Circle Of Death

Chapter Eleven

The high-pitched howl filled the air, and goose bumps chased their way across Kirby's skin. She froze, listening to the sound and wondering what in hell was coming after them now. Then, as abruptly as it started, the sound stopped.

But the silence that followed was in some ways more frightening.

"Doyle?" She leaned over the banister and tried to look down. She couldn't see him, but that didn't mean he wasn't there. She couldn't see her handbag or the front door, either, and she knew the front door, at least, would be there.

Doyle?she queried tentatively. Still no response. And the wash of warmth that she'd come to associate with the odd connection forming between them was gone, leaving her feeling suddenly bereft.

She bit her lip, then picked up her bag and slowly edged down the stairs. Lightning streaked across her fingers, sending jagged edges of light flickering across the walls.

"Doyle?" she repeated, hesitating halfway down.

Still nothing. Her handbag was lying near the door, contents scattered across the carpet. Her car keys didn't seem to be among them, although the wallet that held her credit cards and driver's license was.

Where the hell was he?

She edged down the remaining stairs and stopped again, listening. Nothing moved. The silence seemed so intense it was a hammer battering at her.

With her heart thumping somewhere in her throat, she edged toward the front door. Why had he tipped everything out of her handbag? Something glinted in the morning light, catching her eye. She bent, frowning. It was a small silver coin etched with a star. It was nothing she'd ever owned—or seen—before.

Even as she watched, the coin began to dissolve, until there was nothing but a small patch of black dust staining the carpet. Some form of magic, obviously, meant to capture or kill her . And Doyle, who could sense the presence of magic, had somehow been caught by it.

Fear shot through her, and her stomach churned. God, if he was hurt or dead because of her—because of his stupid insistence that he had to protect her—she didn't know if she could ever forgive herself.

She picked up the wallet then rose and stared out the front window for a second. She had to try to find him, but how? She could no longer hear the warm whisper of his thoughts, and she didn't want to think about the implications of that. He wasn't dead. She had to believe that, if nothing else, or panic might set in.

She turned, her gaze skating past the blood and outlines in the living room. Her car keys were missing, but Helen had a spare set on her key ring. Only trouble was, they were probably hanging on the key holder near the refrigerator, and to get them, she'd have to go past all the gore in the kitchen.

Notsomething she wanted to do, but she had very little choice. They couldn't keep using taxis to get around. It would cost them a fortune to check fifteen addresses.

She took a deep, calming breath and headed into the kitchen. Her stomach churned, threatening to revolt as she edged past the thick, dark pools, smashed crockery and taped outlines. Snatching the keys from the hook, she ran for the back door and out into the yard, where she was violently sick.

After a while, she rinsed out her mouth with water from the outside tap and resolutely headed into the garage, opening the door just in time to see the cops pull into her driveway.

"Well, well, well," a cold voice said into the silence. "It looks like my little trap caught the cat rather than the mouse."

Doyle rolled onto his back and rubbed his eyes. It felt like he'd been picked up and thrown around like some rag doll, and given the howl of the wind before he'd stepped into nothingness, maybe that impression wasn't far off.

Beyond the speaker's whisper of breath to his left, he could hear the rustle of leaves and a bird's piping tune. The air was an odd mixture of smells—sweet and fresh, free of the usual fumes that were associated with city living, and yet touched by a muskiness usually linked with damp basements. He flexed his fingers. Concrete met his touch—cold, wet and just a little slimy.

"I know you're awake, so stop your foxing. I'm not coming anywhere near you, if that's your plan."

The voice was rich and soft—the same voice he'd heard performing the spell at Rachel's. He opened his eyes. A square patch of sunlight swam before his eyes, framing and shadowing the face that stared down at him. A face that was thin and long and crowned by short, dark hair. Felicity Barnes, he thought, and wondered which of the three remaining names she was. Wondered if this was her real visage or a disguise. The slight wash of magic suggested it was the latter.

"What do you plan to do?" he asked, his gaze sweeping his surroundings. The room was circular and fully concrete. By the look of it, an old tank of some kind.

"With you? Nothing. You're not what I intended to catch at all."

