She smiled, remembering another time, another place, when she'd echoed those exact same thoughts and actions. Something flickered in his eyes, and just for a moment, she thought she saw a touch of recognition. Then the spark died, leaving only normal concern.

But perhaps there lay part of her answer—by following patterns of the past and forcing memories to surface, maybe she'd undermine the spell set on him.

"Damn it, woman, will you answer me?"

Her gaze jumped to his. The concern in his eyes was stronger. As much as the spell was trying to force him to, he wasn't treating her as a stranger. “Can't you smell the blood?"

"Its sweetness rides the air,” he said. “But right now, the source of that nectar is not my major concern." His words made her heart do strange things. Lord, how she loved this man. “I'm okay. I just need a drink."

"Then you shall have it."

He rose and disappeared, but he was back within minutes with a small bottle of water. He must have raided Kinnard's store to get it, because she couldn't imagine the hotels selling plastic bottles of water. Surely it wouldn't be in keeping with the feel Dunleavy was trying to achieve. He handed her the water and sat beside her on the ground. His arm brushed against hers, and warmth pulsed through her body, erasing the chill, calming the churning.

"What happened in there?” he asked, thumbing toward the building at their back.

"I made a major mistake."

He frowned. “What do you mean?"

She took a gulp of water, swished it around her mouth, and then spat it out. “Kinnard told me when I arrived here earlier that Dunleavy would sacrifice two men at midnight if I did not rescue them. I thought they were the two people I knew would die tonight—"

"How did you know two people would die?"

She hesitated. “It's preordained."

He raised a dark eyebrow. “Fate can always be changed."

"Not this one,” she said glumly. And she should have known better than to blindly trust that someone like Dunleavy would play by the rules. “Anyway, I thought the two destined to die would be the two Dunleavy mentioned, which is why I was looking for them."

He gave her a speculative look—the sort of look that suggested he knew she wasn't telling the entire truth. “This town is full of men. How did you intend to define the search?" She hesitated again, not sure how much she could safely tell him. Dunleavy had probably guessed she'd try and tell Michael the truth, and he would have factored some sort of counter into the spell holding Michael's memories hostage. “Because the missing men are rangers."

"Ah.” He considered her a moment longer, then said, “So, if two are to die tonight, was it their bodies in that room?"

Images of blood and gore and shredded body parts flitted through her mind. She shuddered and took a hasty swallow of water. It only seemed to stir her agitated stomach more.

"One definitely wasn't. Hard to say if there was another."

"Why?"

"Because there are bits everywhere."

"He tore the body apart?” There was no surprise in Michael's voice. But then, why would there be? She knew he'd seen far worse in his time, though he'd never really discussed it with her. She nodded.

"That doesn't make sense if he needed the body for a ritual." No, it didn't. She frowned, forcing herself to look beyond the gore in her memories. “He left a head on the windowsill.” She hesitated. “It could have been my twin." Michael wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. Warmth leeched from his fingers and body, chasing away the chills that still ran through her. “He's trying to scare you."

"He damn well succeeded."

"You're tougher than that. It's merely the shock of it that got to you." And how.

"Was there only one head?” he continued.

"One is more than enough, believe me."

"Not if two were meant to die tonight."

"There was lots of blood. And blood dripping from the middle of the ceiling.” She hesitated, swallowing more water before adding, “The roof."

"The roof,” he agreed and removed the warmth of his arm from her shoulders. “You stay here while I check."

"Like hell.” She scrambled upright, all awkward arms and legs compared to his elegance. “I'm here for a reason, too, remember, and like it or not, you and I have to be a team on this." He gave her a look that said, Yeah, right . But he didn't try to stop her from following as he turned and made his way around the back of the building.

The stairs were around the far side—an old, rickety, bleached-wood structure that barely seemed capable of supporting a gnat, let alone the two of them.

"Don't say it,” she warned, as Michael glanced at her.

"One at a time, then."

With the whole structure seeming to sway in the barely existent breeze, she could hardly disagree. He turned, running up the stairs so fast his feet barely seemed to touch each step. She followed more warily, trying to ignore the shudder that went through the wood as she climbed. Unlike many of the other buildings that still remained in the old town, the whorehouse had a flat wooden roof. The sides of the building rose a good three feet above the roofline, providing a nice amount of shelter from prying eyes in the street or nearby buildings. Shelter someone had obviously needed. She stopped on the last step, her gaze on Michael rather than what lay in the middle of the roof.

"Here's your ritual killing,” he said, squatting on his heels. “Complete with pentagram." She took a deep breath and let her gaze drift left. Compared to what lay in the room below, this killing was almost sterile. A black star had been etched onto the roof, and a man lay in the middle of it. Candles sat on each point of the star, their bluish flame shooting odd colored shadows across the surrounding walls, and lending the man's skin a weird, almost luminous glow. He was naked, his body white and flaccid. His hair was dark and still looked damp, and his cheeks and chin were free of stubble, as if he'd cleaned up before coming here to die. This impression was reinforced by the fact there was no terror in his face, and his eyes were closed. He would have looked asleep, were it not for the two inch wound in his chest, and the tiny trickle of dried blood that ran from the cut and down his left side.

"There's not enough blood,” she said.

Michael glanced at her. “The knife went in through the chest and out through the back. Gravity took care of the blood, I'm afraid."

"So it's his blood dripping from the ceiling below?" He nodded. “There's a lot more than blood missing from this body, though." She stared at him for a moment, silently debating whether she really needed to hear the rest of it. “What do you mean?” she asked reluctantly.

