She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She had to maintain control. Had to. Otherwise their wedding plans might be put on hold—permanently.
But her gaze kept finding its way back to that window, and her skin burned with the intensity of his gaze. Yet there was no hum of awareness in the link between them. No indication that he had any idea who she truly was. Weylin had planted his magic deep.
"Found the boyfriend, then," Kinnard said.
She'd been so intent on trying to see Michael that the sudden sound of the old man's sharp voice made her jump. Her gaze swiveled to his. "And what if I have?"
He gave her his stained and creepy smile again. "Nothing. You two were at it like rabbits the first time, so we're expecting nothing less this time."
Was he testing her? Or did he truly think that? "Then I guess I'll just have to disappoint you." His grin grew larger. "I doubt that you will, especially if the intense awareness I just felt is anything to go by."
She raised an eyebrow. "And how would you be feeling something like awareness when this place is supposedly a psi dead-zone?"
"Darlin', this may be a dead-zone, but you and I both know it doesn't stop personal magic. And to answer the question you were really asking, emotions are like blood to me."
"Meaning you're some kind of psychic vampire?"
He didn't directly answer, simply paused as they passed another bar, and breathed deep. "Ah, anger. Sweeter than wine, that is."
As he spoke, a man came flying backwards out of the bar, and he landed on his back at their feet. His nose was bloody, and he reeked of sweat and alcohol. Obviously, drinking was more important than bathing in this place.
Kinnard nudged the man with the toe of his boot, and without looking at either of them, the drunk climbed to his feet and staggered back inside. If the abuse and sounds of flesh hitting flesh were anything to go by, the fight was continuing right where it had left off. Kinnard seemed to positively glow.
"Don't need to tell you that Hartwell is one hell of a lawless town, do I, now?" he said, as he continued on down the dusty street.
"It was a hundred years ago." Seline had said Hartwell had the reputation of being one the most lawless towns in the West, with killing an everyday event. She hoped like hell Weylin only intended to imitate the feel of Hartwell—surely he wouldn't want his captives killing each other. Not until he'd finished the ceremony and raised his brother's spirit, anyway.
"A pretty girl like you could cause a hell of a commotion in a town like this," he commented. She forced a smile. "A pretty girl like me did cause one hell of a commotion one hundred years ago. I can still protect myself, Kinnard, with or without the use of magic."