Might as well be entering hell itself, she thought, and had a horrible feeling that might be the case.
Thunder rumbled, closer than before. She looked up one more time at the blue skies and hoped she lived to see them again.
Then, taking a deep breath, she stepped past the curtain and entered the parking garage.
THERE WAS SOMETHING ON DOYLE’S BACK, PRESSING down hard, squashing him. Every breath hurt—the air burned, scorching his throat and his lungs. Heat licked at his feet, his legs. He groaned and tried to move. Fire twisted down his side, a living thing that threatened to consume his consciousness.
He groaned again and tried to open his eyes. Couldn’t. Something seemed to be gluing them shut. He sniffed the air and regretted it almost instantly. It was pungent and gaseous, and seemed to burn through his entire body. He coughed so hard it felt as if he were tearing apart.
“Doyle!” Russell’s shout seemed to be coming from a great distance.
“Here.” The word came out harsh but little more than a whisper.
The weight pressed deeper. He fought to breathe, to stay conscious. The heat of the flames danced across his feet, and the smell of burning leather joined the junket of toxic odors surrounding him.
“Doyle! Answer me, damn it.”
Here, he wanted to say, here! But the words lodged somewhere in his throat and refused to budge. Sounds reached through to his prison—the scrape of metal against concrete, a grunt of effort, the sharp sound of swearing. He smiled. Camille had never been much of a lady.
Dirt showered him. The weight on his back shifted, and pain shot through his leg, reflecting across his entire body. A scream tore at his throat, but it came out as little more than a hiss. Swearing filled the air, as colorful as the smoke surrounding him. He coughed again, harsher and longer, until spasms shook his body and it felt like he was going to throw up. Then the weight lifted from his back and leg, and suddenly he could breathe again. Only the fresh air sent him into another spasm of coughing and made him wish for the bliss of unconsciousness.
Hands grabbed him, hauling him upright. The world blurred, and then he was out in bright light, with the warmth of the late afternoon sun glaring down on him. That was quickly replaced by cool darkness. The van, he thought vaguely, looking around. But hadn’t that been blown up?
Moisture dribbled across his lips. He licked at it quickly, desperate to ease the burning in his throat.
“Easy with that,” Camille said from his right. “Not too much or he’ll throw up.”
“I know, I know.” Russell’s voice sounded impatient and worried.
I’m okay, he wanted to say, but his vocal cords still refused to work. Something cool and moist touched his face, wiping the stickiness from his eyes. He blinked and opened them. A man knelt in front of him, his head and hands swathed in bandages that were covered in soot and dirt. He blinked, but the vision refused to go away.
“Russell?” His question came out as little more than a harsh croak.
The bandaged face nodded. Doyle looked to his left and saw the bright sunshine peeping past the black plastic covering the van’s back windows. He realized then that Russell was wearing the bandages for protection. It was the only way he possibly could have ventured out into the sunlight without burning up.
“Keep still a while,” Russell said. “Camille’s fixing your leg.”
Russell lifted the cup, dribbling more moisture into his mouth. He swished it around, then swallowed. The fire in his throat began to ease. He looked down, but couldn’t see anything beyond Camille’s back. Couldn’t feel anything beyond an odd sort of numbness in his right leg.
Fear stirred his gut. “What’s wrong with my leg?”
“A large chunk of metal has speared your thigh. It missed the bone, but that’s about all it missed,” Russell said. “Camille’s plastered the area with a numbing salve and has cut off what she could, but basically, that’s all we can do beyond getting you to a hospital. If we try to take it out here, you’ll bleed to death.”
At least that explained the numbness in his leg. He drank a few more drops of water and rolled his neck, trying to ease the ache. It felt as if someone had played baseball with his entire body.
“Not if I shapeshift. It’ll heal enough to stop me from bleeding out.”
Camille’s expression showed serious doubt. “I’m not sure—”
“But I am. Do it, then bandage it tight. It’ll hold, Camille.” He sure as hell wasn’t going to any damn hospital. Not when that mad bitch was still running around out there.
