Circle of Death (34 page)

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.

T
HE SOUND OF A GUNSHOT JERKED
K
IRBY 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 blue 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.

“Bitch!” Mariel spun and lashed out.

Kirby dodged, but not fast enough. Mariel’s nails raked her face, as sharp as any panther’s claws.

“For that, you will both pay.” A knife appeared in midair. Mariel waved a hand, and the blade arrowed toward Doyle. He didn’t move. He wasn’t even looking.

Kirby called the air, directing its power at the blade, then lurched up and grabbed Mariel’s hand while tightening her grip on Trina’s.

The witch’s eyes widened, and for the first time, fear flickered in the depths of her madness. But she could no more fight Kirby’s hold on her than she could the energy that now rushed between them.

Once again, the circle of five had become one.

Power surged, crackling sharply across the silence—a rich, throaty roar that made the storms pale in comparison. The earth shuddered in response, and the sharp sound of shattering concrete filled the air.

Kirby!

Doyle’s shout seemed a million miles away. Energy burned, became a song only she could see and control. Her whole being danced to its tune, aching for its caress.

Kirby! Listen to me.

She frowned, but the music of the energy beckoned and his voice seemed to fade. She smiled, in her mind’s eye seeing the witches’ stones tumble and leap like frogs in the pond that the garage had become.

You must control it, or you’ll kill us all.

The desperation in his voice reached past her euphoria. Memories shuddered through her. She couldn’t kill—not again.

Not innocent bystanders, anyway.

She took a deep breath, then focused the force in on Mariel herself.

Pain exploded—pain so deep it tore through every fiber of her being. She screamed—a sound echoed by both Mariel and Trina. Then the whole world seemed to tear itself apart and she knew no more.

“A
RE YOU SURE YOU WON
’
T COME BACK WITH US
?”

Doyle shook his head. “I have to find her, Russ. I can’t leave until I at least talk to her.”

Five days had passed since that fateful fight in the parking garage that had killed the witch and damn near killed him as well. Five days in which he’d been stuck in the hospital, recovering from the wounds the witch had inflicted. He might be a shapeshifter, and capable of fast healing, but even
he
needed medical help sometimes.

And in those five days, he hadn’t seen or heard from Kirby.

She’d checked out of the hospital the day after they’d both been admitted and had simply disappeared. Worry and fear had been his constant companions from that moment on. What if she was still lost in the dance of energy she’d raised? What if the energy that had blown apart the witch had somehow backwashed and taken her spirit and her mind, as well?

What if she was running from
him
, from the emotions she feared to face?

The wind stirred, running heated fingers through his hair. He squinted up at the clear blue skies. Though
dawn had barely passed, the promise of another hot day was already evident. A good day for hunting, if nothing else.

“You’d better get inside,” he said, returning his gaze to Russell’s bandaged face. “Before the sun hits full strength and you start burning.”

Russell nodded and held out a bandaged hand. “Good luck, my friend.”

“Thanks. I think I’m going to need it.” He glanced past the vampire as Camille appeared in the doorway of the Circle’s private jet. She looked around quickly, then clattered down the steps and bustled toward them. “Looks like you’re about to get in trouble,” he added.

Russell groaned. “It’s going to be a long trip home if the old witch is going to start nagging now.”

“If you don’t watch that smart mouth of yours, vampire, you’ll well and truly hear me nag.” Camille stopped and glared up at Russell. “Now, get that bandaged butt of yours into the plane. We’ve got to get going.”

“My butt isn’t bandaged. Only my face and hands.”

“Seems to be no difference from where I’m standing,” she muttered. “Now, move it.”

Doyle choked back his laugh as Camille turned the full force of her glare at him. “As for you, shifter, be careful. There’s no telling what her state of mind is going to be.”

“I know.” But he couldn’t leave without trying to find her. Without knowing, one way or another, whether she wanted to be a part of his life.

Camille pulled a brush and a scrap of paper from her pocket and slapped both into his hands. “My finding
spell finally pinned her down for you. The address where you’ll find her is written on that paper.”

He clenched his fingers around both. “Thanks.”

Camille studied him for a moment, her expression troubled. “What are you going to do if she says no?”

He shrugged. It was a question that had preyed upon his thoughts more than a few times. And the truth was that he simply didn’t know. He loved her, and he would always love her, no matter what. And while he was certain she returned his feelings, he wasn’t sure she had the strength to follow her heart and trust what she felt.

“I’ll see you in a week,” Camille said. “One way or another, this will all be sorted out by then.”

Hopefully for the better
, he thought bleakly. He kissed Camille’s leathery cheek and watched her power back toward the stairs. She waved from the top, then ducked inside. Doyle thrust his hands in his pockets and turned away. Time to go find a cab and search out the woman who could still shatter his heart.

K
IRBY PLUCKED THE DEAD FLOWER HEADS FROM THE
small rosebush, then sat back on her heels. The silvery-purple blush on the remaining flowers seemed to glow in the bright morning light, as if lit by an inner fire.

Helen’s body had been released to the funeral parlor five days ago—the same day she’d checked herself out of the hospital—and while the police investigations were still ongoing, she knew they’d never get their answers. Mariel was dead—blown apart by the very forces she’d tried to control.