Circle Of Death

Chapter Nine

Doyle stopped. Motes of dust danced sluggishly in the light filtering in from the skylight above them, but it did little to lift the shadows that filled the corridor. Boxes and broken bits of furniture lined the walls, and the whole place smelled of age and decay. No one had been through here for a very long time. No one human, anyway.

"Can you smell him?" Camille whispered softly.

He nodded. "Three doors down."

"Magic?"

"Two doors down." Its feel was so sharp his skin burned with it. "It's got the same feel as the magic that was being performed on Rachel Grant."

Which had to mean there was something here to find; otherwise, why bother setting a spell in this wasteland of decay?

Camille grunted and pushed past. She stopped near the door, studying it for several seconds. Magic burned across his skin again, but this time it felt clean, sunshine compared to rain. Camille, battling the spell with one of her own. After several seconds, she gave a satisfied sigh.

"Looped it," she said. "So we can get past without triggering it. And it'll still feel set to the originator."

"Good." He hurried to the third door. The scuffing had stopped. No one moved inside, no one breathed.

And the only person he could smell was Russell.

Warily, he stepped inside. The room was another wasteland of decay and boxes. Dust-caked windows lined the far wall, filtering brightness into the room—brightness that could kill his friend. Russell was lying in one corner, half in the shadows, half out, his hands and feet tied by wire, and tape covering his mouth.

Sweat beaded his forehead, and his skin looked red, as if sunburned.

Doyle swore. "Camille, get your van and bring it around the back. The gate is open."

She hurried off. He took off his coat and flung it over his friend, protecting his uncovered skin from the sun's rays. Then, tucking his hands under Russell's shoulders, he dragged him back into the safety of the shadow-filled corridor.

He ripped the tape off Russell's mouth. As he began unwinding the wire from the vampire's hands, expletives fell thick and fast into the gloom.

"Tell us what you're really feeling," Doyle said, amused.

"When we catch the bitch," Russell muttered, "she's going to get a taste of her own medicine."

Doyle flipped the wire into the rubbish behind him, then shifted to undo the wire around Russell's feet.

"Meaning she's a vamp?"

"No," Russell snapped, rubbing his head. "Meaning I'm going to hit the witch over the head and kick her in the gut and groin a few times, just like she did to me."

"Tsk. That's no way to treat a lady."

"This is no lady we're dealing with, believe me."

He rose and offered Russell a hand up. "It's unlike you to let anyone sneak up on you. What happened?"

"A goddamn spell happened. I was looking through the files in some boxes, and suddenly I couldn't move. Then she appears from nowhere and clubs me."

He raised an eyebrow. "Which suggests she didn't know you were a vampire. Otherwise, she might have staked you."

"True," Russell muttered. "I guess she figured it out pretty quickly, though, because she was cackling when she dragged me into the sunlight."

"Did she take the files you were looking at?"

"Yeah. But I did manage to get a look at a couple of them."

Doyle glanced around as Camille approached. She offered Russell some sunburn cream and patted his shoulder, a look of relief on her face.

"And?" he prodded Russell.

"One was Helen Smith's file. Apparently she was adopted, but her parents were killed in a freak storm.

Tree went through the roof and crushed them in bed."

"How old was she when this happened?" Camille asked, frowning.

"Seven."

"Too young to have gone through puberty," she murmured. "Talents don't usually appear until then—unless they're freakishly strong. What happened to Helen after that?"

"None of the relatives wanted her, so she came back into government care. She was farmed out to a series of foster parents, but she never lasted in any of them. The records state she was classed a

'difficult' child and she ended up in this center."

"And the second file?" Doyle asked, although he had a pretty good idea who that second file was about.

Russell glanced at him. "Kirby Brown. She was never adopted, and there's no mention of why. She stayed in several long-term foster homes, but she always ended up back here."

"Helen and Kirby were fostered out together at some point," he said, wondering about the strong bond between the two of them. It went far deeper than mere friendship. If he were to believe her thoughts, it was almost as they'd been spiritually bonded—something that really only happened between twins.

