Dancing With The Dead

Chapter Four

Only the harsh notes of her breathing broke the silence.

There was nothing to see, nothing beyond a deep void of darkness. Yet something or someone was near. She rubbed her palms down her thighs and wondered what sort of game was about to be played.

Soft laughter stirred the satin cover of night, filling the void with its corruption.

She closed her eyes. He was here—in the cage that had captured her spirit—and there was no escape.

Energy pulsed above her head, a net of power that somehow held her prisoner. If she stayed here too long, she would die.

Was that his aim?

Sweat trickled down her back. Fists clenched, she watched a golden shaft of light spread across the darkness. It revealed a makeshift bed. On it lay Monica.

There was no sense of death, yet she could see no sign of life. It was almost as if the teenager hovered somewhere between the two. Shivering in apprehension, she wondered what other surprises her abductor had in store for her.

As if in answer to her question, laughter slid around her. Heart working overtime, she turned.

He flowed into existence from a patch of midnight, a maneuver that reminded her oddly of Michael. But the man before her now—no, he was more a boy, albeit boy with the physique of a body builder. He appeared maybe fifteen, sixteen years old, but he was strong. Powerful. Hauntingly beautiful… and totally evil.

"Monica is mine."

His whisper sliced through her. "Why are you doing this to her? To me?" Her voice came out high, almost childlike. She swallowed, trying to ease the aching dryness in her throat.

"She has what she wanted." His blue eyes began to change. Began to burn with a sapphire flame.

She licked her lips. "And that is?"

He moved a step closer. Horror held her immobile.

"What do all the vain rich want?" he replied. "Power. Eternal life."

His answer made no sense. "And me?" she asked, fearing the answer.

"You, my pretty, are the first to ever elude my call."

He reached out, brushing her cheek with a feverish hand. Her skin stung and bile rose in her throat. She longed to run, but even the simple act of breathing had become suddenly difficult. His hand slid lightly down her neck and across her breast. She closed her eyes, digging her nails into her palms to stop herself from screaming. She'd be damned if she'd give him that pleasure.

He laughed. Her eyes flew open. Hunger stirred deep in the bright heart of his eyes.

"So brave," he whispered. "So very brave. Our association will be an interesting one indeed."

She shuddered, her mind screaming a denial her lips refused to utter. His gaze became a sapphire blaze.

So bright.

So blue.

She watched, enthralled, as death closed in.

Night had settled across cloudy skies when Michael made his way through the last of the stockyards. The cattle had stilled their restless stirring now that he no longer walked among them, and the distant rumble of traffic made little impact on the hush surrounding him.

He reached the last fence and stopped, leaning his arms against the rough railings. The red flare of life burned in the buildings opposite, and his hunger, though sated, stirred sluggishly. He grimaced. Would the desire for the sweet strength of human blood ever leave him? Three centuries had passed, and still the yearning ran through his veins, an addiction that refused to die.

Four men worked within the building, their life forces visible through the large windows. The man he sought was not among them. Not that he expected Jasper to be hiding on the outskirts of the city. His foe had a taste for the high life, even if he hunted easy prey in the poorer areas. Monica was not the first young woman turned by a gentle dance with the devil.

He climbed through the railings, then broke into a run, moving quickly along the road that would take him back to the heart of Lyndhurst. A quick check earlier in the day had revealed that Lyndhurst had five detective agencies. After three calls, he'd found Nikki's. He glanced at his watch. It was nearly six-thirty—she should be there by now.

What he did then depended very much on Nikki's reaction to him. But one way or another, willing or unwilling, she would become his bait.

The sounds and smell of humanity swirled around him as he approached the business district. The streets became crowded, forcing him to slow. He might be able to prevent most people from seeing him, but he couldn't prevent them from feeling the impact of his body if he ran into them. The last thing he needed right now was to stir more hysteria. The recent disappearances of four women had caused enough trouble. Too much more, and Jasper might just leave. Despite his assurance to Seline, he knew Jasper wasn't stupid enough to stick around if hunting became too difficult. There was always another city, another time. Their final battle might be long overdue, but Jasper had time to spare. He would wait until the time was right and the odds on his side.

