Seline had given her five events that she considered “markers.” It could be anyone of them. It could be none of them. Nikki scrubbed a hand through her hair. “What's my task?" The old man grinned, revealing stained and rotten teeth. “There are eight rangers looking after this wreck of a town. Two of them will be sacrificed at midnight—unless you can find and save them."
"And Weylin's going to let me wander around unhindered?"
"Never said that.” His grin got bigger. “And can I add some friendly warnings?"
"You're going to whether I want you to or not."
"Ain't that a fact.” He hawked and spat again. “First, none of your magic will work in this place." The only magic she had was the only one that was important, and it was obviously still working, because this old man was seeing Seline, not her.
"The barrier prevents that.” She said it as a statement of fact, even though it was a guess. The old man nodded. “Just as it prevents that vampire friend of yours from using his psychic skills. No messing with anyone's mind this time, I'm afraid."
Seline had warned her this might happen. Whether it actually had happened, or whether the old man's words were just empty threats, was something she'd test later, when she was alone. Seline wasn't supposed to have any psychic skills beyond telepathy, so she had to be careful.
"And?"
"And if you've snuck a phone in, be warned. We have a scanner in place. We'll catch anything you say, and if you say too much, someone will die."
"You and your master are sick, you know that?"
He merely grinned. “Lastly, just let me warn you that it ain't just humans wandering around this place now."
And he was one of those nonhumans. Though what he was exactly, she wasn't sure. “Is that it?"
"For now.” His smile faded, his eyes becoming almost luminous in the harsh sunlight. “I'll take you to your assigned accommodation. Just remember, the afternoon draws into evening, and the first two men will be sacrificed at midnight."
His voice had dropped several octaves, becoming rich and strong. It was the voice of the man in the van—the man with the ethereal gray eyes.
"You must think me quite a foe if you choose to speak through your servant rather than in person, Weylin,” she said tartly.
The old man's eyebrow rose. “I will not make the same mistake as my brother—I will not underestimate you."
There wasn't much she could say to that, so she waited. After a moment, the old man turned and led the way down the slope.
"You have a name?” she asked, as they passed a beautiful old wooden church that looked intact enough to still be in use.
"Kinnard.” He glanced over his shoulder, his grin wide but eyes cold. “You should know that." She raised her eyebrows, feigning a casualness she didn't feel. “Why?"
"Because it was you who almost killed me."
"Really? Then next time I shall have to ensure I do a better job." "There ain't going to be a next time.” His eyes gleamed with maliciousness. “Because I shall have my revenge."
She had a feeling his form of revenge had nothing to do with killing her. Goose bumps ran across her skin, and she resisted the temptation to rub her arms. “That's only if you win. I wouldn't start counting chickens before they've hatched, Kinnard."
He snorted. “Blondie, I can't lose. Not this time."
"And why would you think that?"
"Because this time, all the odds have been stacked on one side. And it ain't yours." She'd been fighting the odds half her life, so it was really nothing new. And this time, she had an extra incentive—a wedding. And she had every intention of getting to that wedding and marrying Michael.
"We'll see,” was all she said.
He led her into a street that once must have been the main street. Most of the old wooden buildings were still intact, and from the noise coming from them, many of them were occupied. She frowned, letting her gaze run past dusty windows. If the yells, curses and slurred speech were anything to go by, most of the unseen men, and a good portion of the women, were drunk. Maybe it was easier for Weylin to control them that way. And if that were the case, then maybe her first duty should be to find a way to cut the supply of booze.
Though in many ways that would be pretty useless. This was Weylin's game, and for the moment, he held all the cards. If she cut one booze supply, he'd just set up another. Awareness skittered across her skin. She looked up quickly, her heart pounding as her gaze searched the 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.