Circle Of Death

Chapter Seventeen

Kirby stepped into the shadow of an old elm and studied the building halfway down the street. It was nothing spectacular—a square, five-story brick affair, surrounded by a high, chain-link fence that almost looked solid, thanks to the weeds and rubbish that clogged it. If the smashed state of the windows and the amount of graffiti scrawled across the walls was anything to go by, the building had obviously been abandoned for some time.

Why here? It seemed a strange sort of place for a witch to be conducting a spell. Though admittedly, she didn't know an awful lot about witches or spell-casting, despite the fact that Helen had been involved in both. But it was too late now to regret her reticence when it came to learning anything about the subject.

She glanced down at the bag clutched tightly in her hand. She had no idea why she'd bothered to bring it. It wasn't like she was going to need it, particularly if she didn't beat the witch. She thought of the note she'd left behind, of the things she hadn't said, and wished she could go back to yesterday, to the moment in time when she lay wrapped in the warmth of Doyle's body and he'd asked her to marry him. Wished she'd had the courage to take the chance, rather than giving in to fear yet again.

At least then she would have had a moment of happiness to remember now, when death was so close she could smell it.

Terror stole through her heart, squeezing it tight. She took several deep breaths, trying to calm her nerves, then resolutely headed toward the building. She couldn't delay any longer. Dusk was beginning to creep across the sky. If she waited until night, Mariel would be at full strength, and she wouldn't have a hope.

The gate was locked, but the wire in the nearby fence had been cut and pushed back, leaving a small gap. She threw her bag through then squeezed in after it. The sharp ends of the wire brushed her back, snagging through her T-shirt and tearing into her skin. She cursed and pulled away, leaving a jagged scrap of material hooked on the wire.

Great, just great,she thought, twisting around in an attempt to see the cut. Though she couldn't see it, there was warmth trickling down her back. It didn't feel like much, so hopefully, the cut wasn't all that bad. The last thing she needed right now was to be leaving a trail of blood. Who knew what sort of attention that might attract.

Goose bumps chased across her skin. Trying to ignore the growing sense of danger, she picked up her bag and headed down the driveway. Several stacks of crates lay to her left, and she hesitated. She had to stow her bag somewhere, and they looked just as safe as anywhere else. She doubted there would be any kids around. Surely the witch would have made sure there was no one near to disturb her spell-casting.

In the distance, thunder rumbled. She glanced up. The skies were blue and clear, yet electricity thrummed through the air—through her. Sparks danced across her fingers, but it wasn't that energy she felt. It came from the sky itself, from the distant hum of a waiting storm. Hers to call, thanks to Helen's sacrifice.

An all too familiar ache washed through her. I have to win this. For Helen, and for the other girls in the circle.

She tucked her bag under a couple of nearby crates then turned, her gaze sweeping the front of the building. Where would a witch go to perform a ceremony?

She bit her lip, remembering the vision she'd had—the concrete walls slung with slime, and the feel of empty desolation. Car park, she thought, gaze sweeping to the side of the building. There, near the end of the building, she saw the entrance.

A tremor ran through her, and the energy playing across her fingers became fierce enough to stand on end the hairs along her arms. She continued on down the driveway.

The car park loomed, dark and cavernous. No sunlight filtered in past the entrance—it was almost as if a curtain of night had been drawn across it.

Might as well be entering hell itself, she thought and had a horrible feeling that might be the case.

Thunder rumbled, closer than before. She looked up one more time at the blue skies, and hoped she lived to see them again.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped past the curtain and entered the car park.

There was something on Doyle's back, pressing down hard, squashing him. Every breath hurt—the air burned, scorching his throat and his lungs. Heat licked at his feet, his legs. He groaned and tried to move.

Fire twisted down his side, a living thing that threatened to consume his consciousness.

He groaned again and tried to open his eyes. Couldn't. Something seemed to be gluing them shut. He sniffed the air and regretted it almost instantly. It was pungent and gaseous, and seemed to burn through his entire body. He coughed so hard it felt as if he was tearing apart.

"Doyle!" Russell's shout seemed to be coming from a great distance.

"Here." The word came out harsh but little more than a whisper.

The weight pressed deeper. He fought to breathe, to stay conscious. The heat of the flames danced across his feet, and the smell of burning leather joined the junket of toxic odors surrounding him.

"Doyle! Answer me, damn it."

Here,he wanted to say, here. But the words lodged somewhere in his throat and refused to budge.

