Circle Of Death

Chapter Eight

His kiss wasn't what she'd expected. She wasn't entirely sure what she had expected, but it wasn't this.

There was a tenderness in his touch that was more than just passion, more than just desire. His lips burned heat through her heart, her soul, and sent common sense flying. All she could do, all she wanted to do, was respond.

He whispered her name, his breath warm across her skin, then wrapped an arm around her waist and drew her close. She could feel the strength of his arousal, feel the wild beat of his heart. Knew they were an echo of her own. She touched his face, his neck, then ran her hand down to his hip. Lord help her, she wanted him, as she'd wanted no other—right here, right now on the balcony. No matter how dangerous that might be or how much she might regret it later.

Seize the moment, enjoy the danger, Helen had often preached. But until this moment, she'd never truly understood what Helen had meant.

His lips left hers and moved to her neck, branding her skin with his kisses. She sighed and slipped her hand from his hip, down the outside of his jeans until she touched the hard length of him. She caressed him, teased him through the material, until she felt him quiver with need. She moved her hand away, slipping it inside his shirt, reveling in the hard, flat planes of his chest and stomach. He groaned softly, then his lips seized hers again, and he kissed her urgently. He pushed up her sweater, thrust a hand under her bra, catching her nipple, teasing it, teasing her. Heat pulsed through her, and deep down the ache increased. God, it felt so good…

Downstairs, a door slammed and voices rose. She froze. He pulled away, his breathing harsh and fast, staring past her, his body tense as he held her close.

Footsteps clattered on concrete, moving away. A man and a woman, from their voices. Another voice broke the silence, calling them in an authoritative tone. A cop, she thought, and hoped Doyle was right—that the shadows would indeed hide them. She doubted the police would believe they were just an oversexed couple who couldn't wait to get home. Especially seeing they couldn't exactly explain how they got up here without admitting they'd been near Rachel Grant's.

After five minutes or so, doors slammed and a car started up. Doyle relaxed and glanced down at her, a chagrined look touching his features. "Sorry. I didn't mean for that to happen."

She studied him for a moment. "Liar."

A smile touched his lips. "While I don't mind making love outdoors, believe me, I'm not an exhibitionist.

Especially when cops are among those who could spot us."

With his dark hair tumbling across his forehead and his smile crinkling the corners of his blue eyes, he looked so darned sexy she just wanted to kiss him again. She pushed away instead. Now that the heat between them had died a little, common sense was returning. She wasn't an exhibitionist either, but somewhere in the last few moments, both of them had almost become just that. Thank God the owners of the house had come out and stopped them.

She thrust a hand through her hair and rolled onto her back. Lord, what on earth had she been thinking?

While there was no denying her attraction to this man, she knew if she took it too much further, she'd end up getting hurt. Not only was he a total stranger, he was more than certainly a thief and an adventurer.

Visions of him snapping the vampire's neck flashed through her mind, and her breath caught. And yet, deep down, she knew he wasn't a killer. Yes, he'd killed to protect her, but it wasn't something he'd enjoyed, of that she was certain.

What she wasn't so certain of was whether she could trust him—not with her life, but with her heart. She very much suspected the answer was no.

Or was that merely cowardice speaking?

He touched her face, gently running a finger down to her lips. She resisted the urge to kiss his fingertips and moved her face away from the warmth of his touch. "This is neither the time nor the place, and I think we both realize that."

"But the minutes did pass by rather nicely, didn't they?" His voice was little more than a throaty growl and sent shivers of warmth running down her spine. "And you and I know it won't end here."

She glanced at him, more than a little scared by his words. Because deep down she knew what he said was true. As much as she might deny it, as much as common sense told her to go no further, she knew what had began here they would finish.

But what would happen afterwards? Surely a fire so quickly ignited would just as quickly be doused. It wouldn't last. Couldn't last.

Have fun and the future be damned, Helen would have said. Only she'd never been like Helen, as much as she'd tried. She couldn't disconnect her emotions from sex, couldn't have one without the other.

And the very fact that she was even thinking about such things when the man in question was very much a stranger scared the hell out of her.

"I can't play this game," she murmured, looking away again. "I just can't."

He touched her chin, gently bringing her gaze to his. "I never said it was a game, Kirby."

"But what else could it be? Once this case is solved, you'll be heading home, back to America, won't you?" He didn't disagree, just watched her with that all-too-knowing gaze of his. She pulled her chin from his grip. "You don't really want someone like me."

"You have no idea what I want."

