Circle Of Death

Chapter Seven

The alley behind the row houses lay wrapped in shadows. Doyle walked in the middle of the lane to avoid the trash cans and scattered rubbish, his gaze searching the houses for any sign of life. As a thief, he'd loved this type of setup—houses with a small, private alley behind them. It was like shopping at a supermarket. All you had to do was walk along until you found the ripest fruit to pick.

When he reached twenty-eight, he peered over the back fence, studying the yard intently. There was no movement, and more importantly, no dog smell. The last thing he needed right now was some too-awake mutt giving him away.

He climbed the fence. At the back door, he splayed his fingers across the lock, feeling for any hint of magic. Unlike the front door, this one was not triggered with a spell. Yet the feel of magic was still in the air—distant fireflies that lightly burned his skin. Someone inside the house was conjuring, though what, he wasn't entirely sure.

He frowned and stepped back, studying the house. All the windows on the lower floor were boarded up. The top floors were clear, but there was no easy way of getting up there. The downspouts didn't look as if they'd support his weight, and he didn't have his climbing gear or ropes with him. Nor was there a handy tree close by.

He turned his attention to the houses on either side. The one on the left had a balcony decorated with graceful arches of wrought iron. Perfect for climbing. He could get to the roof easily enough, then make his way across to the front of this terrace. From there, it should be easy enough to swing down onto the front balcony.

He'd have to go barefoot though—his boots weren't pliable enough, and would make too much noise on the old tin roofing. He took them off and shoved them into the carryall pockets inside his coat, half grinning as he imagined the sort of look Kirby would have given him. But he hadn't lied to her earlier. His pockets did hold just about everything. As a thief, they'd certainly come in handy—the hidden ones more so than the obvious ones. And even now, with his thieving days long behind him, he still carried an extraordinary amount of junk around in them. Force of habit, he supposed.

Climbing the wrought iron proved exceptionally easy, even for someone as out of practice as he was. He pulled himself up onto the roof and followed the rows of nails across to the front of the building. On the balcony roof, he hesitated, listening. Nothing moved in the house below him, yet the distant touch of magic still skittered across his skin.

He peered over the edge. There was no light in any of the windows, no sense of anyone close. Whoever was performing the magic was on the ground floor, in the back half of the house. Maybe that was why there'd been no magical lock on the back door. There'd been no need with the magician so close.

He swung down and headed for the nearest window. They were the old sash and weight style, which were usually easy to open. He reached into another pocket and grabbed a lock pick, then slid it into the gap between the two window panes and carefully knocked open the catch.

He slipped on some gloves, then slid the window open and looked inside. Furniture sat in the middle of the room, half covered by sheets, and several tins of paint gathered in one corner. Rachel Grant was obviously in the process of redecorating. Question was, would she ever get the chance to finish? He had a feeling the answer was no.

He climbed into the room and slid the window shut. The last thing he needed right now was a breeze to spring to life and gust fresh air through the house. It would be warning enough to whoever was below that someone had entered.

He walked to the door and carefully looked out. The stairs were at the end of the long, dark hallway.

Light rose from below, a pale blue glow that seemed to flicker in and out of focus.

Frowning, he headed toward the stairs, keeping close to the walls so there was less chance of hitting a squeaking floor board. The buzz of magic got sharper, prickling his skin with heat. With it came a murmur. Someone was chanting. Someone whose voice was young and rich. Not the old woman who'd greeted them at the door, if she'd even been real in the first place. Somehow, he doubted it.

But whoever was casting the spell, they were walking the dark path, not the light. The stench of evil lay heavy in the darkness, overriding even the sharp smell of fresh paint. He hesitated at the base of the stairs, listening.

The tempo of magic increased, its touch searing. The spell was reaching a peak. The light pulsed rapidly into the darkness, its color now a sickly yellow-green touched by red—blood red. It was coming from a room down the far end of the hall. He stepped forward, then hesitated as a shadow whisked across the brightness. Its shape was a woman's, not a man's.

There was bright flash, then a wave of energy crashed around him, burning through his mind and sending him reeling back against the wall. He grunted in pain, every intake of breath parching his throat.

The chanting stopped abruptly, and the sense of evil left the house. Cursing, he pushed away from the wall and staggered down the hall.

And found Rachel Grant.