"I mean, he has no heart. It's been sucked out of his body. As has his brain." Her stomach threatened to rebel again as her gaze went from the small wound in his chest to his hair, and she realized it wasn't water that dampened his hair. Yet there was no obvious cut near his head that she could see—not from this angle, anyway. And she wasn't about to change angles. Her stomach couldn't take such a discovery right now.

"How?"

He glanced at her, one eyebrow raised. “You're the witch. You tell me." Had she been Seline, she probably could have. As it was, she didn't have a clue. “Dunleavy worships the dark Gods."

"The pentagram has been drawn in black soot, and the candles are black. There's definitely black magic at work, so possibly, he was sacrificing to his Gods."

"And they answered the call, taking the heart and the brain."

"Either that,” he replied grimly, “or Dunleavy has a taste for the brains and heart of his victims."

"Vampires can't eat."

"My point exactly. So why was Dunleavy sacrificing to his Gods?"

"To help maintain his strength, and therefore the strength of the barrier,” she said, frowning as she studied the man's feet. They were burned in the arch—and the burn marks oddly resembled lips.

"Barrier? What barrier?"

Her gaze jumped to Michael's, and she suddenly realized what she'd said. There was no reaction from Michael other than puzzlement, yet the tingle of energy seemed to touch the night air. Was it the spell on Michael reacting to her words, the pentagram, or just her imagination?

Could spells even work like that? It was so damn frustrating that she didn't know. Playing it by ear, when there was so much at stake, was not something she wanted to do, and yet she had very little choice. She couldn't afford to call Camille—not out here in the open and so close to the town, anyway. She had no idea what the range of scanners was, but she wasn't about to risk someone's life to discover it. Especially when Camille probably couldn't tell her anything more about the spell on Michael without actually seeing the runes on his back.

She softly cleared her throat and answered his question. “There's a magical barrier around this town, preventing anyone from getting in or out."

"Really?” His expression was neither believing nor disbelieving, and his voice was flat, which, in the past, had always meant skepticism.

"Really."

"Then how did you get in?"

"Dunleavy wants me here. You're not the only one in this town after revenge, you know." He raised an eyebrow. “And knowing this, you still came here?"

"I had no choice."

"There is always a choice when it comes to death."

"Not always. Sometimes the choice is taken from us.” She kept her gaze on his and filled the link between them with images of the time he'd snatched the choice from her, giving her a piece of his life force, joining them spiritually, and forever altering the direction of her life. Something flickered in his eyes, and just for an instant, annoyance surged through the link. The spark died as quickly as it had begun, but her hopes soared. It was a breakthrough, minuscule maybe, but nevertheless something she could continue to work on.

"Sometimes the choice is taken for a very good reason,” he said, voice clipped.

"I know that."

He stared at her for a moment longer, and the buzz of energy riding the night got stronger. He shook his head and returned his gaze to the body. “What do we do with the body and the pentagram?"

"Leave it.” She didn't have the skill to deal with the pentagram, and until the pentagram had been deactivated, or de-spelled, or whatever, she wasn't about to touch it. Or the body within it.

"Is that wise? It might yet be feeding strength to Dunleavy and his Gods."

"I don't think we have any other choice right now.” She rubbed her arms against a sudden chill, unsure as to whether it was the cold night air or a premonition of worse to come. He rose and moved towards her. “I'm going downstairs to check the room. I suggest you go back home—” He broke off, frowning a little. “You said earlier you knew a man named Kinnard?"

"Know of him. We're not friends or anything. Why?"

"He was in your home earlier. I caught him coming out of a window with a pocket full of underclothing." The creep had been going through her clothes? Just the thought of it made her want to throw up again. “I hope you smacked him one."

A smile touched his lips. “I told him I'd kill him if I found him near the house again, but the creep insisted it was his place."

"Then I'm moving out.” Though what other place in this Godforsaken town was likely to be any safer from Kinnard's prying fingers?

She studied the night beyond the walls. Pale yellow light flickered from a half dozen windows along the street below them, but a brighter light, more white than yellow, was a lone beacon two streets away, on what was the edge of the remaining buildings. Was that where the rangers lived? Would a ranger's house provide any sort of safety from Kinnard's inquisitiveness?

And if it did, as instinct suggested it might, how could she get Michael invited inside?

"If Dunleavy did invite you here to exact revenge,” he commented. “It might not be wise to remain alone."

She raised an eyebrow. “You're offering to move in with me?"

"I'm here to find a killer, not baby-sit."

"Then what are you suggesting? That I move in with another man?"

"No."

It was sharply said, and she smiled. The magic might have forced his memories away, but his territorial instincts were well and truly intact.

"What then?"

He thrust a hand through his dark hair, and she noted the blood on his shirt again. “You're still bleeding."

"It is of no consequence—"

"You were shot with silver,” she cut in. “That wound needs special attention."

"And how would you know I was shot with silver?"

"I know a lot more than you do right now, vampire. Instead of trying to get rid of me, you might want to sit down and listen."

"What I need to do right now is to get downstairs and see what Dunleavy has done."

"Then I'll come with you."

He raised an eyebrow. “Can you stomach a return to that room?"

"No. But I want to question the woman who found the victim."

"Why?"

"Because I want to find out what form Dunleavy was wearing when he entered that room.” She turned and carefully made her way down the stairs.

"Dunleavy's not a shapeshifter. He's a vampire."