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.