Chasing the Shadows (Nikki & Michael 3)

She nodded. What do we need?

Bandages. Something to splint my arm so it can't move while the bones are knitting. She nodded again and moved away. He closed his good eye, listening to her searching through cupboards and drawers.>"How will I know you'll keep your word?"

He gave her that smile again. “You don't."

"Bastard."

"Choose."

She took a deep breath. “Michael."

"Obviously, the fight he mentioned wasn't as deep as he'd feared." If Michael had mentioned their relationship to Farmer, then he was in a bad way. He wouldn't talk to her about it, so why would he do so with a stranger—an enemy?

"Where is he, Farmer?"

"Somewhere safe. You'll have to come and get him, of course." She snorted. “Yeah, that would be real wise, wouldn't it?" Farmer raised an eyebrow. “If you don't, he's dead."

They were all dead anyway, unless she was very careful. And very lucky. “Where and when?" He considered the question for several seconds, though she had no doubt he had this all planned to the very last detail.

"You'll find a park on the corner of Vincente and Twenty-eighth Avenue in Sunset. Meet me there just before dawn."

Why dawn? That was nearly six hours away. “Why not meet now?"

"Because that is what I wish, and that is what you will do." He was a cocky bastard, that was for sure. She was going to enjoy wiping that smug smile off his face.

“Michael had better be alive."

"He will be."

She didn't trust the light in his eyes. Didn't trust the smile that played about his mouth. He was up to something, though she had no idea what—beyond the fact that it boded no good for her. Farmer's image faded. She retrieved the charm and slipped it back on, then made herself some coffee. Cup in hand, she walked across to the window and stared out on the foggy night. She had to rescue Michael before that meeting. She didn't trust Farmer one iota, and if they could get Michael out and hidden before dawn, the advantage would fall on their side. They could walk in and confront him without having to worry about anyone's safety but their own. The trick was finding Michael and getting him out. She placed the cup on the sill and reached into her pocket, drawing out the silver cross.

Warmth pulsed through her palm. She clenched her fingers around the cross and closed her eyes, reaching for any images that might lie within the cross's heart. Nothing. Michael was alive, but he was still mind dead. She couldn't connect with him, not through the cross and not through the link. She opened her eyes, her gaze drawn to the southwest. He was there. And in need of help. She grabbed a pen, scrawled a note to Jake then grabbed her coat and ran out into the night.

* * * *

Michael eased over the enclosure wall and padded quietly toward the exit. Though his thirst was finally sated, he felt no more energetic. His body had taken a pounding over the last few hours, and it had pushed his natural healing capabilities to the extreme. It would be days before he regained full strength. And they certainly didn't have days left. Farmer had to be killed long before then. The guards were still near the exit. He wrapped the shadows around himself, but even that small task had sweat running down his face. Once outside and beyond the sight of the two men, he stopped and leaned back against the fence, sucking in great gulps of air.

Everything still hurt, his arm most of all. It would have to be reset, and soon, before the bone began to knit in its current position. He closed his eyes, listening to the sounds washing across the darkness as he tasted the flavors of the cold night.

The slight scent of antiseptic told him there was a hospital close by somewhere, but between him and it came the smell of evil. The remaining fledglings were on the prowl and closing in. He'd never be able to outrun them. He didn't have the strength, and once they'd caught his scent, they'd be on him quicker than dogs on a bone.

He'd have to make a stand here. At least he could keep his back to the fence. He reached up, gripping one of the branches that dipped over the top of the fence and broke it off. Snapping it in two, he pulled off all the leaves and twigs until two jagged stakes were left. All he could do now was wait. The seconds ticked by. His eyelids began to droop, and he forced them open again. But it was a battle he was bound to lose. A vampire healed mainly in sleep. Now that his hunger was sated, his body demanded rest. He shifted his stance and listened again to the sounds of the night. Footsteps whispered, drawing ever closer.

He gripped the stakes tighter and switched to his vampire vision. The shadows retreated, and three fiery figures came into view. The fledglings, moving in fast.

Sweat rolled down his face. Under normal circumstances, these three would be little more than nuisances easily swatted away. But given his current condition, the pendulum had certainly swung their way.

Two went high, one went low. He stabbed wildly, striking one in the stomach rather than the heart. The fledgling screamed in agony, his flesh smoking where it touched the wood. White ash was best, but any wood was dangerous to vampires as young as these.

One tore into his good arm, the second into his leg. He kicked it away, almost unbalancing in the process, then thrust his arm backwards, smacking the fledgling feeding on it against the fence. It did little more than ripple the chain links. It certainly didn't dislodge the fledgling. Pain became a wall threatening to topple him. He hissed, flipped the stake, and thrust it into the youngster's chin and up, through flesh and bone and brain. The fledgling was dead before he fell.

Which still left two others. He grabbed the hair of one and flung him away, but the second grabbed his broken arm and twisted it. White-hot lances of fire flashed through his brain, and a scream was ripped from his throat. He dropped to his knees, unable to stand, unable to do anything. Barely even conscious. The fledgling's touch disappeared. This is it, he thought. This is the end. Nikki's image swam through his mind, and a bitter taste invaded his mouth. After three hundred years of emptiness, fate could have allowed him a little more time for happiness...

No attack came. Through the haze of agony he thought he heard the sound of fighting, but it might have just been the roaring in his ears. He stayed on his knees for what seemed like hours, fighting unconsciousness and waiting for death.

Hands touched him. Hands that were warm and smelled vaguely of cinnamon and vanilla. Wishful thinking, surely. With the link out of action and his psychic gifts blocked by drugs, she had no way of finding him so quickly.

"Michael?” Her voice was soft, edgy, as if she were crying. “Can you hear me?" God, was there a sweeter sound on this Earth? He wanted to wake up to those tones for the rest of his days...