Dancing With The Dead

Chapter Five

Her scream became a grunt when she hit something solid. She gripped the old crossbeam that had stopped her fall, and hoped like hell it would hold. Far below she could hear the cry of the ocean, a siren's song that promised death.

She couldn't swim. Could barely even dog paddle.

There was another crack, then everything around her began to fall again, heading for the deeper pit of darkness opening near her feet She let go of the flashlight and dove forward, reaching for something, anything, to stop her slide into oblivion. Her hands scraped against wood; she grabbed at it wildly. It shifted under the force of her weight, slipping several feet forward. For one heart-stopping moment, she hung motionless above the black pit, barely daring to breathe.

The wood cracked. She swung forward, desperate to find a more secure hold. Jagged splinters tore at her hands and offered no hope.

"Michael!" Her hands slipped further down the old piece of timber. It cracked again, dropping her several inches closer to the pit and death.

"Nikki!"

She glanced up. He leaned over the pit, reaching for her. She shifted her grip on the timber then lunged for his outstretched fingers. His hand caught hers as more flooring shifted and dropped away.

"Your other arm," he ordered, voice hoarse.

She released the timber and swung towards him. He caught her other hand, his grip like iron as she swung wildly around. The sound of the ocean far below grew stronger.

Inch by precious inch, Michael moved backwards, pulling her with him. As her feet came over the edge of the hole, he stood and dragged her upright. The night whirled briefly, and she closed her eyes, willing the sensation away.

He placed his hand under her elbow and guided her to safety. Dark laughter flickered through her mind.

She shivered. Jasper's trap might have failed, but he wasn't finished with her yet. Lord, she felt so cold—not externally. Internally, deep inside her heart and soul.

Michael stopped, forcing her to do the same.

"Are you all right?" He raised her hand, gently running his fingers over hers.

She flinched when he touched several splinters. "Battered and shaking, but otherwise in one piece." Her voice shook slightly, and she took a deep breath, trying to calm the desperate racing of her heart.

"Thank you," she added softly. "That's the second time you've saved my life."

"One more time, and you're mine."

The odd seriousness behind the light remark made her uneasy. She wished she could see his eyes.

Wished she could see his thoughts and know what he meant.

"You're bleeding," he said, lightly touching her middle finger.

She frowned. While she had no doubt that she was, how could he tell in the darkness?

"You should go back to the car and tend to these straight away," he continued softly, "or you might risk infection."

"A couple more minutes won't matter. Can you pull the splinters out?"

"I could, but I think it might be wiser if you went back to the car."

Why was he suddenly so determined to get rid of her? "No. I want to see to Monica first."

"There's nothing to see, Nikki. Go back to the car and tend to your hands."

"No." Besides, something warned her not to leave the girl's body with this man. Warned that she might not find it again if she did. An odd thought indeed—what in hell would Michael want with a dead teenager?

"You're a stubborn woman, Nikki James."

She smiled at the hint of exasperation in his voice. He'd only known her twenty-four hours, and already he'd come to that realization. It usually took people far longer to see beneath her polite veneer.

"And this is one of my good days," she replied lightly. "Now, would you please remove the damn splinters?"

"As you wish."

She stared into the darkness and tried counting to one hundred. It didn't work. She could no more ignore the sting in her hands than the warm brush of his body against hers.

"There," he said after a moment. "All gone."

"Good. Now we can go find Monica."

He smiled, though she couldn't say how she knew this. Perhaps it was little more than a quick caress of laughter in her mind. Or wishful thinking.

He placed a hand under her elbow again and led her forward. The smell of decay tainted the air, a smell that had nothing to do with the sea or the rotting rubbish she kept tripping over. It was the smell of death.

If only she hadn't dropped her flashlight…

Ahead, moonlight flickered through a few broken wallboards. The darkness shifted slightly, becoming less intense. Shapes loomed—old crates and half-destroyed internal walls. Michael stepped through a shattered doorway then stopped. Monica lay before them, serene and quiet on a battered old mattress.

She looked at peace, Nikki thought. Innocent. Strange how death could be so deceiving.

She knelt beside the teenager's body and gently touched her neck. Though she didn't doubt Michael's word, she couldn't help hoping that perhaps he was wrong.

He wasn't.

Guilt washed through her. This death was partly her fault. If she hadn't given in to fear, the teenager might still be alive.

