second story of the nearest hotel. A shadow stirred the frayed remains of curtains in the solitary window.
Michael. Watching her.
She wanted to run to him and tell him she was all right, that she wasn't dead. But she couldn't. Weylin was undoubtedly watching, and right now, she couldn't afford to do anything that would give away the fact that she was not Seline.
But oh, how she longed to see him. Hold him.
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She had to maintain control. Had to. Otherwise their wedding plans might be put on hold—permanently.
But her gaze kept finding its way back to that window, and her skin burned with the intensity of his gaze.
Yet there was no hum of awareness in the link between them. No indication that he had any idea who she truly was. Weylin had planted his magic deep.
'Found the boyfriend, then,' Kinnard said.
She'd been so intent on trying to see Michael that the sudden sound of the old man's sharp voice made her jump. Her gaze swiveled to his. 'And what if I have?'
He gave her his stained and creepy smile again. 'Nothing. You two were at it like rabbits the first time, so we're expecting nothing less this time.'
Was he testing her? Or did he truly think that? 'Then I guess I'll just have to disappoint you.'
His grin grew larger. 'I doubt that you will, especially if the intense awareness I just felt is anything to go by.'
She raised an eyebrow. 'And how would you be feeling something like awareness when this place is supposedly a psi dead-zone?'
'Darlin', this may be a dead-zone, but you and I both know it doesn't stop personal magic. And to answer the question you were really asking, emotions are like blood to me.'
'Meaning you're some kind of psychic vampire?'
He didn't directly answer, simply paused as they passed another bar, and breathed deep. 'Ah, anger.
Sweeter than wine, that is.'
As he spoke, a man came flying backwards out of the bar, and he landed on his back at their feet. His nose was bloody, and he reeked of sweat and alcohol. Obviously, drinking was more important than bathing in this place.
Kinnard nudged the man with the toe of his boot, and without looking at either of them, the drunk climbed to his feet and staggered back inside. If the abuse and sounds of flesh hitting flesh were anything to go by, the fight was continuing right where it had left off.
Kinnard seemed to positively glow.
'Don't need to tell you that Hartwell is one hell of a lawless town, do I, now?' he said, as he continued on down the dusty street.
'It was a hundred years ago.' Seline had said Hartwell had the reputation of being one the most lawless towns in the West, with killing an everyday event. She hoped like hell Weylin only intended to imitate the feel of Hartwell—surely he wouldn't want his captives killing each other. Not until he'd finished the ceremony and raised his brother's spirit, anyway.
'A pretty girl like you could cause a hell of a commotion in a town like this,' he commented.
She forced a smile. 'A pretty girl like me did cause one hell of a commotion one hundred years ago. I can still protect myself, Kinnard, with or without the use of magic.'
'I'm guessing we'll be seeing that boast in action all too soon. There aren't many women in this town, and the few that are here are finding themselves in good demand.'
That chilled her more than anything else he'd said. Everyone in this town—beyond her, Kinnard, and Weylin—was here through force. Those women had no choice. They were merely playing a role, and in many ways, what Weylin was doing to them was more despicable than the threat of killing the rangers.
Kinnard stepped onto the wooden sidewalk and walked towards a small house. She followed, eyeing the old building somewhat dubiously. It was in much the same condition as the surrounding buildings, but it seemed to have a definite sag in the middle. The old wood was gray, much of it gaping and splintered, though at least the roof looked fairly solid. The door and one front window were also intact, and the cracked and peeling paint was a bright yellow that contrasted starkly against the gray. The concrete steps leading up to the door were broken and wobbled dangerously under her weight.
'Your boudoir,' Kinnard said, opening the door with a rusty key and stepping to one side.
She held out her hand. He gave her another smile and placed the key in her hand, his fingers clammy as they brushed hers.
She repressed a shudder and said, 'I'll take it from here, thanks.'
He glanced at his watch. 'Dinner is served nightly between six and seven over at The Hollis Hotel. Miss it, and you don't get nothing unless you buy something from the store.'
She'd brought money, so that was no problem. 'So Weylin's intending to make a killing, literally and monetarily?'
'Why the hell shouldn't we?'
It was interesting that Kinnard said 'we' rather than 'he,' because it suggested that he was somehow connected to Weylin, rather than being the mere gopher she'd taken him to be.
'Fine, then. Bye.'
'Oh, this ain't good-bye, darlin'. I'll be seeing you around.'
The anticipatory look in his eyes sent another chill down her spine. She watched until he'd disappeared around the far corner before walking into her house. It was everything she'd expected it to be—filthy and uncomfortable.
Two walls were a red-brown timber, and the other two either mud or plaster, decorated with peeling strips of flowered wallpaper. They rustled softly in the breeze coming in through the broken side window, the noise sounding like the sighing of ghosts.
In one corner, there was a small metal stove, and beside that, a wooden rocker. A picture frame hung above the chair, but the picture was long gone, replaced instead by dusty spider webs. In the opposite corner was what once must have been a breakfast nook. The table was sturdy, but only two of the four chairs were useable. A new candle sat in the middle of the table, looking out of place amongst all the dust of the past.
She dropped her packs in the middle of the small front room and walked through the next door. It turned out to be the bedroom. There was one small window, but it was at least solid. The blind covering it was tattered and torn, sagging sadly down either side of the glass. The bed was metal framed, and, like the house, seemed to sag in the middle. The old mattress had definitely seen better days. She wouldn't be surprised if it had vermin living within it. Sitting beside the bed was an old blanket chest, and beside that, a sturdy redwood dresser. In the corner nearest the door, there was a small metal tub, and on a nearby hexagonal table, a small porcelain basin and jug. The bathroom, obviously. There was even a small chamber pot sitting under the table, meaning that toilets were an outside affair.
She'd lived in places worse than this as a teenager, but her teenage years were long ago. Still, she could survive a few days.
She glanced at her watch and saw it was nearly four. Time to start trying to find those rangers.
Hopefully, it wouldn't be too hard. After all, there wasn't much of Hartwell left, so surely there couldn't be too many hiding spots.
But first, she had to find her man.
Chapter Five
Michael clattered down the old stairs and strode through the hotel's small main room and bar. As usual, it was full of people and smoke and noise. The miners were drinking hard after a day underground, and the scantily-clad saloon girls lustily plied their trade, alleviating the miners of their cash. Some of them didn't even