For which he had to be extremely thankful. Though in some respects, Kirby was probably better equipped to deal with this situation than he was. At least her lightning could have blasted a way out.

"You can stay here and rot," the woman continued. "I'm certainly not going to waste my strength on the likes of you."

Now that his eyes were getting used to the darkness, he could see her features more clearly. Her face was extremely gaunt, her eyes protruding and ringed with shadows, and her mouth little more than a slash of pale blue. Blood magic was sucking her dry, he thought. Maybe that was why she was killing the rest of the circle. She wanted power without cost.

But was this her real image, or was she merely showing him what he expected to see? If she was powerful enough to control two manarei and bring the King Kong of all zombies to life, then surely the blood magic could not have sucked her this dry. Not yet. The face he was seeing now was close to death and would not have the strength to conjure a rabbit, let alone control two of the most dangerous creatures ever to walk this earth.

If he got closer, he might be able to see through her veil, see her real features. He tensed, getting ready to spring to his feet.

She laughed. "Don't even think about it, shifter. This lid will be slammed in your face if you so much as twitch in my direction."

He didn't relax, just watched her through slightly narrowed eyes. "Where am I?"

"Way, way out in the country on a farm owned by friends. They've gone overseas and won't be back for months. By then, you'll be well and truly dead."

Not if he had any say about it. He still had his phone. He could feel it, digging into his side. "We will stop you, you know."

She snorted softly. For an instant, the veil fluttered, revealing cold gray eyes and a wisp of light brown hair. One of the three for sure, but which one?

"I doubt it," she said, amusement heavy in her voice. "All you've done so far is chase your tail. You don't know who or what you're even looking for."

"No," he agreed. "Unlike you, we don't work for the government and haven't had access to their computers and records."

She might have been a damn powerful practitioner of the black arts, but her acting skills were nonexistent, because she twitched, telling him his guess was right. All they had to do now was find out which of the three names worked for the department that looked after kids, and they had their killer.

"Too bad you're locked in this water tank and can't tell anyone, huh, shapeshifter?"

He wasn't locked in yet. There was still a chance… if he was fast enough. He reached for his alternate shape, getting ready to change and spring. "Anyone egotistical enough to stand around and mock potential victims will make a mistake, sooner or later."

He shifted shape, rising and springing toward her in one smooth motion. She yelped and pushed back, and the lid arced downwards. He caught the rim of the tank with his claws, scrambling desperately to get up. The lid crashed down on his head, stunning him, but he managed to hang on, his back claws scraping against the concrete as he tried to find purchase. She stepped forward, hands raised, fire burning across her fingertips. He snarled and slashed at her desperately, catching hair and cutting skin. She screamed, and fire leapt toward him. He dropped into the darkness, shifting shape as he fell. Crouching, he stared up at the hatch. It glowed white-hot, and for an instant, the air shimmered with heat. The fire would have killed him had it caught him.

The metal soon cooled, and darkness returned. Something heavy hit the hatch, and the metal, weakened by the fire, bowed slightly.

"Don't hope for escape, shifter. The hatch is locked, and there's a rather large rock sitting on top, ready and waiting to crush you should you have anything in those pockets of yours that might cut through metal.

There's also a trip spell set to kill you and destroy this tank, should the rock be shifted in any way." She hesitated. "I hope you die a slow and ugly death, shifter. Good-bye."

Footsteps moved away. He waited until he heard the distant roar of an engine, then got out his phone and dialed Camille.

"I was getting worried about you, Doyle. Been more than an hour, you know."

"I know. Listen, we got caught by a spell over at Kirby's. I'm trapped in a water tank out in the country somewhere, and Kirby's alone at her place. You want to go get her, then come rescue me?"

"How the hell did you, of all people, get caught by a damn spell?"

"Stupidity." The last place he'd expected a spell to be set was in a handbag, though now that he'd had time to think about it, it did make sense. Kirby would have had to come back for her purse sooner or later. "It was just lucky I breached the spell and not Kirby." Because if it had caught her, she might be dead, not just trapped.

Camille sniffed. "I'll do a locating spell, then go get Kirby. Do you think she'll still be at her house?"

