Keri Arthur: Dancing With The Dead

"What about Monica?"

Michael glanced at her. His eyes were ancient, endless pools of ebony. You could lose yourself forever in those depths, Nikki thought, and glanced away uneasily.

"The child accompanies her master. You were a fool to go in after her."

"She would have died if I didn't." Nikki took her hand from his, and briskly rubbed a tender hip.

His smile was grim. "Death is one thing that child no longer fears."

She frowned at him. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing." He shrugged gracefully. "Ready to move?"

She returned her gaze to the house, then nodded.

Michael led the way forward. He was quiet, as one with the night. A ghost, she thought uneasily. She glanced at her fingers, remembering the gentle strength of his hand in hers. If he was a ghost, he was certainly a solid one.

"I am as real as you, Nikki," he said softly. His dark gaze touched hers briefly before returning to study the surrounding night.

She'd forgotten he could read her thoughts—just like Tommy had, so many years ago. Fear stirred, along with old guilt. So why did she trust him? She couldn't say, and that worried her.

"They follow us."

Nikki looked over her shoulder. A dark shape lumbered after them. "Should we run?"

"No. They can run faster than you ever could."

But not, she surmised from his tone, faster than he could. So why was he still here, offering his protection?

There was a flash of movement to her left. Before she could react, Michael thrust her sideways and spun to meet the charge of a second creature.

She hit the ground, tasting dirt. Spitting it out and cursing him fluently, she rolled back to her feet. The creature attacking Michael held a knife, the blade a blue-white flame against the night.

Michael seemed wary of it, something that struck her as odd. Certainly it wasn't what she'd considered a large knife, not when compared with what the street kids used these days. She grabbed a rock near her feet and threw at the creature. It hit with enough force to make the creature stop and shake its head in confusion. Then it snarled and charged her. Somehow, Michael was in front of it again, his movements so fast he appeared to blur. He spun, kicking the creature in the head. It screamed and staggered sideways.

It was the sound of a woman in pain. A chill ran through her. What were these things?

The creature lunged again. Nikki reached for kinetic energy. Despite the ache in her head, it surged in response. She focused it on the knife in the creature's hand. At the same time, she heard footsteps behind her.

She tore the blade from the creature's grasp then spun, hurling the knife at the approaching figure.

And saw that it was Monica.

Frantically, she flung another bolt of energy at the blade. The weapon flared brightly, as if in protest, then quivered and changed direction. It thudded hilt-deep into a tree trunk several feet to Monica's left.

The teenager took no notice. Nikki frowned. Despite the crackling of the flames that consumed the old house, the night was strangely quiet. The creature had to be dead, or surely it would still be attacking.

Michael stood behind her, not touching and yet close enough that the warmth of his breath whispered past her cheek. Under normal circumstances, she would have stepped away. But the night had become something more than normal, and she had a feeling she would need his protection before it was over.

Monica stopped several paces away. Nikki cleared her throat softly. "Your father wants to speak—" "I don't care what my father wants. Tell him to leave me alone, or he'll regret it. So will you if you don't stop following me."

The words themselves weren't overly threatening. It was the lack of life in Monica's eyes, the emptiness in her voice, that chilled. As if she were nothing more than a blank canvas ready to be filled by an unknown painter.

"Not as far from the truth as you might think," Michael said softly, obviously reading her thoughts again.

She crossed her arms, trying to ward off a sudden chill.

"And if you even try to answer his call," Monica continued, gesturing towards the park. "I'll kill you myself."

There wasn't a doubt in her mind that Monica would carry out the threat. Just for an instant, evil flared in the girl's eyes. It was old, centuries old. It was the same evil that now stood in the park, in the shape of a man. Nikki rubbed her arms. Maybe she was far too late to save Monica's soul.

The teenager walked away, a slim shadow against the brightness of the flames beginning to leap from the upper floor windows.

"We must go," Michael said quietly. "The fire department is on its way."

She glanced at the nearby houses. People were lined up near their fences, watching them. If the fire department was on the way, then so were the police. She grimaced and returned her gaze to Michael.

The wind tugged at his hair, blowing the midnight-colored strands across his face.

"What were those things that attacked us?" she said, shoving her hands in her pockets to keep them warm.

He hesitated, then shrugged. "They go by many names."

Word games were the last thing she felt like playing right now. Her head ached. Her arm ached. In fact, everything ached. She stunk of smoke and sweat and fear, and wanted nothing more than to go home and soak in a nice hot bath.

But she couldn't. Not until she'd talked to her boss. To do that, she had to first make some sense of the night's madness. "So what in hell do you call them?"

He looked past her. She resisted the temptation to turn around, sensing if she did, he'd be gone.

"I suppose it's best to call them zombies," he said after a moment, his eyes dark pools of ebony anger when they met her gaze again. "They answer to the man who attacked you inside the house."

She laughed at the absurdity of it, but her amusement quickly fled under his watchful silence. Swallowing, she remembered the wash of fetid breath across her face, the chill of flaccid flesh against her palm.

Remembered her own impression that the creatures were dead, and yet not.

Zombies. Hells bells. Monica was into something far weirder than any of them had realized.

A siren wailed into the silence, and she glanced over her shoulder. A fire engine came around the corner and drove towards them. They must have taken the shortcut through the park to get here so fast. "So how do we explain the presence of zombies to the fire department?"

"We do not," Michael said, his gaze on the approaching engine. "They will only find charred remains.

The others have already left. As should we."

"If the fire's been reported, no doubt someone's reported seeing us out front. I'd better stay here and wait."

"I cannot." He looked past her again, then stepped back. "We will meet again."

"Wait!" she said, reaching out to stop him, not wanting to lose the comfort of his presence. "I… I don't even know your name."

He smiled and caught her hand, his fingers gliding across hers. An odd tremble ran up her arm. She wasn't sure whether its cause was the unusual warmth of his touch or simply the caress of his palm against hers.

"You lie, Nikki James. And you will see me again." He raised her hand, brushing a delicate kiss over her fingers.

She quickly pulled her hand away. He was a stranger, an unknown. She should be responding with wariness, not… fascination. She'd traveled that path once before, and it had ended with blood on her hands.

His smile faded. "The fire department is almost upon us. You should be safe enough. The man you fear has left the immediate area, anyway."

His words drew her attention back to the park. The touch of evil had left. So had Monica. Yet she knew the danger was far from over. She still had a client who wanted to see his daughter, whatever the cost.