Camille raised an eyebrow. "From what I understand, that's not normal practice. Did she tell you this?"

He nodded. "Yeah, but she hasn't really said much more about her past." Which was odd, considering she kept accusing him of not being honest about himself.

"Then you'd better start questioning her, because I got a feeling the answers are locked in the past of these five." Camille glanced back at Russell. "Nothing else in those files? None of the other names on the list?"

"Not one."

"Damn," Camille commented. "I was hoping this place might be the connection."

"Nothing's ever that easy," Doyle said. "Do you want to continue checking the boxes?"

Camille shook her head. "Waste of time now. If there was anything here, it'd be gone now that she knows we're looking."

"It might also mean she'll speed up her killing schedule," Russell said. "Doesn't give us much time to find the remaining woman."

"And doesn't explain why she's still going after Kirby." He frowned. "Have you found anything on that symbol she's carving in the doors?"

"I'm doing an on-line search through the Circle's library. It's going to take time."

Problem was, time was running out. And with Kirby on the killer's list, he wanted this case solved and her safe, as soon as possible.

He glanced at his watch. Half an hour had passed. They wouldn't be able to reclaim the car just yet. "Do you think it's safe for me to bring Kirby back in yet?"

Camille hesitated. "I'd rather not take the chance. And to be honest, if the killer is concentrating on finding you and Kirby, then maybe Russell and I can catch her unawares."

It was a good plan, but he wasn't happy about using Kirby as bait. Too many things could go wrong—like her running. He had to catch some sleep sometime, and sooner or later she would take advantage of it.

"What's your plan, then?"

"First we get our sunburned friend indoors and out of the light, then I'll continue searching for that symbol. You and Kirby can go on hunting for our final victim. If you have no luck, Russ can go out tonight."

Doyle dug into his pocket and retrieved the camera. "Photos of Rachel Grant."

"Such a clever boy," she murmured, patting his arm. "Now, you'd better go find that girl of yours. She wandered off again."

He frowned. "No, she hasn't."

Camille raised an eyebrow. "Are you doubting the eyes of an old woman? She wasn't at the door when I drove up."

"Maybe not, but she's close."

"She has a pretty distinct smell if you can still catch it above the dust and decay in here," Russell commented, eyeing him with amusement. "Not a little smitten with the girl, are we?"

"Believe me, I'm not." He was well past being smitten. "I can read her thoughts, and I have no idea why."

Russ raised his eyebrows. "She telepathic?"

"No, and neither am I, as you know."

Russ snorted. "Yeah. It's easier to draw blood from a stone than it is to reach through your thick skull."

He grinned. "At least it stops you from putting improper thoughts in my head. Like the time you tried to get me—" "Enough," Camille said, frowning. "What other talents has she got?"

"Energy," he said. "It races across her fingers like lightning, and she can cast it like a net."

Camille's frown deepened. "That sounds like elemental magic, which is damn rare."

"Doesn't mean she can't have it," Russ commented. "And isn't a storm witch an elemental?"

"No. Completely different. Come on," she added, her expression thoughtful. "Let's get back to the office. Doyle, keep in regular contact."

"I will."

He followed them from the building. Camille opened the van's back doors. The van had been fully lined with sun blocking material. You could never be too careful when a vampire was part of your team.

Russell dove in and Camille slammed the door shut before he started to sizzle. "I think I know what that symbol being carved on the door is," she said. "And if I'm right, we could be in real trouble. I'll call and let you know in a few hours. In the meantime, you keep that girl of yours safe."

"I will, don't worry."

She climbed into the van and drove off. He shoved his hands into his pockets and headed across to the third building to find Kirby.

Office furniture lined the walls where once there had been two long rows of beds. Kirby stopped in the middle of the dorm, her gaze going to the fourth window from the back wall. That was where her bed had been. Helen, when she'd finally arrived at the center, had slept next to her.

