Chasing the Shadows (Nikki & Michael 3)

"No, it won't.” If only because their connection went far deeper—and was far stronger—than any of her talents. She would have been able to find him even without the aid of the cross and her psychometry skills.

"So what's the game plan?"

She sighed and rubbed a hand across her eyes. “I don't know. I just know we can't rush in and try to rescue him because that's what Farmer wants."

"And if he doesn't get what he wants, he'll try something else."

"I know."

Jake finished his steak then pushed the remaining vegetables away and leaned back in his chair. “First things first. Weapons?"

"You've got your gun, and we've got that rifle we confiscated." He nodded. “I also took several knives from the kitchen, but I won't guarantee how much silver there is in them."

"Probably not a lot, but Farmer's younger in vampire years than Jasper, and a silver kitchen knife certainly helped do him in.” She frowned, trying to remember everything Michael had said about vampires over the past few months—which was not a lot, in reality. “What about wood?"

"As in stakes?"

She nodded. Wood in any form was supposedly deadly to vampires—not that she really wanted to confront Farmer armed only with a sharpened piece of wood. That would be nothing short of foolishness.

"I can get some."

"Good."

A waiter approached and refilled their coffee cups. Jake waited until he'd left then said, “You know he's not going to be alone."

"I know.” And she didn't know how they were going to handle a harem of fledglings plus Farmer. “I wish we were back in Lyndhurst. At least we could call in MacEwan." Jake's smile was wry. “Bet you never thought there'd come a day when you'd be saying that."

"No.” MacEwan had been the bane of her existence as a teenager, and one of the biggest decriers of her talents on the police force. Yet, oddly enough, he was one of the few cops they could go to for help, no matter what the situation, simply because he'd known them long enough to trust them. Up to a point, anyway.

"We could call him,” Jake said. “Ask if he's got free time. At the very least, he might get us some credibility with the cops here in San Francisco."

"I've got a feeling we haven't that sort of time.” Which was not exactly the truth. What she was really feeling was that, as of five minutes ago, they'd totally run out of time. Her gaze drifted to the maître d', and a chill ran down her spine. Something had happened. Something more than Michael. The phone rang shrilly, and her heart lodged somewhere in her throat. The maître d’

answered it then glanced their way.

"Oh great. Just what we need right now—another of your little feelings.” Jake's voice seemed to be coming from the end of a great hollow.

She couldn't answer. Could only watch as a waiter bought the phone over to their table.

"Mr. Morgan? Phone call for you, sir."

Jake accepted the phone with a nod of thanks then said, “Hello?" There was a long silence, and in that brief moment, Jake seemed to age twenty years. She closed her eyes. Knew without being told what had happened. Jake hung up the phone and placed it on the table. For several minutes there was nothing but silence. It was as if the whole world had faded away, leaving an echoing void with only them in it. His chair creaked as he slumped back. She bit her lip, fighting tears.

"That was Anna.” His voice was remote. Empty. “Mary never made it to Long Beach."

* * * *

Voices whispered. Sharp, excited voices, heated by lust, spiked with desperation. At first, Michael wasn't sure whether they were real or just a result of the feverish pain pounding through him. More cries touched the night—the sound of fear mingled with ecstasy and lust and hunger. The darkness in him stirred and his canines lengthened. Anticipating. Wanting. He tried to force his eyes open, but they seemed glued shut. Tried to move his arms, only to have a red wall of pain rise up his left arm and knock him back into unconsciousness. When he stirred a second time, the voices were gone, replaced by the stink of evil.

"So the dead awakens.” Farmer's amused tones seemed to be coming from a great distance. “And here I was thinking I might have been a little too harsh with the boots." His voice was coming from the far left. Michael turned his head that way. Beyond the stink came the tantalizing aroma of fresh blood. The darkness in him came to life again. He needed to feed. Needed the sweet strength of human life to help him heal...

No, he thought. Not human. He could kill Nikki if he drank from her again... Nikki. Her image jumped into focus through the fogginess enshrouding his brain, and fear swelled. But she wasn't here. It wasn't her whose death he could smell. Wasn't her blood Farmer had all over him. Relief washed through him, a river that cleared some of the confusion from his brain. How much time had passed since Farmer had kicked him unconscious and dragged him down here? And where, exactly, was here?>Her breath caught somewhere in her throat. Don't think. Don't feel . Not yet. “I don't know exactly. I just know I can't touch his mind, and that Farmer has beaten the crap out of him."

"Drugged?"

She nodded tightly and wondered how in hell something like that had happened. He was usually so careful ... but then, maybe it was a little hard to concentrate when someone you loved had just threatened to walk out of your life. Guilt swirled, but she pushed that away, too. She had no time for guilt or fear or anything else beyond determination.

She'd save him from Farmer. Find him, save him, and somehow kill Farmer in the process. She swung right and made her way down a smaller street. An old restaurant came into sight, its windows boarded up but door gone.