Circle of Death

  “Until we uncover what the link is between the women on the list—and there is one, have no doubt of that—then we won’t know.” She glanced back at Russell. “Did you get anything personal from the house?”

  Russ reached into his shirt and pulled out a plastic bag. Inside were two hairbrushes.

  Camille smiled. “Such a clever boy.”

  “Such a damn thief,” Doyle muttered dryly.

  Russ raised an eyebrow, his expression amused. “Now, there’s a case of the pot calling the kettle black.”

  Doyle grinned and didn’t deny it.

  Camille drew one of the brushes out of the bag. She unwound several strands of hair from the bristles, then closed her eyes and ran the lengths through her fingers. A shudder shook her slender frame. “This was Helen’s,” she said softly. “She could call to the storms, was a friend to the wind, and one with the air. But she was the weaker of the two.”

  He shared a glance with Russell. Storm witches were pretty damn powerful. If she was the weaker, then what kind of power did Kirby have?

  “They’ve been on the run for years.” Camille hesitated, frowning. “Running not from the past but the future.”

  “She obviously didn’t see this future,” Russ commented.

  Camille’s frown deepened. “I feel she did … but chose to accept her fate.”

  Another shudder rocked the old woman’s frame. Sweat began to bead her forehead. The hair slipped from her fingers, falling softly to the desk. Camille leaned back in her chair and took a deep breath. “I can’t read much farther. There’s some sort of force blocking me.”

  Doyle reached across to touch the spiderweb of hair. Energy tingled across his fingertips, a muted echo of the power Helen Smith had controlled. The manarei should not have been able to kill her. At the very least, she should have been able to keep it at bay until help arrived.

  But she’d chosen to die. He wondered why.

  Camille took another deep breath, then leaned forward and took the second brush from the bag. “Kirby’s,” she said. “She is a part of this, even if her name is missing from our list. She is the key to all of them, the one that binds. She is …”

  Her eyes flew open. “The manarei is after her. Doyle, go. Go now! Or she’ll die.”

  He rose so swiftly his chair toppled backward. “Where?”

  “Grice Street, Essendon. Hurry.”

  He was gone before she’d even finished speaking.

  THE SCREAM CUT THROUGH THE NIGHT, A HIGH-PITCHED wail of distress. The hair along the nape of Kirby’s neck stood on end, and for a minute she froze. The screamer was male, but the voice was too high, too young, to be Constable Ryan’s. More than likely the screamer was the delivery boy. The sound cut off as suddenly as it had begun, and in the silence she could hear movement—gentle thumps, as if something soft were being thrown around in the next room.

  Move, instinct said. Move, before it comes for you.

  She thrust her coat into her pack and threw it out the window. It dropped with a splat into a puddle, and brown water splashed upward.

  The sounds from the living room ceased. She froze again, listening, as she knew the thing in that room was listening. Her heart was beating so hard it was all she could hear.

  Sweat trickled down her face. She clenched her fists and fought the urge to move. If she ran, it would come after her. She had to wait until it was distracted, otherwise she’d die. As the others in that room had died.

  Time seemed to stretch, sawing against her nerves. Sweat dripped off her chin and splashed to the floor near her feet. For an instant, her vision blurred, and she saw blood instead of sweat pooling at her right foot.

  A shiver stole across her. She blinked, but otherwise remained still. In the other room, the noise began again, this time accompanied by a soft, slurping sound.

  Drinking the life of its victim, she thought, and knew that didn’t mean blood.

  Swallowing heavily, she stepped onto the rim of the tub. The window was on the small side and, even though she was small herself, it was a tight fit. She went out sideways, twisting as she fell so that she landed on her back rather than her head. There she lay for several seconds, gasping for breath and seeing stars.

  Something thumped against the bathroom door. The creature she’d known as Dicks was coming after her. She scrambled to her feet, grabbed her backpack, and ran like hell.

