Circle of Death

  “How did you find me?” Mariel asked, eventually.

  “Does it matter?” Kirby glanced across at the black stone table. The knife still hovered above Trina’s midriff, rotating rapidly, as if it were a drill barely held in check. Attack Mariel, and the knife would drop. Attack the knife, and Mariel would use the moment to attack her. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, wanting—needing—to move, to do something to end this impasse. Every second she delayed bought them a second closer to night and to the witch gaining full strength. Yet right now, she had no other option than to play this Mariel’s way.

  “I guess it doesn’t.” Mariel sipped her coffee, watching her steadily, her blue eyes filled with a mix of hate and madness.

  It was the hate Kirby couldn’t understand. What had they ever done to Mariel to deserve such depth of feeling? Yes, they’d killed her best friend, but that had been an accident, and Mariel herself had been the fire elemental … Her thoughts stuttered to a stop. If Camille was right, it wasn’t just Mariel who stood before her now, but Felicity—or at least, Felicity’s spirit. A spirit that may well have been dragged from the depths of hell. “Tell me, when did you raise Felicity’s spirit? And why?”

  Mariel raised an eyebrow. “You are well informed, aren’t you?”

  She shrugged. “Sometimes it pays to know what you’re up against.”

  Mariel nodded serenely. “Yes, I guess it does.” She sipped her coffee again, then tilted her head, her gaze narrowing a little.

  The sense of danger leapt tenfold, squeezing her throat so tightly that Kirby could barely breathe. Yet Mariel hadn’t moved, hadn’t done anything beyond change her expression. I’m out of my league, Kirby thought, and flexed her hands, her fingers aching with the energy that burned across them. The sparks danced in jagged lines across the darkness, clashing with the dirty light of the fire. Mariel glanced down briefly, a slight smile touching her lips.

  “The power of air,” she said. “I’m keen to see how well it stands up to fire and water.”

  Kirby wasn’t. The only thing she was keen to do was get the hell out of here. But that wasn’t an option—not yet, and not without Trina. Then she blinked. Mariel had said she was air—did that mean she wasn’t aware that she’d been the binder, not Helen? “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Didn’t I? How remiss of me.”

  Her smile was cold, cruel. It whispered of death, of a darkness so deep Kirby felt the chill of it clear through to her soul.

  “Do you know how hard it is to find information about raising the dead? It took me five years to find anything decent on the subject. Five years is a long time in hell, you know.”

  Her hands clenched around the cup, shattering it. Shards of china clattered over the concrete, a brittle sound that sawed at Kirby’s nerves. “Then you were sixteen when you raised her. So why wait until now to go after us?”

  “You really don’t know anything about magic, do you?” Mariel snorted and shook her hand. Blood splayed across the concrete and into the flames. They hissed and recoiled. “It takes time to learn the craft, time to gain strength and knowledge. And time to find what the government had scattered.”

  So, it was true. In trying to track down their origins, Helen and the other girls had led a killer to their door. Kirby rubbed her arms, showering herself with sparks that did little to ease the chill from her bones.

  “Why? Answer me that. It can’t be all about revenge.” Surely no one, no matter how mad, would go through all this for something as simple as revenge.

  “I thought you would know the answer to that.” Mariel hesitated, then shook her head, as if in disbelief. “You felt the power we all raised. How could you not want to feel all that again?”

  Kirby stared at her. Was that what this was all about—the need to control? The need to be the most dominant force? Mariel had never been entirely sane. Anyone who raised dead bugs for the sheer fun of terrorizing other children could never be described as sane. But that night, when they’d joined hands and raised a force that had shaken the very foundations of the world around them, they’d obviously destroyed what little rationality she’d had. For one brief moment, Mariel had had a glimpse of the absolute power she’d craved—only it wasn’t hers to control. It would never be hers to control.

  Unless she destroyed the circle and sucked its powers into her own being.

  “So you went after Helen?” Kirby said, keeping her voice low. Right now, the last thing she wanted was to antagonize the bitch and force her into action. But she needed time to think—to plan. And she needed to know what assumptions Mariel had made.

