ability to sense evil when that, too, was a psychic skill? Was the fact that they shared that skill somehow able to give it immunity from the spell?
Right now, that was a question he didn't have the time to ponder.
He glanced down again and lightly toed the stranger in the face. 'Wake up.' Though he knew it probably wouldn't succeed, he tried to reinforce the words telepathically. The man's mind was a mental minefield he didn't have time to traverse. He had to get to Nikki. Had to get moving.
He toed the stranger again, less carefully this time. The man jerked and cursed, and Michael hissed in pain as the fool's action sent them both into a gentle swing.
'Keep still,' he snapped.
The man's gaze jerked to his. There was no awareness of the situation, no life, in the blue of his gaze, only a curious blankness. He was still under Dunleavy's control.
And Dunleavy wanted Michael suffering, then dead.
The stranger swung the stake he'd somehow clung to, rapping Michael across the shins. He cursed and shook the idiot, trying to make him lose his grip on the stake. It didn't do any good. The wood hit him again, and the nails that had been rammed along its length tore past his jeans and into flesh.
There was only one thing to do, and he did it.
The stranger didn't even scream as he fell, but rather, was still mindlessly trying to hit him. After a few moments, water splashed. With any luck, Dunleavy had left the stranger with enough common sense to tread water. Though whether he'd be able to stay afloat long enough for Michael to get help was anyone's guess.
And right now, he had more important things to worry about. Kinnard's threat rose to haunt him. He pushed it away savagely and hooked his other hand around the beam. Pain slapped through him, and his breath hissed through clenched teeth. His shoulder had definitely been damaged, but at least he could still move it. Could still hold on with it, though it hurt like hell, and his grip was a lot weaker than it should be.
He took a breath and swung his body, hooking his feet around the beam before carefully climbing onto it. Once secure, he took another breather, wiping the sweat from his eyes as he glanced up. The next beam was about eight feet away. Not much of a leap if he stood.
He edged his way along the beam until he reached the wall. Using it to steady himself, he carefully climbed to his feet. For a minute, the tunnel swam around him. He blinked the sensation away and looked upwards, judging the distance. Then he lunged.
He caught the beam, holding on for grim death as his body swung like a pendulum and pain burned white hot up his left arm. Ignoring it, he swung his legs, hooking them around the beam and clambering on top of it.
He repeated the process over and over.
By the time he neared the top, he was drenched in sweat, and the burning in his shoulder had spread to the rest of his body. He was shaking with exhaustion, and his vision was so blurred he could barely see the beam beneath him.
He needed blood. Needed to replenish what he had lost.
And he didn't have the time to do it, because Nikki was running out of time. The longer Dunleavy had her, the more he could do to her. The images he'd seen in the woman's mind rose to haunt him again, and he swore savagely.
Nikki wasn't being abused yet. He'd know it, feel it, if she were.
But that didn't mean she wouldn't be if he didn't get there soon.
He looked up. The top of the shaft was about ten feet away. As bad as he felt, it might as well have been a hundred. He scanned the rim, looking for something he could grab if he missed the edge. Three of the side supports were basically rotten near the edge, thanks to the water dribbling down the side of the shaft. If he grabbed those, they were likely to splinter and give way. The fourth one was the only one out of the water's path, and it looked secure. That was the side he had to aim for.
He shifted his position so that he was more in line with the edge. Then he flexed his fingers and jumped.
Exhaustion had sapped his strength, and his leap wasn't as high as it should have been. He cannoned into the side of the shaft rather than the top of the hole, and scrabbled wildly for the edge even as he began to slide back down into the shaft. His fingers slid across the stone, and at the last possible moment, hit a crevice. He wedged them deep, halting his fall, his arms shaking with the effort of holding his wildly swinging body. After another shuddering breath, he hauled himself up enough so that he could place his foot on the top of the nearby support beam.
Then he launched himself out of the shaft. He hit the slick rock surface of the cavern and slid along for several feet before crashing into another rock.
He didn't do anything—couldn't do anything—other than lie there for more minutes than he cared to count. His breath was a harsh rasp that echoed through the silent cavern, and every nerve ending shook—ached—with pain. And though the air was thick and damp, the smell of blood was sharp. His blood, coming from the wounds on his thigh and arm. He'd have to tend to them before he moved, or he'd be in trouble long before he got to Nikki.
He pushed into a sitting position and tore off a shirt sleeve. After wrapping it around his leg and securing it, he looked at the wound on his arm. It was deep enough to see bone. Luckily, it had been caused by the nails in the wood rather than the wood itself, and it would heal okay. Unlike the slice he could feel burning on his cheek. But the cut on his arm was bleeding profusely, and he couldn't afford to lose any more blood.
He grimaced. Blood was blood, and though he couldn't survive on another vampire's blood, sucking down his own would at least help counter lightheadedness, while licking the wound would quicken the healing process.
He stood. The cavern spun around him, and then it lurched to a sickening stop. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and raised his arm, suckling his wounded flesh as he stumbled forward.
There was no sound beyond the trickle of water in the darkness ahead or behind him. No heartbeat. No sense of magic.
Trepidation rushed through him, and he broke into a run. The tunnel widened, became a bigger shaft. He followed it, reaching for the memories to guide his steps. He slid right into one side shaft, then right again into another. The past loomed before him, and as he slid into another shaft, he came to a sudden halt.
A body hung from the ceiling, dripping blood into the center of the pentagram. A pentagram protected by a small circle of black stones, and nothing else.
Dunleavy was using the Standard Mine pentagram all right, but it was for one of his regular sacrifices, not the ceremony that would bring Emmett back to life.
Seline had been wrong. He'd been right all along.
Weylin was going to perform the ceremony where his brother's body lay—under the church.
It was the cold that woke Nikki. For several seconds she lay still, keeping her eyes closed as she tried to determine where she was and what was going on.
To her right, someone was murmuring. The harsh tones suggested it was Kinnard—or rather Dunleavy, in his Kinnard guise.
Beyond the sound of Kinnard's voice, there was little other noise. The wind was a distant howl, but the air around her was thick and still and icy. She was lying on dirt rather than stone, which was odd, because it felt sandy rather than clayish.
She cracked open her eyes. A flashlight sat on old, wooden shelving, its bright light spilling across the ceiling and down the walls. She was in the church, not the mine. Michael had been right.
The murmuring had moved and was now coming from behind her head. She cautiously tried to shift her foot and discovered she was tied—discovered that both legs were tied, along with her hands.
And she realized something else. She was naked.
As images of what had been done to the women in the whorehouse and the hotel filled her mind, fear swelled. But fear was what Kinnard wanted, what he fed on, and she ruthlessly pushed it away. The little worm wasn't going to get the better of her—and he certainly wasn't going to get her without a damn good fight.
She opened her eyes and tilted her head back. 'You praying to those gods of yours to save your soul? If not, you'd better be, because I'm going to make sure you're sent back to the hell that spawned you.'
