Circle Of Death

Chapter Twelve

Her scream froze somewhere in her throat, and for instant, all she could do was stand there and stare up at him. He was monstrous. Not as big as the zombie that had attacked Doyle, but damn close.

Fear shot through her—not hers. Doyle's. Kirby, run!

His mental shout unlocked her limbs. But before she could react, the zombie threw a punch, his fist smashing into her jaw. It lifted her off the ground and knocked her back several feet. She hit the ground hard, and her breath whooshed out, leaving her gasping. Blinking back tears, battling to breathe, she looked up to see the zombie launch at her.

She yelped and rolled away. The zombie hit where she'd been only seconds before, and the ground literally shook. It screamed in frustration and lashed out again, fingers clawing the air inches from her face. She scrambled further away and called to the fire. It burned through her body, flashing jaggedly across her fingertips before she launched it toward the zombie.

Pain surged through her mind, and again her vision blurred. Suddenly there were two zombies burning up in front of her. Two pairs of fire smothered hands reaching for her.

She kicked wildly at the hands, battering them away, then scrambled backwards once more, trying to keep out of its reach. The stench of burning flesh reached her, and her already churning stomach rebelled again. She threw up in the grass, and felt like she was going to die. The madman in her head had obviously found some friends to help him, and the pounding was mixed with a weird buzzing that hurt so badly she could barely see.

Kirby! Damn it, answer me.Doyle's mind voice seemed hollow, like it was coming from a million miles away.

She looked up, barely able to make out the water tank that trapped him. She felt so weak her whole body was shaking. She couldn't walk up there. She didn't have the strength to even stand right now.

Move to the back of the tank.

There is no back. It's round. For God's sake, tell me what's wrong.

I don't know.She blinked, but it didn't seem to help her blurry vision. Can you see the rock at all?

I can see the hatch it's sitting on.

Face it, then move to your left.The buzzing was getting louder, becoming a tunnel of noise that was closing in around her. Quickly.

She closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. Then she reached for the fire again. It burned through her, almost wild and uncontrolled. She clenched her fists, somehow restraining it, and opened her eyes. The water tank had become three white blobs dancing erratically on the hill above her. She blinked again, and the three became one, a blob of white surrounded by a darkness that was quickly closing in on her. She launched the pent-up energy, then the darkness encased her, and she knew no more.

The side of the tank exploded inwards, showering Doyle with chunks of rocks. Concrete dust billowed, filling the small tank with a choking cloud that made it difficult to breathe. Coughing, he battered away the worst of the missiles and shifted shape, diving through the hole Kirby had created. It was a tight squeeze, even in his panther shape. He pushed through, skinning his shoulders against the jagged sides of the hole, then ran down the slope to the house.

Smoke trailed skyward, and the smell of burning flesh stung the air. But the zombie was still alive, pulling its burning body along the ground, reaching with blackened claws toward Kirby. She wasn't moving, wasn't protecting herself in anyway.

Fear shot through him. He didn't know what was wrong, but the warmth of her mind's touch had became an inferno of confusion and darkness.

He shifted shape, grabbed the zombie by the leg and wrenched it back and away from her. The creature snarled, a sound filled with anger and pain. It twisted and threw a punch. He ducked past it and grabbed the creature by the throat. Flames danced around his hand, burning his skin. He ignored them, shifted his grip, and snapped the creature's neck sideways. Bones shattered, and the burning creature went limp in his hold.

He dumped the body on the ground and ran across to Kirby. Kneeling, he felt for a pulse. It was racing, and her skin was hot, as if the energy she controlled was burning her up from the inside.

Let it be just a fever and not something more serious. He picked her up and ran for the house. She felt so hot he might well have been cradling a fire, not a woman. He had to get her cool, and fast, before she started convulsing.

He ran up the back steps and along the veranda to the door. Setting her down momentarily, he picked the dead bolt and carefully opened the door. No alarms sounded, and in the large living room-cum-kitchen beyond, there didn't appear to be any sensors. If the run-down state of the furniture and fittings was anything to go by, the small farm was little more than a holiday retreat. Which meant, hopefully, they wouldn't be disturbed by nosy neighbors.

