Circle of Death (17 page)

The cops out front
did
mean they couldn’t go in that way, even if he did take them out temporarily. “Does the garage provide access to the back of the house?”

She nodded. “But there were bits of Ross all over the kitchen. I can’t …” Tears glimmered again, and she bit her lip.

He wondered why she was so determined not to show any emotion, to hold it all inside. Had some nut in her past enforced the impression that it was better that way?

“Close your eyes, then. I’ll lead you through.”

She glanced at him and nodded. “I guess I can manage that.”

“Good. Wait here while I go deal with the officers.” He hesitated. “What’s the name of the local newspaper?”

“
The
Moonee Valley Leader.
Why?”

“I need a cover story.”

“Oh. Be careful.”

He smiled, raised her hand and kissed her fingers. “Always.”

A pretty blush crept across her cheeks. He resisted
the impulse to kiss her more thoroughly, then pulled his phone out as he made his way down the street. He sent Camille a quick text, giving her a rundown on the present and asking her to check it out; then he plucked one of her ready-to-go potions from an inner pocket and held it loosely in his free hand. Once he was near the car, he hit the phone’s record button. The passenger’s-side window was halfway down.

The cop raised an eyebrow as Doyle stopped beside the car. “May I help you?”

“Officer, Mike Jones from the
Moonee Valley Leader
,” Doyle said, and held his phone closer to the half-open window. “I was just wondering if you could give us an update on the events here. Are you any closer to discovering the murderer?”

The officer grimaced. “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m afraid I can’t comment.”

“I’ve talked to the neighbors, and several said it looked like the bodies were torn apart.” He crushed the charm as he spoke, and felt a tingle against his palm as the magic activated. “Is that true?”

“Again, I’m sorry, but if you want more information, you’re going to have—”

The rest of the sentence was cut off as Doyle threw the crushed remnants of the charm into the car. Blue smoke immediately began to fill the cabin, and Doyle stepped back as a few tendrils curled out through the half-open window. The last thing he needed was to be caught in the spell’s immobilizing net. Neither cop stood much of a chance—the spell was designed to work fast and it would hold them for about ten minutes. He hoped that would be long enough to get Kirby in and out of her house.

He went back to collect her, then led her into her backyard via the unlocked garage door. Birches lined the boundaries, casting dappled shadows across the tiny patch of grass. Azaleas brightened the corners of the yard, providing cheerful splashes of yellow, red and orange through the shade.

“Pretty,” he said, meaning it.

“Thanks.” She plucked a key from under the mat and glanced at him, a smile touching her lips. “And don’t tell me that’s a dumb place to keep a key, because I already know it.”

“I wasn’t going to mention it.” Besides, for most professional thieves, door locks were the least of their problems. It was things like pressure pads, heat and motion sensors and all the other varieties of alarms available these days that provided the worry. “But you could at least try somewhere more original.”

“Like what? The potted plant?”

“Actually, if you have to leave a key, then sticking it to the back of something like a leaf is a damn fine hiding place. Most amateurs don’t think of that.”

“And most professionals don’t bother?”

“Something like that.” He took the key from her and opened the door. “Ready?”

She nodded. He caught her hand, ducked under the crime scene tape and led her into the kitchen. It was as if he’d walked into a slaughterhouse. Seeing the pictures was one thing, seeing the reality another. Granted, there were no body parts lying about, but blood was still splashed everywhere, and the outlines of where they’d found the different pieces of humanity littered the floor.

No wonder she had been so fearful to confront this all again. While he was no stranger to the various faces of death, even he found this sickening. He quickly guided her through it and up the stairs.

“You can open your eyes now,” he said once they were out of sight of the mess below.

She did so, taking a deep breath in the process. “Thank you.”

He nodded and touched her cheek, lightly thumbing away a tear. “Any idea where Helen might have hidden this present?”

“In her room, I’d presume.” She stepped away from his touch and entered the room to the right of the stairs.

It had a moody blue-and-gray color scheme—odd colors for a woman, but fitting for a storm witch. He glanced across the corridor to the other room. Yellows, reds and creams. The colors of summer and the sun. Kirby’s room. He resisted the temptation to go and look. Instead, he watched as she opened the wardrobe.

“She usually kept things she wanted hidden in with all her shoes,” she said, getting down on her knees.

“Wait, don’t touch anything.” He knelt down beside her and swept his hand through the shadows, searching for any indication of magic. “Clear,” he said, sitting back on his heels.

She leaned forward, pulling out various boxes and shoes, but in the end found nothing. She sat back, her shoulder brushing his arm as she contemplated the wardrobe.

“What about the storage space up top?” he said, pointing to the shelf above the hanging space.

She wrinkled her nose.

“Helen was short, like me. She usually settled for lower hiding places.”

“We can’t stay here long,” he reminded her softly. “This is still an active crime scene. More cops could arrive at any minute.”

“I know.” She took a deep breath, then climbed to her feet. “You check up there. I’ll check her drawers.”

“Deal.” He rose and began pulling everything out of the top of the wardrobe. There was nothing there that even remotely resembled a present. He shoved it all back and headed over to the bed. Kneeling down, he looked under it. There, in the darkness, a gaily wrapped present sat waiting.

“Found it,” he said, reaching out. Magic tingled through his fingertips, but its touch was warm, muted. Nonthreatening.

He held it out to her, but she didn’t take it, just regarded it warily. “Are you sure it’s from Helen? Maybe it’s another gift from our murderous friend.”

“There’s nothing evil here. I wouldn’t let you touch it, otherwise.” Although he hadn’t felt anything in the first one, either.