The building where Nikki worked came into sight. Lights shone brightly through the windows. Nikki was

… He stopped abruptly, a cold sensation he might once have named fear running through him.

Energy shimmered across his skin—a powerful cord of evil that held Nikki's mind captive. He took the steps two at a time and opened the door. Two men looked up as he entered. One stood near a desk, the other kneeling beside to Nikki, one hand reaching out—

"Don't touch her!"

"What do you mean, don't touch her?" The blond stranger glared at him. Though he hunched over Nikki protectively, he made no further attempt to touch her.

No fool, this one, he thought and knelt on the opposite side of Nikki's prone body.

"You might kill her," he said tersely, running his right hand a whisper above her body, searching for some chink in the powerful energy shield surrounding her.

He heard the man's sharp intake of breath, but paid him little heed. Nikki's breathing was shallow and erratic, her heart straining under the increasing pressure. A body could survive only so long without the will, the essence, of its being.

If she died, she would be Jasper's.

Power pulsed against his skin like a thousand dancing fireflies. He narrowed his eyes and watched the bright promenade, studying its rhythm. Urgency beat through his heart, but he ignored it. She could die if he hurried—and die if he didn't.

The tempo of the dance faltered, weakening slightly, allowing him access. He reached out to her mind, swiftly following the psychic cord through the darkness.

Fear hit him again when he realized that Jasper was also attempting a mind lock… and that he was close to succeeding.

Nikki, Nikki, don't look at his eyes!He charged the mental shout with all the power he could. He had to break the magnetic hold his enemy had on her mind.

Why?

Her reply was weak, vague. She was so close to giving in, yet in her own way, still fighting. It was a miracle she'd held out as long as she had.

His eyes are so very… beautiful.

No! Nikki, look away!

Confusion stirred through the link, and hope soared within him. The more she fought against the net holding her captive, the weaker it would get. But Jasper was more powerful than he'd realized, if the fiend could hold this net in place and still have the strength to attempt the possession of a mind as strong as Nikki's.

Fight him!

The net trembled, weakening with every second. Yet so was she. Psychic energy burned through him, but he held his weapon in check, denying the impulse to assault the net and destroy his enemy. He didn't understand how the net entwined her mind, and if he tried to destroy it, he might destroy her. He didn't want to do that unless it was absolutely necessary. He would just have to wait, and catch her when she came free. If she came free.

Don't give in, Nikki!

Michael?

Her response was stronger this time. Wisps of urgency shimmered across the net, testing its boundaries, its strength.

A desperate surge of energy ran through the lattice of power, yet Jasper was faltering. A small tear appeared in its fabric. More energy flared through the net, but it was no longer enough to hold her.

Reaching out, Michael pulled her clear. Her spirit entwined with his for an instant, a gentle yet intense caress that shocked him. Then she was gone, and he was back in his body, left with an odd sense of regret.

He opened his eyes and lowered his hand, gently stroking sweaty strands of dark hair away from her closed eyes. That caress… It could get them both into trouble. Whether she knew it or not, she'd created a link that would not be easily broken. It could make things awkward, given that he had no intention of doing anything more than using her to capture Jasper.

She opened her eyes and stared at him blankly. Just for an instant, he saw an echo of evil in the smoky amber depths. How far had Jasper succeeded in his mind lock? There was no way to tell, no way to know until his enemy made his next move.

"Michael?"

"You're safe," he replied softly.

"Need to rest," she murmured, closing her eyes again.

He wasn't surprised. After what she'd just endured, she should sleep a week.

"How is she? Will she be okay?" the blond stranger asked anxiously.

Michael ignored him, focusing instead on the big man near the desk. Frustration, fear and worry were evident in his thoughts, and he was about ready to explode. Slipping into the old man's mind, he ordered him to be silent. Nikki needed attention. He didn't have the time to be involved in a war of words.