  “At first, I thought Helen controlled the powers of air. But when I killed her and there were no powers there to steal, I knew I had been wrong. Then I knew that she was the binder, and you controlled the air.” Mariel sniffed. “The two of you always were a bit interchangeable, so it’s no wonder I got confused.”

  But Kirby could see the sudden flare of rage in her eyes, and knew this was the reason why Helen had been torn apart so brutally; Mariel never had liked being made to look the fool.

  “And you didn’t care about her powers of binding?” Kirby hazarded.

  Mariel wrinkled her nose. “Why should I? What use are the powers of binding when I will have all four bound within me?” She gave a short, brutal laugh. “I already control two of the four elements. And now I have the final two here, awaiting my gift of darkness.”

  Tension ran through Kirby. Her fists were clenched so tight her nails were cutting into her palms. No wonder her name hadn’t been on Camille’s list; she had become a victim in Mariel’s twisted mind only after Helen’s murder.

  But Kirby did suspect that Mariel’s assumptions were wrong in one important way. She had bound together the power of four elementals on that one fateful night. She had felt how her powers changed and magnified what was already present. To gain the powers she wanted, Mariel would need the powers of binding—but if Mariel succeeded in killing Kirby, she’d not only get Helen’s power, but become the binder as well. And all the Circle’s worst nightmares would come true.

  “I must say,” Mariel continued serenely, and absently waved a hand, “that you’ve caught me by surprise. I was expecting to have to pry you away from the hands of that damn shifter.” She hesitated, smiling again. It was a picture of maliciousness itself. “I set a trap for him, you know. Just how well do you think a shifter can survive a bomb?”

  Kirby’s stomach churned, her mind snared by the sudden image of Doyle being caught in flames and imprisoned under a mountain of concrete. Fear rose, threatening to engulf her. She took a deep breath and thrust the images away. Doyle wasn’t dead. She’d know if he was.

  She opened her mouth to reply, but the words froze in her throat. The wind stirred, caressing her cheeks. They were no longer alone. Something was creeping up behind her—something that smelled like death.

  She spun and thrust out her hand. The pent-up energy surged from her fingers, lashing the darkness, thudding into the chest of the dead man behind her. Fingers of blue-white light webbed across his body, pinning him to the spot and burning him to a crisp in seconds flat. The smell of burnt flesh stung the air, and her stomach roiled.

  He’s dead, she reminded herself fiercely. You can’t feel responsible about killing a man who is already dead.

  The air behind her boiled with heat, reaching toward her with fiery fingers she felt rather than saw. She dropped, her hands and knees smacking painfully against the concrete. Heat seared across her back, burning her T-shirt but barely touching her skin. She rolled to smother the flames, then saw something glitter out of the corner of her eye, and kept on rolling. Ice exploded against the floor, showering her with shards that tore at her skin and hair.

  She flung out her hand, imagined fingers of air wrapping around the knife and flinging it back, deep into the darkness. There was a whoosh, and the knife disappeared. Without pausing, she shifted, this time aiming her net at Mariel. Energy
cut through the darkness, momentarily highlighting the surprise on the witch’s face before she dove out of the way. The lightning exploded against the edge of the fire and scattered the ring of stones. With an odd sort of sucking sound, the purple flames died and darkness swept in—a black curtain she could almost touch.

  “Now, that’s just plain nasty,” Mariel commented from the darkness to Kirby’s left. “Do you know how difficult it is to raise one of those fires?”

  Trying to get around me, Kirby thought. She slid off her shoes and edged barefoot toward the table. If she could just get Trina down …

  Flames shot across the darkness and she cursed and dove away, hitting the concrete again and skinning her chin in the process. She wiped away the blood dribbling down her neck, then yelped as fiery fingers of heat licked toward the soles of her feet. But the flames never touched her, recoiling millimeters away from her feet before dying. She frowned and remembered Helen’s words—she cannot hurt you with what is yours to command. Did that mean the powers of fire could not be used against her? She fervently hoped so, if only because it gave her some sort of chance.

