The afternoon sun was as hot as it was bright, but it failed to chase the chill from her skin. She walked down the slight slope of grass and sat under the gums. The leaves stirred, stronger than before, and through their murmuring she heard her name. The voice was soft, warm, and oh so familiar. Vanilla drifted on the breeze, entwined with the slightest hint of lime. Helen’s favorite scents.
Pain welled. Kirby closed her eyes and somehow found her voice. “What did your spell do to me?”
The leaves stirred and answered. “Nothing more than return what was rightfully yours.”
“What do you mean?” She stared up into the gum tree’s dark canopy, wondering if Helen’s spirit danced with the wind among the leaves.
“There is a reason we always felt drawn to one another. We were not just friends, dear one, but sisters. Twins.”
“Twins.” It came out harshly, her throat too constricted by sudden tears. “But how do you know this? How can you be sure?”
“The wind told me, long ago.”
“So why didn’t you tell me? Damn it, I had the right—”
“But you never showed any desire to uncover the past and the reason we were abandoned as babes,” Helen interrupted. “And how many times have you said you have no desire to meet the people who could abandon you to such misery?”
“Yes, but parents are far different from a sister—from a twin.”
“We found each other in the end, and that is all that matters. And deep down, you knew. You felt our connection as keenly as I did.”
Yes, she had. From the moment she and Helen had met in that facility, it had felt as though she’d found the other part of herself. Which she had, because they were twins. She took a deep, quivering breath. “Did you ever find out anything about our parents?”
“No. Not even the wind could tell me that. But it was my search for answers that brought us to this point, Kirby.”
“I have my own powers, Helen. I never wanted yours.”
“Perhaps not, but they are now where they should have been from the very start.”
Kirby frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that we are not just twins, but the much rarer semi-identical twins,” Helen said. “One egg, two sperm. It means the abilities that should have been yours were split between us. You were and are the binder, but you should have been a whole lot more.”
Kirby’s frown deepened. “Meaning I should also have been a storm witch?”
“And air elemental. But those two came to me, in a somewhat diluted form. I was never a very powerful witch, nor could I control air as I should have. That is because some remnants remained in you.”
“But I never—”
“Because you never wanted to. You had your one weapon—a weapon that was born from all the elements that once resided in you—and you had no desire to learn or use anything else. But you must use them now, Kirby. You must stop that woman’s murderous ways.”
Alone? How the hell was she supposed to stop a woman who was now half demon? “Doyle’s gone after her.”
“No. The witch has set a trap. It is your task, your fate, to stop her.”
Fear ripped through her, and she scrambled upright. “Doyle? Is he—?”
“You have no time to worry about him now, sister. The witch has the fourth point. You must save her.”
“But—” She hesitated, battling the tide of fear. “I can’t fight her alone. I need help.”
“You need nothing more than courage. Remember, you are the one that combines and controls. She cannot hurt you with what is yours to command.”
What in hell was that supposed to mean? If the whispering leaves knew, they didn’t say. “I don’t want to do this.”
“You must. We started this, albeit unknowingly, so long ago, and we have run from our responsibilities for too long. But revenge has overtaken us, and now you must see this finished. For the sake of us all.”
She closed her eyes. She didn’t want this responsibility. Didn’t know if she had the courage to face this woman alone.
“You must, sister. Or the cat will die.”
It felt like someone had grabbed her heart and squeezed it tight. For a minute, she couldn’t even breathe. “What do you mean?” she somehow ground out.
“In protecting you, he will draw the witch’s ire and die. I have heard it whispered on the wind.”
The wind didn’t whisper unchangeable truths, only possibilities. How often had Helen told her that? Yet it was a possibility she dare not risk. She drew in a deep breath. In one sense, Helen was right. If they hadn’t sidetracked fate so long ago, then none of these murders would have happened. They certainly couldn’t change that now, but they could stop a madwoman’s quest for power and send a demon back to hell.