He picked her up again and kicked the door shut behind him. Light peeked past the drawn curtains, flushing a hazy brightness through the dusty room. He headed left, following the hallway, moving past several small bedrooms and a laundry before he found the bathroom.

He stripped off her coat and boots, then found the plug and began filling the bath with cold water. He dumped her in, clothes and all, fearing the fever and knowing the extra few minutes it would take to strip her could push her into convulsions.

Grabbing a towel from the cupboard under the sink, he wet it and quickly began wiping her heat-flushed face. She moaned, battering weakly at his hands, struggling to rise out of the water. Though her eyes were open, there was no life in the green depths, no awareness. She was delirious, fighting on instinct alone.

He held her down lightly and continued to wash her face. Lightning flickered across her fingers and jumped to his hands, webbing across his flesh. It felt like electricity but did little more than singe the hair on his arms. She must have spent most of her energy on the zombie and getting him out of the tank. For that, he was extremely grateful. In her present condition, she could have killed him without even realizing it.

But if it wasn't the energy she controlled causing this fever, then what was?

He didn't know, and it worried him. She'd been all right only a few hours ago. It had to be something serious to come on so fast.

He continued to wash her down, holding her head above the water once the bath had filled. Her struggles eventually ceased, only to be replaced by shivering. He touched her face, gently brushing away the wet strands of hair from her cheeks and lips. Though her skin was still hot, the heat was nowhere as fierce as before. Time to get her out.

He dragged her free of the water and stripped her down, quickly toweling her dry—a task he would have enjoyed any other time. But it was then he discovered the reason for her fever. Her back was a mass of infected, swollen cuts—cuts that looked to have come from claws rather than a knife. The manarei , he thought, and swore savagely. Using her powers must have exacerbated the fever, made it flare hotter and faster. If he didn't clean the wounds quickly and stop the infection running through her body, she might yet die. He'd seen it happen before, and with people far stronger than she.

He ignored the thrust of fear and wrapped the towels around her. She wouldn't die. He wasn't going to let her.

There were two bedrooms downstairs, but the beds looked older than Camille and had little more than moth-eaten comforters covering them. Guessing the main bedroom was in the loft, he carried her up the stairs and was relieved to find the bed here had both blankets and pillows. He flipped back the blankets and placed her stomach-down on the bed. The wounds were scabbed over, but red and bulging with infection. Why in hell hadn't she told him about the wounds? Frowning, he headed back downstairs and raided the cupboards until he'd found everything he needed.

Cleaning her wounds was a hell of a job. He was glad she wasn't conscious enough to feel any of it, though wisps of agony skittered through his mind—ghosts of the pain she'd be in if she were awake.

Once he'd pushed the worst of the infection from her wounds, he packed them with what was left of Seline's healing herbs and wrapped them in bandages. He tucked the blankets tightly around her so she couldn't thrash around, then headed back downstairs to clean up. There was nothing much more he could do for her right now, other than to keep her fluid levels up and hope he'd caught the infection in time to save her.

The fever broke close to midnight. It was something Doyle felt rather than saw—just a sudden easing in the troubled rush of pain running from her mind to his. He brushed the sweaty strands of hair from her closed eyes, running his fingers down to her lips. Her skin no longer felt consumed by fire, and her cheeks and mouth had a more healthy, rosy glow.

She stirred at his touch, murmuring softly, and reached with one hand for him. He caught her fingers, kissing them gently, then wrapped his hand around hers and held it close to his heart. He ached to do more. Ached to strip and lay under the covers with her, hold her lithe body close to his. But he didn't think he had the strength to touch her, hold her so close, and do nothing more. He wasn't made of stone, and the image of her naked body still hovered bright in his mind whenever he closed his eyes.

Besides, if ever they were going to make love, then the first move should be hers. It couldn't happen now, when she was still half delirious after the fever. It would have to be a conscious decision on her part. Otherwise she'd still have excuses to run. And if it did happen, he wanted her aware of the commitment he was making to her with his touch and with his body.

As for his heart—he smiled wryly. That had been committed from the time he'd picked up her photo and stared into her incredible green eyes.

And to think he'd spent years stating lightning could not strike thrice in one family. How wrong he'd been. His old man would no doubt fall over with laughter when he found out.

