Keri Arthur - Kiss The Night Goodbye

The bullet had been tipped with some sort of drug.

And he wasn't going to make his date with Nikki.

Michael's pain clubbed into Nikki, the force of it dragging a gasp from her throat and driving her to her knees.

She couldn't move, couldn't think, for too many vital seconds. Fire burned through every fiber of her being, and her shoulder was an explosion of agony.

Michael?She thrust open the link and called with every ounce of strength she had.

There was no answer beyond pain. Endless, endless, pain. Oh God . A sob tore up her throat, and tears blurred her vision. He couldn't die on her. Not now. Not when they were only just beginning their life together.

"Nikki? You okay?" Jake's question broke off as he swore softly and raced to her side. He knelt down beside her, his grip fierce on her shoulders. "What's happened?"

"Michael," she somehow gasped. "Oh God—" Jake shook her. "Break the connection, Nik. We have to get moving if we're going to help him."

She took a shuddering breath and forced a shield around her mind, blocking his pain as she'd been taught in psi lessons. "Okay," she said, as the pain eased to a muted, constant ache.

Jake helped her upright. "Where?"

She gulped down fear and swiped the tears from her eyes. "Outside. To the left."

He grabbed her hand, and they raced into the corridor and down the stairs. Her heart pounded as fast as her feet, but deep down she knew she was never going to be fast enough to rescue Michael. Already the sense of him was being stretched, suggesting he was moving away, fast. Given the pain and the curtain of darkness that billowed across the link between them, she didn't think he was moving under his own steam.

They raced down the pavement, slowing as they neared a side street. Nikki pulled Jake right, then came to an abrupt halt.

There was blood all over the concrete.

Her eyes widened, and she had to shove a hand to her mouth to stop her scream. She'd seen some horrible things in her time, but this was worse than anything.

Because it was Michael's blood.

Because there was so damn much of it.

"Hell," Jake muttered. He squeezed her hand then released it. "Wait here."

Nikki took a deep, shuddering breath. "No."

Jake's gaze was rich with concern. "You don't need to see any more than you already have."

"That's his blood, Jake. It might provide some clues." She hesitated and closed her eyes. Michael's presence was moving farther and farther away. If they didn't give chase soon, they might lose him. "Get the car. I'll look around here."

Jake studied her, as if trying to decide if she was okay, then shrugged and jogged back around the corner to get the car. Nikki cautiously approached the blood and tried to keep a tight lid on the force of horror coursing through her. Don't think about the blood. Don't react to it. Just find Michael.

It was a mantra she repeated as she knelt beside the dark stain. Lord, so much… She took another deep breath and looked beyond the pool of wetness. No sign of a bullet, or whatever else had torn apart his shoulder. No sign of a fight. He must have gone down straight away. She glanced back to the blood.

Camille had once said that clairvoyance was a strange gift and often bore fruit in the oddest places. If she touched the blood, would her second sight spring into action? Or would it be her psychometry that delved whatever secrets the blood might hold? Or would she simply end up with nothing more than bloody fingers?

There was only one way to find out.

She blew out a breath, closed her eyes, and slowly, carefully, dipped two fingers into the warm, sticky pool.

For a second, nothing happened.

Then heat burned up her arm, and her senses leapt away, following the trail that led to Michael. Shapes began to form in the darkness of her mind, human shapes, and strange-looking boxes She reached for them psychically—and was swept into Michael's presence. But unlike the previous times she'd used her psychometry skills to find people, this time she didn't become one with him. Instead, she seemed to hover above him, a frightened phantom who could do nothing more than observe.

They were in a van that smelled of grease and metal. Michael lay on the floor, pale and unconscious.

Rivulets of blood trickled from beneath his shoulder, pooling near his head, matting his dark hair. Fear swelled through her, along with psychic energy, but in her phantom form, there was no release—nothing she could do beyond look.

Toward the front of the van, two men squatted near his feet. One was brown-skinned, thickset, and bald. The other reminded her of a scarecrow, with lank, long brown hair and ragbag clothes.

She drifted forward. The driver was tall, with thinning brown hair and a face that looked to have seen more than a few harsh winters. The hands that clenched the steering wheel seemed oddly blurred, shifting between human fingers and wolf's claws.

He was a shape changer, she realized, and turned her gaze to the man in the passenger seat. He was of average height, with thick black hair that contrasted sharply against his pale skin. His profile was aristocratic, arrogant, his body slender. He was dressed in black, his suit and shoes expensive looking.

He shifted, and suddenly she found herself staring into his eyes. Eyes that were a smoky, ethereal gray.

Eyes that held no humanity whatsoever, only anger so deep-seated it could almost be called madness.

He raised an eyebrow, a smile touching his thin lips. "Well, well, who do we have here?"

A hand touched her shoulder. The vision disintegrated, and she jumped back to herself with a squeak of fright.

"Nik? It's me, Jake."

She put a shaking hand to her chest. Her heart thumped so hard it felt like it was going to jump out.

"You all right?" Jake continued.

"Yeah." She rose and brushed her bloody fingers on her jeans. "I was just trying to find out where they might be going."

"With his blood?" Jake's voice was as incredulous as his expression.

"I haven't been sitting back and twiddling my thumbs during my lessons these last few months," she said tartly. "They're headed south."

"Then so are we."

They climbed in to the Mercedes. Jake slammed the car into gear and took off with a squeal of tires.

She grabbed the cell phone from the glove compartment and called the Circle, asking to be put through to Camille.

"What's happened?" The old witch's voice was nail-grating sharp.

"Michael's been shot and kidnapped. They're heading south in some sort of van." She hesitated, frowning as she tried to remember what she'd seen. Images rose—blood glistening to widening pools near dark hair. Her stomach curled. She swallowed heavily and added, "The van is gray. Probably a mechanic's van or something like that. We're following in Jake's car."

"We'll get people in the air immediately." Camille hesitated. "We'll get him back, don't worry."

No, they wouldn't. A sob escaped. She bit her lip and hung up.

Jake leaned across and squeezed her knee. "He'll be all right. He's tough, remember that."

She nodded, not daring to speak lest she lose it right then and there. She had to keep it together. Had to find him.

Because if she didn't, no one would.

She reached for the link between them again. There was no response from his mind, and the sense of him was growing more distant. "Left at the next street," she said. "And hurry."

The car slid around the corner. The tires squealed in protest and the Mercedes fishtailed several times before Jake brought it back under control.

"They can't be heading for the airport," he commented. "It's in the opposite direction."

She fought the urge to close her eyes as Jake wove in and out of the traffic. "They wouldn't get an unconscious person past security, anyway."