  In the bathroom, wood splintered and something metallic hit the tiles—the towel rack, giving way. Fear thrust energy through her limbs, and she raced toward the end of the motel.

  Glass shattered behind her. She risked a look over her shoulder and saw a reptilian head snake through the window, eyes gleaming like yellow fire in the night. It hissed—an angry, alien sound that sent chills shuddering down her spine. She stumbled over something in the grass and threw out a hand to stop herself from falling. But she didn’t see the glass hidden by the weeds, and she sliced her palm open. The smell of blood seemed to permeate the storm-clad night, and the creature screamed a second time.

  A fence loomed in front of her. She threw her pack over it and grabbed the railing, climbing up. Splinters tore into her palms and sawed at the cut on her left hand, but she ignored the pain and scrambled to the top of the fence.

  The wind hit her full force, the rain like bullets against her flesh. Suddenly unbalanced, she grabbed the fence, clinging precariously and wasting valuable seconds.

  The creature’s roar filled the night with anger. She felt it launch with a sudden gust of wind, and before she could react, it grabbed her leg. Claws ripped into her flesh and pain flamed. She screamed—a sound swept away by the wind.

  The energy of the night and the storm surged through her, and she grabbed at it desperately, binding it within to create a power that crackled like lightning between her fingertips. But the creature didn’t seem to notice, grabbing her leg more securely and pulling back, hard. He was strong—too strong. She had nothing but the top of the fence to hold on to, and against the creature it wasn’t enough.

  She fell, landing in a heap at its feet. Her breath left in a whoosh of air, and stars danced in front of her eyes. She battled to breathe but didn’t move. In Dicks’s malevolent yellow eyes she saw the elation of victory. A smug smile twisted his thin lips—the same sort of smile that had irritated her earlier.

  “Now you too must die.” His voice was guttural, almost scratchy, as if he wasn’t used to talking in this form.

  “It’s not my time just yet,” she muttered, and rolled under his blow rather than away from it.

  This close, he smelled of blood and death and unclean flesh. Gagging, she gripped one thick leg and imagined a web of power encasing his body. Energy surged through her fingers and leapt up his scaly flesh, forming a spiderweb of blue-white tendrils that not only encased him in heat but locked him to the ground.

  He roared in fury, slashing with thick claws at the net encasing him. It rippled and moved but for the moment, contained him. It wouldn’t for long. She’d bought herself time, not freedom.

  She scrambled to her feet. For an instant, the world spun, and she had to grab the fence to keep from falling. Lethargy made her muscles shake, and her heart felt as if it were planning to leap out of her chest. She hadn’t used her abilities much in the past, but the few times she had, the same thing had happened.

  All magic costs, Helen had once told her. In her case, the cost was physical—and in a situation like this, that could be deadly.

  She took several deep breaths, then grabbed the top of the fence and climbed over. Her right leg buckled as she landed on the far side and crashed to one knee. Tears stung her eyes, and she swore vehemently. Red-colored water pooled at her feet, only to be swept away by the lashing rain.

  Just what she’d seen in her vision in the bathroom, she thought absently, and she grabbed her coat from her pack. After throwing it on, she pushed upright and hobbled away as fast as she could.

  The streets were dark and empty. A light g
limmered up ahead, a wash of yellow that reminded her of the creature’s eyes. It was coming after her. She could feel the heat of its malevolence reaching through the night, searching for her.

  A sob caught at her throat and she broke into a run. The wind slapped against her as she turned the corner, catching her sodden hair and thrusting it back like a flag. The rain was a constant stream against her face, making it difficult to see, but she knew this area. Helen and she had jogged around here every morning. She could have run home blindfolded.

  She pounded across the road, heading toward the footbridge that arched over the railway tracks. Her street lay on the other side. Surely the police were still there. Surely they could help her.

  But would they see the evil she saw, or would they only see the police officer rather than the monster?

  Maybe it would be better simply to grab her car. She’d be safe in the car. The creature might be able to outrun her, but it wouldn’t outrun her old Ford with its powerful V-8.

