Circle of Death

  “Pretty,” he said, meaning it.

  “Thanks.” She plucked a key from under the mat and glanced at him, a smile touching her lips. “And don’t tell me that’s a dumb place to keep a key, because I already know it.”

  “I wasn’t going to mention it.” Besides, for most professional thieves, door locks were the least of their problems. It was things like pressure pads, heat and motion sensors and all the other varieties of alarms available these days that provided the worry. “But you could at least try somewhere more original.”

  “Like what? The potted plant?”

  “Actually, if you have to leave a key, then sticking it to the back of something like a leaf is a damn fine hiding place. Most amateurs don’t think of that.”

  “And most professionals don’t bother?”

  “Something like that.” He took the key from her and opened the door. “Ready?”

  She nodded. He caught her hand, ducked under the crime scene tape and led her into the kitchen. It was as if he’d walked into a slaughterhouse. Seeing the pictures was one thing, seeing the reality another. Granted, there were no body parts lying about, but blood was still splashed everywhere, and the outlines of where they’d found the different pieces of humanity littered the floor.

  No wonder she had been so fearful to confront this all again. While he was no stranger to the various faces of death, even he found this sickening. He quickly guided her through it and up the stairs.

  “You can open your eyes now,” he said once they were out of sight of the mess below.

  She did so, taking a deep breath in the process. “Thank you.”

  He nodded and touched her cheek, lightly thumbing away a tear. “Any idea where Helen might have hidden this present?”

  “In her room, I’d presume.” She stepped away from his touch and entered the room to the right of the stairs.

  It had a moody blue-and-gray color scheme—odd colors for a woman, but fitting for a storm witch. He glanced across the corridor to the other room. Yellows, reds and creams. The colors of summer and the sun. Kirby’s room. He resisted the temptation to go and look. Instead, he watched as she opened the wardrobe.

  “She usually kept things she wanted hidden in with all her shoes,” she said, getting down on her knees.

  “Wait, don’t touch anything.” He knelt down beside her and swept his hand through the shadows, searching for any indication of magic. “Clear,” he said, sitting back on his heels.

  She leaned forward, pulling out various boxes and shoes, but in the end found nothing. She sat back, her shoulder brushing his arm as she contemplated the wardrobe.

  “What about the storage space up top?” he said, pointing to the shelf above the hanging space.

  She wrinkled her nose.

  “Helen was short, like me. She usually settled for lower hiding places.”

  “We can’t stay here long,” he reminded her softly. “This is still an active crime scene. More cops could arrive at any minute.”

  “I know.” She took a deep breath, then climbed to her feet. “You check up there. I’ll check her drawers.”

  “Deal.” He rose and began pulling everything out of the top of the wardrobe. There was nothing there that even remotely resembled a present. He shoved it all back and headed over to the bed. Kneeling down, he looked under it. There, in the darkness, a gaily wrapped present sat waiting.

  “Found it,” he said, reaching out. Magic tingled through his fingertips, but its touch was warm, muted. Nonthreatening.

  He held it out to her, but she didn’t take it, just regarded it warily. “Are you sure it’s from Helen? Maybe it’s another gift from our murderous friend.”

  “There’s nothing evil here. I wouldn’t let you touch it, otherwise.” Although he hadn’t felt anything in the first one, either.

  “Oh.” She swallowed heavily, a bright light in her eyes. “You hold it for me. I have to get some clothes and stuff.”

  “Aren’t you going to open the present? Especially given what Helen said?”

  “I can’t. It’s not my birthday until tomorrow.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “It’s bad luck,” she said, then all but ran out of the room.

  Hiding her tears, he thought. He waited in the hallway outside her room, sensing her need to be alone, however briefly.

  When she finally came back out, there was no sign of the tears he’d glimpsed. She was wearing a long black coat similar to his and holding an overnight bag. He took it from her and checked to make sure there was nothing resembling anything magical in it, then dropped the present inside. “That all?”