He leaned forward, brushing a kiss across her sweet lips, and knew it was time to catch some shut-eye himself. Even as uncomfortable as it was lying on top of the blankets, fully clothed and aching with the need to make love to her, he knew he would sleep. Years of living on the wrong side of the law had trained him to catch rest whenever he could.

At least they should be relatively safe from discovery here in the old farmhouse. Felicity, or whatever her real name was, had stated the owners were overseas, so they weren't likely to suddenly drop in on them.

And if Felicity had the keys, then she was no doubt looking after the place for them, which implied no relatives. He'd moved Kirby's rental car into the shed, out of sight. As long as they kept the lights off, they shouldn't draw any attention from the neighboring farms, and he doubted Felicity herself would come back until she thought he was dead.

They were probably safer here than they would be anywhere else. Surely this was the one place Felicity would not think to look for them. Or so he hoped.

Closing his eyes, he went to sleep.

Movement woke him some time later. He lay on his side, facing the windows. Outside, the wind had picked up again, and the nearest trees tossed and groaned. The old house creaked in response, shuddering slightly under the impact of the oncoming storm.

The bed shifted, and he turned around. Kirby climbed out, her pale skin almost ghostly as she padded naked out of the bedroom.

"You okay?" he asked softly.

She didn't answer him, and her thoughts were distant, almost sleepy. Frowning, he rose and followed her down the hall. She hesitated in the living room, then headed for the back door, battling to open it.

Sleepwalking, he thought. But why was she attempting to go outside? He reached past her, unlocking the door. She showed no awareness of his presence, and though her eyes were open, it was obvious she wasn't seeing anything beyond whatever images filled her dreams. He grabbed his coat to wrap around her once the dream had ended and followed her outside.

Sure-footed as a cat, she walked down the steps and out into the wildness of the night. The wind spun around her, snagging her warm brown hair and playing with it wildly. She raised her hands, as if reaching for the wind, then laughed, a soft sound of pleasure that sent a shiver of desire running through him.

She moved down the hill, a slender, almost ghostly figure in the night. He followed her past the black patch of grass that was the remains of the zombie, to the trees. There she sat cross-legged on the grass, staring up at the tossing trees.

Communing with the wind, he thought. He stopped behind her, watching the goose bumps chase across her pale skin, wishing he could hear what the wind was telling her. Wishing he knew why this was happening. She wasn't a storm witch, and talking to the wind was not something she'd been able to do before now. He knew that from her earlier thoughts and words.

She raised her hands again, as if reaching for someone. Sorrow ran through her, through him, and he knew without looking that there were tears on her cheeks. Maybe it wasn't the wind she was talking to after all. Maybe it was the ghost of her dead friend.

The wind played about her again, briefly including him in its wild dance. For an instant he heard the song, a gentle, melodious sound of love. Then it died, and Kirby collapsed sideways to the ground. He tucked his coat around her and carried her back inside.

She snuggled back under the blankets and sighed contentedly. He caressed her cheek, wondering if she'd remember her nocturnal journey in the morning. Wondered if she'd remember what the wind and her dead friend had told her—and whether she'd pass that information on to him.

He glanced at his watch. It was barely three o'clock, and he really needed to get some more sleep. But that wasn't going to happen just yet, especially if he tried to lie down beside her. Good intentions were all well and good, but right now he wanted her more than he'd ever wanted anyone in his life. Time, he thought, for a shower. A very cold shower. He bent and kissed her cheek, then headed into the bathroom.

Kirby dreamt of warmth and desire. It wrapped around her, pressed heat against her, providing a security, a tenderness, she'd never felt before.

She sighed and turned toward it. An arm wrapped around her, pulling her close. Breath whispered against her skin, sleepy and warm. Lips sought hers, lips that were tender yet sensuous. Lips she just wanted to keep tasting forever.

Desire ached through her, and in that instant, she fully woke, realizing with shock that it was no dream.

She was indeed lying in bed and kissing a man. And she was naked to boot.

Her breath caught in her throat, and she pulled back abruptly. We couldn't have , she thought, not daring to open her eyes. Surely she would remember if she and Doyle had made love…

"I would certainly hope so," he said, his voice gravelly and sexy as hell.