"She's fine," he said, returning his gaze to the blond man. "She just needs to rest."

"We'll put her in the room behind you. By the way," he said, "I'm Jake Morgan."

"Michael Kelly." He shook the offered hand impatiently.

"Thought you might be. How long will she be out?"

Michael shrugged. "Minimum, a couple of hours. I shall stay and keep watch over her." And what better way to start gaining her trust than by being here, guarding her, when she woke?

Jake nodded, not asking the questions Michael could see in his mind. Instead, he rose and crossed the room to speak to the older man.

Michael slipped his arms under her body and carefully lifted. She was light. Too light, really. How in hell did she manage to maintain the energy needed to feed her psychic gifts when there was so little of her?

He took her into the next room and laid her carefully on the old couch that dominated one wall of the small storeroom. She stirred and opened her eyes.

"Don't leave me," she murmured.

Her gaze was filled with shadows and fear. He smiled and sat beside her. She shifted slightly, using his leg as a pillow. Closing his eyes, Michael carefully reached into her mind, calming the surface turmoil, stilling her fears—at least enough to allow her to sleep peacefully for several hours. That he could do this without her knowing spoke of her desperate need for rest.

He opened his eyes and gazed at her. She looked so young lying there, almost childlike. Yet he'd caught the occasional whisper of thought that spoke of a harsh past. He caressed her forehead, her skin like satin against his fingertips. Though he knew he could not afford to get more involved than he was, he found himself wishing again that he had the time to learn more about her.

But that was a freedom he'd lost long ago, and it was too late now for regrets.

Darkness drifted through her dreams. It filled her mind, washing corruption through her soul. She fought it, desperate to be free. Yet she couldn't break the chains holding her captive.

In the distance she heard a voice whisper her name. She turned toward the sound, following it desperately through the darkness.

Awareness surfaced. A door slammed in the front office. Trevgard, Nikki thought, and knew by the sudden leap of tension in the main office that both his patience and his temper were growing thin. She also became aware of Michael, of the firmness of his thigh against her cheek, the gentleness of his fingers caressing her forehead. Of his scent, an odd mixture of spice and earthiness.

Much too aware.

She sat up abruptly. Averting her gaze from his, she pushed her hair back behind her ears. How did you react to a man who had saved your life and yet was still so much of an enigma?

"A simple thank you would be sufficient," he said quietly.

She glanced up sharply. "I've never met anyone who can read my thoughts as easily as you appear able to." Tommy had been able to read her thoughts, but not so easily, unless she'd been angry or tired.

Michael shrugged, ebony eyes regarding her warily. "Telepathy is a strong gift in my family. Over the years, I've honed its use."

She had an odd feeling he wasn't speaking of blood relatives when he spoke of family. She frowned, but turned at the sound of approaching footsteps. Jake opened the door and entered the room "Thought I heard voices," he commented, stopping just inside the doorway. "I hate to have to rush you, Nik, but—" "Trevgard's getting anxious," she finished with a sigh.

"I just made a fresh pot of coffee. Want a cup?"

"Yes." She tried to ignore the ache that ran through nearly every muscle and pushed to her feet.

"Michael?"

"If it's strong and black, I'll drink it."

He stood quickly, touching her elbow as she swayed slightly. She smiled her thanks and moved into the office, aware of Michael close behind her. Ready to catch her if she fell, she thought wryly, though her weakness was no joke.

Jake placed her coffee on the desk. Michael accepted his cup with a nod and sat on the edge of her desk.

Trevgard swung around to face her as Jake returned the coffeepot to the hot plate. "So tell me, did you find Monica or not?"

Nikki sighed. "Yes, I found her." She didn't mention the fact that Monica might be dead. She didn't have the strength to face the old man's fury right now.

"And?" he demanded.

"And I'll try to bring her back with me."

Not alone, you won't.

She looked at Michael warily, wishing she knew more about him. Instinct told her to trust him, yet there was something about him that made her uneasy. She would not refuse his help, however. Nothing on this earth could make her go into that building alone to find Monica. Not with a young madman on the loose, wanting her.