"God knows." He might be able to read her thoughts, but he didn't understand her well enough just yet to guess what she'd do when she discovered he was gone.

"I'd better do a locator on her as well, then."

"Just make sure you get to her first," he said. "Felicity Barnes, or whatever her real name is, will have guessed she was at the house with me. She's probably on her way there right now."

"Be patient, shifter. We'll get to you both."

Patience was one thing he usually had plenty of, except when it came to someone he cared about being in danger. He hit the concrete wall in frustration, then began prowling the confines of his concrete cage.

Kirby rubbed her eyes wearily. It felt like there was a madman running loose in her head with a jackhammer, and the pain was so bad she was in serious danger of throwing up all over the police station's worn gray carpet. What she needed was darkness, pain killers and coffee, and not necessarily in that order. But what she needed most of all was to get out of this place and find Doyle. She had a niggling sensation that he was in some sort of danger, and she had to get out of here and find him before real trouble hit. Yet getting out was the one thing that didn't look likely to happen any time soon.

For the last three hours she'd been stuck in this box they had the cheek to call an interview room, answering endless questions about the events of the last twenty-four hours. It was obvious from the detectives' expressions and their repeated questions that they didn't believe her—that they knew she was lying. But what other choice did she really have? She couldn't tell them the truth. They wouldn't believe that any more than they believed her now.

She rubbed her eyes again, then looked up as the door opened. One of the two brown-suited detectives that had been questioning her came in and sat back down. He slid a coffee across the desk then leaned back in the chair, regarding her quizzically.

She wrapped her hands around the foam cup in an effort to keep them warm and returned his gaze evenly. She had nothing to hide, except a truth he just wouldn't believe. And they couldn't hold her here forever, not without charging her with something. She just had to be patient. Just had to hope Doyle was okay.

"Tell me again," he said, voice monotone, bored. The total opposite to what his sharp brown eyes portrayed. "What happened when Constables Dicks and Ryan took you to the motel?"

She sighed. "I've told you that five times already. Do you want me to lie? Would you believe me if I did?"

"What I want is for you to tell me the truth."

"I have," she said, resisting the temptation to look away.

"And you have no idea what attacked your friends and the two constables?"

"No." She hesitated, swallowing. "I told you, I heard a strange noise, then the screaming started, and I just got out of there."

"And you've been on the run ever since?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Wouldn't you?"

A hint of amusement touched his expression. "Maybe. So why go back to your house?"

"I told you, I'd left my purse back there."

He regarded her steadily, his brown eyes cold. Not buying a word, she thought with a chill.

"We spoke to your neighbors. They reported you being accompanied by a tall, dark-haired man."

She silently cursed the old biddy across the road. Chelsea had appointed herself the local neighborhood watch, and there wasn't a thing that went on that she didn't know about. Shame the old girl hadn't been on guard duty the night the manarei had attacked, she thought bitterly. Maybe Helen might still be alive.

"Did you ask her if she was wearing her specs at the time?"

The detective didn't bite, merely continued to regard her. "Were you at the house with a man?"

"Damn it, why is this even important? Something killed my friend and your constables, and you're sitting here questioning me about whether or not I went back to the house with a man? How much damn sense does that make?"

She slammed a hand down on the table. The sound rebounded sharply, ringing through her ears. She licked her lips, wondering why she suddenly felt so lightheaded. Lack of food, perhaps.

The detective raised an eyebrow, the only sign he even noticed her outburst. "Did you know Helen Smith was insured?"

She blinked. "Yeah? So?

"Did you know you were the major beneficiary of that policy?"

His implication took several seconds to sink in. Her gut churned, and she clenched her fists around the coffee cup so hard the sides collapsed, and the hot brown liquid spouted everywhere.

She ignored it, ignored her burned hands and stared at the detective. "You think that I…?" Her voice shook with the fury she was barely controlling. "For money? For a few lousy dollars?"

"It's more than a few lousy dollars." His voice was dry. He regarded her for a second longer, then leaned across to the cabinet near the door and snagged some paper, offering it to her. "It's close to half a million dollars."

"I wouldn't care if it was a million. Or two. Or even three. I'd rather have Helen than any amount of damn money, believe me." She snatched the paper from him and wiped her hands.