She opened her eyes. His face was inches from hers, blue eyes filled with mischief, warmth and desire.

"How are you feeling this morning?" he asked.

"Fine." A little on the weak side, maybe, but that was probably due to lack of food more than anything else. She touched his smooth cheek, running her finger down to his chin. "You've shaved."

He was also fully dressed and lying on top of the covers, rather than underneath. Relief ran through her, though it was touched by an odd sense of disappointment.

His sudden grin sent another shiver of desire through her.

"I thought I'd better," he said. "Didn't want to give you whisker burn, if I ever got the chance to kiss you again."

She raised an eyebrow. "What made you think you were even going to get another chance?"

"You're a woman. I'm a man. We're in a dangerous situation, and we're mutually attracted." He brushed a stray lock of hair from her eyes, his touch flushing warmth down to her toes. "The odds are on my side, you know."

"Pretty damn sure of yourself, aren't you?" she muttered. Trouble was, they both knew he was right.

"Sure of myself, yes." He stared at her for a moment, blue eyes intent, thoughts suddenly troubled. "But sure of you? That I'm not."

He caught her fingers and kissed them lightly, then rose swiftly from the bed. "Breakfast?" he said, walking away.

She blinked at his abrupt departure. "Sure."

"Your bag is in the bathroom. Don't get those bandages wet if you decide to take a shower."

Bandages? She glanced down, and saw that that she was indeed wrapped in bandages, from just under her breasts to her waist.

"Why am I wearing bandages?" she called after him.

"Long story. Get dressed, and I'll explain."

She cursed him silently, but didn't move, for the first time taking in their surroundings. If they were in a hotel, it was certainly the dustiest hotel she'd ever seen. And the furnishings were so old and worn they looked ready for the dump.

She looked up, saw the pitched roof and the strings of cobwebs trailing the length of room, and frowned. If she didn't know any better, she'd swear they were inside the old farmhouse. But that didn't make any sense. Surely it would be too dangerous. Their murderer would come here, if only to make sure that Doyle was still in her trap.

She climbed out of bed and walked across to the window, peering out. Trees swayed beyond the roof of the veranda, and on the ground to her left, a patch of black soil in a sea of yellow-green grass. Zombie remains, she thought with a shiver. They were definitely at the farm house, then.

She wrapped a blanket around herself, and headed down the stairs. Doyle looked around as she entered the living room.

"Nice outfit," he commented, eyes bright in the hazy light. "I especially like the teasing flash of thigh as you walk."

She blushed and tugged the blanket around. "Why are we still here?"

He turned away, stirring the contents of a bubbling pot. "Why are you not getting dressed?"

"Because I want answers."

"You'll get them when you get dressed."

He moved across to the freezer and opened the lid, then hesitated and met her gaze. Heat trembled between them, skimming like electricity across her skin. She knew that if she so much as breathed his name right now, he would take her in his arms and make love to her, right here in this dusty old living room. And while she ached for his touch, she wasn't ready yet to give in to desire. Wasn't ready to trust that completely. So she tugged the blanket closer and remained silent.

He sighed. "I'm not made of stone, Kirby. I've made no secret of my desire for you, and right now, you're not making it any easier for me to keep my distance."

Her blushed deepened. "Sorry," she muttered and retreated. God, she hadn't even thought… which was so extremely unlike her. She'd only been with two men in her life, and both times it had been an uncomfortable experience. She'd certainly never been relaxed enough with either of them to parade around semi-naked. Yet here she was, draped in nothing but a blanket, padding about in the presence of a man she barely knew.

Maybe she'd lost some brain cells somewhere in the last twenty-four hours.

She found the bathroom but skipped the shower, deciding a wash was easier thanks to the bandages.

By the time she was dressed the smell of toast was drifting through the air, making her stomach rumble.

She headed back out and sat on one of the stools near the kitchen bench, sniffing the air appreciatively.

"Smells good."

"Thank God for canned food and freezers," he said, sliding a plate of baked beans and toast across to her. "Remind me to leave some money behind for our unknowing hosts when we leave."

She raised an eyebrow. "A considerate thief?"