"Then you really can find my daughter?" Trevgard's voice was an odd mixture of hope and anger.

She returned her attention to him. "I think so. I've got a general idea of direction; it's just a matter of driving around until I find the right building."

"Then what went wrong before?" Jake asked, moving back to his desk.

"Ever heard of out-of-body experiences?"

Jake nodded. "Never believed them, of course."

She smiled. He hadn't believed in psychic talents, either, until they'd saved his life. "It was something akin to that. Except my spirit, soul, metaphysical body—whatever you want to call it—was forcibly drawn away from my body and trapped."

"How?"

"I honestly don't know." But she wished she did, so she could prevent it from happening again.

"It took a lot of psychic power to create and hold that net," Michael commented quietly.

Nikki regarded him thoughtfully. "And a lot strength to pull me in. Yet he still had enough left to hold the intensity of the web as long as he did."

Jake's eyebrows rose. "Web?"

She took a sip of her coffee, then nodded. "Yes. A net of some sort held me captive. I don't know what he was trying to achieve. I wasn't really there. He couldn't physically harm me."

Though he could have killed her, had he held the net long enough.

"Control." Michael's expression was grim when it met hers. "He was after control."

"So I wouldn't be able to fight him if we ever met." Cold fear ran down her spine. She had come so close.

"The man's a fiend," Jake swore and rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't suppose you can give a description to the police?"

"Yes. Whether they'll believe it is another matter."

Jake grimaced. "Our reputation's not exactly solid where they're concerned."

Trevgard made no comment, but she knew from the look in his eyes that their reputation was not one hundred per cent where he was concerned, either.

Smiling grimly, she said, "And it's not a man we're after, Jake. It's a boy."

Only Michael showed no surprise. Nikki had a feeling he'd known about the madman's youth long before she had.

"A boy?" Jake asked incredulously.

She nodded. "All of maybe sixteen. As solid as a brick wall and as mad as a March hare."

Jake sighed and scratched at the ginger stubble lining his chin. "Just what we need. Another psychotic in Lyndhurst."

"Lyndhurst specializes in this sort of thing, does it?" Michael asked, the mild amusement in his voice at odds with the sudden interest in his face.

Jake gave him a sour look. "Lately it seems to."

"Enough!" Trevgard's gravely voice cut in. "This is not doing anything to find my daughter."

Though she hated admitting it, he was right. She finished her coffee and rose. Trevgard took several steps forward, his body radiating the anger she could feel in his thoughts. He was ready for a confrontation. Wanted it.

"I'm coming," he announced. "I'll not run the risk of losing her a second time."

His company was the last thing she needed. She'd be too aware of his anger and disbelief to concentrate on the fragile images that would lead her to Monica.

"No," Jake said. "Leave this to the experts."

"And I suppose he's an expert?" Trevgard sneered, jutting his chin in Michael's direction.

"Well, he's not someone I'd tackle on a dark and gloomy night," Jake replied with a wry grin.

Trevgard grunted and looked away. She glanced across at Michael. He stood beside her desk, arms crossed as he regarded Trevgard thoughtfully. He looked casual, yet there was something menacing about him, something that spoke of a fighter ready to step into the ring. He certainly wasn't someone she'd want to tackle on a dark night, either. He met her gaze and raised an eyebrow, a slight smile tugging one edge of his generous mouth. She licked her lips and looked away. Damn. She'd have to remember to watch what she was thinking.

She grabbed her keys and jacket and walked towards the door.

"Remember, use the damn phone," Jake called. "Let me know what's happening."

She acknowledged his order with a wave of her hand, and stepped outside. A blast of wintry air greeted her. She shivered and quickly put on her jacket. Michael stopped beside her, his gaze searching the streets, as if looking for someone. And while the light cotton sweater he wore emphasized the width of his shoulders very nicely, it couldn't have held much warmth. She frowned and hurried down the steps to her car. Lots of people didn't feel the cold, so why was she bothered by the fact that he didn't?