  She hesitated. “I need my wallet. I can’t keep letting you pay for everything.”

  “And you can’t exactly run if you haven’t got cash or credit cards, can you?”

  She didn’t deny his accusation. He sighed. “Where did you leave it?”

  “It’s in my handbag, which I dropped near the front door when I came in last night.”

  “I’ll go get it. You wait here.”

  He gave her the overnight bag and headed down the stairs. Her handbag was where she’d said, zipper open and the outside covered in white dust. He squatted, carefully nudging a finger into the open compartment—and felt the sting of magic burn through him.

  He yanked his hand away and quickly upended the bag. The contents fell out, littering the carpet. Wind stirred, raising the hairs along the back of his neck. Something was coming. Something bad.

  He grabbed her car keys, then rose. The air shimmered and flexed, half forming the shape of a hand. The wind keened into the silence, battering at him, as if trying to force him away.

  Watching the energy-forming hand, he stepped back.

  And fell into darkness.

  THE HIGH-PITCHED HOWL FILLED THE AIR, AND GOOSE bumps chased down Kirby’s spine. She froze, listening to the sound and wondering what in hell was coming after them now. Then, as abruptly as it started, the sound stopped.

  But the silence that followed was in some ways more frightening.

  “Doyle?” She leaned over the banister and tried to look down. She couldn’t see him, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t there. She couldn’t see her handbag or the front door, either, and she knew the front door, at least, would be there.

  Doyle? she queried tentatively. Still no response. And the wash of warmth that she’d come to associate with the odd connection forming between them was gone, leaving her feeling suddenly bereft.

  She bit her lip, then picked up her bag and slowly edged down the stairs. Lightning streaked across her fingers, sending jagged edges of light flickering across the walls.

  “Doyle?” she repeated, hesitating halfway down.

  Still nothing. Her handbag was lying near the door, contents scattered across the carpet. Her car keys didn’t seem to be among them, although the wallet that held her credit cards and driver’s license was.

  Where the hell was he?

  She edged down the remaining stairs and stopped again, listening. Nothing moved. The silence seemed so intense it was like a hammer, battering at her.

  With her heart thumping somewhere in her throat, she edged toward the front door. Why had he tipped everything out of her handbag? Something glinted in the morning light, catching her eye. She bent, frowning. It was a small silver coin etched with a star. It was nothing she’d ever owned—or seen—before.

  Even as she watched, the coin began to dissolve, until there was nothing but a small patch of black dust staining the carpet. Some form of magic, obviously, meant to capture or kill her. And Doyle, who could sense the presence of magic, had somehow been caught by it.

  Fear shot through her, and her stomach churned. God, if he was hurt or dead because of her—because of his stupid insistence that he had to protect her—she didn’t know if she could ever forgive herself.

  She picked up the wallet, then rose and stared out the front window for a moment. She had to try to find him, but how? She could no lo
nger hear the warm whisper of his thoughts, and she didn’t want to think about the implications of that. He wasn’t dead. She had to believe that, if nothing else, or panic might set in.

  She turned, her gaze skating past the blood and outlines in the living room. Her car keys were missing, but Helen had a spare set on her key ring. Only trouble was, they were probably hanging on the key holder near the refrigerator, and to get them, she’d have to go past all the gore in the kitchen.

  Not something she wanted to do, but she had very little choice. They couldn’t keep using taxis to get around. It would cost them a fortune.

  She took a deep, calming breath and headed into the kitchen. Her stomach churned, threatening to revolt as she edged past the thick, dark pools, smashed crockery and taped outlines. Snatching the keys from the hook, she ran for the back door and out into the yard, where she was violently sick.

  After a while, she rinsed out her mouth with water from the outside tap and resolutely headed into the garage, opening the door just in time to see more cops pull into her driveway.

  “WELL, WELL, WELL,” A COLD VOICE SAID INTO THE silence. “It looks like my little trap caught the cat rather than the mouse.”