He smiled. "Always." He motioned with his fork to her plate. "Eat. You need to regain your strength."

She ate, discovering she was hungrier than she'd thought. He offered her a second helping, and she demolished that as well, feeling a whole lot better for it.

"Thank you," she said as he replaced her empty plate with a cup of coffee. "Now, answers, if you don't mind."

He sipped his coffee for a second, leaning back against the sink and regarding her steadily over the rim of his mug. There was a touch of accusation in his gaze, and heat crept across her cheeks, though she wasn't entirely sure why.

"Why didn't you tell me about the wounds on your back?" he asked.

She frowned for a second, then remembered the manarei attacking her as she'd tried to flee over the fence. "To be honest, I forgot. It was my leg that hurt, not my back."

"The wounds got infected and could have killed you. Next time, mention it."

A shiver ran through her. She hoped there never would be a next time. "What's that got to do with the reason we're still here? Shouldn't we go before Felicity gets back?"

"She left me here to die, and I don't think she'll be back for a while. Too obvious."

She raised an eyebrow. "So we're here because it's safe?"

"No, we're here because you collapsed with a high fever, and I had no other choice but to stay here."

And he'd been worried about her, really worried. The thought warmed her. Maybe he wasn't just attracted in a physical sense…

"It's way beyond physical, and I've already told you that."

He had? When? She stared at him, more than a little troubled by his words. How could any emotion be real after little more than twenty-four hours? "Doyle, we barely know each other."

He shrugged. "Sometimes you don't have to know to care."

Care, not love. She looked away for a moment, inexplicably hurt by his choice of words. "Your boss told me I should ask about your father and grandfather."

"The old witch should mind her own business."

"Does that mean you're not going to tell me?" She sipped her coffee and regarded him steadily over the rim.

He sighed again. "My father asked my mother to marry him after knowing her for precisely ten minutes.

My grandfather waited a whole hour before he did the same with my grandmother."

She grinned. "You're kidding."

He shook his head. "Of course, in my mother's case, she thought my father was crazy, and at one stage she asked her brother the policeman to threaten him. But in the end she came around."

"And your Grandmother?"

"Shoved my grandfather in the car and headed for Las Vegas as fast as her old Ford would go."

Her grin widened. "So this sort of insanity runs in your family, huh?"

"Apparently so." He considered her for a moment, then said, "Do you remember what happened last night?"

She blinked and wondered why he had suddenly changed the subject. It was almost as if he didn't want to talk about his family, but why? "No. What happened last night? I thought you said I had a fever?"

"You did, but it broke around midnight. At three, you were up and talking to the wind."

A sense of dread ran through her. She wasn't a storm witch, and the wind had never talked to her before, so why would it be doing so now?

"Can you remember any of it?"

"No." She hesitated. Images ran through her mind, fractured remnants of dreams that had assailed her during the night. The wind had not featured in any of them, but Helen had.

She frowned. "I dreamt about Helen. Dreamt that I was dancing with her in the wildness of a storm. She talked to me."

Even though it sounded crazy, he appeared to take her dreams seriously. "Can you remember what she said?"

She sorted through the memories, trying to catch fragments of conversations. "She was trying to warn me about something—or someone. I'm not sure. And she said I had to perform the spell tonight, at midnight."

"That present she left you," he said. "There was magic within it."

She rubbed her arms. The coldness was back in the pit of her stomach, and she was beginning to wish she hadn't eaten so much. "Why would she be asking me to perform a spell? I've never had anything to do with magic, even when she was performing it."

He hesitated. "Camille went to the morgue and checked out Helen's body. Her magic was gone, but unlike the first victim, it had not been ripped from her but rather spelled away. Maybe Helen's final gift to you is her magic."

"No." She wouldn't—couldn't—accept such a gift. "Surely something like that is impossible." Yet life, time and again, had shown her nothing in this world was impossible.

Then the realization hit, and horror rushed through her. Oh God, no . Helen had died because of her .

Had died because she'd spelled her abilities away and had nothing to protect herself against the manarei "It was Helen's choice—Helen's decision," Doyle said. "There was nothing you could have done to prevent it."

