After a few minutes, the walls began to ease back. She felt no sense of relief. Though she could hear little beyond the harsh note of her own breathing, she couldn't shake the sensation that the men were close enough to almost touch.

The link sprang to life, wrapping around her fear, gently easing it away. They're not yet within reach . How far, then?

A few minutes.

And the shifter?

Paralleling us.

What about the pentagram? How far away are we from that? Though she asked the question, she very much doubted whether they'd get that far. This all reeked of a well-laid plan. If my sense of direction isn't leading us astray, we shouldn't be that far from it. Good.

The tendrils of slime began to recede as warmth touched the air. Not that it was actually that much warmer. She shivered again, this time more from the cold than fear. The tunnel began to open up, eventually leading into another cavern. Her footsteps seemed to echo forever, lending the darkness a feeling of enormity. Michael paused, and the sensation of wrongness hit her so strongly it felt like a punch to the gut.

There's something here, she gasped.

Magic. His mind voice was grim. We'll have to watch where we step. It's on the floor?

To our right. I'm not sure what it is, beyond the fact that its source is evil. He squeezed her hand gently. This ability I'm siphoning is far too new for me to properly assimilate. You can't sense anything more?

Nothing beyond evil. But Dunleavy's spells have nulled my psi skills Then, by rights, they should have stopped my using them as well. Not if he didn't know we could share. And considering they were only just discovering what was possible, it was hardly likely that Dunleavy could know. Even if he had read Michael's mind when he'd had him under full control, it wouldn't have mattered. Dunleavy thought she was Seline, not Nikki. He tugged her forward again. The floor around them was littered with rocks and deeper, darker spaces that suggested holes.

Old mines shafts, Michael said. Looks like the miners decided to dig for deeper treasures here. Right through the rock?

Rock wouldn't have stopped them if they were following a vein of gold. It would have stopped her . But then, she'd never have been underground hunting gold in the first place. Riches of any kind had never called to her—except when it came to the richness of emotion. Something she'd been afraid to reach towards for more years than she'd cared to remember. They were barely halfway across the cavern when he stopped. She was just about to ask what the problem was when she saw it. Or rather, him.

The shifter that had been shadowing them stepped from the tunnel on the far side. In his hand was a wooden stake.

Fear leapt into her throat, and for a moment she couldn't even breathe. Then she raised her hand and called to the fire. It leapt to life, spewing from her fingers in a flaming ball that shot light across the cavern as it arced toward the shifter. He stumbled backward, eyes wide with fear that she could almost taste. But her flames were not meant for him. They hit the stake and wrapped around it quickly. With a squawk that was barely human, the shifter dropped it. It was little more than ash by the time it hit the ground. She tugged Michael's hand. We need to go.

It's too late for that.

A scrape of sound made her spin, and she realized what he'd meant. The ten men who'd been following them now crowded into the old tunnel opening. They were trapped, with no option but to fight. Michael spun and kissed her briefly. Take care of the shifter. I'll take the men. He was gone before she could argue, so she ran at the shifter. He smirked, and in that moment, she recognized him. He was the driver of the van.

His form shimmered, reformed, becoming that of a wolf that snarled and leapt for her. She flicked the knife into her palm and slashed at him as she dodged his leap. The blade scoured his side, and blue fire flickered. The wolf yelped as he hit the ground, then he twisted, leaping for her again. She sidestepped, slashing again with the knife. The sharp point tore past his coat and into flesh, deeper than before. He howled and twisted in midair, his sharp teeth slashing. His canines tore across the back of her hand, skidding up her arm. She cursed and backed away. His form shimmered as he hit the ground, becoming human once again.

"For this,” he said, pointing to his bloody side, his voice gruff with anger and pain, “you die."

"I don't think Dunleavy will approve of that plan.” And what the hell was it with shifters thinking she'd be easy meat?

"I don't give a fuck what Dunleavy wants. No bitch is going to wound me and live to tell about it." The words were barely out of his mouth when he rushed for her. She dove out of his way, hitting the stone with a grunt and rolling back to her feet.

Air stirred. Too late she saw the shifter's leg sweeping toward her. The force of the blow against the back of her legs sent her flying. Her butt hit the ground with enough force to jar her spine, and her breath left in a hiss of air, leaving her wheezing.

Air stirred again, warning her. She rolled to one side, barely avoiding the foot aimed at her head. She twisted around, lashing out with her legs and striking his legs, sweeping them out from beneath him in much the same manner as he had hers. She scrambled upright as he crashed to the ground, but the shifting haze crawled across his body again, and in wolf form, he launched at her. She dodged and pivoted, smashing her booted heel into his side and kicking him into the rock walls. He hit with enough force to make him grunt. She gave him no time to recover, throwing the knife as hard and as fast as she could. This time, she didn't miss.

