Circle Of Death

Chapter Five

Kirby leaned against a lamppost and battled to catch her breath. The night around her spun drunkenly, and she wrapped an arm around the pole, hanging on for grim death. She'd pushed too hard tonight, and now she was beginning to pay for it. But the night wasn't over yet. She had to get out of this rain. Had to find somewhere safe.

She remembered Doyle's warning and shivered. Maybe he was right. Maybe there was nowhere left for her that was safe. Maybe she'd run as far as she could, and now fate was going to force her to make a stand. If only Helen was here… She bit her lip.

No amount of wishing could ever bring Helen back. She'd better get used to life alone. Tilting her head back, she let the rain wash the heat from her eyes until her face felt as numb with cold as the rest of her.

Then, resolutely, she pushed away from the pole and continued on.

In the distance, a bell dinged, a cheerful sound that seemed at odds with the stormy night. A brightly-lit tram swayed along its tracks, rattling towards her. She dug into her pockets, then realized she'd dropped her purse beside the box of chicken in the doorway at home. She grimaced. She'd have to go back.

Without cash or credit, she wasn't going to get very far.

She splashed on through the night, keeping to the shadows as much as possible. Doyle had probably discovered her absence by now, and she had no doubt that he'd come looking for her. It had been no accident that he'd found her on Grice Street, no matter what he said. And she wasn't inclined to trust someone so conveniently placed in a position to help her. Especially when that someone used a gun so well.

An image of the creature's bubbling, dissolving flesh flashed through her mind, and her stomach turned.

Why had that happened? Why would a mere bullet make skin and bones liquefy like that? She thrust the thought from her mind. Right now, the why behind the melting wasn't so important. Getting out of this rain and tending to her aching leg were. Maybe then she could start concentrating on finding answers. Find out why Helen had been murdered.

She hurried down a side street. The wind slapped against her, thrusting cold fingers of air past her sodden clothing, chilling her flesh. She shoved her hands into her jacket pocket and wished she'd grabbed her long woolen coat when she'd had the chance. It might not have provided any more protection from the rain, but it was a hell of a lot warmer than the padded nylon raincoat she currently had on.

A car rounded the corner ahead, its headlights cutting through the darkness. She hesitated, but she knew she couldn't take the chance that it wasn't Doyle. She ducked into a driveway and hid behind a car. A dog barked furiously, and inside the house, someone yelled at the mutt to shut up.

She waited, aching with cold and the sudden need to get moving. The lights drew close. She bit her lip and watched the car cruise slowly past. It wasn't Doyle's car or Doyle, but whoever it was, they were obviously looking for someone. Maybe even for her. Why else would they be going so slowly?

And that, she thought grimly, was surely paranoid thinking. Why wouldn't the driver be going slowly, when the wind was driving the rain so hard that visibility was down to practically nothing?

She rose and moved back to the footpath. The car had parked up near the top of the street. Its lights were out, and the driver was nowhere to be seen. See? Kirby told herself. He'd been going slowly because he lives here. Nothing to worry about.

Yet the creeping sense of danger increased. She hurried down the street, away from the car. The sooner she got home, the better.

She crossed the railroad tracks and headed toward her street. Something scraped behind her. She spun, fists clenched and her heart in her mouth. There was nothing behind her. She scanned the night, her stomach churning. Something was there, even if she couldn't see it. Its presence rushed heat across her skin. It was a warning of danger—of evil.

She turned to run, but her leg buckled. She went down, hitting the pavement hard enough to see stars.

Cursing softly, she twisted around, looking behind her again. The shadows seemed to part, disclosing a tall man with gaunt features and matted looking hair. He looked like someone spaced out on drugs—there was an odd sort of neediness, maybe even desperation, in his eyes. Then he smiled. His canines were long and white—the sort of canines you saw on Hollywood vampires. He was crazy—or was she? Had the crack on her head sent her imagination tripping?

Evil washed across the night, burning her skin. This was no dream, she thought, horror rising. The stranger snarled and leapt towards her. She screamed and scrambled backwards.

From out of nowhere came a growling black mass, all sinew and power. Panther, she thought, and rubbed her eyes. Maybe she was tripping. Only the creature reminded her of the cat she'd seen when she'd first touched Doyle. He and the animal were connected, of that she was sure.