His thoughts wrapped around her, offering sympathy and strength. She thrust him away angrily. "I could have been there. I could have stopped her."

"If you had been there, you'd be dead as well," he said, voice sharp. "All you can do now is make sure Helen's sacrifice doesn't go to waste."

She swiped at the tears on her cheeks. He was right. She knew that deep down. But right now, she just wasn't ready to accept any of it, particularly the gift her best friend had died to give her.

"I don't want to do this," she muttered.

"You have no real choice now."

"Maybe." She looked away from the understanding in his eyes. She wasn't ready to accept that, yet, either. "What now?"

"Right now, we're going to join the hunt for the fourth member of this elemental circle of yours."

His tone was still a little sharp. Maybe he'd heard her thoughts. "Camille didn't have any luck last night, then?"

He shook his head. "I was talking to her earlier this morning. They've eliminated eight addresses, and Vicki Campbell is off the list completely. Camille found her last night, and she doesn't fit the profile. No psychic ability at all—woken or unwoken. That leaves us with seven still to check."

"So either Trina Jones or Marline Thomas is the killer?"

"Presumably. And neither of the names ring any bells?"

She shook her head. The past was still a cloud she just couldn't navigate. And it was beginning to get a little frustrating. Somewhere in that fog lay the reason behind all this. Somewhere in that fog lay the true identity of the killer.

An image ran through her mind—a skinny girl in jeans and a red sweater, brown hair tied back in pigtails, silver eyes ablaze as she chased her and Helen through the trees.

Mariel, who liked to tear the wings off bugs. Mariel, who could make dead things come to life. She was their killer, of that Kirby was suddenly certain.

Only trouble was, there was no Mariel on Camille's list.

"She might have assumed another identity," Doyle commented. "No one is stating that Camille's list is one hundred percent accurate, but right now, it's all we have."

She nodded and rose. "Then let's get going." Because she had a feeling time was running out—for them, and for the next victim.

He didn't move. The window behind him threw his features into shadows, but his eyes gleamed blue fire.

There was concern in his gaze and in his thoughts. "Are you really feeling okay? You were so sick yesterday, maybe you shouldn't push it today. It might be better—" "Don't even suggest it," she interrupted. "I'm not staying here alone while you gallivant about looking for the next victim. Helen said I had to find her, and find her I will."

"Damn it, will you just listen to common sense for a change? I'm sure Helen never meant for you to run yourself into the ground."

"Helen died to keep me safe," she retorted. "I couldn't live with myself if I did anything less."

"You are the most annoying, aggravating, pigheaded woman I have ever met." His voice was so low his words were little more than a soft growl.

She smiled sweetly at him. "And you love me for it."

He shot her a look that could have meant anything and pushed away from the bench. "We'll come back here tonight. I still think it's the safest place to be right now. And if you have to perform that spell tonight, then there's less likelihood of us being disturbed here."

She followed him out of the house, not wanting to think about the spell right now. "You have the new list of addresses?"

He locked the door and handed her the list and car keys. "I'll open the gate. You bring out the car."

She did. While he re-locked the gate, she pulled the list out of her pocket and studied it.

Seven addresses—three for Marline Thomas, four for Trina Jones. Which of the two was the girl she had to save? It could take all day to check these damn addresses, and the feeling that they had to get to the fourth member of the elemental circle was growing more urgent.

The writing blurred briefly, merging into one. She blinked several times, wondering what was going on, then thrust back against the seat as one address seemed to leap off the page at her. Suddenly she wasn't staring at a piece of paper, but at a single-story, red-brick house. In the distance, a clock chimed, ten times. Confusion ran through her. It wasn't even nine yet… was she seeing the future? Or merely hallucinating? The vision blurred again, shifting closer.

In the shadows that loomed close to the house a manarei crept. From the house came a soft humming—a sound that echoed through the fog, opening a window to the past. Trina, she thought, remembering the taste of her terror, the shaking of her hand, as the younger Trina had clasped her fingers and completed the circle. Remembered the force that had thrummed between them, through the other girls, to her, filling her until she was one with the elements, a being of energy not flesh.

Trina, who had trusted her only at Helen's urging, was about to be torn apart by a creature sent from hell.

Unless they got there first.