She frowned. Finally arrived? Up until now, she'd thought they'd always been together, but obviously that wasn't so. Damn it, why couldn't she remember this place, when everything else was so clear?

She sniffed, and the smell hit her—age and mustiness, mixed with the pungent scent of ammonia.

Memories stirred, as did fear. She retreated a step, then stopped. Running wasn't going to help anyone.

If something had happened in this room, she needed to remember it. The answer to why Helen was murdered could lie anywhere, even in something as innocuous as memories long locked away.

The whistling was coming from the back of the dorm, from what had once been the nurse's quarters. She took a few more steps forward then stopped. "Hello?"

The whistling cut off abruptly, and a soft whirring filled the gloom. Two seconds later, a man in an electric wheelchair appeared in the doorway, his berry-brown face fixed into a scowl. "And what would you be doing here, girlie?"

His voice was as flat and lifeless as his brown eyes, and sent a chill up her back. She knew that voice. In the past she had feared it.

She again resisted the impulse to run. "I'm…" She hesitated, uncertain whether she should really be talking to this man. Surely if she'd once feared him, it had been for good reason. "I stayed at this center for a while. I'm just trying to find a friend I met here."

Why she lied, she wasn't entirely sure. She certainly wasn't going to get much in the way of answers about her past by inquiring about someone else, and yet instinct suggested it was better than mentioning who she was. Though she had no idea why this would be dangerous, she trusted her instincts. They'd saved her too often in the past to ignore them now.

The old man's gaze narrowed, and he rolled a little further into the room. He was rakish, with thick, steel gray hair that looked silver in the morning light. He had a clipboard on his lap, and his hands were long and thin. The hands of a piano player, she thought.

The hands of a molester.

Images hit her, thick and fast. Oh God , she thought, swallowing back the bile that rose in her throat as pictures and sounds swelled around her. Suddenly she was an eleven-year-old again, lying in bed, wide-eyed and fearful, listening to the sounds night after night. Cries of pain, odd grunting, the rough squeak of bedsprings. Not her. He'd never touched her. Didn't like her green eyes—they were fey, he'd once told her. Dangerous. But he'd touched Helen, and he'd touched others, here in the long nights of darkness.

His frown deepened, and he rolled forward some more. She retreated. She couldn't help it. Her memories had too strong a grip, and it felt like her fear was going to stifle her.

"You were one of the kids who lived here?" His free hand clenched briefly.

Get out,instinct said. Run .

She nodded. If he got any closer she'd throw up all over him, all over his overalls and shiny brown shoes.

Shoes he'd always kept on when he'd lain on top of Helen.Fighting horror, she retreated another step.

I'm here behind you, in the shadows,Doyle said, his mind-voice filled with such anger it burned through her like a flame. I won't let him hurt you. Question him if you want to.

I don't want to remember this. The man is a monster.

Yes, he is. But he may also hold some answers. I think you need those answers, and not just to solve Helen's death.

She bit her lip and crossed her arms. The chill in her body was so bad she was beginning to shiver. But he was right. The past, and this man, had to be faced if she wanted to find answers.

"You've got green eyes," the man in the wheelchair said suddenly. "Fey eyes, like a cat's. I've seen them before. Seen you." He hesitated. "You're one of them , aren't you?"

Fear mingled with the anger in his dead brown eyes. She frowned, wondering why. "One of who? What are you talking about?"

"One of them bitches that did this to me." He slapped a hand against the wheelchair, and rolled a little closer.

His scent surrounded her—cigar smoke and whisky. The same smell that had haunted her nights, all those years ago. Her stomach rolled. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

He snorted. "You and those other four. You did this to me. You broke my back, made me dead from the waist down."

Dead from the waist down was nearly punishment enough, she thought, and rubbed her arms. "Me and what four? I have no idea—" "Them witches with the gray eyes. You formed a circle and smashed me like I was nothing more than one of your stupid dolls. All of you bitches deserve what's coming to you."

He hawked and spat at her. The globule barely missed her toes. She stepped back again, watching him closely, another chill racing through her spine. "Did you kill them? Are you responsible?"