Sounds reached through to his prison—the scrape of metal against concrete, a grunt of effort, the sharp sound of swearing. He smiled. Camille had never been much of a lady.

Dirt showered him. The weight on his back shifted, and pain shot through his leg, reflecting across his entire body. A scream tore at his throat, but came out little more than a hiss. Swearing filled the air, as colorful as the smoke surrounding him. He coughed again, harsher and longer, until spasms shook his body, and it felt like he was going to throw up.

The weight lifted from his back and leg, and suddenly he could breathe again. Only the fresh air sent him into another spasm of coughing and made him wish for the bliss of unconsciousness.

Hands grabbed him, hauling him upright. The world blurred, and then he was out in bright light, with the warmth of the late afternoon sun glaring down on him. That was quickly replaced by cool darkness. The van, he thought vaguely, looking around. But hadn't that been blown up?

Moisture dribbled across his lips. He licked at it quickly, desperate to ease the burning in his throat.

"Easy with that," Camille said from his right. "Not too much or you'll have him throwing up."

"I know, I know." Russell's voice sounded impatient and worried.

I'm okay,he wanted to say, but his vocal cords still refused to work. Something cool and moist touched his face, wiping the stickiness from his eyes. He blinked and opened them. A man knelt in front of him, his head and hands swathed in bandages that were covered in soot and dirt. He blinked, but the vision refused to go away.

"Russell?" His question came out little more than a harsh croak.

The bandaged face nodded. Doyle looked to his left and saw the bright sunshine peeping past the black plastic covering the van's back windows. He realized then that Russell was wearing the bandages for protection. It was the only way he could have possibly ventured out into the sunlight without burning up.

"Keep still a while," Russell said. "Camille's fixing your leg."

Russell lifted the cup, dribbling more moisture into his mouth. He swished it around then swallowed. The fire in his throat began to ease. He looked down, but couldn't see anything beyond Camille's back.

Couldn't feel anything beyond an odd sort of numbness in his right leg.

Fear stirred his gut. "What's wrong with my leg?"

"A large chunk of metal has speared your thigh. It missed bone, but that's about all it missed," Russell said. "Camille's plastered the area with a numbing salve and has cut off what she could, but basically, that's all we can do beyond getting you to a hospital. If we try to take it out here, you'll bleed to death."

At least that explained the numbness in his leg. He drank a few more drops of water and rolled his neck, trying to ease the ache. It felt as if someone had played baseball with his entire body.

Russ sat back on his heels. "Why in hell did you detour for that damn knife? It almost cost you your life."

Anger edged his words.

Doyle glanced down and realized he was still clenching the silver blade. He released it, flexing his fingers to ease the cramps. "It's silver, and the only one I have with me."

"So? Steal another. It wasn't worth almost losing your life over."

"Russ, silver is the one thing immune to magic. We may yet need it." Especially if the witch went after Kirby. He went still, and in that moment knew beyond doubt that she was in trouble and needed help.

"Kirby," he said urgently, struggling to rise. "We have to get back to her."

Camille swore at him, and Russell held him down. "Don't move, damn it."

"You don't understand—" "No, you don't understand," Russell said vehemently. "Unless we get that leg tightly bandaged, you're in serious danger of bleeding to death. How is that going to help Kirby?"

He relaxed a little and closed his eyes. Tension rode him, as sharp as the fear stirring his gut. "Okay. But once that leg is bandaged, we go get her."

Russell glanced at Camille. "I don't think—" "I don't care what you think, my friend. She's in danger, and it's far more important we save her than get me to a hospital."

"As much as I hate to say it," Camille said into the tense silence, "he's right. We can't let the witch get her hands on her."

She shifted slightly, revealing the massive blob of bandages on his leg. What was left of his jeans below the wound was soaked in blood. No wonder he felt lightheaded. "How come the van survived the explosion?"

"Jumped in and drove it off, didn't I?" Camille said. "It runs a might faster than these old bones, let me tell you that. Besides, it was Russell's only hope. The sunshine would have killed him." She rose and lurched toward the driver's seat. "Now, where's this farm you two were staying at?"

"Gisborne," he said. "It's out along the Calder Freeway."

"Wherever that is. Russell, grab the street map and give me some directions."

The van started. Doyle closed his eyes, letting the movements of the old van lull him into a semi-sleep.

Pain drifted through him, but its feel was distant. No doubt Camille had put something in the water to take away the aches.

The noise of city traffic gave way to the hum of freeway travel. Not far now, he thought wearily, and hoped Kirby was okay. Hoped he was worrying over nothing.

