Circle of Death (18 page)

“What do you plan to do?” he asked, his gaze sweeping his surroundings. The room was circular and fully concrete. By the look of it, it was an old tank of some kind.

“With you? Nothing. You’re not what I intended to catch at all.”

For which he had to be extremely thankful. Though in some respects, Kirby was probably better equipped to deal with this situation than he was. At least her lightning could have blasted a way out.

“You can stay here and rot,” the woman continued. “I’m certainly not going to waste my strength on the likes of you.”

Now that his eyes were getting used to the darkness, he could see her features more clearly. Her face was extremely gaunt, her eyes protruding and ringed with shadows, and her mouth little more than a slash of pale blue. Blood magic was sucking her dry, he thought. Maybe that was why she was killing the rest of the circle. She wanted power without cost.

But was this her real image, or was she merely showing
him what he expected to see? If she was powerful enough to control two
manarei
and bring the King Kong of all zombies to life, then surely the blood magic could not have sucked her
this
dry. Not yet. Because the face he was seeing now was close to death and would not have the strength to conjure a rabbit, let alone control two of the most dangerous creatures ever to walk this earth.

If he got closer, he might be able to see through her veil, see her real features. He tensed, getting ready to spring to his feet.

She laughed. “Don’t even think about it, shifter. This lid will be slammed in your face if you so much as twitch in my direction.”

He didn’t relax, just watched her through slightly narrowed eyes. “Where am I?”

“Way, way out in the country on a farm owned by friends. They’ve gone overseas and won’t be back for months. By then, you’ll be well and truly dead.”

Not if he had any say about it. He still had his phone. He could feel it, digging into his side. “We
will
stop you, you know.”

She snorted softly. For an instant, the veil fluttered, revealing cold blue eyes and a wisp of light brown hair.

“I doubt it,” she said, amusement heavy in her voice. “All you’ve done so far is chase your tail. You don’t know who or what you’re even looking for.”

“No,” he agreed. “Unlike you, we don’t work for the government and haven’t had access to their computers and records.”

She might have been a damn powerful practitioner
of the black arts, but her acting skills were nonexistent, because she twitched, telling him his guess was right. All they had to do now was find out if either Trina or Marline worked for the department that looked after kids, and they had their killer.

“Too bad you’re locked in this water tank and can’t tell anyone, huh, shapeshifter?”

He wasn’t locked in yet. There was still a chance … if he was fast enough. He reached for his alternate shape, getting ready to change and spring. “Anyone egotistical enough to stand around and mock potential victims will make a mistake, sooner or later.”

He shifted shape and sprang toward her in one smooth motion. She yelped and pushed back, and the lid arced downward. He caught the rim of the tank with his claws, scrambling desperately to get up. The lid crashed down on his head, stunning him, but he managed to hang on, his back claws scraping against the concrete as he tried to find purchase. She stepped forward, hands raised, fire burning across her fingertips. He snarled and slashed at her desperately, catching hair and cutting skin. She screamed, and fire leapt toward him. He dropped into the darkness, shifting shape as he fell. Crouching, he stared up at the hatch. It glowed white-hot, and for an instant, the air shimmered with heat. The fire would have killed him had it caught him.

The metal soon cooled, and darkness returned. Something heavy hit the hatch, and the metal, weakened by the fire, bowed slightly.

“Don’t hope for escape, shifter. The hatch is locked, and there’s a rather large rock sitting on top, ready
and waiting to crush you should you have anything in those pockets of yours that might cut through metal. There’s also a spell set to kill whoever tries to shift this rock in any way.” She hesitated. “I hope you die a slow and ugly death, shifter. Goodbye.”

Footsteps moved away. He waited until he heard the distant roar of an engine, then got out his phone and dialed Camille.

“I was getting worried about you, Doyle. Been more than an hour, you know.”

“I know. Listen, we got caught by a spell over at Kirby’s. I’m trapped in a water tank out in the country somewhere, and Kirby’s alone at her place. You want to go get her, then come rescue me?”