She was lying on her back in the middle of the kitchen floor. If the look on her face was anything to go by, death had caught her by surprise. There was a shattered teapot near her left hand, and a still burning candle near her feet. The black river of tea had run across the tiles, mingling with the blood that surrounded the back of her head.

He squatted next to her, lightly touching her neck. No pulse—not that he expected any with the amount of blood on the floor. But her skin still held a touch of warmth. She hadn't been dead long. He'd missed saving her by maybe ten minutes. Ten lousy minutes.

Biting back his anger, he rose and walked across to the table. The tea in the mugs was still warm. Rachel had known her attacker—known and trusted her. Why else would she have let the woman into her house at this hour of the morning and made her a cup of tea?

He turned, studying the kitchen. The candle's small flame flickered at her feet, barely breaking the darkness. He frowned. It was a rather odd place to stick a candle, and certainly wouldn't have provided the two women with much light. Then he saw the color of the wax—black. It was the sort of candle used in spells.

Frowning, he studied the floor. There were smudges of ash scattered around Rachel's body. Though the lines were now broken, the shape of the pentagram was still evident.

The spell he'd sensed had obviously been performed on Rachel. Question was, why? Especially if she was already dead?

He pulled out his phone and dialed Camille.

"Just about to call you, shapechanger," she said.

He moved around Rachel's body, studying a slight scuff in the ash. It almost looked like a footprint.

"Hasn't Russell reported in yet?"

"No, and its worrying the hell out of me."

"I'll head right over and check it out, then." Holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder, he dug out his miniature camera from his pocket and took several shots of the footprint and Rachel. Camille would want to see both. "I found Rachel Grant."

Camille sighed. "Dead, I take it from your tone."

"Yeah, but only just. Some woman was still performing a spell on her as I came in." He shifted slightly, taking a snapshot of the candle and the remains of the pentagram around it.

"What sort of spell?" Camille said, voice sharp. "Describe what you see."

"Rachel's on her back, the back of her head apparently caved in. Blood over the floor. Remains of a pentagram drawn in black soot. A black candle near Rachel's feet, still burning."

Camille sniffed. "Could be any damn spell."

"The magic had the feel of the dark path. The light was blue when I came in, but turned a yellowish-green, touched by red."

"That end bit sounds like blood magic. A spell of summoning, perhaps."

A prickle of unease ran across his skin. He glanced around sharply. Though he'd heard no sound, he had the uneasy feeling he was no longer alone in the house. He shoved the camera back into his pocket and rose, moving back to the hall doorway. The shadows seemed to loom in on him, yet he couldn't smell, nor see, anyone hiding within them.

Even so, he lowered his voice. "Would blood magic be powerful enough to rip psychic abilities from a body?"

"Yeah, but the victim would have to be alive to do it."

"She might have been. I might have come in on the tail end of the spell."

"Possible." Camille hesitated. "Which address did you find her at?"

"The place in Carlton."

"I'll come over and have a look. It might be my best chance to figure out the exact spell being used."

"The front door has a spell on it. You'll have to counter it before I can open it."

"That shouldn't be a problem. I'll be there in ten. Don't head off to find Russ until I arrive."

He glanced at his watch. It was nearing six. Thank God it was raining. At least the clouds would temper the sunlight and give Russell more of a chance if he was stuck somewhere. "Hurry," he said and hung up.

He shoved his phone away and stepped into the hall. Through the silence came a whisper of sound—a footstep, in one of the rooms upstairs.

Maybe the woman hadn't left. Maybe she'd just relocated herself to a different room. But there was no smell of magic in the air, nothing beyond paint and a faint whiff of decay.

Frowning, he made his way up the stairs. Dawn's light was beginning to filter in through the windows, filling the hall with gray shadows. He stopped on the landing, listening intently. Nothing moved, and yet something was definitely up here. There was an odd sort of feel to the air—a tension, a sense of expectation. The smell of decay was stronger here, too. But it wasn't the scent of age and mold so often found in old houses. It was the smell of death, of meat long gone rotten.

He edged forward. The odor seemed to be coming from the room two doors down—directly opposite the room from which he'd entered the house. At the doorway he stopped, listening again. Air stirred softly, the sound accompanied by the softest rattle. The stink had become so bad he could barely breathe. He wasn't sure if it was related to whoever was standing in that room or not, and at this point, it didn't really matter. Whoever—or whatever—it was, they were standing against the wall, close to the door, just like him. It left him with only one option.