"Would you prefer it if I drove?" Michael asked as she opened the passenger's door.

She hesitated. If he drove she could concentrate on finding the right building, and Monica. Nodding, she handed him the keys, then climbed in and fastened the seat belt.

"Where to?" he asked, starting the car.

She closed her eyes and tried to pin down the elusive images. "Head for the docks. I'll know more when we get there."

"That's not where I expected him to be." He swung the car around and headed east.

An odd prickle of unease ran down her spine. Michael knew her attacker. Knew him well enough to know his habits. "Why?"

He shrugged, "No reason. I just didn't expect him to be there."

"It sounds as if you know him."

"We've met before."

His voice gave little away, and the shadows hid any reaction there might have been in his face. "Then why in hell haven't you said anything before now? You might know something that could have helped Monica—" "Nothing can help Monica. The child has chosen her own path."

"But before—" "Was still too late."

"Will you let me finish a damn sentence!" she demanded in exasperation.

Michael smiled slightly but didn't respond.

She chewed her lip absently and studied the street ahead. "Why are you in Lyndhurst?" she asked after a moment.

"I came to Lyndhurst to stop the boy." He met her gaze briefly. "As you have already guessed."

By stop, she knew he meant kill. She shuddered. Was this the darkness she sensed—an ability to kill as easily as he breathed?

"Trust me, Nikki," he said gently. "I'll explain when I am able."

Yeah right, she thought. Heard that one before . "Then tell me about yourself."

He hesitated, and in that instant, she sensed he'd give her nothing but lies. He was here for the boy and nothing else mattered. Not her, not anyone.

"I am a bounty hunter, of sorts. I have been on the boy's trail for several years now."

"Why?"

He shrugged. "Because he is a killer who must be stopped."

She frowned. The slight edge in his voice suggested the reason was something more personal. But it was also a warning to go no further.

She returned her gaze to the street, and her stomach lurched. They were nearing the docks. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes, reaching for the images of the old building. The certainty of its position came instantly, and with it, fear. He was there, waiting for her.

"Turn right into the next street," she murmured, letting her instincts take control. "Then left. We're nearly there."

The smooth surface of the road gave way to uneven bitumen, then the rough timbers of an old wharf.

The shadows of the nearby buildings drew close, crowding the narrowing alley. Michael eased the car past a row of Dumpsters then stopped. A building sat before them, squat and ugly.

This was it.

He touched her hand, entwining his fingers briefly in hers. Heat flowed, warming the ice in her veins. "I can go in alone," he said.

She shook her head. She'd never felt afraid of the darkness before, and the boy had somehow taken that from her. One way or another, she had to get it back.

She grabbed the flashlight out of the glove compartment and slowly got out of the car. The wind was bitter, tainted with the smell of fish and putrid rubbish. She dragged the zipper all the way up on her jacket and joined Michael at the front of the car.

Tin rattled noisily along the building's roof, and the wind whistled through the shattered windows lining the first two levels. The distant sounds of traffic were muted, veiled. They might well have been the only two people alive in this part of the world.

"I'll go first, if you like," Michael said, his voice oddly in tune with the strangeness of the night.

"No. Let me lead. I'll feel danger before it approaches."

"I'm not without some abilities of my own."

"But mine—" "Just follow me, Nikki," he stated in a voice that brooked no argument. "For once in your life let someone else take control."

Anger surged. She clenched her fists, somehow resisting the temptation to throw him in the nearby ocean. "Don't you dare say something like that to me. You know nothing about me—not who I am, or what I've been through."

He studied her for a minute, then nodded. "Fair enough. I apologize. I still intend to lead, however."

She bit back her retort. He'd already moved ahead of her, anyway.

She followed him into the shadows encasing the worn building. It loomed above them like some misbegotten troll frozen in darkness. The forlorn moan of the wind chased goose bumps across her skin.

Perhaps it cried for the soul of the teenager locked within. Perhaps it cried for them.