The cat hit the vampire hard, and the two went down in a fighting tangle of claws and arms. The shadows seemed to close around them, momentarily hiding them from sight. When they parted, it was Doyle fighting the vampire—Doyle wrapping an arm around the stranger's neck and twisting hard. There was an audible snap, and the man with the vampire teeth went limp. He didn't move—wasn't even breathing.

Dead, she thought, and felt her stomach rise. She scrambled over to the grass and threw up what little she'd eaten for lunch.

Footsteps approached. Kirby wiped her mouth and sat back on her heels. She didn't turn around. Didn't want to face him. His gaze all but burned a hole in her back. She clenched her fingers and waited.

"A person is only worth as much as their promise," he said eventually.

Though his voice held no inflection, his anger surged around her. She rubbed her arms and wondered again why she could feel his emotions so clearly.

"Well, I've pretty much been told all my life that I'm worthless, so I guess that it's true, isn't it?" Bitterness crept through her words, but she just couldn't help it. He had no right to judge her, even if he had saved her life. Twice.

"At least now I know I can't trust you."

Tears stung her eyes. She blinked them away. She didn't need his trust. Didn't need anyone's trust. All she wanted was to wake up from this nightmare. "A fine statement coming from a man who's just killed someone."

"That someone was about to suck you dry and spit out the remains."

She closed her eyes and tried to ignore the chilled fingers of dread creeping through her body. She knew instinctively that tonight's strangeness had only just begun. "What do you mean? What was he? And what happened to that cat I saw?"

He made a sound that was close to a growl. "I refuse to answer any more damn questions out here in the rain." Exasperation sharpened his warm voice. "Get up—or do you need help?"

"I don't need anyone's help," she muttered and pushed upright. The night spun violently, and she swallowed heavily against the sudden rise of nausea.

"God grant me strength against stubborn women," he muttered.

Suddenly his arms were around her and he was lifting her up, cradling her gently against his chest. It felt safe and warm and oh-so-secure. Frighteningly so.

"Put me down," she said, struggling against the strength of his grip.

"No." His arms tightened slightly. He was holding her so close that she could feel the wild beat of his heart. It might have been her own.

"Damn it, Doyle, release me." She thumped his chest.

His gaze met hers. Deep in the depths of his eyes wildness burned—the sort of wildness she'd seen briefly in the panther's rich blue gaze.

"I'm wet, I'm cold, and I'm running out of patience," he said grimly. "And you just punched the wounds the manarei gave me."

She looked at her fist. It was bloody. "Oh God, I'm sorry. I didn't know… you didn't tell me."

"And you didn't bother asking."

She bit her lip. No, she hadn't. This man had risked his life twice now to save hers, and the fact that she didn't know why worried her. But that didn't excuse her lack of common courtesy. He'd earned that much, at least. "I'm sorry," she said. "And thank you for saving me."

He nodded, though amusement seemed to gleam briefly in his eyes. "Now, will you just remain still until we get to the motel?"

"I suppose I can manage that." She didn't mean to sound ungracious, but she couldn't help it. Being held so carefully, as if she were precious cargo, was doing odd things to her pulse rate.

This time a smile touched his full lips, but he didn't reply, just kept striding on through the night. They reached the motel in no time. His car was parked in front of a room two doors down from reception. He placed her back on her feet, holding her arm with one hand as he rummaged in his coat pocket and pulled out a key.

He opened the door but didn't immediately enter, his gaze searching the shadows. After several seconds he relaxed and switched on the lights. Which was odd, Kirby thought. It was almost as if he could sense danger better in the darkness.

He ushered her inside and locked the door. She dumped her pack on the table and limped into the bathroom. Like the first motel, it had a window above the sink.

"Don't even think of it," Doyle said behind her.

She jumped slightly and clenched her fists as she swung around. The damn man seemed able to read her mind. "Don't even think of going to the toilet? Why on earth not?"

He was standing in the doorway, his expression half amusement, half anger. In the light, his eyes looked bluer, richer—cobalt rather than navy. His face was a depiction of perfection, framed by thick, dark hair that even when wet somehow managed to look wild. Rather like the man himself, she suspected.

"Leave the door open," was all he said. He grabbed a couple of towels then walked away.

