He squatted next to her, lightly touching her neck. No pulse—not that he expected any with the amount of blood on the floor. But her skin still held a touch of warmth. She hadn’t been dead long. He’d missed saving her by maybe ten minutes. Ten lousy minutes.
Biting back his anger, he rose and walked across to the table. The tea in the mugs was still warm. Rachel had known her attacker—known and trusted her. Why else would she have let the woman into her house at this hour of the morning and made her a cup of tea?
He turned, studying the kitchen. The candle’s small flame flickered at her feet, barely breaking the darkness. He frowned. It was a rather odd place to stick a candle, and it certainly wouldn’t have provided the two women with much light. Then he saw the color of the wax—black. It was the sort of candle used in spells.
Frowning, he studied the floor. There were smudges of ash scattered around Rachel’s body. Though the lines were now broken, the shape of the pentagram was still evident.
The spell he’d sensed had obviously been performed on Rachel. The question was, why? Especially if she was already dead?
He pulled out his phone, took several pictures, then dialed Camille.
“Just about to call you, shapeshifter,” she said.
He moved around Rachel’s body, studying a slight scuff in the ash. It almost looked like a footprint. “Hasn’t Russell reported in yet?”
“No, and it’s worrying the hell out of me.”
“I’ll head right over and check it out, then. But I’ve found Rachel Grant.”
Camille sighed. “Dead, I take it from your tone.”
“Yeah, but only just. Some woman was still performing a spell on her as I came in.”
“What sort of spell?” Camille said, voice sharp. “Describe what you see.”
“Rachel’s on her back, the back of her head apparently caved in. Blood over the floor. Remains of a pentagram drawn in black soot. A black candle near Rachel’s feet, still burning.”
Camille sniffed. “That could be anything.”
“The magic had the feel of the dark path. The light was blue when I came in, but then turned a yellowish green, touched by red.”
“That end bit sounds like blood magic. A spell of summoning, perhaps?”
A prickle of unease stirred. He glanced around sharply. Though he’d heard no sound, he had the unsettling feeling that he was no longer alone in the house. He rose and moved back to the hall doorway. The shadows seemed to loom in on him, yet he couldn’t smell, nor see, anyone hiding within them.
Even so, he lowered his voice. “Would blood magic be powerful enough to rip psychic abilities from a body?”
“Yeah, but the victim would have to be alive to do it.”
“She might have been. I might have come in on the tail end of the spell.”
“Possible.” Camille hesitated. “Which address did you find her at?”
“The place in Carlton.”
“I’ll come over and have a look. It might be my best chance to figure out the exact spell being used.”
“The front door has a spell on it. You’ll have to counter it before I can open it.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll be there in ten. Don’t head off to find Russ until I arrive.”
He glanced at his watch. It was nearing six. Thank God it was raining. At least the clouds would temper the sunlight and give Russell more of a chance if he was stuck somewhere. “Hurry,” he said and hung up.
He shoved his phone in his pocket and stepped into the hall. Through the silence came a whisper of sound—a footstep, in one of the rooms upstairs.
Maybe the woman hadn’t left. Maybe she’d just relocated to a different room. But there was no smell of magic in the air, nothing beyond paint and a faint whiff of decay.
Frowning, he made his way up the stairs. Dawn’s light was beginning to filter in through the windows, filling the hall with gray shadows. He stopped on the landing, listening intently. Nothing moved, yet something was definitely up here. There was an odd sort of feel to the air—a tension, a sense of expectation. The smell of decay was stronger here, too. But it wasn’t the scent of age and mold so often found in old houses. It was the smell of death, of meat long gone rotten.
He edged forward. The odor seemed to be coming from the room two doors down—directly opposite the room from which he’d entered the house. At the doorway he stopped, listening again. Air stirred softly, the sound accompanied by the softest rattle. The stink had become so bad he could barely breathe. He wasn’t sure if it was related to whoever was standing in that room or not, and at this point, it didn’t really matter. Whoever—or whatever—was there was standing against the wall, close to the door, just like him. It left him with only one option.