  And if it got in her way, at least she’d be able to run the bastard over.

  But there were people on the bridge and an old couple climbing the narrow stairs. She looked over her shoulder. The creature was behind her, gaining fast, its mouth open in a silent scream of anger. She couldn’t push past the old couple without knocking them over, and if she waited for them to get clear, she’d die.

  So she ran.

  Past the bridge. Past brightly lit homes that offered false illusions of warmth and safety. The creature behind her wasn’t going to be stopped by lights or warmth or even locks. If any of the people in those houses offered her sanctuary, they’d die, as Helen had died. As Constable Ryan and the pizza boy had died.

  The heavy thud of footsteps drew closer. Hate sizzled across the cold night, as sharp as the sound of the creature’s breath. Up ahead, two bright beams of light rounded the corner. She threw up a hand to protect her eyes from the sudden glare, but the headlights died as suddenly as the sound of the engine.

  She ran on, knowing the creature was gaining on her, knowing there was little she could do to avoid it. Energy began crackling across her fingertips again, but it was little more than a muted spark. She needed more than a few minutes to rebuild the energy she’d already spent, and mere sparks wouldn’t be enough to stop the creature behind her.

  She approached the car. There was someone standing beside it—a shadowy form that looked more a part of the windswept night than anything real or solid. She swerved away, heading across to the other side of the road, not wanting to risk endangering someone else.

  The creature was close. Its breath washed heat across the back of her neck. Another sob caught at her throat, and fear flushed fresh energy into her legs. It wasn’t going to be enough. It was never going to be enough. In the blustering touch of the wind, she felt the heat of the creature’s launch.

  “Kirby, drop!”

  She did without question. She heard two sharp retorts, like a car backfiring. She felt the heat of the creature fly over her head. She heard the crunch of its body as it hit the pavement only feet away.

  She saw the black liquid that leaked across the wet concrete from the gaping hole that had once been its head.

  Her stomach churned, but she swallowed against the rising bile and clenched her fist, calling to her fire once again. She wasn’t out of the woods just yet, because footsteps approached. Measured, cautious steps.

  “Are you okay?”

  The voice was accented, but not heavily so—American, she thought. It was deep and warm, and as soothing as hot chocolate on a winter’s night. It was also the voice she’d heard in the bathroom.

  She shifted slightly, squinting up against the rain. The stranger stood by her right side, a black-cloaked figure holding a gun he kept aimed at the creature.

  “Can you hear me? Are you okay?” he repeated, still not looking at her.

  Somehow, she found her voice. “Who in hell are you?”

  She felt more than saw his smile, which was odd. Helen had always been the empathic one, not her.

  “What, no hysterical overtures of gratitude?” His tone was light, yet she sensed a hint of curiosity. “Not even a thank-you for saving your life?”

  “Not until I know who you are and why you’re here.” Not until she knew if she’d jumped from the frying pan into the fire.

  “You may well have done just that,” he said, voice suddenly sober. “But believe me, the danger has nothing to do with me.”

  Anyone would have thought she’d spoken aloud, and her fear rose several notches. Energy danced across her fingertips, brighter than before, but still nowhere near full strength. Time, she just needed time.

  “You won’t need your weapon against me,” he said softly. “I didn’t save your life just to kill you, believe me.”

  Right now, she wasn’t inclined to believe anyone. Particularly someone who’d conveniently appeared out of the darkness the precise moment that she needed help. “Then what did you save it for?”

  “Certainly not to hold a conversation with you in the middle of a storm. You want to get up?”

  “You want to tell me your name?”

  Again, she sensed his smile. “Doyle.”

  “Doyle what?”

  “Doyle Fitzgerald.” He glanced down. In the glow of the nearby streetlight, his eyes were blue, but a blue so dark they were almost navy. “Is that leg stopping you from getting up?”

  She shook her head and pushed upright. But pain shot up her leg and she yelped, losing her balance and tumbling back toward the concrete.

