"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.