“How the hell did you, of all people, get caught by a spell?”

“Stupidity.” The last place he’d expected a spell to be set was in a handbag, though now that he’d had time to think about it, it
did
make sense. Kirby would have had to come back for her purse sooner or later. “It was just lucky I breached the spell and not Kirby.” Because if it
had
caught her, she might be dead, not just trapped.

Camille sniffed. “I’ll do a locating spell, then go get Kirby. Do you think she’ll still be at her house?”

“God knows.” He might be able to read her thoughts, but he didn’t understand her well enough just yet to guess what she’d do when she discovered he was gone.

“I’d better do a locator on her as well, then.”

“Just make sure you get to her first,” he said. “Felicity Barnes, or whatever her real name is, will have guessed she was at the house with me. She’s probably on her way there right now.”

“Be patient, shifter. We’ll get to you both.”

Patience was one thing he usually had plenty of, except when it came to someone he cared about being in danger. He hit the wall in frustration, then began prowling the confines of his concrete cage.

K
IRBY RUBBED HER EYES WEARILY
. I
T FELT AS IF THERE
were a madman running loose in her head with a jackhammer, and the pain was so bad that she was in serious danger of throwing up all over the police station’s worn gray carpet. What she needed was darkness, painkillers and coffee, and not necessarily in that order. But what she needed most of all was to get out of this place and find Doyle. She had a niggling sensation that he was in some sort of danger, and she had to get out of here and find him before real trouble hit. Yet getting out was the one thing that didn’t look likely to happen anytime soon.

For the last three hours she’d been stuck in this box they had the cheek to call an interview room, answering endless questions about the events of the last twenty-four hours. It was obvious from the detectives’ expressions and their repeated questions that they didn’t believe her—that they knew she was lying. But what other choice did she really have? She couldn’t tell them the truth. They wouldn’t believe that any more than they believed her now.

She rubbed her eyes again, then looked up as the door opened. One of the two brown-suited detectives that had been questioning her came in and sat back down. He slid a coffee across the desk, then leaned back in the chair, regarding her quizzically.

She wrapped her hands around the foam cup in an effort to keep them warm and returned his gaze evenly. She had nothing to hide, except a truth he just wouldn’t believe. And they couldn’t hold her here forever, not without charging her with something. She just had to be patient. Just had to hope Doyle was okay.

“Tell me again,” he said, voice monotone, bored. The total opposite of what his sharp brown eyes portrayed. “What happened when Constables Dicks and Ryan took you to the motel?”

She sighed. “I’ve told you that five times already. Do you want me to lie? Would you believe me if I did?”

“What I want is for you to tell me the truth.”

“I have,” she said, resisting the temptation to look away.

“And you have no idea what attacked your friends and the two constables?”

“No.” She hesitated, swallowing. “I told you, I heard a strange noise, then the screaming started, and I just got out of there.”

“And you’ve been on the run ever since?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you be?”

A hint of amusement touched his expression. “Maybe. So why go back to your house?”

“I told you, I’d left my purse back there.”

He regarded her steadily, his brown eyes cold. Not buying a word, she thought with a chill.

“We spoke to your neighbors. They reported you being accompanied by a tall, dark-haired man.”

She silently cursed the old biddy across the road. Chelsea had appointed herself the local neighborhood watch, and there wasn’t a thing that went on that she
didn’t know about. Shame the old girl hadn’t been on guard duty the night the
manarei
had attacked, she thought bitterly. Maybe Helen would still be alive.

“Did you ask her if she was wearing her specs at the time?”

The detective didn’t bite, merely continued to regard her. “Were you at the house with a man?”

“Damn it, why is this even important? Something killed my friend and your constables, and you’re sitting here questioning me about whether or not I went back to the house with a man? How much sense does that make?”

She slammed a hand down on the table. The sound rebounded sharply, ringing through her ears. She licked her lips, wondering why she suddenly felt so light-headed. Lack of food, perhaps.

The detective raised an eyebrow, the only sign he even noticed her outburst. “Did you know Helen Smith was insured?”