"Monica chose her fate. Nothing you could have done would have prevented this," Michael stated, kneeling on the opposite side of the body.

She raised an eyebrow at the anger in his voice. Yet she sensed the anger had been aimed at himself, not her. He moved his hand, drawing her gaze back to Monica.

"We should check her body."

"Why? Monica's dead, and as you pointed out, there's nothing much we can do about it now. Let's call the police and let them deal with her."

"I don't think that would be wise right now."

She sighed and rubbed her temples wearily. She had a horrible feeling the night's surprises were not over yet. "Why not?"

"Once I examine the body, I'll explain."

The thought of touching the dead girl any further made Nikki's skin crawl. "What are you looking for?"

He gave her an enigmatic smile, shrugging one shoulder. "Odd marks. A recent knife wound."

She raised an eyebrow and made no comment. Michael brushed the teenager's long hair to one side and bent to study her neck. His frown suggested he wasn't happy with what he found.

She rubbed her arms. "Why are odd marks so important?"

"If I find them, I'll explain." He hesitated and glanced up. "It'll be done a lot quicker if you helped."

Though his tone was even, his irritation seared her mind. She bit her lip, then reached down, gingerly lifting Monica's right arm. The smooth flesh felt cool, like meat just taken out of the fridge. Her stomach turned. They shouldn't be doing this. It was a violation of the dead.

"If she's dead, she can't mind," Michael said.

"Keep out of my thoughts," she snapped, then frowned. "What do you mean, if she's dead?"

"Nothing yet. Keep checking."

"This is definitely not a sharing environment you're creating here, you know," she muttered.

"I never said it would be," he said. "I'm here to catch a killer, nothing more."

And she and Monica were merely the means to the end. The thought annoyed her more than it should have. Lowering Monica's arm to her side, she continued her examination.

No unusual marks appeared to mar the creamy perfection of the teenager's skin. Nikki sat back on her heels. While she would have loved to get out of this building and the death it held so peacefully, she owed it to Trevgard to find out the truth. If she couldn't have prevented Monica's death, she could at least find out why she died—and maybe bring her killer to justice.

The image of sapphire-ringed eyes rose in her mind, and she shivered. If Monica's killer and her own hunter were one and the same, what would she do?

"You'd better come around here and have a look at what I've found," Michael commented softly.

His face was emotionless, giving no indication of what to expect. She rose and walked around to his side. "Look at what?"

"Her wrist for starters."

He pointed to Monica's wrist; a two-inch cut marred her skin. But the pale color of the scar indicated the wound was at least a week old. She couldn't see how it was related to Monica's death. "And?"

"Now look at her neck."

She squatted by his side. Two small puncture wounds spoiled the white skin. Dried blood ran a dark trail from the wounds and disappeared behind Monica's pale blonde hair.

She froze.

Michael had commented earlier that Monica had died from blood loss, yet there was very little blood near the body and no other obvious sign of injury apart from the wrist and these two wounds. Wounds that looked an awful lot like bite marks. But not from an animal. Not from anything she knew.

She closed her eyes, unable to voice the fear in her mind.

"From a vampire," Michael finished for her.

A fear as ancient as time itself rose, threatening to overwhelm her. She took a deep breath and tried to control the turmoil running panicked circles in her mind. It couldn't be true. Vampires didn't exist, damn it! They were a product of fiction and imagination, not reality.

"Just as psychic powers don't exist?" Michael said, voice gentle.

She glanced at him sharply. There was an odd expression on his face, as if her reaction was important in some way. "That isn't the same thing!"

"Why? Many people believe psychic powers to be in the same reality as vampires. Does not believing in them make them any less real?"

"No. But vampires?"

"Look at her neck, Nikki. Remember the man she was with, remember his evil."

She didn't need to remember. All she had to do was close her eyes and his image was there. "Being evil doesn't necessarily make him a vampire."

"No. Drinking blood to survive does that."

She shuddered. Monica looked so young, so peaceful. So very dead. But if what Michael said was true, she would soon become a vampire. All it had taken was one little bite.

"Being the victim of a vampire doesn't mean you become one," he commented softly.

"It does in the movies." She rested back on her heels and rubbed her arms, wondering why the room had suddenly become so cold.