Maybe. She shivered and rubbed her arms. “Where do I go?”
“To an abandoned building in Port Melbourne. She will perform the ceremony tonight, when she has more strength. You have to stop her.”
Kirby closed her eyes. Have to and would stop her were two very different things. “The address?”
It was the wind itself that answered, burning the address into her thoughts. Another tremor ran through her. The spell had worked after all.
“Call the storms, and they, too, will answer.” Helen’s words were barely audible. The dance of the leaves was dying, as was the wind. “Take care, sister …”
“Goodbye,” she whispered, and felt the quick kiss of wind on her cheeks before the day went still.
Swallowing heavily, she climbed to her feet. The chill seemed to have settled deep in her bones. She rubbed her arms, knowing it came more from fear than the wind—and from the knowledge that she might not survive this encounter with the witch. Despite Helen’s words, she was under no illusions. The witch was far stronger than she ever would be.
But she had no choice. If she contacted Doyle and told him what she was about to do, he’d either tell her to stay put or accompany her. And if the wind’s whispers were right, he’d die. Or maybe his friends would. Either way, she couldn’t take that risk. If anyone else had to die, then let it be her. This was her fault, after all. Helen was right. It was time to stop running from the past and start making things right, no matter what the consequences.
Sighing softly, she headed back to the house to collect her things and call a taxi. And while she was waiting, she’d write a note of apology to the man she feared she’d never see again.
The man she might just love.
DOYLE DUCKED PAST THE FILTH-RIDDEN WINDOW AND moved to the back door. It was padlocked, but the screws holding the latch in place were loose and rusty. Nothing a good kick couldn’t dislodge. He leaned back against the wall and glanced at his watch. Ten seconds to go.
There was no movement inside the warehouse, no smell of life. But the feel of magic lay heavy in the air—as did the smell of death. Zombies, and God knew what else, waited inside.
He glanced at his watch again. Time, he thought. From the front of the warehouse came the sound of squealing tires, then a loud bang and the sound of metal grinding. Camille, reversing the van right through the warehouse’s main doors.
He stepped away from the wall and kicked the door. It flew open, the lock flying sideways and clattering noisily to the floor. He rolled into the gloom, coming to his feet fast, silver knife in one hand and gun in the other.
Nothing but dust stirred. He rose and cautiously edged forward. Light filtered in through the filthy windows, washing hazily across the semi-dark hallway. Doors lined the walls to his left and right—and from the one at the end of the corridor, he heard the rattle of a dead man breathing.
He put his weapons away, then took a deep breath and opened the door. The zombie lunged toward him, hands clawing for his neck. The smell of decay hung heavy in the air. This one had been dead for quite a while before it had been called from its grave. He ducked under the creature’s blows and thrust his fingers deep into its neck, shattering its windpipe. It gurgled, hands gr
asping wildly at its throat, as if desperate for air it didn’t need to survive. He stepped behind it, grabbing its neck and twisting hard. Bone snapped, and the zombie fell dead at his feet.
Unease ran through him. One zombie, and not a very strong one at that. As traps and this witch went, it just didn’t mesh. Something felt wrong. Very wrong.
He got out his weapons, then stepped over the mildewed body of the zombie and continued on down the corridor. At the end, he found a set of stairs leading downward. He took them cautiously, pausing after each step. The silence felt so intense it almost seemed to be buzzing. Where the hell were Camille and Russell?
He reached the last step and stopped again. The room that stretched before him was long and narrow and wrapped in a blanket of gloom. Dust stirred, but little else. There were doors to his left, and another set at the end of the room. He hoped they led into the main section of the warehouse. Though he could hear no sound, he had a horrible feeling Camille and Russell needed help.
He moved left and tested the handle. Magic tingled across his fingers, sharp enough to burn. He jerked his hand away, then carefully brushed his fingers across the door itself. The whole thing was spelled.