  He grabbed her arm, holding her upright, his touch almost white-hot against her chilled flesh. Once again her vision blurred, and she saw not her black-cloaked rescuer but a dizzying montage of images in which a big black panther was always central.

  Though it made no sense, one thing was clear.

  Doyle Fitzgerald wasn’t exactly human.

  MAGIC BURNED ACROSS DOYLE’S SKIN, A TOUCH AS warm as her fingers were cold. Fear flitted briefly through the vibrant depths of her eyes, though whether it was fear of him or the situation, he couldn’t say. Maybe it was both.

  Right now, though, it didn’t matter. It was more important that they got out of here. Manarei usually traveled in pairs. There would be another out there in the darkness, and it would have felt the death of its mate.

  Somehow, he had to get Kirby into the car without alarming her any further—no easy task, he suspected. Especially if she noticed the manarei was beginning to melt away.

  He stepped in front of her, blocking her view of the creature. “You need those wounds tended to.”

  It sounded rather lame, but he couldn’t think of anything else. He certainly couldn’t force her into the car—not when the thrum of magic pulsed between them. Light danced across her fingertips, a gentle play of energy that lit the night with miniature thrusts of lightning. Though he’d never come across anything like it before, one thing was clear: one wrong move and that energy would be aimed at him. And that, he suspected, would not be pretty.

  “So you’re offering to drive me to the nearest hospital?” She pulled her arm from his grasp and wavered on one leg. “Why?”

  “Because you’re going to bleed to death if you don’t get help soon.” The emergency room was actually the last place he wanted to take her. There were too many people—and too many forms the manarei could assume.

  “And you’re what? The local neighborhood watch out on evening patrol? And I suppose you just happened to have a gun handy in the glove compartment?”

  Implying, no doubt, that he was up to no good. Once upon a time that might have been true, but not these days. Not since he’d joined the Circle. “Listen, all I’m trying to do is save your ass.” Irritation bit through his words. He thrust a hand through his hair and tried to remain calm.

  She snorted softly. “Why the hell would you have any interest in saving my ass? You don’t even know me.”

  “But I know a fine ass when I see one, an
d yours certainly deserves to be saved.” His irritation was more obvious this time, and he took a deep breath. Damn it, why was her distrust affecting him? Although, in her shoes, he probably would have used his magic first and asked questions later.

  A startled look crossed her face and, for a moment, a smile touched her lips. It transformed her features, changing them from pretty to extraordinary.

  “Compliments aren’t going to get you anywhere, chum.”

  Her tone was still tart, despite the lingering warmth on her lips. Lips he suddenly had difficulty tearing his gaze away from.

  “Tell me how you know my name, and why you’re really here,” she said, a slight flush invading her cheeks.

  Before he could answer, a howl ran across the night. It was a high-pitched wail of distress that sounded more human than animal. The manarei’s mate giving voice to its grief.

  Time was running out. Though he still had four silver bullets in the gun, facing a grief-stricken manarei was an entirely different proposition from facing one in a feeding frenzy. Given the option, he preferred to run.

  Her gaze searched the night, and her voice was soft, edged with fear. “That creature had a mate?”

  Doyle raised his eyebrows, wondering how she knew. “Yeah. And it’s going to be a little pissed that we killed him. We have to get out of here.”

  “Why didn’t you just say that earlier, instead of rambling on about the hospital?”

  Her gaze met his. It seemed to delve right to his soul, tasting secrets he’d rather keep hidden. “I didn’t want to alarm you more than necessary.”

  She snorted again. “Like my night hasn’t been one huge, monster-filled nightmare already.”

  And she was counting him as one of those monsters, at least until she knew who and what he was—something he was in no hurry to tell her. “Can we just get in the car?”

  He touched her elbow. Warmth flared, washing electricity between them. Not her magic but something deeper, something more basic. Her gaze flicked to his, startled, but she didn’t pull away, didn’t run. Though only, he suspected, because the other manarei was still out there hunting her.