Trapped by my own lies, she thought. She glanced at the window a final time and limped after him. He pointed to a chair, then moved across to the kitchenette. "There's one thing I like about Australian motels—these little kitchenettes they all seem to have."

He was making small talk, trying to relax her. Not something that was going to happen any time soon.

"You don't have kitchenettes in American motels?"

"You'll occasionally find a motel that has a couple rooms with a kitchenette, but most motels don't have them." He filled a small bowl with hot water. Into this he poured antiseptic.

"Where'd you get that?" She sat down on one chair and propped her leg up on a second. Blood dripped steadily onto the carpet. She frowned, wondering if she should have gone to the hospital after all.

"The manager gave it to me." He squatted down next to her, placing the bowl on the carpet. "I'm going to have to cut your jeans away from the wound."

"Cut away. They're pretty much wrecked anyway."

He nodded and produced a knife from his boot. A criminal for sure, she thought, and wondered suddenly about her sanity. Just because he'd saved her life didn't mean she was any safer in his presence.

"If I wanted you dead, I would have left you to the manarei or the vampire." He slid the knife against her skin and carefully began to cut.

She stared at him, chilled as much by his matter-of-fact tone as by what he had said . Vampires were real?Surely he was joking. Had to be. Vampires couldn't exist. They were a product of fiction, of Hollywood—they could not be real.

"Vampires are as real as the lightning that springs from your fingers," he murmured, peeling the remainder of the rain-soaked material from her leg.

"You are reading my thoughts." It should have scared the hell out of her, but given the nightmarish events of the last few hours, this discovery was definitely the least disturbing.

"So it would seem." He dunked the end of the towel in the antiseptic wash, then glanced at her. "This will hurt."

He began washing the wound, and her whole leg suddenly felt on fire. Sweat broke out across her forehead, and she hissed, gripping the sides of the chair so tightly her fingers ached. "Tell me why you're here," she all but ground out.

"I've already told you. I'm investigating a murder." Though his touch was gentle, it felt like he was pounding her leg with a hammer.

"Is Helen's death connected to your murder?"

It came out sharper than she'd intended, and he looked up. There was sympathy in his expression, as well as understanding. It made something ache deep in her heart. Which was stupid, really, considering she didn't even know this man, let alone trust him. She pulled her gaze from his.

"We think she could be connected, yes."

"Am I?"

"Probably." He hesitated. "Someone obviously wants you dead."

"Why?" The question was more a desperate plea for understanding, and not one she really expected an answer to. Until they found the person responsible for Helen's slaughter, the answer to such a question would be little more than guesswork.

"I'd say because someone thinks you're a threat."

She snorted softly. "That statement is so wrong it's almost laughable."

His bright gaze caught hers again. Something deep inside her shivered. This man saw too much, knew too much. He was dangerous on so many different levels that she should just get up and run while she still could.

"If you were not a threat, they would not be so determined in their efforts to find you. Remember that the next time you decide to run off."

There wasn't much she could say to that, so she childishly stuck her tongue out instead. He smiled and continued washing her leg. The wounds, once cleaned, turned out to be fairly deep and a good inch long.

They were still bleeding profusely.

She frowned. "Maybe you should take me to the hospital."

"Maybe." He dug into his pockets and pulled out a small, cloth-wrapped parcel.

"What's that?"

"An old witch's herbal cure-all for wounds," he said, carefully unwrapping the parcel. Inside was what looked to be little more than dried-up garden clippings.

"You're not putting that on my leg," she said.

He grabbed her leg before she could move it, his grip gentle yet unyielding. The heat of his touch burned past the coldness of her skin and seemed to sear her entire her body. "This stuff works better than any doctor's needlework, believe me."

"I'd rather believe pigs can fly."

Her voice was tart, and his gaze narrowed. "I will take you to the hospital if you prefer, but just remember exactly what you've seen tonight. If the manarei could assume the shape of a cop, what's to stop it from assuming the form of a doctor? Or even a nurse?"

She shivered and rubbed her arms. "How can something like that exist? Or a vampire? How is anything like that possible?"

"There are more strange things that walk the Earth than you or I could ever imagine," he said, warm voice edged with coldness. "What's your choice?"

Her continuing distrust was annoying him, she realized. And yet wasn't it natural, given the situation?