He stripped off his long coat, placing it carefully on the floor, and dove through the doorway.
TEARS TRACKED DOWN KIRBY’S CHEEKS, AND A SOB caught in her throat. She knew Helen was dead, had seen her torn and bloodied remains with her own eyes—and yet here she was, smiling softly, gray eyes gentle and yet so full of mischief. Kirby wanted to reach out, to touch the untouchable—to hold her dead friend close and never let her go again. But she clenched her hands instead, frightened that even the slightest of movements would send this mist wraith scattering.
“You must stop her, Kirby.” Helen’s voice was as soft and as warm in death as it had been in life.
She somehow found her voice. “Stop who? Who did this to you?”
The wind stirred, rustling the leaves of the nearby gum trees and blowing away several strands of Helen’s mist-spun figure. Kirby bit her lip but knew there was little she could do to prevent it. The wind was no friend of hers.
“I don’t have much time and there’s so much to tell you,” Helen continued softly. “You are the one that binds and controls. You are the most powerful of us all. You are the only one who can destroy her.”
She frowned. What she needed right now was answers, not more damn questions. “What are you talking about? Destroy who?”
“She who seeks to control what is not hers. The power of the elements—the circle of five. Two are now dead. You and one other remain. You must find her and save her. And you must find the fifth point and stop her.”
How could she save some unknown woman when she hadn’t even been able to save her best friend?
“We are more than just friends. And my death lies in my hands, not yours.”
She stared at Helen’s mist-shaped face and felt so cold her whole body began to shake. “What do you mean?” she said, her throat so restricted her question came out as little more than a harsh whisper.
“My death was my choice. I chose to die by my own hand rather than give that woman anything of mine. Now you, too, must choose your fate.”
“I don’t want this,” Kirby muttered. “I don’t want any of this.” She just wanted life to go back to the way it had been, and for Helen to be real, not a creature of mist.
All of which was totally impossible now.
“Destiny creeps up on us no matter how we run, Kirby. I have learned this, if nothing else.”
“But you saw the future. You saw our deaths …” Her voice faded. Helen had once said the wind whispered only possibilities, never certainties. It was the things people said and did that changed the paths of fate. Which was why they’d spent so much of their lives on the move, trying to outrun the death that had always loomed so large in their future.
Helen sighed. “It was my actions that sent us down this particular path, and for that, I am sorry.”
“What actions?” Kirby demanded, not understanding even half of what Helen was saying.
The wind shivered through her friend’s form. “I needed to find out who my parents were. I’m sorry.”
For what? For wanting to know the truth? For being braver than she’d ever dared to be? “Did you find them?”
“No.” Helen hesitated. The wind stirred again, blowing through her form, snagging tendrils
of mist and unraveling them quickly. “The wind calls me. I have to go.”
“No!” Kirby reached out, but her hand slipped through Helen’s form, stirring the mist and dissipating her body. “No,” she repeated, dropping to her knees, her whole being aching with the pain of loss and unshed grief. “Don’t go. Don’t leave me!”
“You must go home. You must find the gift and say the words.” Helen had almost completely faded. Only her face remained. The droplets of moisture glistened in the rising light of the day, so it looked like tears were shining in her mist-colored eyes.
Kirby frowned. “I have the gift; it’s in my pack.”
“That is not the gift I left. Find it, say the words, and complete the circle.”
Her frown deepened. “What circle? What are you talking about?”
“The spell. You must complete the spell.” Even as she spoke, the wind was taking the rest of her mist-spun features until all that was left was the sparkle of ghostly tears. “Fear not the cat, sister, for he will not harm you.”
She meant Doyle, Kirby thought, and knew that, in this instance, Helen was wrong. Doyle might not harm her physically, but emotionally? He had the power to hurt her deeply. Irreparably.