"In real life, one becomes a vampire by sharing the vampire's blood through a special ceremony."

Michael shrugged. "And only with consent on both sides."

"Are you saying Monica wanted to become a vampire?"

"To some, the lure of eternal life is powerful."

"Not powerful enough, thank you very much." Yet she remembered Jasper's mocking assessment of the rich, and wondered. "Besides, we can't be sure Monica went through this ceremony."

"No. But that cut on her wrist looks ominous."

She studied the half-healed wound. How could you tell an attempted suicide from an incision made during a special ceremony?

"You can't." Michael's voice was grim. "And that is why we must make sure she is dead."

She understood the intent behind his words well enough, even if he didn't come straight out and say it.

"Why?"

"If she shared blood, she merely rests, waiting while her body undergoes the transformation."

"And have the movies got the methods of killing a vampire wrong, as well?"

He hesitated fractionally, then shook his head. "No. A stake through the heart will usually kill, as will the midday sun. Decapitation is the best method, though."

She raised an eyebrow. "And this is what you intend for Monica?"

His gaze searched her face. She wondered why. If he read her mind so easily, surely he could taste her anger.

"It is for the best," he said after a moment.

Once again he wasn't telling her everything. "Best for whom? You, or Monica? What right have you to declare such a judgment on her?"

"I am a hunter of evil, Nikki. I track it and kill it, and in the process make the night a safer place for people like you to walk."

"Don't give me that sanctimonious crap. You haven't the right to touch Monica."

"I must, or she will rise to aid Jasper." This time a hint of impatience colored his quiet words.

Her anger rose another notch. "That is, I gather, the name of the man who is after me."

He hesitated again. She swore and pushed upright, moving to stand near the wall. Wintry air rushed through the shattered window above her head, but it failed to cool the anger heating her cheeks or the turmoil churning her stomach. Michael knew more than just her hunter's name, so why wouldn't he divulge what he knew? A lack of trust, or something more?

She studied Monica again. At rest, the teenager looked untouched by evil. It was easy to understand why Trevgard refused to see his daughter as anything more than innocent. What would she say to him?

Or to Jake? How could she face them if she allowed Monica to be mutilated? How could she face herself, in the long years of nightmares left ahead?

"I can't," she stated quietly, finally meeting Michael's watchful gaze.

His anger seared her mind.

"You can't stop me," he warned quietly.

The threat behind his soft words shook her. Though he hadn't moved a muscle, he suddenly seemed so much larger, more threatening. The shadows moved in around him, half hiding his form, making him one with the night and the sense of evil that still haunted the old warehouse. In the blink of an eye, death had stepped into the room and become her companion.

She clenched her fingers, felt energy tingle across her skin. Michael wasn't evil, not in the same sense as the man he'd called Jasper. Yet she couldn't escape the feeling he wasn't entirely on the side of the angels, either.

"Are you willing to kill me to get to Monica?" she said.

His eyes were chips of ebony ice. "Are you willing to die for the sake of evil?"

No. But she refused to stand by and let him mutilate Monica's body, either. She owed her that much, at least. "If that's what it takes, yes."

Anger danced around her. She fought to breathe normally, trying not to show the fear tying her stomach into knots. She had a feeling Michael had spent too many years on his own, owing council to few.

Sensed he was a mixture of shades—light and dark, good and bad. She just had to hope the shadows in his soul didn't win here tonight.

"Nikki, if this child becomes a vampire, she will be more dangerous than the man who hunts you. Can you live with the death of innocents?"

She stared at him. How could anyone be more dangerous than the man he'd called Jasper?

"I've been hired to find Monica and take her back to her father—in one piece. I'm just trying to do my job."

"And if she does turn?"

"I'll deal with it if it happens."

A wave of fury rocked her back on her heels. The darkness crackled with energy and the sense of impending doom. She stood her ground, not giving in to fear.

"You have no real concept of what you're letting loose," Michael said, dark eyes glacial. The shadows around him began to retreat, but not the immediate feel of danger. "Perhaps it is time for you to learn."

For an instant he became something more than human, something akin to the evil that stalked her. Her heart began to pound rapidly, a cadence that filled the tense silence. Something glimmered in his eyes, an echo of the depravity she'd seen in Jasper's vibrant gaze.

