He raised an eyebrow. “You kill those people, and you take away your boss's source of power for the circle protecting this town."

Kinnard hawked and spat. “Doesn't much matter now, because the new moon is less than a day away. He has enough power to ensure the strength of the circle until then." The truth? Or a lie Kinnard and his master were desperate for them to believe? “Where is Dunleavy?" Kinnard's smile was mocking. “You've seen him more than a dozen times already, vampire."

"So the witch was right. He's a shapeshifter?"

"A shifter with several forms. He might even be the man you think you've tied so securely in that house of yours."

Energy caressed the air again as Kinnard spoke. Michael rolled his shoulders, trying to shake the sensation. The man tied to the bed wasn't a vampire. Wasn't Dunleavy, as much as Kinnard and the magic wanted him to believe otherwise.

"Does anything resembling truth ever come out of your mouth?” he asked. Kinnard's mocking smile grew. “More often than you think, vampire."

"Right now, what I'm thinking is that we'd be better off with you dead." Kinnard snorted. “As fast as you think you are, you're no match—" Michael didn't give him the time to finish. He threw the knife as hard and as fast as he could. Kinnard squawked and blurred, moving with vampire speed. He was fast all right, but not quite fast enough, because the blade bit into his shoulder rather than his heart. Almost instantly, blue fire began to lick from the wound, stealing across his skin as the sharp smell of burning flesh stung the air. Kinnard's scream was high and inhuman. Energy lashed the air, flaying Michael's skin, burning across his back and shoulders. He ignored it and launched at Kinnard, intending to finish what the knife had started. Kinnard's eyes widened, and he threw out a hand, as if that alone would stop the impetus of Michael's leap. White light flashed, temporarily blinding.

Then it was gone. And so was Kinnard.

Michael hit the ground and rolled to feet, looking around. The bloody knife was sitting on the straw at his feet, but Kinnard himself seemed to have disappeared into thin air. Yet the smell of burned flesh and the scent of fresh blood still stung the air, indicating the old man was still close. He picked up the knife, then swept his gaze around the rafters and saw the faint haze of life in the far corner.

"You'll pay for that, vampire,” Kinnard spat. His voice was harsh, cold and somehow younger. “Or your witch will. I shall feast on her body, and then I shall take her life, sending her soul to hell in exchange for my brother's."

"Over my dead body."

"Oh, that's part of the plan, never fear.” Kinnard's voice was fading away, the haze of his life shifting, mutating. “Enjoy her while you can, vampire, because at midnight, she will be mine." Kinnard's energy squeezed through the cracks in the stable's wooden roof. Michael ran for the door, but by the time he had it open and got outside, Kinnard was gone. And no amount of searching could find him.

Michael swore and punched the nearby wall. The old wood splintered, sending several slivers into his skin. His flesh immediately began to burn, and he cursed his own stupidity. After more than three hundred years of existence, he should know better than to hit wood ... he stopped. Three hundred?

Energy danced across his skin, and the questions crowding his mind faded. But they didn't completely disappear, and he knew, without doubt, that the runes that appeared to be no more than scars on his back were at the center of his memory loss. It was time to get them removed—as much as that same magic might try and prevent it.

He tore out the splinters and shook his hand to free it of the burning. Another thing he was certain of was the fact Kinnard was not getting hold of the witch. If he had to drag her out of this town kicking and screaming, then he damn well would.

And why did that thought seem oddly familiar?