Circle of Death

  “Tripe?” He grinned. “Now, there’s an expression I’ll have to use back home.”

  Right then, she didn’t particularly want to think about him leaving her, let alone going back to America and whatever life he had there. She slapped him lightly in the stomach. “Just answer the damn question.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He guided her across the street and into the park. “When the threshold in question is private—a home, for instance—the vampire can’t cross it without invitation. But if the threshold is public—say, an office, hospital or supermarket—then the vampire can cross as easily as anyone else.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugged and looked at her, his gaze suddenly intense. “Some things just are, Kirby. You don’t question them; you just accept.”

  “You accept,” she muttered, turning her gaze from his. “I’ll continue to question.” It was a whole lot safer that way.

  Though the mist still covered the tops of the gum trees, the drizzle was beginning to lift and, above all the gray, patches of blue were showing. They might even get a fine day. Which would be good, she thought, dragging the ends of her coat together. She needed to get warm. It felt like the chill of the last few days had settled deep into her bones.

  “If you’re cold, you can have my coat,” he said, rubbing his hand up and down her arm.

  She shivered, more from his touch than any chill. “No. I’m okay. Really,” she added, when he gave her a disbelieving look. “I think I just need a coffee.”

  “And something to eat. You can’t continue to run on empty, you know.”

  “I know.” She looked away from the concern in his eyes. Despite the temptation to believe otherwise, she knew it wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. They were strangers who’d shared a mad moment of passion. Nothing more. Nothing deeper.

  You’re wrong. And you know it.

  His thought whispered through her, its touch as warm as the wind on a hot summer evening. She certainly wasn’t telepathic, and while she’d been able to catch Helen’s emotions easily enough, it was never something that had expanded to anyone else—until now. That she could hear Doyle’s thoughts as well as feel his emotions scared the hell out of her.

  On the street ahead, yellow cars gleamed. Taxis, lined up in a row, waiting for customers. “We’ll have to head back to my place sometime,” she said, reminded suddenly that she didn’t have any money.

  “Might be safer if we didn’t,” he muttered. “You’ll be less tempted to run without cash.”

  She didn’t refute his statement, just crossed her arms and tried to keep warm. Though her back was on fire, the rest of her was so cold her bones were beginning to ache. They climbed into the taxi and he gave the driver the address. The center wasn’t far away, and it didn’t take them long to get there. The taxi stopped just shy of the locked main gates.

  “Looks quiet,” she said, climbing out of the taxi and studying the rows of old red-brick buildings visible behind the gates. They looked like factories—or a prison.

  “It should be. It closed down a few years ago and is apparently little more than a storage facility now.”

  “It looks like it should have closed down earlier than that,” she muttered, noting the peeling paint and cracked walls on the building closest to them. The whole place looked little better than a dump.

  Had it always been like this? She couldn’t say, because she had no real memories of it. She knew well enough that she’d met Helen here, and that meant she’d obviously been here for some time, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t remember anything else about the place. And yet she could recall every one of her foster parents. Could still recite their names and addresses. Had this place been so bad she’d wiped away all memory of it? Or had it just been so bland there was nothing worth remembering?

  “Camille’s van is just down the street,” he said as the taxi drove off.

  “What about your friend’s car? Is that still about?”

  Doyle shook his head and moved toward the main gate. He had the padlock undone and in his pocket in two seconds flat. “Russ doesn’t need a car,” he said. “Make sure you close the gate behind you.”

  She nodded, doing just that before following him across the damp lawn. “Why doesn’t he need a car? Don’t tell me the hype about vampires turning into bats is true?”

  He flashed her a grin. “No, vampires aren’t shapeshifters. They don’t have to be, when they can run like the wind.”

  Shapeshifters. The word reverberated through her. She stopped abruptly, staring at his back. “That’s what you are, isn’t it? That panther—it was you, wasn’t it?”

  Tension ran through his back muscles and he slowly turned, his expression a mix of uncertainty and resignation. “Yes, it was,” he said. “But you knew all along I wasn’t entirely human. Your magic told you that when we first met.”

  She licked her lips, not entirely sure what to think now that she had made the connection. “You could have told me,” she said softly. Could have mentioned she’d almost made love to a man who was half-beast.

  “I’m still just a man, whether or not I’m in panther form. Don’t get the werewolf legends confused with the reality of shapeshifters.”

  She thrust a hand through her hair. “I can’t deal with this now.” Didn’t want to deal with it now. Her world was in the process of zooming out of her control, and her head felt like it was spinning. She didn’t need this, not on top of everything else.

  “You’ll have to deal with it eventually,” he murmured and turned away, walking toward the west side of the building.

  Only if you stay, she thought. And she knew that wasn’t going to happen.

  He disappeared around the corner of the building, and she hurried to catch up with him. Azaleas and rhododendrons battled for space with weeds in the small garden bed lining the wall. The path was covered in moss and looked like it hadn’t been swept in months. No caretaker, she thought, and wondered if the place was even still used as a storage facility.

  He’d stopped about halfway down, his expression grim and his hands on his hips.