If this door was trapped, then no doubt the other one would be, too. He stepped back and studied the wall. No windows, no vents—nothing he could use to gain access to the next room.
Frowning, he moved right, running his hands across the wall. Plasterboard. Maybe he could kick it in and gain access that way. He walked to the middle of the wall, far enough away from both doors to ensure he didn’t trigger either spell, then began kicking. White dust flew and the plaster gave way, revealing the struts and wall beyond. He kept kicking until there was a hole large enough for a cat to fit through, then shifted shape. But he didn’t enter, not immediately.
The silence in the room beyond felt tense, electrified. Magic stirred, breezing across his senses, but its touch had the feel of distance. He padded a little closer, listening to the undertones of the silence. He could hear breathing, sharp and rapid. Could almost taste the sting of sweat, the acrid smell of fear. Human smells and sounds, not animal. Not zombie or any other nightmare creature.
There was no one close. He pushed through the hole, then shifted shape and reached back for the knife. The gloom in this part of the warehouse was not as intense, the sunlight filtering in from skylights dotted across the ceiling. In the middle of the large room stood a crate. On it was an odd-looking parcel. His gut clenched. He had a horrible feeling he knew what that parcel was. This time, the witch wasn’t taking any chances with magic alone. This time, it looked as if she’d set a bomb to ensure their destruction.
He looked quickly to the right, wondering where the hell his friends were. The van was half in and half out of the main entrance, the roller door still wrapped around it. Camille had jumped out and was standing next to the door, reaching back into the van. Russell had thrust open the van’s side door and had one foot on the ground, but he was more in the van than out. Neither of them appeared able to move any farther.
Frozen by magic, he thought, and he smelled again the sting of fear, the sense of urgency. He ran toward them, looking at the parcel as he passed it but not daring to go any closer. He had no experience in dealing with bombs and no desire to go near it and risk blowing them all up. All he needed to know was the time they had left, and the clock showed that all too clearly—less than two minutes.
Magic thrummed against his skin. He skidded to a stop, his gaze sweeping the floor. He saw the wide semicircle drawn onto the concrete and the wards spaced at regular intervals along that line. They’d had no hope. The minute they’d breached the warehouse’s entrance, the spell had been activated. It had snared them the moment they touched the concrete. No doubt a similar spell had been set on the doors. No wonder Trina was still alive. It would have taken a tremendous amount of personal energy to set these spells, and it would take the witch more than a few hours to recover.
He squatted, eyes narrowed, watching the slight ripple of energy cutting the air. Urgency beat at him, through him. Though he couldn’t see the timer, he knew the seconds were slipping away too quickly. But if he hurried, if he touched this spell the wrong way, it would snare him too and they’d all be blown up.
He studied the curve of energy to his right. It pulsed rich and strong, cutting the air as cleanly as a knife. But to his left, down near the entrance, the shield rippled. One of the wards had been knocked slightly off-line by the van’s impact as it came through the door. All he had to do was knock it out of line completely, and the circle would be broken.
He rose, putting away his gun and switching the knife to his right hand. He glanced at the clock and saw they had less than a minute. Sweat trickled down his back. He quickly followed the arc of energy and stopped near the ward. The knife wasn’t long enough to break through the shield and reach it. He cursed vehemently. He certainly couldn’t touch the circle. The minute he did, he’d be caught. And the energy would repel anything except silver. He glanced at the clock again. Forty seconds. No time, and no choice. He’d have to throw the knife and hope like hell the impact was enough to knock the ward off-line.
Otherwise, they were all dead.
He ran back until he was at the right angle and took aim. He threw the knife as hard and as fast as he could. It pierced the shield cleanly, light flaring like lightning down the blade as it arrowed toward the ward. It hit dead center, sliding the ward several inches sideways. Not far, but enough to break the circle. Energy exploded, a wave of heat and power that knocked him off his feet.