"And yet you were in serious trouble financially, weren't you?"

Only because she still had three clients owing her for work she'd done on their houses, but there was nothing unusual about that, not in the building trade. "Last I heard, that wasn't a damn crime."

"But a half a million dollars would set you up financially, wouldn't it?"

She thrust her hands under the table, hiding the heat that was beginning to dance across them. Heat she was tempted, so tempted, to let loose. "If you're going to charge me, then charge me," she said, voice so low and tight with anger it was little more than a harsh whisper. "If you're not, stop asking me stupid questions, get off your fat arse, and start looking for the real damn killer. Because she hasn't finished yet."

He raised the eyebrow again, seemingly unmoved by her hostility. "She? What makes you think the murderer is a she?"

Kirby cursed silently, realizing then he was goading her intentionally. She sat back in her chair. Pain twinged down her spine, but she ignored it and regarded the detective stonily. "I have a fifty percent chance of being right, haven't I?"

"Yes, you have," he said. "But we both know you know more than what you're saying. And you will tell me, Miss Brown. Eventually."

"If you're going to lock me up, you owe me a damn phone call." Who she'd call she wasn't entirely sure.

Doyle was missing, and she had no idea how to get in contact with his friends. Or even if they'd be willing to help her.

"I have no intention of locking you up. Not yet, anyway. I do, however, recommend police protection."

She snorted. "Fat lot of good it did me last time." Besides, the last thing she needed right now was the weight of more deaths on her conscience.

"It's in the interest of your own safety." He looked around as the door opened and a blue uniformed officer stepped in, handing him a sheet of paper. He read it quickly and looked up, his expression grim.

"Seems you have some high-powered friends somewhere, Miss Brown. I've been ordered to release you immediately."

"Yeah, right," she said, not believing him for an instant. The only person in power she knew was the janitor at the local municipal offices.

"You keep in contact and let us know where you're staying, or I'll have a warrant placed for your arrest and your arse back in this station so fast your head will spin."

She blinked at the anger in his voice. "Then I am free to go? You're not kidding?"

"Not in anything I'm saying," he said, stony-faced. "Officer Duncan will escort you to the front desk.

Collect your things and leave a contact number."

She rose quickly, then hesitated. What if the person who arranged for her release was the killer? What if she was walking out into another trap? "How will I keep in contact with you? Should I just ring the station?"

He handed her a business card. "I want to know where you're staying, Miss Brown, and I want a number where I can reach you at any time."

She nodded and followed the younger officer from the room. Five minutes later she was outside and blinking at the bright summer sunshine. It wasn't warm, not by a long shot, but at least the rain had finally cleared. Maybe summer would arrive back in Melbourne after all.

"About time they released you," a sharp voice beside her said. "This concrete gets a bit hard on old bones after a few hours, you know."

Kirby jumped and spun, calling to the fire as she did so. Only the voice belonged to a woman she recognized—Doyle's friend, Camille. She was perched on the planter box at the base of the steps, silver hair gleaming in the summer sunshine, her expression a mix of amusement and curiosity.

"Scared you, huh? I'm guessing from that play of energy across your fingers that you're the air elemental portion of the circle."

She clenched her fists and extinguished the lightning. "Did you arrange to get me released?"

Camille frowned. "Hardly. Don't know enough people in this country of yours to apply that sort of pressure." She hesitated, her sharp gaze darting around. "We'd better get you out of here. Come along, dear."

She hopped off her perch and marched down the street. Kirby glanced briefly at the police station and saw the brown-suited officer watching her from a window. She stared at him for a second, then turned and followed the old woman. Right now, she trusted the ability of Doyle's friends to keep her safe more than she trusted the police.

"Where are we going?" she asked once they were in Camille's beat-up van and driving toward the city.

"We ain't going anywhere," Camille replied. "I gotta hunch I might be tagged, so I'm going to create a few illusions and drop you off at the nearest car rental."

"Why? I've got a car. I don't need another."

"Yes you do. Your car's probably been alarmed, just like your handbag was. The killer certainly has had the time to do it. So you rent a car and go find Doyle."