Her gaze flashed to his. "That's right," she said, an odd surge of anger rushing through her, constricting her voice. "I don't. I know nothing about you, because you won't tell me. You want me to trust you, and yet you won't offer me the same."

"I have my reasons—" "Yeah, well, so have I. Now, let's get the hell off this balcony and out of here." Before she did something stupid—like give in to the desire to touch him again.

He studied her a second longer, then nodded. "Stay here." On hands and knees he moved back to the window. Pulling the sliver of metal from his pocket, he thrust it up between the windows, wriggling it around for several seconds. Then, as easy as that, he opened the window.

"Are you sure there are no alarms?" Surely it couldn't be that easy. Surely people wealthy enough to own a terrace in this part of Carlton would be wise enough to put in a security system.

"There's an alarm on the house two doors down from this one, and on the one three doors past Rachel Grant's. But there's nothing on the rest, which is why I retreated this way."

"Oh." He had to be a thief. Normal people didn't notice things like that. She certainly hadn't.

He climbed in through the window, then looked out. "You coming?"

She followed him through and looked around. She was oddly relieved to see it wasn't a bedroom, but some sort of sitting room. Antique looking furniture filled every corner, making the place look too crowded, too formal, for her liking.

"And mine," he said, catching her hand in his. "Come on, let's get out of here."

His fingers were warm against hers, the palms callused. Not what she'd expected the hands of a thief to be. "Won't the police question us when we leave?"

"They won't even see us if we do so quietly. We'll probably have to abandon the car for the moment, though."

"I don't think walking is a good idea." Especially if someone kept sending monsters after her.

He squeezed her fingers, then released them, working his magic on the deadlock barring their exit through the front door. He had it open in a minute flat.

She shook her head in disbelief. "Don't try to tell me you're a locksmith when you're not rescuing damsels in distress or tracking bad guys, because I just don't believe it."

He gave her that cheeky smile again, and her stomach did odd flip-flops. "You could say I've had a somewhat shady past. But it's all behind me, I promise."

"Yeah, it looks like it, too," she said dryly.

Smile widening, he placed a hand at her back, ushering her through the door. His touch burned into her skin, and for some reason, hurt. She frowned, flexing her shoulders, wondering what was wrong. Pain twinged, running down her spine like muted fire. Maybe she'd twisted something when the door had blown her off her feet. Maybe she hadn't felt anything until now because she'd been too scared for Doyle.

Or too aroused by him.

Swallowing the thought, she moved down the steps and into the street. A crowd had gathered around Rachel's gate, watching what was happening. An ambulance had pulled up, its lights still flashing as the two paramedics ran inside. But they were far too late to save Rachel—as she and Doyle had been far too late. She crossed her arms and shivered, remembering Helen's words. One more woman to go, and she had to save her. But how, when she couldn't even save herself? God, she was only here now because Doyle had rescued her.

His gaze swept her as he walked down the steps, flushing heat through her body. "Make it casual," he said and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close as they headed down the street.

"Where to now, Romeo?" she asked, voice tart. He might want casual, but right now, when her body still sung to the tune of his touch, casual was the last thing she wanted—or needed.

"Right now, we disappear into this mist and get as far away as we can. Then we catch a cab and head on over to the government facility that housed you and Helen."

She glanced up at him, startled. "Why?"

"Because the first victim, your friend, and you, all ended up in that place when you were eleven."

She frowned. "But that was years ago. What do you hope to find there now?"

He shrugged. "All I'm hoping to find at the moment is my friend, Russell, alive and unharmed."

She raised an eyebrow. If his friend was at the center at this hour, he obviously hadn't gotten in through any normal means. "He's a thief, too?"

"No. Actually, he's a vampire."

She stopped and stared at him. "A vampire?"

He glanced behind them, then nudged her forward again. "Yes. Vampire's aren't all bad, you know."

They weren't? She blinked several times. Lord, it was hard enough to believe vampires were real, let alone the fact that some of them were actually on the side of the angels. "But… they have to drink blood to survive. How can he be good?"

"He doesn't take human blood."

"So he dines on animals?" Somehow, she found that even worse.

He glanced down at her, an eyebrow raised. "You eat meat, chicken, and fish, don't you? What's the difference?"

He sounded so darn logical it was annoying. "But I don't actually kill them. They come in ready-to-eat pieces all wrapped in plastic. I don't have to think about where it comes from."

"Russ doesn't kill them, either. And it's mainly cows and horses he takes from."

"Oh." She wasn't entirely sure if that made her feel any better about meeting this friend of his. She frowned. "If he's a vampire, how did he get into the center? Don't vampires have a restriction when it comes to crossing thresholds? Or is that all a load of Hollywood tripe?"