  Doyle rolled onto his back and rubbed his eyes. He felt as though he’d been picked up and thrown around like some rag doll, and given the howl of the wind before he’d stepped into nothingness, maybe that impression wasn’t far off.

  Beyond the speaker’s whisper of breath to his left, he could hear the rustle of leaves and a bird’s piping tune. The air was an odd mixture of smells—sweet and fresh, free of the usual fumes that were associated with city living, and yet touched by a muskiness usually linked with damp basements. He flexed his fingers. Concrete met his touch—cold, wet and just a little slimy.

  “I know you’re awake, so stop your foxing. I’m not coming anywhere near you, if that’s your plan.”

  The voice was rich and soft—the same voice he’d heard performing the spell at Rachel’s. He opened his eyes. A square patch of sunlight swam before them, framing and shadowing the face that stared down at him. A face that was thin and long and crowned by short, dark hair. Felicity Barnes, he thought, and wondered if it was her real name or an assumed one. Wondered if this was her real face or a disguise. The slight wash of magic suggested it was the latter.

  “What do you plan to do?” he asked, his gaze sweeping his surroundings. The room was circular and fully concrete. By the look of it, it was an old tank of some kind.

  “With you? Nothing. You’re not what I intended to catch at all.”

  For which he had to be extremely thankful. Though in some respects, Kirby was probably better equipped to deal with this situation than he was. At least her lightning could have blasted a way out.

  “You can stay here and rot,” the woman continued. “I’m certainly not going to waste my strength on the likes of you.”

  Now that his eyes were getting used to the darkness, he could see her features more clearly. Her face was extremely gaunt, her eyes protruding and ringed with shadows, and her mouth little more than a slash of pale blue. Blood magic was sucking her dry, he thought. Maybe that was why she was killing the rest of the circle. She wanted power without cost.

  But was this her real image, or was she merely showing him what he expected to see? If she was powerful enough to control two manarei and bring the King Kong of all zombies to life, then surely the blood magic could not have sucked her this dry. Not yet. Because the face he was seeing now was close to death and would not have the strength to conjure a rabbit, let alone control two of the most dangerous creatures ever to walk this earth.

  If he got closer, he might be able to see through her veil, see her real features. He tensed, getting ready to spring to his feet.

  She laughed. “Don’t even think about it, shifter. This lid will be slammed in your face if you so much as twitch in my direction.”

  He didn’t relax, just watched her through slightly narrowed eyes. “Where am I?”

  “Way, way out in the country on a farm owned by friends. They’ve gone overseas and won’t be back for months. By then, you’ll be well and truly dead.”

  Not if he had any say about it. He still had his phone. He could feel it, digging into his side. “We will stop you, you know.”

  She snorted softly. For an instant, the veil fluttered, revealing cold blue eyes and a wisp of light brown hair.

  “I doubt it,” she said, amusement heavy in her voice. “All you’ve done so far is chase your tail. You don’t know who or what you’re even looking for.”

  “No,” he agreed. “Unlike you, we don’t work for the government and haven’t had access to their computers and records.”

  She might have been a damn powerful practitioner of the black arts, but her acting skills were nonexistent, because she twitched, telling him his guess was right. All they had to do now was find out if either Trina or Marline worked for the department that looked after kids, and they had their killer.

  “Too bad you’re locked in this water tank and can’t tell anyone, huh, shapeshifter?”

  He wasn’t locked in yet. There was still a chance … if he was fast enough. He reached for his alternate shape, getting ready to change and spring. “Anyone egotistical enough to stand around and mock potential victims will make a mistake, sooner or later.”