  “What’s wrong?” She stopped beside him and stared at the window. There was nothing she could see that would cause such a fierce frown.

  “Blood,” he said, stepping back and studying the windows on the first floor.

  “There is?” She stepped forward, intent on getting a closer look, but he grabbed her arm and pulled her back.

  “Careful. It’s a trap.”

  She stared at him. “How can you tell that just by looking at it?”

  “I can’t. I can feel it.”

  “You can? How?”

  “Now is not the time, believe me.” Without glancing at her, he moved off down the path.

  “Now is never the time,” she muttered, stomping after him.

  They rounded the corner of the building. About halfway along this section was an old wooden door. Standing in front of it was a woman. Though she had gray hair and, from a distance, looked reasonably old, her multicolored sweater was so bright you almost had to squint to look at it. To complement this, she also wore black leather pants and red sneakers. A woman who didn’t care about the opinions of others, Kirby thought with a smile.

  The woman glanced up as they approached, a smile creasing her lined features.

  “About time you got here. I can’t get this damn lock to open.” The woman’s bright gaze swept past Doyle, fixing on her. “You’d be Kirby, then?”

  Her blue eyes were luminous, almost electric. Not a woman who missed much.

  Kirby nodded. “You’re Camille?”

  “That I am.” She swatted Doyle’s arm, then stepped to one side, out of the way. “Get a move on. We can’t stand out here all day, you know.”

  “You could have spelled it open,” he said, voice dry as he squatted in front of the lock.

  “I could have, but that would have let whoever placed those spells around the front of the building know anoth
er witch was near.”

  Kirby crossed her arms and watched Doyle work on the lock. “Are you sure your friend is inside?”

  “Something is,” he said, as the lock clicked open. “I can hear it scuffing around.”

  She frowned. Did vampire’s scuff? Somehow it didn’t fit the image she had. “It could be a trap.”

  “It could be,” he agreed, rising. “Which is why you’ll wait out here.”

  “I’m not—”

  “You are. We need someone to watch for security patrols. You’re it.”

  She bit her lip. It made perfectly good sense for her to remain out here, and they both knew it. Problem was, she didn’t want to be left alone in this place. Something about it spooked her. But whether it was forgotten memories finally surfacing or something else, she wasn’t entirely sure.

  Camille patted her arm, fingernails painted purple and glittering in the pale morning light. “Don’t worry, dear. Whatever they’re using to track you, it’s not with you now. You’re safe.”

  Doyle’s glance was sharp. “Her backpack is the only thing that’s not with us, and I checked that last night.”

  “You did?” Kirby said.

  He gave her a half-apologetic glance. “Yeah, sorry, but I had to double-check, given I can sense magic and you can’t.”

  Camille nodded. “The spell might be layered deep, though. I’d get rid of the pack, fast.”

  “But I packed it myself. Believe me, nobody put anything in there that I don’t know about.” Then she remembered Helen’s words and a chill ran through her. If her friend hadn’t left that gift for her, who had?

  “The spell might be on the pack itself. As there’s no immediate way to discover the truth, it would be better to abandon it.” Camille glanced back to Doyle. “You ready?”

  He nodded, his gaze meeting Kirby’s. “Stay here. Don’t go anywhere and don’t run.” Warn me like this if you hear or see anything. Don’t yell, and don’t enter the building.

  His thoughts were firm but warm as they whispered through her mind. She stared at him for several heartbeats, wondering if she should take this opportunity to run. His blue gaze narrowed slightly.

  Don’t, he added, mind-voice more forceful this time.

  She nodded. He opened the door and ushered Camille inside. Sighing, Kirby leaned back against the wall. The chill of the bricks pressed into her back, easing the fire a little. Her gaze skated across the nearby buildings and settled on the perimeter fence. Bottle-brush and flowering gums lined it, the bright red and gold of their flowers flashing like fire in the fog. For an instant, a memory surfaced—Helen and her, weaving through the trunks of the trees, running in fear. She closed her eyes, trying to remember just what—or whom—they’d run from. But the memory slipped back to the recesses of her mind. She swore and opened her eyes.

  Her gaze drifted across the buildings, coming to rest on the third of the five that sat opposite. Like the one beside it, it had been partially destroyed by fire and the elements, and vandals had covered it with graffiti. But the building was theirs—that was where they’d stayed.

  She pushed away from the wall. She would see anyone approaching this door from over there, and she could use the shadows crowding the entrance porch to hide in if anyone did walk by. Besides, she had a very bad feeling she needed to remember what had happened in this place.

  She headed for the third dorm. If she remembered right, the doors were half glass. Maybe she could peer in and jog a few more memories loose.

  She was close to the main entrance when she noticed the doors were actually open, and she stopped abruptly. Inside, someone whistled tunelessly, and memories beckoned.

  She knew that tune. Had heard it often when she was a little girl stuck here in the darkness.

  Clenching her fingers, she walked past the ramps and up the steps, heading inside.

  DOYLE STOPPED. MOTES OF DUST DANCED SLUGGISHLY in the light filtering in from the skylight above them, but it did little to lift the shadows that filled the corridor. Boxes and broken bits of furniture lined the walls, and the whole place smelled of age and decay. No one had been through here in a very long time. No one human, anyway.