Camille took a deep breath, then nodded. “You ready?”
“Go for it.” He released his grip on the knife and tensed, even though he knew it was completely the wrong thing to do. He felt the momentary pressure on his leg as Camille gripped the rod; then, without warning, she ripped it free. A scream tore up his throat, and for a moment, everything went black. He could feel the warmth gushing down his leg, and he knew that if he didn’t do something quick, he’d die.
“Fuck, Doyle, change—now!”
He called to the magic and felt it rip his body, reshaping flesh and bone, the process as much about healing as shifting. He remained in panther form for several minutes, his breathing rapid and head light, then shifted back to human form.
And promptly blacked out. He must not have been out for long, though, because Camille was still bandaging his leg when he woke. “Why in hell did you detour for that damn knife? It almost cost you your life.” Anger edged Russell’s words.
Doyle shrugged. “It’s silver, and the only one I have with me.”
“So? Steal another. It wasn’t worth almost losing your life over.”
“Russ, silver is the one thing immune to magic. We may yet need it.” Especially if the witch went after Kirby. He went still, and in that moment knew beyond a doubt that she was in trouble and needed help.
“Kirby,” he said urgently, struggling to rise. “We have to get back to her!”
Camille swore at him, and Russell held him down. “Don’t move, damn it!”
“You don’t understand—”
“No, you don’t understand,” Russell said vehemently. “We need to get that leg tightly bandaged, otherwise you’ll break the wound open again and bleed to death. How is that going to help Kirby?”
He relaxed a little and closed his eyes. Tension rode him, as sharp as the fear stirring his gut. “Okay. But once my leg is bandaged, we go get her.”
Russell glanced at Camille. “I don’t think—”
“I don’t care what you think, my friend. She’s in danger, and it’s far more important that we save her than get me to a hospital.”
“As much as I hate to say it,” Camille said into the tense silence, “he’s right. We can’t let the witch get her hands on her.”
Camille shifted slightly, revealing the massive blob of bandages on his leg. What was left of his jeans below the wound was soaked in blood. No wonder he felt light-headed. “How come the van survived the explosion?”
“Because I jumped in and drove it off,” Camille said. “It runs a might faster than these old bones, let me tell you that. Besides, it was Russell’s only hope. The sunshine would have killed him.” She rose and lurched toward the driver’s seat. “Now, where’s this farm you two were staying at?”
He gave them the address, then added, “It’s out along the Calder Freeway.”
“Wherever that is. Russell, type it into the sat-nav while I get us moving.”
The van started. Doyle closed his eyes, letting the movements of the old van lull him into a semi-sleep. Pain drifted through him, but at a distance. No doubt Camille had put something in the water to diminish it.
The noise of city traffic gave way to the hum of freeway travel. Not far now, he thought wearily, and hoped Kirby was okay. Hoped he was worrying over nothing.
Awareness tingled across his senses, and a wave of tension and fear rushed through his mind. Not his—Kirby’s. He sat up abruptly
. She was somewhere close. He scooted down to the back windows and tore away the plastic.
“What’s wrong?” Russell said, voice sharp with concern.
“She’s here.” They were still on the freeway. There were no cars immediately behind them, but across the other side, a yellow cab sped by. “Turn the van around,” he added, urgently.
Camille didn’t argue. Tires squealed, then they were bouncing through the dividing strip of grass. “What car?” she asked, once they were on the other side.
“The cab. Hurry!” He leaned back against the side of the van and closed his eyes, wondering if she was a prisoner to evil or merely breaking another promise.
The traffic closed in around them again. Camille swore, and the blast of the van’s horn was almost lost in the squeal of tires. “Idiot!” she yelled out the window.
Doyle edged forward and peered out the windshield. Not a cab in sight.
“It turned left two streets down,” Russell said, glancing at him. “But from there, it’s anyone’s guess. How good is this connection between you and Kirby?”