"He's safe?" she said, a huge sense of relief sweeping through her.

"Madder than hell, but yeah, he's safe." Camille cast her a sly grin. "You've got yourself a good man there, you know."

"He's a thief," she muttered. She pulled her gaze from Camille's, heat creeping across her cheeks. "And he's not my anything. I barely even know the man." And yet here she was, trusting him, and trusting his friends. Why? She wasn't entirely sure, and that scared her more than the heat that simmered between her and Doyle.

"What he may have been in his life ain't what he is, remember that," Camille said. "And sometimes you don't have to know someone to love them. Sometimes love is just predestined."

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, right. Two souls fated to meet through time, and the ages, and all that crap."

Camille's smile was wry. "Not one ounce of crap involved, believe me. Especially in his family."

She looked away from the old woman's knowing gaze. Part of her wanted to believe that such a thing as predestined love could exist, if only because it would mean that there might be someone out there for her, that she wasn't fated to spend the rest of her life alone—a fear that had been with her for as long as she could remember. A fear that even Helen's presence in her life hadn't eased.

But if she did let go, did take the chance and give in to the attraction she felt toward Doyle, she was more than a little certain she'd end up getting hurt. In some ways, he reminded her of Helen. He seemed to like walking the edge, courting danger. He didn't seem the type to want to settle down, and that was the one thing she wanted above anything else. Stability. A place to call her own. "What's so special about his family?" she said eventually.

Camille laughed, a short, sharp sound of amusement. "Ask him sometime about his dad and his granddad." She glanced in the rearview mirror. "There's a set of directions in the glove compartment, along with a map. Find Doyle, then hide somewhere safe for the night. Tell him to contact me when you're settled."

Kirby opened the glove box and found both the map and directions. "What about the woman we're supposed to be looking for? Shouldn't we be trying to find her before the murderer does?"

"For the moment, it looks like the murderer has set her sights on you. Me and Russell will continue the search tonight, and we'll see what happens after that."

She tucked the two bits of paper into her pocket and noticed Camille looking in the rearview mirror again. Tension ran through her. "Are we being followed?"

"Maybe. There's a large white car that appears to be mighty interested in where we're going." The old woman's voice was vague, her attention on the mirror more than on the road. She reached into her pocket and withdrew what looked like a string of diamond-shaped beads. "Take these."

She did. They felt warm against her skin and pulsed slightly, as if alive. These were no ordinary beads, obviously. She frowned. "What are they?"

"A shield, of sorts. Won't work for more than a couple of minutes, but that's all you're going to need."

"Why do I need a shield?" She clenched her fingers around the string of beads and felt the sharp edges cut into her palm. An odd tingle of electricity ran through her.

"Because you're going to get out of the car and walk away as if you had all the time in the world."

Her frown deepened. "But isn't that a little dangerous? If we are being followed, they'll see me, plain as day."

"Not with that shield, they won't. It'll warp your appearance long enough to fool whoever's following us."

She glanced down at the beads clenched in her hands. Odd that something so incongruous could do magic powerful enough to change a person's appearance, if only for a few minutes. "When am I going to do this?"

"I'm going to run the next red light, and do a quick left. I remember seeing a small café on my way to the police station. Walk down to there, get yourself a coffee and a seat, and don't move for a good ten minutes. By then, I should be well clear."

Camille had slowed the van as she was talking, but the minute the lights ahead changed to red, she flattened the accelerator. The scream of the tires mingled with abuse from scattering pedestrians as Camille sped through the light and into the next street.

"I ain't stopping long," Camille muttered. "So grab your bag and get ready to jump, girl."

She undid her seat belt, the beads and her bag gripped in one hand and the other braced against the dash. The van slid to a stop. She wrenched open the door and clambered out, barely having time to slam the door shut before the old woman was off again, burning rubber as she disappeared up the street.

Had to have been a race car driver sometime in her life, Kirby thought, and headed for the café. She'd barely made it inside when a white sedan thundered past.

"Teenagers," a woman in the shop muttered. "Should ban them from getting cars with big engines, they should."