He stripped off his long coat, placing it carefully on the floor, and dove through the doorway.

Tears tracked heat down Kirby's cheeks, and a sob caught in her throat. She knew Helen was dead, had seen her torn and bloodied remains with her own eyes—and yet here she was, smiling softly, gray eyes gentle and yet so full of mischief.

She wanted to reach out, to touch the untouchable—to hold her dead friend close and never let her go again. But she clenched her hands instead, frightened that even the slightest of movements would send this mist wraith scattering.

"You must stop her, Kirby." Helen's voice was as soft and as warm in death as it had been in life.

She somehow found her voice. "Stop who? Who did this to you?"

The wind stirred, rustling the leaves of the nearby gum trees and blowing away several strands of Helen's mist-spun figure. Kirby bit her lip, but knew there was little she could do to prevent it. The wind was no friend of hers.

"I have not enough time and so much to tell you," Helen continued softly. "You are the one that binds and controls. You are the most powerful of them all. You are the only one who can destroy her."

She frowned. What she needed right now was answers, not more damn questions. "What are you talking about? Destroy who?"

"She who seeks to control what is not hers. The power of the elements—the circle of five. Two are dead. You and one other remain. You must find her and save her. And you must find the fifth point and stop her."

How could she save some unknown woman when she hadn't even been able to save her best friend?

"We are more than just friends. And my death lies on my hands, not yours."

She stared at Helen's mist-shaped face and felt so cold her whole body began to shake. "What do you mean?" she said, her throat so restricted her question came out little more than a harsh whisper.

"My death was my choice. I chose to die by my own hand, rather than give that woman anything of mine. Now you, too, must choose your fate."

"I don't want this," Kirby muttered. "I don't want any of this." She just wanted life to go back to the way it had been, and for Helen to be real, not a creature of mist.

All of which was totally impossible now.

"Destiny creeps up on us no matter how we run, Kirby. I have learned this, if nothing else."

"But you saw the future. You saw our deaths…" her voice faded. Helen had once said the wind only whispered possibilities, never certainties. It was the things we said and did that changed the paths of fate.

Which is why they'd spent so much of their lives on the move, trying to outrun the death that had always loomed so large in their futures.

Helen sighed. "It was my actions that sent us down this particular path, and for that, I am sorry."

"What actions?" She rubbed her arms, not understanding even half of what Helen was saying.

Even that smallest of movements sent air shivering through her friend's form. "I needed to try to find out who my parents were. I'm sorry."

For what? For wanting to know the truth? For being braver than she'd ever dared? "Did you find them?"

"No." Helen hesitated. The wind stirred again, blowing through her form, snagging tendrils of mist and unraveling them quickly. "The wind calls me. I have to go."

"No!" She reached out, but her hand slipped through Helen's form, stirring the mist and dissipating her body. "No," she repeated, dropping to her knees, her whole being aching with the pain of loss and unshed grief. "Don't go. Don't leave me."

"You must go home. You must find the gift and say the words." Helen had almost completely faded.

Only her face remained. The droplets of moisture glistened in the rising light of the day, so it looked like tears were shining in her mist-colored eyes.

"What words? What are you talking about?"

"The spell. You must complete the spell." Even as she spoke, the wind was taking the rest of her mist-spun features until all that was left was the sparkle of ghostly tears. "Fear not the cat, sister, for he will not harm you."

She meant Doyle, Kirby thought, and knew that in this instance, Helen was wrong. Doyle might not harm her, but he had the power to hurt her deeply. Irreparably.

I will always be with you, Kirby. Seek me whenever the wind calls. Take care…

The words caressed her mind and faded away. She closed her eyes, rocking back and forth and battling the urge to scream. It wasn't fair. It wasn't Helen who should be dead, but her. Helen had lived life to the fullest, enjoying every moment while she… she'd done nothing more than fake it.

Biting her lip, she sat there for what seemed like ages, controlling the pain, refusing the tears. Not yet, she thought. Not until she'd made sense of Helen's death and found the woman responsible. Not until justice had been done.