“Good enough to find her, I think.” I hope.
Camille turned left, then slowed. The street stretched before them, devoid of traffic of any kind. “Where to now?”
He frowned, reaching for the link. Though her thoughts were still distant, her fear surrounded him, so sharp it became his own. He flexed his fingers, trying to control the growing knot of anxiety in his gut. “Take the next right.”
Camille swung into the street. Down at the far end, a yellow cab cruised out of a side street and drove toward them. Kirby wasn’t in it. He knew that without looking.
“You want me to stop in front of that sucker and ask where he dropped her?”
He hesitated. Could they afford to waste the time? Could they afford not to? “Do it,” he said.
The van slewed sideways, blocking the road. The cab stopped and the driver rolled down the window as Camille hustled over. Three minutes later she was back. “Rodger Street,” she said. “Outside some sort of packing factory. He didn’t have a specific number.”
“Was she alone?” Some part of him hoped she wasn’t. Hoped that she was being forced into this action. He just didn’t want to believe she was breaking another promise.
Camille nodded. “Whatever she’s doing, she’s apparently doing it willingly.”
“Damn.” Why? What could have gone so wrong in the few hours he’d left her alone that she was now willing to risk her life going up against the witch?
Camille patted his hand, then reversed out of the cab’s way before continuing up the street. They quickly found Rodger Street and slowed to a crawl.
“There’s the packing factory,” Camille said, pointing to the right.
He knew without looking that she wasn’t there. “Keep going.”
They continued to cruise down the street. “Heartbeats, coming from that abandoned building up ahead,” Russell said. “There are at least three that I can hear.”
“Human or otherwise?” Doyle asked. Not that it really mattered beyond knowing what he was up against.
Russell hesitated. “Hard to say.”
Camille pulled into the driveway and stopped. “The gates are padlocked,” she said. “If I drive through them, they’re going to know we’re here.”
“She didn’t enter via the gates.” He spotted the brief flutter of material on the fence several feet away from the gate and thrust open the van’s side doors, clambering out.
“Damn it, shifter, get back in here. Let us deal with this. You can’t go wandering around with that leg of yours.”
He ignored her and hobbled over to the fence. Pain rose—a promise of the agony he would no doubt be in once the painkillers wore off. He plucked the thin scrap from the wire and sniffed it quickly. Basil, geranium and pine—the oils she’d soaked in last night. He clenched his fingers around the material, his gaze searching the structure. She wasn’t in the building itself, but underneath—in the parking garage.
“Damn it, Doyle—”
The rest of Camille’s words were lost to the buzz of magic as he shifted shape. Even in panther form, his leg was useless. It didn’t matter. As a cat, he had three other legs and could move faster than any human. He slipped past the wire and ran for the parking garage.
KIRBY STOPPED AT THE END OF THE RAMP. ELECTRICITY danced across her fingers, shooting slivers of light through the veil-heavy darkness. Somewhere in the distance water dripped, a steady sound like fingers tapping impatiently. She shivered and thrust her imagination back into its box. The last thing she needed was to be imagining the worst. No doubt the witch would be doing that soon enough.
She edged forward, her steps becoming surer as her eyes grew used to the darkness. Columns loomed before her, some hung with slime, others scrawled with graffiti. Beer bottles decorated the far corners, scattered about like abandoned toys. The air smelled stale and was perfumed with the rich scent of rubbish and urine. Her vision, come to life.
A chill crept icy fingers down her spine. She shivered again, wondering why the parking garage was so cold when the air outside was so hot. Surely this close to the entrance, some of the day’s heat should have crept in. Or maybe the unnatural curtain of darkness that seemed to hang over the entrance somehow blocked the heat as well.
She continued to follow the ramp down, reaching the next level. Mariel would be on the last one, though why she was so sure of this, she couldn’t say. Oddly enough, the air here seemed warmer. The dripping water had faded, to be replaced by a hum that seemed to reverberate up through her feet. She hesitated, listening. And heard, underneath the hum, the soft chanting.