She blinked. “Yeah? So?”

“Did you know you were the major beneficiary of that policy?”

His implication took several seconds to sink in. Her gut churned, and she clenched her fists around the coffee cup so hard the sides collapsed and the hot brown liquid spouted everywhere.

She ignored it, ignored her burned hands, and stared at the detective. “You think that I …?” Her voice shook with the fury she was barely controlling. “For money? For a few lousy dollars?”

“It’s more than a few lousy dollars.” His voice was dry. He regarded her for a second longer, then leaned
across to the cabinet near the door and snagged some paper, offering it to her. “It’s close to half a million dollars.”

“I wouldn’t care if it was a million. Or two. Or even three. I’d rather have Helen than any amount of money, believe me.” She snatched the paper from him and wiped her hands.

“And yet you were in serious trouble financially, weren’t you?”

Only because she still had three clients owing her for work she’d done on their houses, but there was nothing unusual about that, not in the building trade. “Last I heard, that wasn’t a crime.”

“But a half a million dollars would set you up financially, wouldn’t it?”

She thrust her hands under the table, hiding the heat that was beginning to dance across them. Heat she was tempted, so tempted, to let loose. “If you’re going to charge me, then charge me,” she said, her voice so low and tight with anger it was little more than a harsh whisper. “If you’re not, stop asking me stupid questions, get off your fat ass and start looking for the real killer. Because she hasn’t finished yet.”

He raised the eyebrow again, seemingly unmoved by her hostility. “She? What makes you think the murderer is a she?”

Kirby cursed silently, realizing then that he was goading her intentionally. She sat back in her chair. Pain twinged down her spine, but she ignored it and regarded the detective stonily. “I have a fifty percent chance of being right, don’t I?”

“Yes, you do,” he said. “But we both know you
know more than what you’re saying. And you
will
tell me, Miss Brown. Eventually.”

“If you’re going to lock me up, you owe me a phone call.” Who she’d call she wasn’t entirely sure. Doyle was missing, and she had no idea how to get in contact with his friends. Or even if they’d be willing to help her.

“I have no intention of locking you up. Not yet, anyway. I do, however, recommend police protection.”

She snorted. “Fat lot of good it did me last time.” Besides, the last thing she needed right now was the weight of more deaths on her conscience.

“It’s in the interest of your own safety.” He looked around as the door opened and a blue uniformed officer stepped in, handing him a sheet of paper. He read it quickly and looked up, his expression grim. “Seems you have some high-powered friends somewhere, Miss Brown. I’ve been ordered to release you immediately.”

“Yeah, right,” she said, not believing him for an instant. The only person in power she knew was the janitor at the local municipal offices.

“You keep in contact and let us know where you’re staying, or I’ll have a warrant out for your arrest and your ass back in this station so fast your head will spin.”

She blinked at the anger in his voice. “Then I
am
free to go? You’re not kidding?”

“Not in anything I’m saying,” he said, stony-faced. “Officer Duncan will escort you to the front desk. Collect your things and leave a contact number.”

She rose quickly, then hesitated. What if the person who arranged for her release was the killer? What if she
was walking out into another trap? “How will I keep in contact with you? Should I just ring the station?”

He handed her a business card. “I want to know where you’re staying, Miss Brown, and I want a number where I can reach you at any time.”

She nodded and followed the younger officer from the room. Five minutes later she was outside, blinking at the bright summer sunshine. It wasn’t warm, not by a long shot, but at least the rain had finally cleared. Maybe summer would arrive back in Melbourne after all.

“About time they released you,” a sharp voice beside her said. “This concrete gets a bit hard on old bones after a few hours, you know.”

Kirby jumped and spun, calling to the fire as she did so. Only the voice belonged to a woman she recognized—Doyle’s friend Camille. She was perched on the planter box at the base of the steps, silver hair gleaming in the sun, her expression a mix of amusement and curiosity.

“Scared you, huh? Because that’s a pretty impressive play of energy you have dancing across your fingers.”