Awareness tingled across his senses, and a wave of tension and fear rushed though his mind. Not his—Kirby's. He sat up abruptly. She was somewhere close. He scooted down to back windows and tore away the plastic.

"What's wrong?" Russell said, voice sharp with concern.

"She's here." They were still on the freeway. There were no cars immediately behind them, but across the other side, a yellow cab sped by. "Turn the van around," he added, urgently.

Camille didn't argue. Tires squealed, then they were bouncing through the dividing strip of grass. "What car?" she said, once they were on the other side.

"The cab. Hurry." He leaned back against the side of the van and closed his eyes, wondering if she were a prisoner to evil or merely breaking another promise.

The traffic closed in around them again. Camille swore, and the blast of the van's horn was almost lost in the squeal of tires. "Idiot," she yelled out the window.

Doyle edged forward and peered out the windshield. Not a cab in sight.

"It turned left two streets down," Russell said, glancing at him. "But from there, it's anyone's guess. How good is this connection between you and Kirby?"

"Good enough to find her, I think." I hope .

Camille turned left then slowed. The street stretched before them, devoid of traffic of any kind. "Where to now?"

He frowned, reaching for the link. Though her thoughts were still distant, her fear surrounded him, so sharp it became his own. He flexed his fingers, trying to control the growing knot of anxiety in his gut.

"Take the next right."

Camille swung into the street. Down the far end, a yellow cab cruised out of a side street and drove toward them. Kirby wasn't in it. He knew that without looking.

"You want me to stop in front of that sucker and ask where he dropped her?"

He hesitated. Could they afford to waste the time? Could they afford not to? "Do it," he said.

The van slewed sideways, blocking the road. The cab stopped and the driver rolled down the window as Camille hustled over. Three minutes later she was back. "Rodger Street," she said. "Outside some sort of packing factory. He didn't have a specific number."

"Was she alone?" Some part of him hoped she wasn't. Hoped that she was being forced into this action.

He just didn't want to believe she was breaking another promise.

Camille nodded. "Whatever she's doing, she's apparently doing it willingly."

"Damn." Why? What could have gone so wrong in the few hours he'd left her alone that she was now willing to risk her life going up against the witch?

Camille patted his hand, then reversed out of the cab's way before continuing up the street. They quickly found Rodger Street and slowed to a crawl.

"There's the packing factory," Camille said, pointing to the right.

He knew without looking that she wasn't there. "Keep going."

They continued to cruise down the street. "Heartbeats, coming from that abandoned building up ahead," Russell said. "There are at least three that I can hear."

"Human or otherwise?" Doyle asked. Not that it really mattered beyond knowing what he was up against.

Russell hesitated. "Hard to say."

Camille pulled into the driveway and stopped. "Gates are padlocked," she said. "If I drive through them, they're going to know we're here."

"She didn't enter via the gates." He spotted the brief flutter of material on the fence several feet away from the gate and thrust open the van's side doors, clambering out.

"Damn it, shifter, get back in here. Let us deal with this. You can't go wandering around with that leg of yours."

He ignored her and hobbled over to the fence. Pain rose, a promise of the agony he would no doubt be in once the pain killers wore off. He plucked the thin scrap from the wire and sniffed it quickly. Basil, geranium and pine—the oils she'd soaked in last night. He clenched his fingers around the material, his gaze searching the structure. She wasn't in the building itself, but underneath—in the parking garage.

"Damn it, Doyle—" The rest of Camille's word were lost to the buzz of magic as he shifted shape. Even in panther form, his leg was useless. It didn't matter. As a cat, he had three other legs and could move faster than any human.

He slipped past the wire and ran for the parking garage.

Kirby stopped at the end of the ramp. Electricity danced across her fingers, shooting slivers of light through the veil-heavy darkness. Somewhere in the distance water dripped, a steady sound like fingers tapping impatiently. She shivered, and thrust her imagination back into its box. The last thing she needed was to be imagining the worst. No doubt the witch would be doing that soon enough.

She edged forward, her steps becoming more sure as her eyes grew used to the darkness. Columns loomed before her, some hung with slime, others scrawled with graffiti. Beer bottles decorated the far corners, scattered about like abandoned toys. The air smelled stale and was perfumed with the rich scent of rubbish and urine. Her vision come to life.

A chill crept icy fingers down her spine. She shivered again, wondering why the car park was so cold when the air outside was so hot. Surely this close to the entrance some of the day's heat should have crept in. Or maybe the unnatural curtain of darkness that seemed to hang over the entrance somehow blocked the heat as well.