Surely he could see that. "If my leg gets infected or I bleed to death, I'm going to come back from the dead and make your life hell."

He raised his eyebrows slightly. "Well, I can think of worse things to happen. And at least you'd be a ghost that's easy on the eye."

Heat crept across her cheeks. "Thanks. I think."

He smiled. "Don't move while I'm putting this stuff on. I haven't got much, and I need some for my wounds, as well."

She nodded. He began packing the four claw wounds with the scratchy mix. Oddly enough, it didn't hurt. Her skin seemed to go numb the minute the mix touched it, and while the blood didn't stop, it at least eased to a trickle. He grabbed a roll of white gauze and quickly bandaged her leg.

"Give me your hand," he said, when he'd finished She did. He repeated the whole process on her hand then rose and carried the bloody water over to the sink.

"If all goes well, your wounds should basically be healed come morning," he said, rinsing the bowl and filling it again.

If they were fixed by the morning, it would be nothing short of a miracle. Or magic, she thought with a chill. "You want me to wash your wounds?"

He shook his head. "I'll do it. You get out of those wet clothes and into bed."

She raised an eyebrow and didn't move. He thrust a hand through his shaggy hair and looked more than a little annoyed. "Oh, for Christ's sake, stop acting so immature. If sex is what I wanted, I sure as hell wouldn't be here with you. I don't find you that attractive."

Though she should have been totally relieved, his words inexplicably hurt. She looked away. A man with his looks could have the pick of the crop. Why would he waste his time on someone like her?

And why was she even worrying about it?

She frowned. "I'm not changing with you standing there watching me." And yet the thought of doing just that inexplicably excited her. She crossed her arms and wondered if she was going out of her mind.

"Then I'll be in the bathroom." He picked up the antiseptic, bandages and the dried herbs, then hesitated.

"You will stay in this room, won't you?"

"I promise not to leave," she murmured.

"Don't promise me anything if you don't damn well mean it," he said and walked from the room.

She shook her head. Doyle Fitzgerald was certainly proving to be a man of extremes—he could kill without a second's thought, and yet he seemed to believe in the integrity of something as fragile as a promise. And she had a feeling she hadn't even begun to scratch the surface of the enigma he presented.

She rose and quickly stripped. She hung her sodden clothes over the back of the kitchen chairs to dry, then slipped on her sleeping shirt and climbed between the cotton sheets, pulling the blankets up around her nose. Not that she really thought Doyle would harm her in any way.

Warmth began to creep through her system. She yawned hugely and closed her eyes, listening to the howl of the wind outside. The wind of change, she thought. Goose bumps raced across her flesh. What changes did the wind whisper about tonight? The urge to get up and go outside to listen was so strong she flipped the blankets aside. But the chilled air hit her skin and knocked the fanciful thought from her mind. It wouldn't have done any good, anyway. Helen was the one who could read the nuances of the breeze, not her.

She yawned again and snuggled deeper into the blankets. But as she drifted into sleep, the wind whispered through her thoughts, speaking of changes that would affect her heart and her soul.

Speaking of power that was hers to claim—if she dared.

She was asleep by the time Doyle walked out of the bathroom. Given her prickly distrust, he had expected her to be nose deep in the blankets, fingers afire with electricity, waiting to attack should he decide to pounce.

To find her curled up in bed and softly snoring was definitely a surprise.

Maybe he'd misjudged her. Or maybe the night's events had simply worn her down to the point of sheer exhaustion. It was actually a miracle she was still alive. Very few people lived through the attack of one manarei , let alone two. She was either very lucky—or there was more to her abilities than what he'd seen so far.

He draped his wet socks and freshly washed shirt next to her clothing, then pulled on his coat to keep warm. Digging the phone out of his pocket, he hit the memory button and called Russell.

"Hey, wild man. How's it going?" Russ said, sounding more alive than any dead man had a right to.

Doyle grinned. "Sounds like you've had a breakthrough."

"A minor one. Seems Kirby Brown and Helen Smith were dumped on hospital doorsteps as babes on the exact same day. No trace of their parents was ever found, and both were later placed for adoption.

Interestingly enough, they both ended up in the very same center for troubled teenagers as did our first victim."