Maliciousness mixed with the fear in his brown eyes. He wasn't responsible, she realized, but he knew who was. "How could five eleven-year-olds possibly throw a man your size around?"

"Magic," he whispered. "It surrounded me, a shield of energy I couldn't see. But I could feel it. Oh God, could I feel it…" His voice drifted off, and for a moment the terror of that night showed in his eyes.

She felt no sympathy for him. One night hardly made up for the many nights of hell this fiend had given Helen and the others. "So you killed them? And tore their bodies apart afterwards?"

He snorted. "I didn't kill anyone. Look at me. I'm a goddamn cripple. I don't pose a threat to an ant these days."

"Yet you know who is behind these murders, don't you?"

"What if I do, girlie? What are you going to do? Beat the information out of me?" He grinned maliciously, revealing yellow-stained teeth. "Might like that, you know. Don't get touched by many females nowadays."

" Shemight not beat the information out of you," Doyle said, his voice flat and yet somehow ferocious.

He moved out of the shadows and stopped beside her. "But I'd love to take a crack at you, let me assure you."

Doyle twined his fingers around hers. The warmth of his touch flushed through her, and while it didn't completely erase the chill, it somehow made her feel infinitely safer.

The old man's face went pale. "Who are you?" he whispered hoarsely. "What right have you to threaten me like that?"

"What right did you have to molest eleven-year-olds? I should wring your scrawny neck just for that."

She touched his arm with her free hand, trying to calm him. It felt like she was touching a tightly coiled spring. It wouldn't take too much to provoke an attack, of that she was sure. Just as she was sure he would tear this man apart if he provided the slightest excuse—because of what he'd done to the others.

Because of the hurt he'd inflicted on her.

No one had ever cared for her that much. No one.

Tears stung her eyes. She blinked them back, then said, "Tell me what you know, or you can tell the damn police."

The old man's glance darted between the two of them. "I don't know much," he muttered.

"Tell us what you do know," Doyle said. His voice was little more than a scratch of sound—almost, but not quite, the growl of a big cat.

She studied him for a minute, wondering if perhaps he was going to become the panther right here in this room. She wasn't sure if she was ready to see that—wasn't sure if she'd ever be ready to see that.

He glanced at her, blue eyes narrowed. Give me credit for a little control. I am not a beast who takes the shape of a man, you know.

Sorry. It's just your voice…

I only mean to scare him—for now, at least.

"Got a visit last week," the old man said into the silence. "Said she used to stay here in this cabin. She wasn't one of my—" He hesitated, his gaze flicking from her to Doyle. "She said she wanted revenge on the witches, just like me."

"What are you talking about? We never—" She bit back the rest of her words. If she couldn't remember attacking the caretaker, how could she say they'd never attacked anyone else?

"Do you know this woman's name?"

He hesitated. "Felicity Barnes."

"And you recognized her?" she asked, surprised. After all, they'd all been barely eleven when they were here with this man. Surely they'd changed in the years since.

"No. But I checked the files afterwards, and she was here." He sniffed. "She offered me money."

His sly look inferred they should be doing the same. Doyle's fingers twitched against hers. He might be controlling his beast, but she had a feeling it was a close-run race right now.

"I'm offering you life," he ground out. "Give me a description of this woman."

The old man's hand twitched, and the wheelchair jerked backward slightly. "Petite little thing, she was.

Brown hair, gray eyes, boyish figure. Nothing remarkable."

Heat flashed in his eyes. Felicity Barnes's boyish figure had excited him, Kirby realized, feeling sick again. God, if they had indeed been responsible for putting him in the wheelchair all those years ago, why hadn't they just finished him? Why had did they let this monster live?

Doyle's thoughts touched hers again, offering comfort, offering warmth. She took a deep breath, and tried to keep calm. "What did she want you to do?"

"Nothing. She just wanted to look at the files, that's all."

"Our files are still here?" she asked, surprised. Surely they should be tucked away somewhere safer.