She continued to follow the ramp down, reaching the next level. Mariel would be on the last one, though why she was so sure of this, she couldn't say. Oddly enough, the air here seemed warmer. The dripping water had faded, to be replaced by a hum that seemed to reverberate up through her feet. She hesitated, listening. And heard, underneath the hum, the soft chanting.

A spell of summoning, she thought. And wondered how the hell she knew.

The closer she moved to the last level of the car park, the louder and stronger the humming became.

Wisps of red and purple light flickered across the walls, and the air seemed to vibrate with urgency and power. Then it was gone, and a dead sort of silence prevailed.

Goose bumps crawled across her skin. There was something in the darkness with her. Something not human. She froze. A footstep scraped against the silence. Breathing, harsh and heavy, approached. She didn't move, pinned by fear, her hands clenched against the energy burning across her fingertips.

A man lumbered into view. Only it wasn't a man, but a decayed replica, its clothes little more than tatters of material that barely covered the skeletal remains of its body. It reeked of death and rotten meat. Her stomach stirred, threatening to revolt. She bit her lip, watching the creature plod by. Why was Mariel summoning things like that into being? Surely, if she was going to summon the dead to help her, she could get something a little more… lively. Like the zombie that had attacked Doyle…

Pain rose, and she closed her eyes. God, he was going to be so angry at her for doing this. But what other choice did she have? She couldn't be responsible for his death—couldn't live with that, on top of everything else.

She continued on. Ahead in the darkness, light beckoned. Someone was humming, a happy tune that set her teeth on edge.

She rounded a corner and stopped. A fire burned within a circle of stone, but its flames were an unnatural purple and green and cast sick shadows across the darkness. A tripod had been set up over it, and from this hung a steaming kettle. To the right of this was a black stone table. On it lay Trina. Even from where she stood, she could see the rise and fall of the other woman's chest. Relief swept through her. At least she wasn't too late to stop this madness.

A woman swept in from the darkness. She had sharp features, short brown hair, and a lanky, almost boyish body. Mariel. She hadn't changed all that much since Kirby had last seen her. She'd gained some height, but other than that, she could still have been the child that had haunted the worst of her dreams for so many years. She flexed her fingers, needing to move, to hide. But the minute she did either, the witch would spot her. All she could do was remain still and hope fate was on her side for a change.

It wasn't.

Mariel bent over the fire, grasping the kettle with a gloved hand. Then she hesitated and looked up.

Kirby met her gaze and saw only madness.

"Well, well, well, this is a nice surprise," Mariel murmured. Her voice, unlike her gaze, was warm and pleasant, her tone that of a friend rather than a foe. "Please, do come down. I've just made a cup of coffee, if you'd like to share it with me."

"Thanks, but I'm comfortable right where I am." She flexed her fingers, trying to ease the tension knotting her muscles. The energy that danced across her fingers shot fiery sparks across the darkness.

If Mariel noticed, she gave no indication. "Maybe so, but I prefer you to come closer—and you will do so, or the tramp on the table shall suffer the consequences."

She raised a hand, and a knife appeared from nowhere, hovering above Trina's stomach. Kirby took a deep breath. Any sort of choice had disappeared. If she didn't do what Mariel wanted, if she tried to retreat or attack, it would be Trina who suffered, not her. She stepped into the circle of light provided by the fire, and stopped.

"One wrong move, and that knife will taste blood," Mariel said, then bent and poured some water in her mug. "You sure you don't want a cup?"

She nodded, fingers clenched by her sides. Thunder rumbled, closer, sharper, than before.

"Must be a storm brewing," Mariel commented, holding the mug in two hands, as if warming them. "But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

Kirby shook her head, watching her cautiously. It felt as if she'd stepped into the Twilight Zone. The last thing she'd expected to be doing right now was standing here having a semi-normal conversation with the fiend who'd murdered her friend— her sister.

Mariel considered her for a second. The firelight cast shadows of green and purple across her features, making her face look gaunt, almost skeletal. She seemed in no great hurry to do anything more than talk, and that in itself was worrying.

"How did you find me?" Mariel asked, eventually.

"Does it matter?" Kirby glanced across at the black stone table. The knife still hovered above Trina's midriff, rotating rapidly, as if it were a drill barely held in check. Attack Mariel, and the knife would drop.

Attack the knife, and Mariel would use the moment to attack her . She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, wanting— needing—to move, to do something to end this impasse. Every second she delayed bought them a second closer to night and the witch gaining full strength. Yet right now, she had no other option than to play this Mariel's way.

