"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?
He frowned, but he knew his memory wasn't going to get any clearer until he did something about the runes. And for that, he needed the witch's help.
He made his way back down the street. The old whorehouse had almost burned to the ground, but no one seemed worried about it. He scanned the nearby buildings, noting the stir of life in several of them. The whores were still plying their trade with the few miners who were awake, yet the beat of life pounding through their veins spoke of stress rather than pleasure. He reached out with his thoughts, trying to touch their minds. Again, it felt as if he were trying to reach past a thick wall of molasses. This time though, he touched enough surface thoughts to realize he wasn't the only one being controlled. Those women weren't whores. Kinnard had snatched them from the street and brought them here to play that part.
And there wasn't a damn thing he could do to stop it. Not when his psi abilities were being so illusive. He cursed softly, turned away and walked back to the witch's house. She was in the small kitchen area and glanced around as he entered, but her welcoming smile quickly faded. “What's wrong?"
He placed the bloody knife on the table and continued toward her. “Kinnard was waiting for me in the stables."
Her gaze skated down his body then rose again. “You're okay?"
"Yes. He merely came to give me a warning.” He stopped in front of her, cupping her cheek with a hand. “You have to leave."
She rolled her eyes. “Please, we've been through this a hundred times before."
"I don't give a damn if we have. Kinnard intends to come for you at midnight, and I'm not going to risk him getting past me.” He brushed his thumb across her lips and gave her a crooked smile. “I may not be able to remember your name, but I know I could not live without you."
"Nor I you.” She leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on his lips. She tasted of honey and butter and all the good things in life he'd longed for since his turning, and he had finally found them.
"But I can't—"
"You can, and you will."
"Michael—"
"No. If what you say about the ceremony is true, then by simply leaving, you destroy Dunleavy's plans."
"If I leave, he will begin killing off Circle members." Dread clenched his gut, even though he wasn't entirely sure why. “What?" She blew out a breath, puffing the blond-brown strands of fringe away from her forehead. “You and I are members of an organization known as The Damask Circle. Dunleavy has gotten hold of a list of our people. If I leave before the ceremony, he'll start killing the people at the top of that list and work his way down."
It was on the tip of his tongue to say he didn't give a damn about the list or the people on it, but he just couldn't force the words out. Because he did give a damn, even if he couldn't remember why.
"So he holds all the aces."