She shivered and rubbed her arms. There was no sense of life within the building. No sense of death, either. She turned on the flashlight. Shattered glass gleamed diamond-bright in the light. Nothing moved except the rubbish sent tumbling along the decaying brick walls.

Yet something waited.

"Nothing waits except the darkness and Monica, Nikki."

He was wrong. Evil had visited this building, even if he wasn't still inside. "I think he's set a trap of some kind."

"Perhaps." His fingers clasped hers gently. "Why don't you remain with the car?"

His hand burned against hers. She squeezed his fingers lightly and shook her head. "I'm no coward."

"I wasn't suggesting you were."

"I know. But I can't back away from this. I won't let him beat me."

Michael nodded and glanced at the doorway. "Shall we go on?"

No.

He looked at her, one dark eyebrow raised in query. She took a deep breath, then smiled. "Lead on."

He didn't let go of her hand, and for that she was grateful. They climbed the front steps. The door opened without a sound, revealing the warehouse's dark interior. The air that rushed out to greet them smelled musty, full of decay. Michael tugged her forward, his steps sure despite the darkness. The flashlight did little good. The night might have been a solid object, for all the impact it had.

After several minutes, she saw a faint gleam of silver in the darkness. Stairs, leading down to a deeper pit of darkness.

Michael hesitated on the top step. Stopping just behind him, she had a sudden sense of him searching the darkness below. Wisps of energy ran through her mind, powerful enough to burn if she tried to capture them.

It was the first time she had some hint of his power, and it made her own seem small by comparison. A man with that much psychic energy could do anything—anything he wanted. An odd sense of foreboding ran through her.

"Monica's downstairs," he murmured after a moment. "Do you still want to go on?"

"Yes." There wasn't a hope in Hades she'd stay here alone.

Their footsteps echoed on the metal stairs, a sound that scraped uneasily across the night. The flashlight flared against the sea of black, yet gave away no secrets.

"Last step," Michael warned softly.

Her foot hit the floor; the wood underneath seemed to give, and she tensed.

"Old flooring," he commented, squeezing her fingers lightly. "It's probably rotted. You'd better wait here while I check it out."

She bit back an instinctive denial and tried to ignore the sense of loss when the warmth of his hand left hers. Holding onto the banister instead, she listened to the soft sound of his footsteps moving away.

"I've found Monica," he called out after a few moments.

She could tell by his tone that he wasn't happy. She swept the flashlight in the direction of his voice but couldn't see anything. "And?"

"She's still warm."

Warm but dead, she knew without asking. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. If she hadn't been such a coward last night, the teenager might still be alive, safe in her father's house.

"Neither of us had much choice last night, Nikki. Do not condemn yourself for matters that cannot be controlled."

His words failed to ease the guilty ache in her heart. She could have tried harder. Should have tried harder.

"How did she die?" she asked, edging towards the sound of his voice.

His reply was terse. "Blood loss."

The floorboards moved a second time. Frowning, she stopped. Apprehension crawled up her spine, but she thrust it away. Michael had walked across this same floor only a few moments ago. If they had held his weight, surely they'd hold hers.

"He's mutilated her?" she said, praying it wasn't so.

"No."

She took another step. "Then how did she die?"

The floor buckled. Wood groaned, as if ready to collapse. Imagination, she told herself fiercely, and took another step.

The floor bowed again, this time accompanied by an odd cracking sound. Sweat broke out across her brow. She cleared her throat. "Michael, I think something's wrong here."

"What?" His voice was sharp, alert.

"The floor." She frowned and took another small step. The boards seemed to bow even further.

"It's an old building," he reminded her gently. "Who knows what condition the supporting pylons are in."

A plausible enough explanation, but not the answer here. She had the horrible feeling the whole lot was about to disappear beneath her. "It's more than that."

"Don't move, then. I'm coming back."

She swung the flashlight round in a tight circle. There was nothing to see but years of dust, stirred to sluggish life in the wake of Michael's passing. She bit her lip and took one more step.

It was one step too many.

Without warning, everything gave way, and she dropped like a stone into darkness.