Michael wasn't evil. Yet she couldn't escape the notion that her hunter and Michael were, in some way, connected. Damn it, she really had to find out more about both of them.

"What do you mean?" she asked quietly. Energy flowed across her fingers, yet she held her weapon in check. She was not about to fire the first shot and create a war she had no hope of winning.

"Nothing. We will wait, as you wish." He shrugged and looked away.

Hiding his eyes, she thought, as he rose. The shadows no longer wrapped themselves around his body, and the impending sense of doom had fled with them. Yet the night still ran with uneasy tension.

"Come," he continued. "Let's go back to your car and call the police."

Though there was no emotion in his voice, there was still an edge of violence in his actions. This man had saved her life twice, yet she knew nothing about him—nothing beyond the fact he could be very, very dangerous.

He turned to look at her, his eyes coal black wells that told her little. Yet a flicker of emotion from his mind suggested her distrust annoyed him.

"You have my word that I will not, in any way, touch or move Monica tonight. Is that enough?"

His soft tone hinted at anger, yet she heard no lie in his words. She nodded. After tonight, Monica would be in police hands. There was little he could do to her then.

"I shall lead, if you wish," he said, and offered her his hand.

Why the sudden formality? Was it anger, annoyance, or something else entirely? The warmth of his fingers enclosed around hers, but a chill raced through her heart. This man was dangerous, in more ways than one. Yet she felt oddly safe with him.

She just had to hope this wasn't one of those rare moments when her instincts made a complete and utter hash of everything.

And that he wasn't right about Monica.

Michael crossed his arms and watched the two men bag the body. Even from this distance he could hear the slow but steady beat of her heart. It was a gentle rhythm few humans would ever pick up, just a single beat every few minutes. His was much the same, except in times of stress or feeding. The lack of life flowing through one's body was one of the penalties of being a vampire.

He had no doubt the teenager would soon rise. Though it usually took a minimum of forty-eight hours, Monica appeared to be taking the change faster than most. She'd probably wake with the onset of the new night.

He should have killed her. What on earth had possessed him to make such a rash promise? All too often he had witnessed the bloody rampages of the newly turned. When the depth of malice and hate were as great as those he sensed in Monica, it was sheer madness to let them live. But he'd given his word to Nikki, and he intended to keep it. Whatever the consequences.

He had a sudden image of Nikki, face white and eyes wide with fear, and frowned. He'd come too close to losing control tonight. Had he been alone so long that a simple act of defiance could tip him over the edge?

Or was he so used to forcing others to obey his will that it was something of a shock to find someone who could defy him?

He sighed and rubbed a hand across his eyes. Whatever the reason, it didn't alter the fact he'd have to watch himself. He'd spent too long mastering the darkness. The last thing he needed right now was to let that control slip, especially when he was hunting someone like Jasper. The fiend would exploit any weakness he could.

The two men placed the teenager's body on a trolley and wheeled her through the door. He followed them into the alley.

Several police officers were still questioning Nikki. He moved to one side, out of her line of sight, but her awareness washed over him anyway. He leaned a shoulder against the building's concrete wall. How could she track him when few could? Was it just her extraordinary psychic abilities, or had the brief moment of their spirits touching formed a connection far stronger than he'd thought possible?

The sea breeze swirled, running chill fingers through his hair. Michael frowned and studied the distant shadows. A faint hint of evil mingled with the smell of the sea.

Jasper had returned. He fought the urge to go after the fiend, and looked at Nikki. The police officers dwarfed her, but they'd be no protection when it came to Jasper. Or the zombies. Either of them could kill her before the cops knew something was wrong.

He glanced at his watch and raised an eyebrow in surprise. It was well after four. They'd been here for nearly three hours now. How many times could the police hear the same version of the same story?

Couldn't they see how tired she was? He was tempted, very tempted, to come out of the shadows and ask what in hell was going on—only the fact the police where bound to start asking him questions stopped him. His years of hunting evil had made him a lot of enemies. He wanted his whereabouts unknown to all except those he could trust.

The number of which he could count on one hand.

After a few more minutes, the two officers moved back towards the warehouse. He waited until they'd disappeared, then pushed away from the shadows and walked across to her.

"Have they finished?" He kept a careful eye on the old building. He didn't want the policemen suddenly returning and spotting him.