"I guess it doesn't matter." Mariel sipped her coffee, watching her steadily, gray eyes a mix of hate and madness.

It was the hate Kirby couldn't understand. What had they ever done to Mariel to deserve such depth of feeling? Yes, they'd killed her best friend, but that had been an accident, and Mariel herself had been a contributing power… her thoughts stuttered to a stop. If Camille was right, it wasn't just Mariel who stood before her now, but Felicity—or at least, Felicity's spirit. A spirit that may well have been dragged from the depths of hell. "Tell me, when did you raise Felicity's spirit? And why?"

Mariel raised an eyebrow. "You are well informed, aren't you?"

She shrugged. "Sometimes it pays to know what you're up against."

Mariel nodded serenely. "Yes, I guess it does." She sipped her coffee again, then tilted her head, her gaze narrowing a little.

The sense of danger leapt tenfold, squeezing her throat so tightly she could barely breathe. Yet Mariel hadn't moved, hadn't done anything beyond change her expression. I'm out of my league, Kirby thought, and flexed her hands, her fingers aching with the energy that burned across them. The sparks danced in jagged lines across the darkness, clashing with the dirty light of the fire. Mariel glanced down briefly, a slight smile touching her lips.

"The power of air," she said. "I'm keen to see how well it stands up to fire and water."

Kirby wasn't. The only thing she was keen to do was get the hell out of here. But that wasn't an option—not yet, and not without Trina. "You didn't answer my question."

"Didn't I? How remiss of me."

Her smile was cold, cruel. It whispered of death, of a darkness so deep Kirby felt the chill of it clear through to her soul.

"Do you know how hard it is to find information about raising the dead? It took me five years to find anything decent on the subject. Five years is a long time in hell, you know."

Her hands clenched around the cup, shattering it. Shards of china clattered over the concrete, a brittle sound that sawed against Kirby's nerves. "Then you were sixteen when you raised her—why wait until now to go after us?"

"You really don't know anything about magic, do you?" Mariel snorted and shook her hand. Blood splayed across the concrete and into the flames. They hissed and recoiled. "It takes time to learn the craft, time to gain strength and knowledge. And time to find what the government had scattered."

So, it was true. In trying to track down their origins, Helen and the other girls had led a killer to their door. Kirby rubbed her arms, showering herself with sparks that tingled across her skin but did little to ease the chill from her bones.

"Why? Answer me that. It can't be all about revenge." Surely no one, no matter how mad, would go through all this for something as simple as revenge.

"I thought you would know the answer to that." Mariel hesitated and shook her head, as if in disbelief.

"You raised the power. You, more than any of us, felt the full extent of it. How could you not want to feel all that again?"

Kirby stared at her. Was that what this was all about—the need to control? The need to be the most dominant force? Mariel had never been entirely sane. Anyone who raised dead bugs for the sheer fun of terrorizing other children could never be described as sane. But that night, when they'd joined hands and raised a force that had shaken the very foundations of the world around them, they'd obviously destroyed what little rationality she'd had. For one brief moment, Mariel had had a glimpse of the absolute power she'd craved—only it wasn't hers to control. Would never be hers to control.

Unless she destroyed the circle and sucked its powers into her own being.

"You'll never get away with it," Kirby said softly. Her voice sounded uncertain, even to her own ears.

"I'll stop you."

Mariel smiled gently. "How, when I already have three of the five powers? And I have the final two here, awaiting my gift of darkness."

Tension ran through her. Her fists were clenched so tight her nails were cutting into her palms. "Gift of hell, more likely."

"Well, yes, if you're going to get technical about it." Mariel sniffed and waved a hand.

Kirby tensed, certain that the witch had done something. Certain that trouble was now headed her way.

"I must say," Mariel continued serenely, "that you've caught me on the hop. I was expecting to have to pry you away from the hands of that damn shifter." She hesitated, smiling again. It was a picture of maliciousness itself. "I set a trap for him, you know. Just how well do you think a shifter can survive a bomb?"

Kirby's stomach churned, her mind snared by the sudden image of Doyle being caught in flames and imprisoned under a mountain of concrete. Fear rose, threatening to engulf her. She took a deep breath and thrust the images away. Doyle wasn't dead. She'd know if he was.

She opened her mouth to reply, but the words froze in her throat. The wind stirred, caressing her cheeks, whispering the secrets of the night-held car park. They were no longer alone. Something was creeping up behind her—something that smelled like death.