Kirby, at least, had never been adopted. He'd caught that much from her thoughts. She'd been shuffled around various foster homes, never staying at one for more than a few months. He wondered why.

"Maybe that center is our connection."

"Camille's certain it is."

"What is she up to at the moment?"

"She's headed off to the morgue to get a look at Smith's remains. She's still adamant that Helen should not have died."

Doyle picked up one end of the sofa, moving it around until it was positioned in such a way that he had a clear view of the door, the window, and Kirby. "Has she tried reading the scale again?"

"Not yet."

He sat down and propped his bare feet on the small coffee table. "That means Rachel Grant could still be the next victim. You any closer to tracking her down?"

"I've got three possible addresses. And before you ask, no, I haven't checked them out yet. I might be able to run like the wind, but I can still only do one thing at a time, and Camille wants me to check the government center first."

"Then give me the addresses. I'll check them out once Kirby gets some rest."

"That wise?" Russell's voice held a hint of doubt. "I mean, you might lead the killer directly to Rachel Grant. Maybe that's exactly what he wants."

"I doubt it. The killer seems to have had no trouble finding these women so far. I don't think he's sitting back waiting for us to lead him to Rachel Grant."

"Maybe, but you might just drag Kirby into the middle of an attack."

"A risk we'll have to take. Besides, whoever is behind these attacks on her seems to have no trouble finding her. About ten minutes after the manarei died, a vamp was on her tail."

"Which means the killer has to be fairly close."

"Or the vamp was a backup. He was a pretty scrawny example. Hadn't been out of the fledgling bloodlust stage that long, by the look of him."

"Not much of a problem, then."

"He wasn't." Doyle frowned and remembered the look in Kirby's bright gaze when she'd finally turned to look at him. She'd thought him a killer—a monster. And in many respects, maybe he was. He'd certainly killed the vamp without a second thought. But if he hadn't, it might have been Kirby he'd left lifeless on the pavement.

"Where have you holed up?" Russell asked.

"A motel on Bulla Road. Hopefully, we'll be left alone for a while."

"I wouldn't bank on that, bro."

Doyle smiled grimly. "I'm not." He dug a pen out of his pocket. "You got those addresses?"

Russell read them out. "Camille said to expect a call from her around dawn."

Doyle finished writing the last address on the back of the breakfast menu card, then tucked it and the pen back into his coat pocket. "I'll be awake."

Russell snorted softly. "So will I. No one warned me when I took this job that sleep deprivation was one of the requirements."

"Plenty of time to sleep when you're dead, you know."

"I am dead."

"I mean totally dead, not vampire dead." Doyle grinned. "Be careful when you're breaking into the building. Whoever's behind this might be expecting such a move."

"Yeah, but will they be expecting a vamp to be doing the breaking and entering? It gives me a slight advantage."

But not against magic, and Russ knew that. "Talk to you later."

He hung up and settled back against the sofa. The wind rattled the window frames and howled under the door. The rain pelted down against the roof, so loud it sounded like stones hitting, not water. It was certainly one hell of a storm. He was glad they weren't still in it.

He glanced across at Kirby. Her hair flowed over the pillow like wet brown silk, and in sleep her face was serene. The impish quality that was so evident when she was awake had slipped away, leaving only beauty.

He'd lied to her earlier. She was very much the sort of woman he was attracted to. Not that anything was likely to happen between them. Gaining her trust enough so that she'd lower her prickly barriers would probably take longer than he had here in Australia.

Though he couldn't help wishing he did have the time. He had a feeling the effort would be worth it—not so much physically as emotionally. He frowned at the thought and crossed his arms, looking away. Any sort of relationship was nothing short of impossible right now. Damn it, he loved his job, and he wouldn't quit. But by the same token, his work was the reason he was also alone. Experience had taught him that few women could cope with the fact that he was absent for weeks, sometimes months, at a time.

And why was he even thinking such things when he barely knew her? While he knew from her thoughts that the attraction was definitely mutual, they'd also told him that she wouldn't act on that attraction. Not with someone she considered little more than a killer.

He leaned back and closed his eyes. Time passed. The wind howled through the night, an eerie, almost forlorn, cry. Evil enjoyed nights like this, he thought. Yet the night remained free of evil's taint, and he drifted off to sleep. The phone vibrating against his side woke him some hours later.