  “Can you smell him?” Camille whispered softly.

  He nodded. “Three doors down.”

  “Magic?”

  “Two doors down.” Its echo was so sharp his skin burned with it. “It’s got the same feel as the magic that was being performed on Rachel Grant.”

  Which had to mean there was something here to find; otherwise, why bother setting a spell in this wasteland?

  Camille grunted and pushed past. She stopped near the door, studying it for several seconds. Magic stirred, but this time it felt clean, sunshine compared to rain. Camille, battling the spell with one of her own. After several seconds, she gave a satisfied sigh.

  “Looped it,” she said, “so we can get past without triggering it. And it’ll still feel set to the caster.”

  “Good.” He hurried to the third door. The scuffing had stopped. No one moved inside, no one breathed. And the only person he could smell was Russell.

  Warily, he stepped inside. The room was another wasteland of decay and boxes. Dust-caked windows lined the far wall, filtering brightness into the room—brightness that could kill his friend. Russell was lying in one corner, half in the shadows, half out, his hands and feet tied by wire and tape covering his mouth. Sweat beaded his forehead, and his skin looked red, as if sunburned.

  Doyle swore. “Camille, get your van and bring it around the back. The gate is open.”

  She hurried off. He took off his coat and flung it over his friend, protecting his uncovered skin from the sun’s rays. Then, tucking his hands under Russell’s shoulders, he dragged him back into the safety of the shadow-filled corridor.

  He ripped the tape off Russell’s mouth. As he began unwinding the wire from the vampire’s hands, expletives fell thick and fast into the gloom.

  “Tell us what you’re really feeling,” Doyle said, amused.

  “When we catch the bitch,” Russell muttered, “she’s going to get a taste of her own medicine.”

  Doyle flipped the wire into the rubbish behind him, then shifted to undo the wire around Russell’s feet. “Meaning she’s a vamp?”

  “No,” Russell snapped, rubbing his head. “Meaning I’m going to hit the witch over the head and kick her in the gut and groin a few times, just like she did to me.”

  “Tsk. That’s no way to treat a lady.”

  “This is no lady we’re dealing with, believe me.”

  He rose and offered Russell a hand up. “It’s unlike you to let anyone sneak up on you. What happened?”

  “A goddamn spell. I was looking through the files in some boxes, and suddenly I couldn’t move. Then she appeared from nowhere and clubbed me.”

  Doyle raised an eyebrow. “Which suggests she didn’t know you were a vampire. Otherwise, she might have staked you.”

  “True,” Russell muttered. “I guess she figured it out pretty quickly, though, because she was cackling when she dragged me into the sunlight.”

  “Did she take the files you were looking at?”

  “Yeah. But I did manage to get a look at a couple of them first.”

  Doyle glanced around as Camille approached. She offered Russell some sunburn cream and patted his shoulder, a look of relief on her face.

  “And?” Doyle prodded Russell.

  “One was Rachel Grant’s file. Like Helen, she’d been put up for adoption as a baby, but her adoptive parents were killed in a freak storm. A tree went through the roof and crushed them in bed.”

  “How old was she when this happened?” Camille asked, frowning.

  “Seven.”

  “Too young to have gone through puberty,” she murmured. “Talents don’t usually appear until then—unless they’re freakishly strong. What happened to Rachel after that?”

  “None of the relatives wanted her, so she came back into government care. She was
farmed out to a series of foster parents, but she never lasted with any of them. The records state she was classed a ‘difficult’ child and she ended up in this center.”

  “Like Helen,” Camille said. “It’s looking more and more like this place is the connection.”

  “And the second file?” Doyle asked, although he had a pretty good idea who that second file was about.

  Russell glanced at him. “Kirby Brown. She was never adopted, and there’s no mention of why. She stayed in several long-term foster homes, but ended up here at eleven.”

  “And this is where she and Helen met,” he said, wondering about the strong bond between the two of them. It went far deeper than mere friendship. If he were to believe her thoughts, it was almost as if they’d been spiritually bonded—something that usually only ever happened between twins.

  Camille raised an eyebrow. “Has Kirby said much about this place?”

  He shook his head. “No. I don’t think she can actually remember much about her time here.” Which was odd, considering she seemed to be able to remember everything else about her past.

  “Then you’d better start trying to jog her memories, because I’ve got a feeling the answers are locked in the past and what happened in this place.” Camille glanced back at Russell. “Nothing else in those files? None of the other names on the list?”

  “There might be. I didn’t get a chance to go through the rest of the files.”

  “And now the witch has them. Damn,” Camille commented.

  “Nothing’s ever easy when it comes to tracking evil,” Doyle said. “Do you want to continue checking the boxes?”

  Camille shook her head. “Waste of time now. If there was anything else here, she would have taken it.”

  “And she now knows we’re hunting her,” Russell said. “We need to find the remaining two women.”

  They also needed to uncover just how Kirby was connected to all this. Was the witch merely after power, or was there something deeper going on? “Have you found anything more about that symbol she’s been carving on the doors?”