She spun and thrust out her hand. The pent up energy surged from her fingers, lashing the darkness, thudding into the chest of the dead man behind her. Fingers of blue-white light webbed across his body, encasing him in a net of heat, burning him to a crisp in seconds flat. The smell of burnt flesh stung the air, and her stomach rolled.

He's dead, she reminded herself fiercely. You can't feel responsible about killing a man who is already dead.

The air behind her boiled with heat, reaching toward her with fiery fingers she felt rather than saw. She dropped, her hands and knees smacking painfully against the concrete. Heat seared across her back, burning her T-shirt but barely touching her skin. She rolled to smother the flames, then saw something glitter out of the corner of her eye, and kept on rolling. Ice exploded against the floor, showering her with shards that tore at her skin and hair.

She flung out her hand. Lightning arced from her fingers, cutting across the darkness, hitting the knife hovering above Trina and flinging it back, deep into the darkness. Without pausing, she shifted her hand, this time aiming at Mariel. Energy cut through the darkness, momentarily highlighting the surprise on the witch's face before she dove out the way. The lightning exploded against the edge of the fire, and scattered the ring of stones. With an odd sort of sucking sound, the purple flames died and darkness swept in, a black curtain she could almost touch.

"Now, that's just plain nasty," Mariel commented from the darkness to Kirby's left. "Do you know how difficult it is to raise one of those fires?"

Trying to get around me,Kirby thought. She slid off her shoes and edged barefoot toward the table. If she could just get Trina down… Flames shot across the darkness. She cursed and dove away, hitting the concrete again and skinning her chin in the process. She wiped away the blood dribbling down her neck, then yelped as fiery fingers of heat licked towards the soles of her feet. But the flames never touched her, recoiling millimeters away from her feet before dying. She frowned and remembered Helen's words—

she cannot hurt you with what is yours to command. Did that mean the powers of fire could not be used against her? She fervently hoped so, if only because it gave her some sort of chance.

She pushed upright. Thunder rumbled again. The storm was close, so close. She could feel the power of it beginning to thrum through her body, her soul.

Then the wind stirred again, whispering its secrets. Kirby spun, but far too late. Something hit the side of her head and darkness closed in.

A ring of dead men surrounded him. Doyle hesitated in the parking garage's entrance, studying the zombies for several heartbeats. There were six of the stinking damn things. At any other time, it wouldn't have much mattered. These six didn't possess the size or the brute strength of the zombie that had attacked him at Rachel Grant's, and even though he was wounded, generally wouldn't have caused him much of a problem.

But right now he couldn't afford any kind of delay. Kirby's fear was like a blanket, threatening to smother him. She was with the witch and in trouble. Any delay might have deadly consequences for them both.

The zombies lunged toward him. He sprang over their backs and shifted shape, then wrapped an arm around one of the creatures' neck and twisted hard. Bone snapped, and the zombie went limp. He thrust it into the path of another one, then backpedaled as fast as his leg would allow as a third zombie lurched at him. He twisted away from its grasping fingers, and pain shot up his leg. He cursed and limped away, aware of the warmth dribbling down his thigh. The creatures formed a pack and ran at him as one. He shifted shape and leapt away, but the grasping fingers of a zombie on the outskirts of the pack caught him, bringing him down before it jumped on top of him. He slashed at the creature's face with his paws, cutting deep, then shifted back to human shape and smashed his fist into the face of the creature pinning him. Bone shattered, but the blow itself had little effect. Fingers grasped at his neck, seeking to choke him, while others grabbed his legs and feet and pulled, as if intent on ripping him apart. Agony burned through his body, and the rush of warmth from the wound became stronger.

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, and 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. 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 which 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 a bitter taste in his mouth.

In panther form, he could hear the sound of movement more cleanly. Could hear someone grunting in effort, then the slap of flesh against stone. 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 stone, 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 wasn'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.

The sound of gunshot jerked Kirby 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.

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 swift 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. Had to work, or they all might 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."

She raised the gun. Kirby called down the storm, and the wind swept in, swirling around Mariel, thrusting her sideways and wrenching the gun from her hands. Rain lashed the air, 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 burnt hair and flesh stung the air and churned her 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 further. 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. Wasn't even looking.

Kirby called the storms, directing their power at the blade, then lurched up and grabbed Mariel's hand while tightening her grip on Tina's hand.

The witch's eyes widened, and for the first time, fear flickered deep in the depths of 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 concrete shattering 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 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 car park 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 of five 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.