The caretaker snorted. "This was a government run facility."

And it had been a safe environment. Until he'd come. Until Mariel had come. She blinked. Who in the hell was Mariel?

"Do you know which files she wanted?" Doyle asked.

"The witch's files, what else?"

"Why?"

"Photos. Last known address, stuff like that. This place was closed down not long after them bitches attacked me, and all the kids here scattered. Makes tracking them down a little hard."

But track them down she had. And not only killed them, but ripped their remains to shreds. Her stomach twisted, and bile rose in her throat . I'm going to be sick…

She wrenched her hand from Doyle's and raced outside, barely making it to the garden to the left of the door.

When she'd finished, she leaned back against the cool brick wall and closed her eyes. She didn't want to do this. Didn't want to remember the past—especially if it was going to reveal more horrors like the caretaker. And it would reveal more, of that she was certain.

But as Doyle had said earlier, it was time she faced the past. For Helen's sake. For hers. She'd spent too many years in retreat, afraid to trust, afraid to live. Part of the reason why had now been revealed, but she couldn't stop, not until the whole truth was out in the open. Helen had once said their future lay locked in acceptance. It was only now she realized Helen had meant acceptance of the past, of what had happened, and what they'd done.

But just what, exactly, had they done?

She wasn't sure, and that scared her. What could five prepubescent children have done to this Felicity Barnes that she now exacted bloody revenge all these years later?

Footsteps approached. Doyle walked through the doors and stopped. "Are you okay?"

She didn't open her eyes. Didn't want to see the caring in his eyes that she could feel in his thoughts. It was a lie. Had to be. No one could care for her, especially a man who was still such a stranger.

"I'm fine," she said, her voice a little sharper than she'd intended. "Is the caretaker still alive?"

"Scared out of his wits, but yeah, he's still alive." His gaze swept over her, a heated touch she felt rather than saw. "I'm not a cold-blooded killer, Kirby. I'm not an animal. I'm just a man."

No one who could assume the shape of a panther was just a man. She felt an insane desire to laugh at the thought, and crossed her arms, trying to hold it back, trying to hold in all the pain. It didn't work, and a sob escaped.

"Come here," he all but growled.

Wrapping a hand around her arm, he pulled her toward him. His touch was gentle yet firm, and she made no effort to resist. Couldn't resist, in fact. That one sob had broken the dam wall, and she felt so weak her knees were shaking. She fell into his embrace, sobs racking her body, her tears soaking his shirt.

He didn't say anything, just held her tightly as all the pain, all the fear of the last few days, poured out of her. Even when the sobbing had eased, she remained in his arms, finding strength in his strength, finding comfort in the warm flow of his thoughts through her mind.

After a while, she sighed softly. "Thank you," she murmured into his chest.

His smile shimmered through her, as warm as sunshine . Anytime you want a chest to cry on, I'm here.

Out loud, he said. "Feeling a little better?"

He caressed her hair, his touch running warmth to the pit of her stomach. She looked up, saw the heated look in his eyes, and felt an insane desire to raise up on her toes and taste the sweetness of his lips again.

But that had nearly gotten them into trouble an hour ago. She pulled away instead. His hand slipped from her back to her hip and rested there, warming the base of her spine.

"I'm afraid I've soaked your shirt," she said, plucking at the wet material.

His smile touched his eyes and made her heart stutter. "It's drip-dry, so don't worry." He brushed some hair away from her cheek, his touch trailing heat against her skin. Then he froze, and his grip on her waist tightened slightly. "What the hell…?"

He turned, thrusting her behind him. Fear rose in her throat, and lightning warmed her fingertips.

"What—" She got no further. A chill raced across her skin, and for an instant, her vision blurred. Suddenly she was seeing inside the dorm, inside the nurse's quarters where the old man was checking numbers and ticking them off on his clipboard. A small figure cowled in black appeared behind him, its face little more than a rotting skull.

Death, she thought with a shiver. But it wasn't there for them.

Inside the dorm, the caretaker began screaming.