Eventually, she became aware of the cold touch of moisture seeping through her jeans, chilling her skin.

She rose, her joints creaking in protest, and looked around. Though the mist was still heavy, the darkness was beginning to lift. In the trees above her, a magpie warbled, its melodious tones heralding in the new day. Across the road, lights shone in the house two doors down from twenty-eight. She frowned. People were waking. Doyle had better hurry up and get out of that house.

Shoving her hands in her pockets, she walked back. At the car, she stopped, her gaze going to the second floor window. There was nothing to see but shadows, but she frowned. Doyle was in trouble. Big trouble. How she knew this, she wasn't sure. It was just a feeling—a certainty—deep in her mind. And she was just as certain that if she didn't do something to help him, he would die. Something was in that room with him, something bigger and stronger. Something from beyond the grave.

Not giving herself time to think—or fear—she ran toward the house.

Doyle rolled back onto his feet, only to be confronted by a seven foot mass of hair and rotten flesh.

A goddamn zombie. And one of the biggest he'd ever seen. In a confined space like this, the odds of beating it weren't exactly good. The stinking creatures were faster than they looked, and strong despite the decay.

It lunged toward him, and he back-peddled fast. A fist the size of a spade hammered the air. He ducked and swung, kicking the zombie in the gut. The blow bounced off the creature's flesh and jarred his whole leg. It felt like he was kicking bricks. The zombie had to have been a boxer or bodybuilder in life to have stomach muscles that strong in death. He half wished he'd taken the time to put his boots back on. He had a bad feeling that bare feet weren't going to make much of a dent in this particular dead man.

He danced away from another blow, then jabbed at the creature's jaw. Its head snapped back, and it snarled—or smiled. It was a little hard to tell with all the hair. He jabbed again, but the zombie caught the blow in his fist and twisted hard. Pain burned white-hot up Doyle's arm, and sweat beaded his brow.

Gritting his teeth, he dropped, sweeping the creature's feet out from under it. It fell with a crash that shook the foundations but began scrambling upright almost immediately. He jerked his wrist from the zombie's grasp, then punched the creature in the neck, feeling flesh and muscle give under his blow. The zombie's eyes went wide, and it started gasping, as if unable to breathe. Zombies weren't the brightest. It was dead and didn't actually need air, but most didn't realize that immediately, if ever.

He jumped towards it, wrapping an arm around its throat and squeezing tight. The zombie roared—a sound that came out strangled and harsh. It reached back, grabbing Doyle by the back of the neck and wrenching him over its head. He hit the wall with enough force to see stars and dropped in a heap to the floor, only to feel the boards quiver as the zombie ran at him. He scrambled away on all fours, resisting the sudden urge to shapeshift. A panther wouldn't have a hope against the superior strength of this zombie. And in that form, he certainly couldn't snap the creature's neck—the only surefire way of killing it.

Fingers raked his side, seeking purchase. He rolled to his feet and grabbed the zombie's arm, twisting around and pulling hard. The creature sailed past him and landed with a crash on its back. Doyle stiffened his fingers and knifed them toward the creature's eyes. It moved, and he hit cheek instead, felt flesh and bone give as its cheek caved in. Teeth gleamed at him in the brightening light of day.

Shuddering, he twisted, sweeping the creature off its feet again as it struggled to rise. It roared in frustration and lashed out. The blow caught the side of his face and sent him staggering. The creature was up almost instantly, arms outstretched as it sought to corner him.

He faked a blow to the creature's head, then spun and lashed out at a bony-looking knee instead. The force of the blow shuddered up his leg, and in the silence, the crack of the creature's knee shattering was audible. It didn't seem to matter to the zombie, though. It staggered toward him, arms milling quicker than a high speed fan and twice as deadly.

He couldn't duck every blow. He was fast, but even the wind would have had trouble in this situation.

The zombie's fists hit him in the ribs. Red heat flashed through him. He hissed and spun, lashing out again at the zombie's knee. This time, the whole knee bent backward and the creature howled, a sound loud enough to wake the dead—and the neighbors.

Downstairs, there was a crash, and magic burned across his skin. Someone had sprung the spell on the front door. Not Camille. She would have deactivated it first. Maybe it was the neighbor they'd seen earlier, coming to see what all the noise was. He hoped he wasn't too hurt.