A spell of summoning, she thought. And wondered how the hell she knew.
And what the hell Mariel was summoning.
The closer she moved to the last level of the parking structure, the louder and stronger the humming became. Wisps of red and purple light flickered across the walls, and the air seemed to vibrate with urgency and power. Then it was gone, and a dead sort of silence prevailed.
Goose bumps crawled down her spine. There was something in the darkness with her. Something not human. She froze. A footstep scraped against the silence. Breathing, harsh and heavy, approached. She didn’t move, pinned by fear, her hands clenched against the energy burning across her fingertips.
A man lumbered into view. Only it wasn’t a man, but a decayed replica, its clothes little more than tatters of material that barely covered the skeletal remains of its body. It reeked of death and rotten meat. Her stomach stirred, threatening to revolt. She bit her lip, watching the creature plod by. Why was Mariel summoning things like that into being? Surely, if she was going to summon the dead to help her, she could get something a little more … lively? Like the zombie that had attacked Doyle …
Pain rose, and she closed her eyes. God, he was going to be so angry at her for doing this! But what other choice did she have? She couldn’t be responsible for his death. She couldn’t live with that on top of everything else.
She continued on. Ahead in the darkness, light beckoned. Someone was humming—a happy tune that set her teeth on edge.
She rounded a corner and stopped. A fire burned within a circle of stone, but its flames were an unnatural purple and green and cast sick shadows across the darkness. A tripod had been set up over it, and from this hung a steaming kettle. To the right of this was a black stone table. On it lay Trina. Even from where she stood, she could see the rise and fall of the other woman’s chest. Relief swept through her. At least she wasn’t too late to stop this madness.
A woman swept in from the darkness. She had sharp features, short brown hair, and a lanky, almost boyish body. Mariel. She hadn’t changed all that much since Kirby had last seen her. She’d gained some height, but other than that, she could still have been the child that had chased them with dead bugs. Kirby flexed her fingers, needing to move, to hide. But the minute she did either, the witch would spot her. All she could do was rema
in still and hope fate was on her side for a change.
It wasn’t.
Mariel bent over the fire, grasping the kettle with a gloved hand. Then she hesitated and looked up. Kirby met her gaze and saw only madness.
“Well, well, this is a nice surprise,” Mariel murmured. Her voice, unlike her gaze, was warm and pleasant, her tone that of a friend rather than a foe. “Please, do come down. I’ve just made a cup of coffee, if you’d like to share it.”
“Thanks, but I’m comfortable right where I am.” Kirby flexed her fingers, trying to ease the tension knotting her muscles. The energy that danced across her fingers shot fiery sparks across the darkness.
If Mariel noticed, she gave no indication. “Maybe so, but I prefer you to come closer—and you will do so, or the tramp on the table shall suffer the consequences.”
She raised a hand and a knife appeared from nowhere, hovering above Trina’s stomach. Kirby drew a deep breath. If she didn’t do what Mariel wanted, if she tried to retreat or attack, it would be Trina who suffered, not her. She stepped into the circle of light provided by the fire and stopped.
“One wrong move and that knife will taste blood,” Mariel said, then bent and poured some water in her mug. “You sure you don’t want a cup?”
Kirby nodded, fingers clenched by her sides. Thunder rumbled, closer and sharper than before. But would it be able to help her this far underground? Or didn’t that matter, given that Helen hadn’t been just a storm witch, but the air elemental?
“Must be a storm brewing,” Mariel commented, holding the mug in two hands, as if warming them. “But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
Kirby shook her head, watching her cautiously. It felt as if she’d stepped into the Twilight Zone. The last thing she’d expected to be doing right now was standing here having a semi-normal conversation with the fiend who’d murdered her friend—her sister.
Mariel considered her for a second. The firelight cast shadows of green and purple across her features, making her face look gaunt, almost skeletal. She seemed in no great hurry to do anything more than talk, and that in itself was worrying.