The shifter was dead before his body hit the floor.

One less murderous kidnapper for the world to deal with, she thought, retrieving her knife and ruthlessly battering away the remorse that ran through her.

She spun and ran to help Michael. There were only five of the original ten left, but they were forcing him backwards, away from the tunnel and towards the deeper darkness that stank of evil. And then she saw how five men were managing to do this. Three of them were armed with stakes.

"Hey you,” she yelled, launching herself at the nearest man just as he turned. She hit him feet first in the gut and sent him flying backwards. He hit the wall with a crack loud enough to suggest broken bones and slid down to the ground. She scrambled upright, but he didn't move. Hoping she hadn't hurt him too badly, she spun and tackled the next nearest man. This one was waiting, and his blow cracked across her face, sending her sprawling backwards. She half yelped in pain, and through the blur of tears, she saw him coming at her. She dropped and hooked his feet, making him stumble. She jumped upright, and before he could catch his balance, pushed him in the back. He hit the ground, sprawling on his stomach and sliding along the slick rock for several feet. She slipped her broken knife into her palm, flipped it so she was holding the blade, then stepped close to his sprawled form and hit him with the hilt as hard as she could. He didn't move. She checked his pulse, then spun and ran back to help Michael with the remaining three men. There was blood on Michael's arms, and a cut on his cheek. They'd pushed him so far back that the magic they'd both sensed now pulsed around his body, spinning purple shards of light across the darkness. Fear for him rose, but she pushed it away and reached for the fire again. She aimed it at the stake the man closest to her was holding, then launched herself after her flaming arrow, intending to knock him down and away from Michael.

Only he twisted at the wrong moment, and she pushed him sideways rather than away. He cannoned into the other two men, pushing them forward—straight into Michael, thrusting him backwards into the pulsing curtain.

"No,” she yelled, lunging forward.

The light closed around her hand, sucking her forward, her feet skidding across the stone even though she fought the pull.

Then evil leapt into focus and someone grabbed her, yanking her backwards. She spun, knife raised. Saw Kinnard's mocking expression and a bright flash of light.

Then there was nothing.

Nothing but darkness.

Chapter Fourteen

Michael grabbed a fistful of the nearest man's shirt, attempting to remain upright as the air howled around them.

The stranger instinctively stepped back, and for a moment, they both teetered over the edge of the whirlpool of magic that sought to suck them to God knew where.

Michael reached out with his thoughts, trying to touch his anchor's mind, trying to break the control Dunleavy had over him in order to save them both. But at that moment, the man raised the stake he held in his hand and stepped forward. The whirlpool grabbed them, dragging them into its depths. And suddenly he was free falling, tumbling down and down and down. Even a vampire couldn't escape a hole as deep as hell itself. He wasn't about to get trapped in hell. Though disorientated, he flung out his arms, trying to get some idea as to what was around him. He hit flesh first and grabbed the man, knowing he had to save him if he could. His free hand brushed walls, but they were too smooth to provide any real purchase. Then he hit wood, but it slithered past too fast for him to grab.

More smooth rock. Another piece of wood.

This one he managed to hook his arm around. The abrupt halt tore at muscles, and the sudden deadweight of the stranger damn near popped his left shoulder out of its socket. He hissed, fighting pain, fighting to keep his grip on the wooden beam and the stranger against the pull of the magic and gravity. He blinked the beads of sweat from his eyes and looked around. They were in one of the vertical shafts. It wasn't all that wide, and aging beams lined the drop, with supporting beams spanning the gap north to south. If he'd hit any of them in those first few moments of free falling, he probably would have broken his back. But luck had been with him, and he'd fallen right through the middle.

He couldn't see the top of the shaft, and he had no idea just how far he'd fallen. He glanced down. The beams continued on for a while, and then the wood gave way to unnaturally smooth rock. Dunleavy's doing, he suspected. The bastard was probably trying to ensure the hole was deep enough to cage a vampire. If he'd fallen much farther, he would have been caught in that cage. Material tore, and the stranger dropped a little. Pain ripped up Michael's arm, burning through the rest of his body. He swore softly. The man's weight must have torn ligaments when they'd come to that sudden halt. And it wasn't like he could shift his grip and make both of them more comfortable. He needed help.

Needed to know if Nikki was okay.

He reached out to her, but the link between them was little more than a black wasteland. He swore again. Dunleavy had her. He knew that without doubt.

He tried instead to use his kinetic skills, but they were still locked in glue. Nikki was right. The circle around this town was blocking basic psychic abilities. So why could she use her flames? And how could he siphon her 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.