He aimed another kick at the creature's leg, but it sidestepped and caught his foot, thrusting him back against the wall. He hit with a grunt, then ducked another blow. The creature's fist hit the wall instead, and dust flew. It was so damn close its reek was almost overwhelming. Gut churning, he threw another punch, mashing the creature's already bulbous nose. The creature howled. He spun, kicking the zombie in the gut, forcing it away, desperate to gain some room to move—and breathe.

Lightning bit through the room, encasing the zombie in a web of blue-white light. It howled and thrashed but could not escape. The smell of burning flesh added depth to the already horrendous stench in the room.

Soon there was nothing left but a pile of ash on the floor. Kirby walked in, her gaze sweeping the room until she found him. "Are you all right?"

Though she was pale, the left side of her face was red, as if burned, and bits of dust and wood were caught in her hair.

"Are you?" he countered abruptly. "Did the spell on the door hurt you too much?"

She shook her head, but her gaze skated from his. Tears shimmered in her green eyes, and her mind was filled with pain. He winced as he stood and walked toward her. She didn't retreat, didn't move in any way. It was almost as if she was frozen by what she'd done.

I've never used my lightning to kill before now.

The thought whispered through him, filled with such horror it nearly took his breath away. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She tensed, her gaze searching his briefly before she relaxed in his embrace and rested her cheek against his shoulder.

He held her close, listening to the wild beat of her heart—a rhythm that matched his own. Her body fitted his like a glove. She felt so warm against him, so right, somehow. Like he'd found the other half of himself. He closed his eyes at the thought. His father had once told him he would know when he found his mate. That it would hit him like a fist to the gut—suddenly, painfully. He had a horrible feeling the old man was right.

"You had no choice but to kill it," he said. "I certainly don't think I would have survived another round with it."

He breathed deep the scent of her. She reminded him of spring—fresh and warm and rich with the scent of flowers.

She pulled back slightly, and he instantly regretted speaking.

"What was it?" Her breath washed warmth across his neck and stirred the already flaring embers of desire.

"Zombie," he said, gently picking a sliver of wood from her hair. "And dead long before you got to it."

Tears gleamed briefly. She blinked them away and touched his cheek, her hand cool against his flesh.

She must have taken his gloves off to use her magic.

"You look like shit." A smile touched her lips. Lips that looked all too warm and inviting.

"Strange," he murmured. "It's just what I feel like."

God, he wanted to kiss her so bad it hurt, but she'd run the minute he tried. She was just starting to trust him, and he didn't dare do anything that might shatter that trust. Especially when her living or dying might well depend on his ability to keep close to her.

He stepped back. Sirens were wailing in the distance, anyway. They might not be headed here, but with the noise the zombie had made, they couldn't risk staying any longer. Not with Rachel Grant lying dead downstairs. "We'd better get going."

She nodded. "With the noise I made getting in the door, the neighbors are all probably awake and standing out front, wondering what's going on."

"Then we'll go out the way I came in. Though the window."

She raised an eyebrow. "The windows are boarded up."

"Only the ones on the ground floor." He caught her hand, entwining his fingers in hers. "Let's go."

He stopped in the hall long enough to put on his shoes and pick up his coat then continued on into the other room. Pain twinged down his side at every movement, but it wasn't the sharp, excruciating pain of broken ribs. He was lucky, that was for sure.

A quick peek out the window showed lots of lights but as yet, no cops. There were no neighbors standing on the sidewalk, either, but that didn't mean they weren't around. It was going to be a little tricky getting out, but he'd certainly been caught in worse situations during his time as a thief.

He raised the window. "Keep close to the wall," he said. "And squat down, so you present less of a silhouette."

She studied him. "You've done this before, haven't you?"

She was either very intuitive, or she was reading his mind as easily as he was hers. "Done what? Been rescued by a pretty young woman from the hands of a zombie?" He gave her an easy grin. "It doesn't happen as often as I'd like, I'm afraid."

A smile touched her lips, but annoyance flickered in her eyes. "You really won't give me a straight answer about yourself, will you?"

He hesitated. If he was going to be honest about himself, then it would be with her, for all sorts of reasons—not the least being the attraction he felt. But right now, they simply didn't have the time.

"Force of habit, I'm afraid." He motioned toward the window. "Go, before the cops get here."