  He shifted shape and sprang toward her in one smooth motion. She yelped and pushed back, and the lid arced downward. He caught the rim of the tank with his claws, scrambling desperately to get up. The lid crashed down on his head, stunning him, but he managed to hang on, his back claws scraping against the concrete as he tried to find purchase. She stepped forward, hands raised, fire burning across her fingertips. He snarled and slashed at her desperately, catching hair and cutting skin. She screamed, and fire leapt toward him. He dropped into the darkness, shifting shape as he fell. Crouching, he stared up at the hatch. It glowed white-hot, and for an instant, the air shimmered with heat. The fire would have killed him had it caught him.

  The metal soon cooled, and darkness returned. Something heavy hit the hatch, and the metal, weakened by the fire, bowed slightly.

  “Don’t hope for escape, shifter. The hatch is locked, and there’s a rather large rock sitting on top, ready and waiting to crush you should you have anything in those pockets of yours that might cut through metal. There’s also a spell set to kill whoever tries to shift this rock in any way.” She hesitated. “I hope you die a slow and ugly death, shifter. Goodbye.”

  Footsteps moved away. He waited until he heard the distant roar of an engine, then got out his phone and dialed Camille.

  “I was getting worried about you, Doyle. Been more than an hour, you know.”

  “I know. Listen, we got caught by a spell over at Kirby’s. I’m trapped in a water tank out in the country somewhere, and Kirby’s alone at her place. You want to go get her, then come rescue me?”

  “How the hell did you, of all people, get caught by a spell?”

  “Stupidity.” The last place he’d expected a spell to be set was in a handbag, though now that he’d had time to think about it, it did make sense. Kirby would have had to come back for her purse sooner or later. “It was just lucky I breached the spell and not Kirby.” Because if it had caught her, she might be dead, not just trapped.

  Camille sniffed. “I’ll do a locating spell, then go get Kirby. Do you think she’ll still be at her house?”

  “God knows.” He might be able to read her thoughts, but he didn’t understand her well enough just yet to guess what she’d do when she discovered he was gone.

  “I’d better do a locator on her as well, then.”

  “Just make sure you get to her first,” he said. “Felicity Barnes, or whatever her real name is, will have guessed she was at the house with me. She’s probably on her way there right now.”

  “Be patient, shifter. We’ll get to you both.”

  Patience was one thing he usually had plenty of, except w
hen it came to someone he cared about being in danger. He hit the wall in frustration, then began prowling the confines of his concrete cage.

  KIRBY RUBBED HER EYES WEARILY. IT FELT AS IF THERE were a madman running loose in her head with a jackhammer, and the pain was so bad that she was in serious danger of throwing up all over the police station’s worn gray carpet. What she needed was darkness, painkillers and coffee, and not necessarily in that order. But what she needed most of all was to get out of this place and find Doyle. She had a niggling sensation that he was in some sort of danger, and she had to get out of here and find him before real trouble hit. Yet getting out was the one thing that didn’t look likely to happen anytime soon.

  For the last three hours she’d been stuck in this box they had the cheek to call an interview room, answering endless questions about the events of the last twenty-four hours. It was obvious from the detectives’ expressions and their repeated questions that they didn’t believe her—that they knew she was lying. But what other choice did she really have? She couldn’t tell them the truth. They wouldn’t believe that any more than they believed her now.

  She rubbed her eyes again, then looked up as the door opened. One of the two brown-suited detectives that had been questioning her came in and sat back down. He slid a coffee across the desk, then leaned back in the chair, regarding her quizzically.

  She wrapped her hands around the foam cup in an effort to keep them warm and returned his gaze evenly. She had nothing to hide, except a truth he just wouldn’t believe. And they couldn’t hold her here forever, not without charging her with something. She just had to be patient. Just had to hope Doyle was okay.

  “Tell me again,” he said, voice monotone, bored. The total opposite of what his sharp brown eyes portrayed. “What happened when Constables Dicks and Ryan took you to the motel?”

  She sighed. “I’ve told you that five times already. Do you want me to lie? Would you believe me if I did?”

  “What I want is for you to tell me the truth.”

  “I have,” she said, resisting the temptation to look away.