I will always be with you, Kirby. Seek me whenever the wind calls. Take care …
The words caressed her mind and faded away. Kirby closed her eyes, rocking back and forth and battling the urge to scream. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t Helen who should be dead, but her. Helen had lived life to the fullest, enjoying every moment, while she … she’d done nothing more than fake it.
Biting her lip, she sat there for what seemed like ages, controlling the pain, refusing the tears. Not yet, she thought. Not until she’d made sense of Helen’s death and found the woman responsible. Not until justice had been done.
Eventually, she became aware of the cold touch of moisture seeping through her jeans, chilling her skin. She rose, her joints creaking in protest, and looked around. Though the mist was still heavy, the darkness was beginning to lift. In the trees above her, a magpie warbled, its melodious tones heralding the new day. Across the road, lights shone in the house two doors down from number twenty-eight. She frowned. People were waking. Doyle had better hurry up and get out of that house.
Shoving her hands in her pockets, she walked back. At the car, she stopped, her gaze going to the second-floor window. There was nothing to see but shadows, but she frowned. Doyle was in trouble. Big trouble. How she knew this, she wasn’t sure. It was just a feeling—a certainty—deep in her mind. And she was just as certain that if she didn’t do something to help him, he would die. Something was in that room with him, something bigger and stronger than he was. Something from beyond the grave.
Not giving herself time to think—or fear—she ran toward the house.
DOYLE ROLLED BACK TO HIS FEET, ONLY TO BE CONFRONTED by a seven-foot mass of rotten flesh—something that had once been human, but now was not.
A goddamn zombie! And one of the biggest he’d ever seen. In a confined space like this, the odds of beating it weren’t exactly good. The stinking creatures were faster than they looked, and strong despite the decay.
It lunged toward him, and he backpedaled fast. A fist the size of a spade hammered the air. He ducked and swung, kicking the zombie in the gut. The blow bounced off the creature’s flesh and jarred his whole leg. It felt like he was kicking bricks. The zombie had to have been a boxer or bodybuilder in life to have stomach muscles that strong in death. He half wished he’d taken the time to put his boots back on. He had a bad feeling that bare feet weren’t going to make much of a dent in this particular dead man.
He danced away from another blow, then jabbed at the creature’s jaw. Its head snapped back, and it snarled—or smiled. It was a little hard to tell given half its mouth had decayed away. He jabbed again, but the zombie caught the blow in his fist and twisted hard. Pain burned white-hot up Doyle’s arm and sweat beaded his brow. Gritting his teeth, he dropped, sweeping the creature’s feet out from under it. It fell with a crash that shook the foundations of the building but began scrambling upright almost immediately. Doyle jerked his wrist from the zombie’s grasp, then punched the creature in the neck, feeling flesh and muscle give under his blow. The zombie’s eyes went wide and it started gasping, as if unable to breathe. Zombies weren’t the brightest creatures. They were dead and didn’t actually need air, but most didn’t realize that immediately, if ever.
He jumped toward it, wrapping an arm around its throat and squeezing tight. The zombie roared—a sound that came out strangled and harsh. It reached back, grabbing Doyle by the back of the neck and wrenching him over its head. Doyle hit the wall with a grunt and dropped in a heap to the floor, only to feel the boards quiver as the zombie ran at him. He scrambled away on all fours, resisting the sudden urge to shapeshift. A panther wouldn’t have a hope against the superior strength of this zombie. And in that form, he certainly couldn’t snap the creature’s neck—the only surefire way of killing it.
Fingers raked his side, seeking purchase. He rolled to his feet and grabbed the zombie’s arm, twisting around and pulling hard. The creature sailed past him and landed with a crash on its back. Doyle stiffened his fingers and knifed them toward the creature’s eyes. It moved, and he hit cheek instead, feeling flesh and bone give as its cheek caved in. Teeth gleamed at him in the brightening light of day.
