"Thanks," Nikki said, wishing she could believe the shifter. But that sense of wrongness was growing, and with it the certainty that the person behind it had an agenda that had nothing to do with today's test. She went back to the wall and inched along until she came to another box. This one was short enough to peer over, so she did. The darkness beyond leapt up at her.
She yelped and jumped back. The shadows dissolved, becoming a vampire. She clenched her fist and struck at him. He caught the blow in his hand, crushing her fingers just enough to hurt. She pivoted, twisting her arm painfully as she lashed out with a foot. He ducked the blow easily, so she dropped to her knees, using his grip on her fist against him and pulling him off the box. He landed on his back at her feet, and she pressed her free hand against his chest.
"Dead, dead, dead," she muttered.
He raised her fist to his mouth and kissed her fingers. "Very well done."
"Thank you."
She rose and scanned the hazy room. Two more to go, one third of the way down the room. It had been almost too easy so far. Maybe Michael had played them up. Or threatened them. She grimaced. Yeah, right. Like he really wanted her to pass this test so she could start going on missions with him. They might have reached a compromise between his desires and hers when it came to the Circle and his missions, but that didn't mean he was all that happy about it. Still, he was keeping his end of the bargain, so she could only do the same. And if she didn't pass this damn test, it was back to training and good-bye wedding until she did pass.
Her gaze rose to the ceiling again. The second shifter was up there somewhere. She couldn't say why she was so sure—her psychic gifts were not supposed to be working in this room at all. Frowning, she glanced at the box to her right and tried to shift it with kinetic power. Nothing at all. Not even a tingle. Strange.
She took a deep breath and crept forward again. The room seemed to be getting hotter, and sweat trickled down her spine. Had the air conditioning gone off, or was it simply fear that warmed her?
Dust stirred the air, and a sneeze tickled her nose. She swiped at it, sniffing, and in that moment, sensed movement.
Sweeping down fast.
She dropped to her stomach, felt claws rake along her back, tearing her sweater but not her flesh. She twisted, kicking upwards at the rising hawk. She clipped a wing, and the bird squawked, a cry that was almost indignant.
It swooped around and arrowed in again. She scrambled to her feet and dove over the box, felt the scrape of claws down her jeans. She hit the floor, rolled to her feet and tore off her sweater. Twisting it quickly, she flicked the end at the hawk as it turned for another strike. It hit him in the chest, knocking him into the side of a tall box.
A golden haze crackled across the hawk's body, and by the time he hit the floor, it was a man with golden hair and rich blue eyes. A man she knew. Jon Barnett. And he held two halves of a quarterstaff. Things were about to get tough.
She glanced around, but there was nothing in this room that could be used as weapons. Which was entirely the point.
He leapt at her, wooden staffs little more than a blur. She backed away, dodging and weaving, but there was no way on Earth she could avoid every blow. Yet for all the speed, the blows were little more than taps. Had it been anyone other than Jon, she probably would have come out of this with bruises. Her back hit a box. She cursed and dropped, sweeping with a foot. He jumped her leg, and then smacked it with one of the staffs. She cursed again and dove at him, tackling him at knee height and knocking him to the ground. Before he could move, she scrambled up his body and punched his chest.