He looked around quickly. Everything was as it should be, and Kirby was still curled up asleep in the bed. Lucky, he thought, and scrubbed a hand across his eyes. Maybe jet lag was finally catching up with him. He dug out his phone and answered it.

"Hey shapechanger, didn't wake you, did I?" Delight ran through Camille's sharp voice.

"No, just sitting here watching the sunrise." He bit back his yawn and glanced at the clock. It was barely five.

Camille chuckled. "You never were a very good liar. How's Kirby?"

He glanced across at her. She hadn't shifted any, but she was no longer asleep. Odd how attuned he was to her. "Awake and listening."

She flipped the covers away from her face at his words and regarded him warily. Still not trusting him, despite everything.

"Paid a visit to her friend's remains last night," Camille said.

"Russ told me you were going to do that. What did you find?"

Camille sniffed. "What I found surprised the hell out of me."

Doyle raised his eyebrows. It had to be damned bad if Camille was surprised. She'd been around long enough to see the worst this world could throw up. "What?"

"Helen Smith died before the manarei got to her. She killed herself."

"She what ?" Suicide was an unusual step for a witch to take. Most believed that if you took your own life, you prevented your soul from moving on, dooming it to roam the confines of Earth for time eternal.

"Why would she do something like that?"

"I'm not really sure. I didn't have enough time to do a full reading on her remains, but I suspect she performed a spell of some sort. Her magic was gone, Doyle, but unlike the first victim, it wasn't ripped from her."

"But if she was able to get rid of her powers, why kill herself?"

"Better a self-inflicted death than being torn apart by the manarei ."

True. The bastards liked their prey alive and wriggling, so they tended to work from the bottom up—ripping off toes and fingers before getting to the limbs. Shock and death would be a welcome relief in that sort of situation. "No idea why their names didn't appear when you did the reading on the scale?"

"None. And it's damn frustrating. I've got a feeling if we discover the reason for that, we'll discover the reason for these murders."

"Well, there's obviously some connection back to the facility they were all placed in when they were eleven. You heard back from Russ yet?"

"Not yet."

Doyle frowned. It wasn't like Russ not to report in. "You tried calling him?"

"Yeah, but there's no answer."

"If you don't hear from him by six, give me a call." Russ was only young in vampire years—forty, to be exact—and his immunity to sunlight was almost nonexistent. If it got much later than seven, he'd be in trouble.

"Will do. In the meantime, I want you to be careful. I can see some pretty bad shit headed your way."

"Thanks. I needed to know that."

She snorted. "Better to be prepared, my boy."

"Yeah, right." He glanced across at Kirby as she sat up. Though she had the sheet pulled up around her, he could see the outline of her body quite clearly. He'd thought last night that she was little more than skin and bone. He was wrong. He cleared his throat slightly and looked away.

"Are you listening to me, Doyle?"

"You were talking?"

"To myself, apparently. Are you planning to hole up in that motel?"

"No. We'll be harder targets to hit if we keep moving. Besides, I told Russ I'd check out the whereabouts of the next woman on your list."

"Do that. And keep in touch."

He shoved the phone back into his pocket, then glanced at Kirby again. "You interested in breakfast?"

She shook her head. "I think I'll throw up if I eat right now."

He wasn't entirely surprised. Not after she'd walked into her home and found her friend ripped to shreds. "What about a shower?"

She raised a dark eyebrow. "You trust me to take a shower?"

He shrugged. "Believe me, I have very good hearing. You try to get out of that window, and I'll know."

"Oh."

She didn't move toward the bathroom, just continued to study him warily. Her green eyes gleamed as bright as a cat's in the light flickering past the curtains. He frowned and glanced at them. Why were the curtains moving?

"What were you talking about on the phone? Who killed themselves?" She hesitated, then added, voice lowered. "What's wrong?"

"I'm not sure." He rose and stepped toward the window. Magic burned across his skin, its touch so sharp it felt as if he'd walked into a hornet's nest.

"Kirby, get dressed."

She didn't argue, simply scrambled out of bed and ran for her clothes. He narrowed his gaze, trying to concentrate on the flow of power. It condensed near the window, finding form, finding shape.

Became the biggest damn wolf he'd ever seen.