Dark rings shadowed her eyes, and her nod was barely visible. A stray wisp of hair fell across her eyes, and he had to restrain a sudden urge to tuck it back behind her ear.

"They asked me not to leave Lyndhurst. Looks like I'm a suspect, as usual."

"And a pretty grubby one, at that." He smiled at her startled look. "Do you wish to go home, or to the office?"

"Home. They let me call Jake earlier and tell him what's going on."

"Shall I drive again?"

She shook her head. "No, I'm fine."

She looked close to exhaustion, but he handed over the keys anyway. She unlocked the passenger's door, then moved around to the other side. Michael climbed in, studying the distant darkness carefully.

Jasper was still there, still watching. Hopefully, he'd follow.

Nikki fired the engine and turned the car around. Across the silence came the sound of another car starting.

He smiled grimly. Jasper's behavior was sometimes too predicable. Once Nikki was safely home, Michael could resume his hunt.

"Penny for them," she said softly.

He glanced across at her. Moonlight gilded her dark chestnut hair and softened the planes of her angular features. She was truly beautiful. A jewel he could not afford to touch.

He cleared his throat and glanced out the window. "How safe is your house?"

"It's actually Jake's old house, which he divided into apartments. It has lots of locks, I can assure you."

Which Jasper could pass with ease if she uttered the right words. "I was thinking in terms of help if Jasper's friends turn up."

She gave him a quick smile. "I can scream very loudly."

He controlled the impulse to return her smile and watched the amusement fade from her eyes.

"I have my abilities," she stated quietly. "I can protect myself."

The hint of uncertainty behind her words suggested she wasn't as confident as she sounded. "And neighbors?"

"An old couple above me and a drunk below. Not what I'd term reliable help in this sort of situation."

Not what he'd term reliable help in any sort of situation.

"I'll be fine," she asserted softly. "I've been in worse situations, believe me."

Her bleak tone stirred his curiosity. What could be worse than a vampire and his undead after your body and soul? "Such as?"

She glanced at him, amber eyes suddenly as unreadable as her thoughts. "When you tell me your secrets, I'll tell you mine. We're here."

She stopped the car in the driveway of an old Victorian. Michael climbed out and studied the building. A good coat of paint and a gardener could have done wonders for the look of the place. But no amount of paint could help the rot setting into the windows or the door frame. Neither would hold Jasper back for more than a minute.

"Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee? I've got some of the best Mocha you've ever…" Her voice faded, eyes widening slightly as she stared at him.

As if she'd suddenly realized her impulsive invitation had just given him unlimited access to her home.

He smiled and reached out, tucking the stray stand of hair back behind her ear. She shivered slightly at the brief caress, but didn't retreat.

"Thanks, but I'd better not. You need to rest."

"True." She gave him a smile that was more nerves than warmth, but her gaze went beyond him, studying the night.

He knew then she'd sensed Jasper's presence.

"Nikki." He touched her arm lightly, felt the tremor that ran through her body. "I'll stop him, whatever it takes. He will not touch you. Ever."

Empty words, when Jasper's darkness had touched her already. He couldn't prevent it happening again, and in many respects, didn't want to. She was still his best hope of getting Jasper quickly.

Her gaze searched his face, curious and afraid. "Why do you do this? Why do you risk your life for me?"

He shrugged. "I don't really know."

She sensed the lie. He could see it in her eyes. But he couldn't tell her the truth—that he was using her to find Jasper. He didn't want to hurt her that way.

He ran his hand down her arm and gently clasped her hand. Her pulse skipped a beat, then began to race. Fear had no part of this reaction, just as it had no part in his own. "I shall see you tomorrow evening."

He raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them gently. She smelled of honey and cinnamon. Of life.

Everything he longed for but had long ago lost. He released her hand and stepped away, moving back into the darkness of the ill-lit street. Her gaze followed him for a while, then she turned and moved silently into the house.

He stopped and spun his senses into the night. Jasper was a half block away. Michael smiled grimly and cast a final glance at Nikki's apartment. He doubted Jasper would risk an attack with the remaining two zombies, not with dawn so close, and despite his efforts earlier this evening, Jasper hadn't succeeded in getting a firm enough grip on Nikki's mind to exert any sort of control over her. Not enough to force her to utter the words that would give him access to her home, anyway. For the moment, she was safe enough.

Time to hunt the hunter.