Shuddering, he twisted, sweeping the creature off its feet again as it struggled to rise. It roared in frustration and lashed out. The blow caught the side of his face and sent him staggering. The creature was up almost instantly, arms outstretched as it sought to corner him.
He faked a blow to the creature’s head, then spun and lashed out at a bony-looking knee instead. The force of the blow shuddered up his leg, and in the silence, the crack of the creature’s knee shattering was audible. It didn’t seem to matter to the zombie, though. It staggered toward him, arms milling quicker than a high-speed fan and twice as deadly.
He couldn’t duck every blow. He was fast, but even the wind would have had trouble in this situation. The zombie’s fists hit him in the ribs. Red heat flashed through him. He hissed and spun, lashing out again at the zombie’s knee. This time, the whole knee bent backward and the creature howled, a sound loud enough to wake the dead—and the neighbors.
Downstairs, there was a crash, and magic burned across his skin. Someone had sprung the spell on the front door. Not Camille—she would have deactivated it first. Maybe one of the neighbors had heard all the noise and had decided to come in and see if there was a problem. If that were the case, he hoped the neighbor hadn’t been hurt.
He aimed another kick at the creature’s leg, but it sidestepped and caught his foot, thrusting him back. He hit the wall with a grunt, then ducked another blow. The creature’s fist hit the wall instead, and dust flew. It was so damn close its reek was almost overwhelming. Gut churning, he threw another punch, mashing the creature’s already bulbous nose. The creature howled. He spun, kicking the zombie in the gut, forcing it away, desperate to gain some room to move—and breathe.
Lightning seared through the room, encasing the zombie in a web of blue-white light and pinning it to the floorboards. It howled and thrashed but could not escape. The smell of burning flesh added depth to the already horrendous stench in the room.
Soon there was nothing left but a pile of ash on the floor. Kirby walked in, her gaze sweeping the room until she found him. “Are you all right?”
Though she was pale, the left side of her face was red, as if burned, and bits of dust and wood were caught in her hair.
“Are you?” he countered abruptly. “Did the spell on the door hurt you too much?”
She shook her head, but her gaze skated from his. Tears shimmered in her green eyes, and her mind was filled with pain. He winced as he stood and walked toward her. She didn’t retreat, didn’t move in any way. It was almost as if she were frozen by what she’d done.
I’ve never us
ed the energy to intentionally kill before.
The thought whispered through him, filled with such horror it nearly took his breath away. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She tensed, her gaze searching his briefly before she relaxed in his embrace and rested her cheek against his shoulder.
He held her close, listening to the wild beat of her heart—a rhythm that matched his own. Her body fitted his like a glove. She felt so warm against him, so right, somehow. It was as if he’d found the other half of himself. He closed his eyes at the thought. His father had once told him he would know when he found his mate. That it would hit him like a fist to the gut—suddenly, painfully. He had a horrible feeling the old man was right.
“You had no choice but to kill it,” he said. “I certainly don’t think I would have survived another round with it.”
He breathed deep the scent of her. She reminded him of spring—fresh and warm and rich with the scent of flowers.
She pulled back slightly, and he instantly regretted speaking.
“What was it?” Her breath washed warmth across his neck and stirred the already flaring embers of desire.
“Zombie,” he said, gently picking a sliver of wood from her hair. “And dead long before you got to it.”
Tears gleamed briefly in her eyes. She blinked them away and touched his cheek, her hand cool against his flesh. She must have taken his gloves off to use her magic.
“You look like shit.” A smile touched her lips. Lips that looked all too warm and inviting.
“Strange,” he murmured. “It’s just what I feel like.”
God, he wanted to kiss her so desperately it hurt, but she’d run the minute he tried. She was just starting to trust him, and he didn’t dare do anything that might shatter that trust. Especially when her living or dying might well depend on his ability to keep close.