“Oh.” She swallowed heavily, a bright light in her eyes. “You hold it for me. I have to get some clothes and stuff.”

“Aren’t you going to open the present? Especially given what Helen said?”

“I can’t. It’s not my birthday until tomorrow.”

“I don’t think—”

“It’s bad luck,” she said, then all but ran out of the room.

Hiding her tears, he thought. He waited in the hallway
outside her room, sensing her need to be alone, however briefly.

When she finally came back out, there was no sign of the tears he’d glimpsed. She was wearing a long black coat similar to his and holding an overnight bag. He took it from her and checked to make sure there was nothing resembling anything magical in it, then dropped the present inside. “That all?”

She hesitated. “I need my wallet. I can’t keep letting you pay for everything.”

“And you can’t exactly run if you haven’t got cash or credit cards, can you?”

She didn’t deny his accusation. He sighed. “Where did you leave it?”

“It’s in my handbag, which I dropped near the front door when I came in last night.”

“I’ll go get it. You wait here.”

He gave her the overnight bag and headed down the stairs. Her handbag was where she’d said, zipper open and the outside covered in white dust. He squatted, carefully nudging a finger into the open compartment—and felt the sting of magic burn through him.

He yanked his hand away and quickly upended the bag. The contents fell out, littering the carpet. Wind stirred, raising the hairs along the back of his neck. Something was coming. Something bad.

He grabbed her car keys, then rose. The air shimmered and flexed, half forming the shape of a hand. The wind keened into the silence, battering at him, as if trying to force him away.

Watching the energy-forming hand, he stepped back.

And fell into darkness.

T
HE HIGH
-
PITCHED HOWL FILLED THE AIR
,
AND GOOSE
bumps chased down Kirby’s spine. She froze, listening to the sound and wondering what in hell was coming after them now. Then, as abruptly as it started, the sound stopped.

But the silence that followed was in some ways more frightening.

“Doyle?” She leaned over the banister and tried to look down. She couldn’t see him, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t there. She couldn’t see her handbag or the front door, either, and she knew the front door, at least, would be there.

Doyle?
she queried tentatively. Still no response. And the wash of warmth that she’d come to associate with the odd connection forming between them was gone, leaving her feeling suddenly bereft.

She bit her lip, then picked up her bag and slowly edged down the stairs. Lightning streaked across her fingers, sending jagged edges of light flickering across the walls.

“Doyle?” she repeated, hesitating halfway down.

Still nothing. Her handbag was lying near the door,
contents scattered across the carpet. Her car keys didn’t seem to be among them, although the wallet that held her credit cards and driver’s license was.

Where the hell was he?

She edged down the remaining stairs and stopped again, listening. Nothing moved. The silence seemed so intense it was like a hammer, battering at her.

With her heart thumping somewhere in her throat, she edged toward the front door. Why had he tipped everything out of her handbag? Something glinted in the morning light, catching her eye. She bent, frowning. It was a small silver coin etched with a star. It was nothing she’d ever owned—or seen—before.

Even as she watched, the coin began to dissolve, until there was nothing but a small patch of black dust staining the carpet. Some form of magic, obviously, meant to capture or kill
her.
And Doyle, who could sense the presence of magic, had somehow been caught by it.

Fear shot through her, and her stomach churned. God, if he was hurt or dead because of her—because of his stupid insistence that he had to protect her—she didn’t know if she could ever forgive herself.

She picked up the wallet, then rose and stared out the front window for a moment. She had to try to find him, but how? She could no longer hear the warm whisper of his thoughts, and she didn’t want to think about the implications of that. He
wasn’t
dead. She had to believe that, if nothing else, or panic might set in.

She turned, her gaze skating past the blood and outlines in the living room. Her car keys were missing, but Helen had a spare set on her key ring. Only trouble was, they were probably hanging on the key
holder near the refrigerator, and to get them, she’d have to go past all the gore in the kitchen.

Not
something she wanted to do, but she had very little choice. They couldn’t keep using taxis to get around. It would cost them a fortune.

She took a deep, calming breath and headed into the kitchen. Her stomach churned, threatening to revolt as she edged past the thick, dark pools, smashed crockery and taped outlines. Snatching the keys from the hook, she ran for the back door and out into the yard, where she was violently sick.

After a while, she rinsed out her mouth with water from the outside tap and resolutely headed into the garage, opening the door just in time to see more cops pull into her driveway.

“W
ELL
,
WELL
,
WELL
,”
A COLD VOICE SAID INTO THE
silence. “It looks like my little trap caught the cat rather than the mouse.”

Doyle rolled onto his back and rubbed his eyes. He felt as though he’d been picked up and thrown around like some rag doll, and given the howl of the wind before he’d stepped into nothingness, maybe that impression wasn’t far off.

Beyond the speaker’s whisper of breath to his left, he could hear the rustle of leaves and a bird’s piping tune. The air was an odd mixture of smells—sweet and fresh, free of the usual fumes that were associated with city living, and yet touched by a muskiness usually linked with damp basements. He flexed his fingers. Concrete met his touch—cold, wet and just a little slimy.

“I know you’re awake, so stop your foxing. I’m not coming anywhere near you, if that’s your plan.”

The voice was rich and soft—the same voice he’d heard performing the spell at Rachel’s. He opened his eyes. A square patch of sunlight swam before them, framing and shadowing the face that stared down at him. A face that was thin and long and crowned by short, dark hair. Felicity Barnes, he thought, and wondered if it was her real name or an assumed one. Wondered if this was her real face or a disguise. The slight wash of magic suggested it was the latter.