She eyed him a second longer, then climbed out the window and hunched down in the shadows. He followed then carefully closed the window and nudged the latch closed again.

"Thief," she murmured. "Had to have been. You're too damn good at that."

He slipped the pick back into his pocket. "Could have been a cop, you know. Cops learn all sorts of things."

She gave him a knowing look. "Yeah, right."

He grinned and slipped past her, moving to the end of the balcony. The shared wall between the two terraces jutted out several feet and would make climbing onto the next balcony awkward. At least all the windows in the next terrace were still wrapped in darkness.

He glanced at her. "We'll have to climb around the wall to the next balcony. You ready?"

She glanced down at the ground, then back at him. Fear flickered in her eyes. Afraid of heights, he realized. "I won't let you fall," he added.

He held out his hand. She hesitated, then took it and climbed up onto the wrought iron. It wobbled under her weight, and she made a small sound of fear, grabbing for his shoulders.

He reached for her waist with his free hand, steadying her. "Look at me, not the ground," he said. Her gaze darted to his, wide and uncertain. "I won't let you fall. Believe that, if nothing else. Now, reach around the wall and pull yourself across to the next balcony."

Though she was shaking, she did as he asked, and was quickly on the other side. He followed and pushed her into the shadows as headlights speared the darkness.

"Crawl toward the next terrace," he murmured, as the blue and red lights of the police car washed through the shadows.

"We can't climb across the balcony," she protested. "They'll see us."

"Maybe. Just go."

She did. He followed her, somehow managing to keep his gaze on the police car more than the rather fetching sight of her jeans-clad rear. The cops climbed out of the car, putting on their hats as they walked across the road and disappeared under the balcony. He moved past Kirby and checked the next terrace.

Lights were on, but he couldn't see anyone in the windows, and no one was moving around—not upstairs, anyway.

"Go," he said, catching her hand again. "Duck down under the windows when you get there."

Her expression was doubtful, but she climbed onto the railing and edged across. He followed her and pushed her forward again. They repeated the process until they reached the end terrace.

"Now what?" she murmured "Now we lie down in the shadows and wait for the hubbub to die down."

She gave him another long look. "You're kidding, right?"

He shook his head and somehow managed to restrain his grin. He could certainly think of worse fates than lying down with her—even if it was for something as innocent as waiting out the cops. "Sorry, no.

We try to leave now, someone will definitely stop us. So we wait."

She crossed her arms and didn't move. "Why can't we just sit here? Why do we have to lie down?"

"Because there's less of us to notice. By lying down and lying still, we're a part of the shadows. Believe me, it works." He'd had many a narrow escape by doing precisely that.

"I just bet you have," she muttered. "And not all of them narrow escapes from thieving jobs, either."

She was reading his mind as easily as he was hers. Odd. He grinned and didn't refute her inference, though he'd never been a womanizer. Far from it.

"I suppose," she continued softly. "We have to stretch out beside each other, not lie toe to head, for the same reason?"

"Afraid so." Her raised eyebrow suggested she knew he was lying. Smiling, he stretched out along the wall, then patted the boards in front of him. "Come along. I don't bite."

"I'll reserve judgement on that," she muttered, but lay down beside him—facing him, rather than the road.

To keep an eye on him, he thought with amusement. Or rather, what he was doing. Not that he could do much with the cops five doors down and the owners of this terrace moving around downstairs.

He reached for his phone. She tensed, then relaxed when she saw it. He smiled and dialed Camille.

"Don't you be hassling an old woman," she said, voice tart. "I'm almost there."

"I'm calling to say don't bother. When the murderer departed she left a rather large zombie to cover her tracks. I'm afraid we only just managed to escape, and the cops are crawling all over the place."

"Where are you?"

"Stuck on a balcony five doors down. We can't really move until either the cops or the owners of this house leave, and I've a bad feeling we should check on Russ before it gets too light."

"I'll head over there, then. Meet you there unless you hear from me in the meantime."

"Will do." He shoved the phone away and glanced past the curve of Kirby's hip to the road. More cops were arriving. It was going to be quite a while before they could move.

He met her gaze. In the warm green depths of her eyes he saw wariness and something else—longing.

Desire.

Without really thinking about the consequences, he leaned forward and kissed her.