  She pushed upright. Thunder rumbled again. The storm was close, so close. She could feel the power of it beginning to thrum through her body, her soul.

  Then the wind stirred again, whispering its secrets. Kirby spun, but far too late. Something hit the side of her head, and darkness closed in.

  A RING OF DEAD MEN SURROUNDED HIM. DOYLE HESITATED in the parking garage’s entrance, studying the zombies for several heartbeats. There were six of the stinking things. At any other time, it wouldn’t have much mattered. These six didn’t possess the size or the brute strength of the zombie that had attacked him at Rachel Grant’s and, even though he was wounded, generally wouldn’t have caused him much of a problem.

  But right now he couldn’t afford any kind of delay. Kirby’s fear was like a blanket, threatening to smother him. She was with the witch and in trouble. Any delay might have deadly consequences for them both.

  The zombies lunged toward him. He sprang over their backs and shifted shape, then wrapped an arm around one of the creatures’ necks and twisted hard. Bone snapped, and the zombie went limp. He thrust it into the path of another one, then backpedaled as fast as his injured leg would allow as a third zombie lurched at him. He twisted away from its grasping fingers, and pain shot up his leg. He cursed and limped away, aware of the warmth dribbling down his thigh. The wound had obviously opened a little, but it was nowhere near as bad as before. The creatures formed a pack and ran at him as one. He shifted shape and leapt away, but the grasping fingers of a zombie on the outskirts of the pack caught him, bringing him down before it jumped on top of him. He slashed at the creature’s face with his paws, cutting deep, then shifted back to human shape and smashed his fist into the face of the creature pinning him. Bone shattered, but the blow itself had little effect. Fingers grasped at his neck, seeking to choke him, while others grabbed his legs and feet and pulled, as if intent on ripping him apart. Agony burned through his body, and the rush of warmth from the wound became stronger.

  Behind the pack of zombies, the darkness shifted and became Russell’s bandaged form. He picked up the creatures by the scruff of the neck, tossing them back into the shadows as if they were nothing more than unwanted garbage.

  Then he held out a bandaged hand and hauled Doyle to his feet. “You keep going. I’ll take care of these maggots.”

  For an instant, the darkness swam around him, and pinpricks of heat danced before his eyes. Sweat broke out across his brow, and he knew it was only Russell’s grip on his arm that was keeping him upright.

  “You look like shit,” Russell continued, the concern in his voice deeper.

  “That’s because I feel like shit.” The scuff of a foot against concrete told him the zombies were on the move again. “Where’s Camille?”

  “Turns out the gate was spelled. She’s disconnecting it so she can bring the van in.” He hesitated, then shoved something into Doyle’s hand. “You may need this.”

  He glanced down. It was the silver knife. He squeezed Russell’s shoulder. “Thanks. And be careful.”

  The vampire snorted. “I’m not the one in danger of bleeding to death here. Now, go and rescue your lady before you fall down dead.”

  Doyle limped away. One of the zombies tried to follow, but Russell grabbed its arm and tossed it back at its brethren. The sounds of the ensuing scuffle followed Doyle into the darkness.

  Light began to dance across the wall, but its color was the sick hue of dark magic. He was so close now that it burned across his skin—a foul sensation that churned his gut. Kirby’s fear sharpened abruptly, then both the light and her thoughts cut off, leaving an odd sort of emptiness in his mind. She wasn’t dead, but he wasn’t certain of anything more than that. Apprehension became a blade digging deep into his gut. He shifted shape, then picked up the knife between his teeth and hurried on, his breathing sharp and with a bitter taste in his mouth.

  In panther form, he could hear the sound of movement more clearly. Could hear someone grunting in effort, then the slap of flesh against stone. He heard the sharp click of heels moving away through the darkness.

  He reached the parking garage’s bottom level and stopped in the shadow of a concrete pillar. The witch squatted near a ring of stones, rearranging them and muttering something under her breath. Kirby and Trina were both lying on a sacrificial table. Neither of them moved, but they both breathed, and relief washed through him.

