And it certainly wouldn't be the last. She had an eternity of them to look forward to. No sharing kisses under the mistletoe. No drinking eggnog and stealing a look at the presents under the tree on Christmas Eve. She bit her lip and blinked away the sting in her eyes.
"Nikki, you and Michael were made for each other. I'm sure this could all be sorted out if you just sit down and talk."
She closed her eyes, holding on to her determination by the slenderest of margins. “We have talked. And talked."
"This is stupid and you know it."
"Ask Mary how stupid I'm being. I bet she'd understand exactly why I'm doing this.” After all, she'd been second best to Jake's true passion—his job—for the last thirty years. Something Nikki had only just begun to see and understand in the last couple of days.
Jake swore softly. “Look, Michael has to go meet Farmer soon. He wants us to keep out of the hotel and to keep moving around."
"I'm out of the hotel and moving around."
"Together, Nikki. Not separately."
Anger flicked through her. He was still ordering. Still not trusting her to be able to look after herself. She studied the night for a moment and knew there was something here, something instinct suggested she needed to see.
"I have to do something first,” she said. “Take a phone with you, and I'll call you when I'm finished."
"Nikki—"
"And if they use real silverware in that fancy hotel of yours,” she cut in, “I'd grab a couple of knives. Just to be on the safe side."
She hit the “end” button then turned off the phone and shoved it back into her pocket. The soft tapping resumed almost immediately.
The night grew colder, its touch almost icy. A breeze swirled around her, tangling her hair and chasing chills down her back. Yet ten feet away, the fog stirred sluggishly through the still limbs of a tree. An old woman became visible, tapping a cane against the sidewalk in front of her with every step. She was small and gnarled, with clothes that were as gray as the fog and just as flimsy. The taste of magic increased, tingling across her skin. Sparks skittered across her fingers, sending flickers of red and gold dancing through the damp darkness.
"You'll not be needing that weapon against the likes of me." The old woman's voice was melodious, soft and yet somehow powerful. She stopped and, though a bare five feet separated them, Nikki couldn't see her eyes. It was almost as if she didn't have any—and yet, if that were the case, how could she know about the energy dancing across Nikki's fingers? Surely it wasn't caressing the night that strongly.
"Why have you called me here?” Nikki had no doubt the magic she sensed was coming from this woman. And she had no intention of dropping her guard, no matter how safe her instincts were suggesting that would be.
The old woman smiled, revealing stained teeth and black gaps. “I am not the one who summoned you. I have merely been chosen to escort and explain. Come along, young woman." She turned, tapping towards the church. Nikki's hesitation was brief. She had no idea who was crazier—the old woman, or her for following—but it didn't matter. The scent of magic was so strong it practically crawled across her skin, and it was obvious something was about to happen. Oddly enough, she felt no fear. No sense of approaching doom. Maybe her instincts had finally given up and gone away, as she'd once wished.
The old woman didn't enter the church but walked around the left side of it. Nikki followed her. The fog seemed thicker here, slapping her with wet fingers and dribbling moisture down her skin. The silence was so thick she could almost taste it, and her skin tingled as if she was walking through a wall of energy.
"Come, come,” the old woman said, almost impatiently. Her form was lost to the fog. It was almost as if she'd become a part of it.
The tingling increased, crawling like electricity across her skin. The fog was dense and cold. It felt like ice, and every step became an effort. It was almost as if she were moving through a force of some kind. But as quickly as it had appeared, the sensation was gone. She stumbled forward several steps but quickly regained her balance and looked around for the old woman. The thickness of the fog eased but it still swirled sluggishly, touching her with fingers that now seemed oddly warm. She spied the stranger on the top of a small hill just in front of her and made her way towards her. The fog parted, as if it were stepping aside. Nikki stopped suddenly, her stomach plummeting as she realized the fog was stepping aside.
Only it wasn't fog.
It was ghosts.
* * * *
Music thumped from the interior of the café. Michael stopped under the awning, eyeing the building in distaste. He'd never been a fan of rock music—in any of its configurations. Though he'd certainly heard a lot of it since Nikki had come to live with him.
Nikki ... God, what was he going to do with her?
He was only certain of one thing—he loved her, and he'd be damned if he was going to let her walk away from him when this case was over. Jake was right. There had to be a common ground somewhere. Had to be some compromise that would make them both happy. All they had to do was find it. And find it they would—even if he had to tie her to the bed to keep her in his life and talking to him. He took a deep breath and tried to push all thoughts of her aside as he entered the noise-laden building. His senses tingled with awareness—the fiend was inside, waiting.
"Table for Farmer,” he said, as a waiter walked up to greet him. The young man smiled. “Sure. This way."
Michael's gaze swept across the room and met the blue eyes of his foe. Farmer was everything he'd imagined—short, stocky, and balding. His face was hard, and tattoos covered what little skin there was to be seen. He was wearing a black leather jacket, a sleeveless jean jacket over that. Michael had no doubt his club's colors would adorn the back of the jacket—everything about this man said biker. Except, perhaps, his eyes. They were the eyes of a man lost in the wonder of his own little world. Which was odd, because Farmer had certainly seemed sane enough when he'd talked to him earlier. The younger vampire rose as he approached the table. “You would be the man I spoke to last night,” he said, offering his hand.
He was wearing fingerless leather gloves, the leather oddly damp against his palm as they shook hands. Farmer was as strong as the muscles bulging against the restriction of his jacket suggested.
"Michael.” He pulled out a chair and sat down.