She wondered what the woman would say if she knew one of those teenagers was at least sixty. After ordering a coffee, she sat down at a table near the back of the café and got out her phone, dialing directory assistance. Within a couple of minutes she had the number of the nearest car rental agency. She rang them, got their address and made arrangements to hire a car.

An hour later she cruised down the Calder Freeway, heading toward Gisborne. According to Camille's map, Doyle was being held on a farm sitting on the outskirts of the small township, close to the Macedon Ranges foothills.

Which didn't exactly make sense. If the woman was powerful enough to transport someone Doyle's size so damn far, why was she bothering to kill the circle? Surely her powers were greater than all of theirs combined. And why leave Doyle alive? It was odd, especially seeing her actions up until now suggested she had no qualms about killing.

She drove through Gisborne then slowed, looking for the right road. She turned right, and the asphalt gave way to dirt and dust. If there were any guards on this farm, they'd see her coming a mile away. She bit her lip and slowed, watching the numbers on the roadside letter boxes. They slowly climbed, as did the road. The gums huddled closer, casting deep shadows through which the occasional beam of sunlight danced.

Eventually she found thirty-eight and pulled off the road, squeezing the small Honda behind the wattles that framed the driveway with a haze of yellow. After locking the car, she made her way toward the gate.

It was chained and padlocked. She climbed over it and walked up the deeply rutted driveway. Cicadas sung around her, their noise almost piercing.

She wiped the sweat from her forehead and glanced skyward. Trees sighed in the breeze, but despite this, it suddenly felt a hundred times hotter up here near the mountains than it had in the city. She wished she had a drink. Her throat felt so dry it was aching.

A house appeared through the trees up ahead. It was long and ramshackle in style, and looked somewhat forlorn. She slowed, wondering if anyone was home. Wondering if there were guards—or dogs.

Nothing moved. The curtains were drawn across the windows, and no clothes fluttered on the washing line. She walked on carefully. No dogs barked or came out of the shadows at her.

Where was Doyle? Surely he couldn't be in the house. It didn't look strong enough to contain a gnat, let alone a fairly ingenious thief. But if he wasn't in the house, where was he?

Doyle?she queried tentatively.

Warmth rushed through her mind, its force so strong it knocked her several steps backward.

Kirby? What in hell are you doing here?There was both relief and anger in his mind voice. He obviously didn't want her here—or at least, didn't want her in the line of danger.

And that annoyed the hell out of her. I'll turn around and damn well leave, if you prefer.

No!He hesitated, and his sigh shimmered though her, a breeze so cool when compared to the heat of his mind's touch. No. I'm sorry. Its just that this tank has been spelled. It might be safer to call Camille in.

Camille's busy, so you're stuck with me. Now, where are you?

In an unused water tank of some kind. There's apparently a big rock sitting on it, if that's any help.

Her gaze swept the small clearing. No tanks this side of the house, or anywhere near what she could see of the big old shed behind the house. He had to be on the other side, then.

Have you heard anything moving about?

No. The only sounds I've heard are noisy bugs and the occasional bird. That doesn't mean there isn't something here, though. Our murderous friend is not one to leave things to chance.

An understatement if ever there was one. She approached the house cautiously, trying to hear beyond the high-pitched call of the cicadas. A chill crept across her skin, and for an instant, her vision blurred.

The world seemed to spin briefly, and she had to thrust a hand against the side of the house to remain upright. The dizziness eased, but her throat felt as rough as sandpaper, and no amount of swallowing seemed to help. She swiped at the sweat dripping down her forehead, and wondered if she was coming down with something.

You okay?Concern shimmered down the link between them.

She nodded, then remembered he couldn't see her. I'm just a little lightheaded. Lack of food, probably. I'll be there in a sec.

Just be careful. The cicadas have gone quiet.

She looked around. The sudden hush felt almost threatening. Another chill chased across her skin, and this time it was more fear than anything else . I'm okay. I can protect myself, you know.But she wondered who she was trying to convince—him or herself.

She pushed away from the wall and headed past the front of the house. Three tanks came into sight, one close to the house, and two others near the shed. The one furthermost from the house had a large rock perched on one end.

Found you, she said as the turned the corner, only to come nose to stomach with the second biggest dead guy she'd ever seen.