  Yet even from where he stood, he could smell the blood that had leeched into the stone over time. Death had tasted the life of its victims many times on that table. If he weren’t very careful, it would savor the taste of two more.

  He padded forward. The witch stood, and her muttering grew more intense. She produced a knife and slashed her wrists, dripping the blood into the ring of stone. Magic stirred, caressing his skin with evil. Light woke in the ring of stone, flickering sick shadows across the darkness.

  He didn’t have much time left. He shifted shape near the table and rose, quickly slashing the ropes binding Kirby and Trina’s limbs.

  Behind him, the chanting grew, becoming fever-pitched. Magic seared the air, and the night shifted as flames began to dance and burn within the ring of stones.

  No time left. Nor was there any chance of him getting Kirby out of here without being seen. The only option left was attacking the witch.

  He hefted the knife and turned to throw—only to find himself eyeballing a gun.

  THE SOUND OF A GUNSHOT JERKED KIRBY AWAKE. Fear filled her mind—fear and pain—a wave of red heat that almost suffocated her.

  Doyle was with her here in the darkness, but he was hurt. Seriously hurt. Just as Helen had warned.

  Biting her lip and fighting the need to get up and look for him, help him, Kirby opened her eyes. Cold stone pressed against her back, and darkness loomed above her. Trina was lying beside her, as cold and still as death itself. Terror rose, grasping her by the throat, threatening to strangle her.

  Sound scuffed to her right, then the sharp click of heels approached. She closed her eyes, feigning unconsciousness, knowing that until she knew where Doyle was, it was better not to move. Better if the witch thought her still unconscious.

  Mariel stopped beside her. She ran her hand almost lovingly down Kirby’s arm, and it took every ounce of willpower to remain still and not shudder away from the sting of her touch.

  Then she turned away and addressed the shadows. “Come into light where I can see you, shifter, or the next shot will remove your charge’s toes.”

  A chill ran through Kirby. She had no doubt Mariel meant what she said. Obviously, neither did Doyle.

  He moved into the circle of dusky firelight, and her breath caught. Blood glistened wetly on his arm and darkened his jeans almost black. He was barely even standing—most of his weight seemed to be resting on his left leg. Sweat beaded his forehead, and his eyes were little more than deep b
lue slits. He was a bloodied warrior ready to die to protect her, and she knew she could do no less for him. She shifted her hand carefully, reaching for Trina. Found her fingers and clasped them tightly.

  Overhead, thunder rumbled—a violent sound that seemed to shudder through the very air around them. Energy burned into her body, her soul. Though her eyes were still closed, she could see the swiftly running clouds far above them, could feel the lick of their power, as if they were her own.

  Mariel glanced at her—a brief but heated touch she felt rather than saw.

  “Drop the knife, shifter,” the witch said after a moment, her voice filled with sudden anxiety.

  The knife clattered to the concrete. Doyle’s concern ran around her, through her. Are you okay?

  Tears stung her closed eyes at the sheer depth of concern—and love—in that one question. I’m certainly better than you. She hesitated, wishing she could say more but not daring to tempt fate just yet. I’m about to test Helen’s spell and call the storms down, so be ready for it.

  Be careful, he said. She still has the gun.

  Not for long she doesn’t. She clenched her fist, fighting back the bitter taste of fear and any form of doubt. This would work. It had to work, or they would all die.

  Within her mind, she reached for the clouds high above. Power surged, sharp and clean, running through every muscle, every vein, until her whole body ached with the force of it.

  Mariel’s snort raked the silence. “Sometimes men are simply too predictable.” As she raised the gun, Kirby called to the wind. It swept in, fierce and cold, swirling around Mariel, thrusting her sideways and wrenching the gun from her hands. And with the wind came the rain, a torrent that soaked the three of them near the table and yet left Doyle untouched.

  He shifted shape and leapt toward the witch. Fire burned through the night, and he twisted. The flames singed his coat, and the smell of burning hair and flesh stung the air and churned Kirby’s stomach. He hit the ground and became human again but remained on all fours, as if he didn’t have the energy to move any farther. Agony surged through the link between them, and for several seconds she couldn’t even breathe.