Hands grabbed him, hauling him upright. “Ten seconds!” Russell yelled. “Move, Camille.”
Doyle pulled away from Russell’s grip. “I’m okay. Go!”
He thrust Russell forward, then grabbed his knife and followed him. Behind them, the timer beeped. For several heartbeats, nothing happened. Relief swept through him. Maybe the witch wasn’t as clever as she liked to think …
The bomb blew. A fiery wave of destruction picked him up, thrusting him sideways. A second later, the heat hit, searing him. Pain surged, and a scream tore up his throat. Then the darkness encased him and he knew no more.
KIRBY STEPPED INTO THE SHADOW OF AN OLD ELM and studied the building halfway down the street. It was nothing spectacular—a square, five-story brick affair, surrounded by a high chain-link fence that almost looked solid, thanks to the weeds and rubbish that clogged it. If the smashed state of the windows and the amount of graffiti scrawled across the walls were anything to go by, the building had obviously been abandoned for some time.
Why here? It seemed a strange sort of place for a witch to be conducting a spell. Though admittedly, she didn’t know an awful lot about witches or spell casting, despite the fact that Helen had been involved in both. But it was too late now to regret her reticence when it came to learning anything about the subject.
She glanced down at the bag clutched tightly in her hand. She had no idea why she’d bothered to bring it. It wasn’t as if she were going to need it, particularly if she didn’t beat the witch. She thought of the note she’d left behind, of the things she hadn’t said, and wished she could go back to yesterday, to the moment in time when she lay wrapped in the warmth of Doyle’s body and he’d asked her to marry him. Wished she’d had the courage to take the chance rather than giving in to fear yet again.
At least then she would have had a moment of happiness to remember now, when death was so close she could smell it.
Terror stole through her heart, squeezing it tight. She took several deep breaths, trying to calm her nerves, then resolutely headed toward the building. She couldn’t delay any longer. Dusk was beginning to creep across the sky. If she waited until night, Mariel would be at full strength, and she wouldn’t have a chance.
The gate was locked, but the wire in the nearby fence had been cut and pushed back, leaving a small gap. She threw her bag through, then squeezed in after it. The sharp ends of the wire brushed her
back, snagging through her T-shirt and tearing into her skin. She cursed and pulled away, leaving a jagged scrap of material hooked on the wire.
Great, just great, she thought, twisting around in an attempt to see the cut. Though she couldn’t see it, there was warmth trickling down her back. It didn’t feel like much, so with any luck, the cut wasn’t all that bad. The last thing she needed right now was to be leaving a trail of blood. Who knew what sort of attention that might attract?
Goose bumps fled across her body. Trying to ignore the growing sense of danger, she picked up her bag and headed down the driveway. Several stacks of crates lay to her left and she hesitated. She had to stow her bag somewhere, and they looked just as safe as anywhere else. She doubted there would be any kids around. Surely the witch would have made sure there was no one near to disturb her spell casting.
In the distance, thunder rumbled. She glanced up. The skies were blue and clear, yet electricity thrummed through the air—through her. Sparks danced across her fingers, but it wasn’t that energy she felt. It came from the sky itself, from the distant hum of a waiting storm. Hers to call, thanks to Helen’s sacrifice.
An all-too-familiar ache washed through her. I have to win this. For Helen, and for the other girls in the circle.
She tucked her bag under a couple of nearby crates, then turned, her gaze sweeping the front of the building. Where would a witch go to perform a ceremony?
She bit her lip, remembering the vision she’d had—the concrete walls slung with slime, and the feel of empty desolation. The parking garage, she thought, gaze sweeping to the side of the building. There, near the end of the building, she saw the entrance.
A tremor ran through her, and the energy playing across her fingers became fierce enough to stand on end the hairs along her arms. She continued on down the driveway.
The garage loomed, dark and cavernous. No sunlight filtered in past the entrance; it was almost as if a curtain of night had been drawn across it.