"Tripe?" He grinned. "Now, there's an expression I'll have to use back home."

Right then, she didn't particularly want to think about him leaving her, let alone going back home to America and whatever life he had back there. She slapped him lightly in the stomach. "Just answer the damn question."

"Yes ma'am." He guided her across the street and into the park. "When the threshold in question is private—a home, for instance—the vampire can't cross it without invitation. But if the threshold is public—say, an office, hospital, or supermarket—then the vampire can cross as easily as anyone else."

"Why?"

"I don't know." He shrugged and looked at her, his gaze suddenly intense. "Some things just are, Kirby.

You don't question them; you just accept."

"You accept," she muttered, dragging her gaze from his. "I'll continue to question." It was a whole lot safer that way.

Though the mist still covered the tops of the gums, the drizzle was beginning to lift and, above all the gray, patches of blue were showing. They might yet even get a fine day. Which would be good, she thought, dragging the ends of her coat together. She needed to get warm—it felt like the chill of the last few days had settled deep into her bones.

"If you're cold, you can have my coat," he said, rubbing his hand up and down her arm.

She shivered, more from his touch than any chill. "No. I'm okay. Really," she added, when he gave her a disbelieving look. "I think I just need a coffee."

"And something to eat. You can't continue to run on empty, you know."

"I know." She looked away from the concern in his eyes. Despite the temptation to believe otherwise, she knew it wasn't real. It couldn't be. They were strangers who'd shared a mad moment of passion.

Nothing more. Nothing deeper.

You're wrong. And you know it.

His thought whispered through her, its touch as warm as the wind on a hot summer evening. She certainly wasn't telepathic, and while she'd been able to catch Helen's emotions easily enough, it was never something that had expanded to anyone else—until now. That she could hear Doyle's thoughts as well as feel his emotions scared the hell out of her.

On the street ahead, yellow cars gleamed. Taxis, lined up in a row, waiting for customers. "We'll have to head back to my place sometime," she said, reminded suddenly that she didn't have any money.

"Might be safer if we didn't," he muttered. "You'll be less tempted to run without cash."

She didn't refute his statement, just crossed her arms and tried to keep warm. Though her back felt on fire, the rest of her was so cold her bones were beginning to ache. They climbed into the taxi, and he gave the driver the address. The center wasn't far away, and it didn't take them all that long to get there.

The taxi stopped just up from the locked main gates.

"Looks quiet," she said, climbing out of the taxi and studying the rows of old red-brick buildings visible behind the gates. They looked like factories—or a prison.

"Should be. It closed down a few years ago and is apparently little more than a storage facility now."

"Looks like it should have closed down earlier than that," she muttered, noting the peeling paint and cracked walls on the building closest to them. The whole place looked little better than a dump.

Had it always been like this? She couldn't say, because she had no memories of it. Not one. Though both she and Helen had apparently spent some time here, nothing had stuck in her mind. And yet she could recall every one of her foster parents. Could still recite their names and addresses. Had this place been so bad she'd wiped away all memory of it? Or had it just been so bland there was nothing worth remembering?

"Camille's van is just down the street," he said as the taxi drove off.

"What about your mate's car? That still about?"

Doyle shook his head and moved toward the main gate. He had the padlock undone and in his pocket in two seconds flat. "Russ doesn't need a car," he said. "Make sure you close the gate behind you."

She nodded, doing just that before following him across the damp lawn. "Why doesn't he need a car?

Don't tell me the hype about vampires turning into bats is true?"

He flashed her a grin. "No. Vampires aren't shapechangers. Don't have to be, when they can run like the wind."

Shapechangers.The word reverberated through her. She stopped abruptly, staring at his back. "That's what you are, isn't it? That panther—it was you, wasn't it?"

Tension ran through his back muscles, and he slowly turned, his expression a mix of uncertainty and resignation. "Yes, it was," he said. "But you knew all along I wasn't entirely human. Your magic told you that when we first met."

She licked her lips, not entirely sure what to think now that she had made the connection. "You could have told me," she said softly. Could have mentioned she'd almost made love to a man who was half-beast.

"I'm still just a man, whether or not I'm in panther form. Don't get the werewolf legends confused with the reality of shapechangers."

She thrust a hand through her hair. "I can't deal with this now." Didn't want to deal with it now. Her world was in the process of zooming well out of her control, and her head felt like it was spinning. She didn't need this, not on top of everything else.

"You'll have to deal with it eventually," he murmured and turned away, walking toward the west side of the building.

Only if you stay, she thought. And knew that wasn't going to happen.

He disappeared around the corner of the building, and she hurried to catch up with him. Azaleas and rhododendrons battled for space with weeds in the small garden bed lining the wall. The path was covered in moss and looked as if it hadn't been swept in months. No caretaker, she thought, and wondered if the place was still used as a storage facility.

He'd stopped about halfway down, his expression grim and his hands on his hips.

"What's wrong?" She stopped beside him and stared at the window. There was nothing she could see that would cause such a fierce frown.

"Blood," he said, stepping back, studying the windows on the first floor.

"There is?" She stepped forward, intent on getting a closer look, but he grabbed her arm and pulled her back.

"Careful. It's a trap."

She stared at him. "How can you tell that just by looking at it?"

"I can't. I can feel it."

"You can? How?"

"Now is not the time, believe me." Without glancing at her, he moved off down the path.

"Now is never the time," she muttered, stomping after him.

They rounded the corner of the building. About halfway along this section was an old wooden door.

Squatting in front of it was a woman. Though she had gray hair and from a distance looked reasonably old, her multicolored sweater was so bright you almost had to squint to look at it. To complement this, she also wore black leather pants and red runners. A woman who didn't care about the opinions of others, Kirby thought with a smile.

The woman glanced up as they approached, a smile creasing her lined features.

"About time you got here, boy. I can't get this damn lock to open." The woman's bright gaze swept past Doyle, fixing on her. "You'd be Kirby, then?"

Her blue eyes were luminous, almost electric. Not a woman who missed much. Kirby nodded. "You're Camille?"

"That I am." She swatted Doyle's arm then rose a little stiffly and moved out of the way. "Get a move on. We can't stand out here all day, you know."

"I gather there's no spell," he said, voice dry as he squatted in front of the lock.

"Of course not. If there was, I would have removed it."

Kirby crossed her arms and watched Doyle work on the lock. "Are you sure your friend is inside?"

"Something is," he said, as the lock clicked open. "I can hear them scuffing around."

She frowned. Did vampire's scuff? Somehow it didn't fit the image she had of them. "It could be a trap."

"Could be," he agreed, rising. "Which is why you'll wait out here."

"I'm not—" "You are. We need someone to watch for security patrols. You're it."

She bit her lip. It made perfectly good sense for her to remain out here, and they both knew it. Problem was, she didn't want to be left alone in this place. Something about it spooked her. But whether it was forgotten memories finally surfacing, or something else, she wasn't entirely sure.

Camille patted her arm, fingernails painted purple and glittering in the pale morning light. "Don't worry dear. Whatever they're using to track you, it's not with you now. You're safe."

Doyle's glance was sharp. "It must be in her backpack. That's the only thing from last night we haven't got with us."

Camille nodded. "Could be. Find it and get rid of it, fast."

"But I packed it myself," Kirby protested. "Believe me, nobody put anything in there that I don't know about."

"Doesn't mean there can't be anything in there." Camille glanced back to Doyle. "You ready?"

He nodded, his gaze meeting Kirby's. "Stay here. Don't go anywhere and don't run." Warn me like this if you hear or see anything. Don't yell, and don't enter the building.

His thoughts were firm but warm as they whispered through her mind. She stared at him for several heartbeats, wondering if she should take this opportunity to run. His blue gaze narrowed slightly.

Don't,he added, mind voice more forceful this time.

She nodded. He opened the door and ushered Camille inside. Sighing, Kirby leaned back against the wall. The chill of the bricks pressed into her back, easing the fire a little. Her gaze skated across the nearby buildings and settled on the perimeter fence. Bottle brush and flowering gums lined it, the bright red and gold of their flowers flashing like fire in the fog. For an instant, a memory surfaced—Helen and her, weaving through the trunks, running in fear. She closed her eyes, trying to remember just what—or whom—they'd run from. But the memory slipped back to the recesses of her mind. She swore and opened her eyes.

Her gaze drifted across the buildings, coming to rest on the third of the five that sat opposite. That was theirs—that was where they'd stayed.

She pushed away from the wall and headed over. It couldn't hurt to look, and it was certainly better than hanging around here doing nothing.

She walked around the side of the building, heading for the third dorm's main entrance. If she remembered rightly, the doors were half glass. Maybe she could peer in and jog a few more memories loose.

She turned the corner and stopped abruptly. The doors were open. She tensed, for an instant ready to run, then heard someone inside, tunelessly whistling. Memories beckoned.

She knew that tune. Had heard it often when she was a little girl stuck in the darkness of this place.

Clenching her fingers, she walked past the ramps and up the steps, heading inside.