Circle Of Death

Chapter Sixteen

For several seconds Kirby simply stared at him. Part of her ached to say yes—to grab hold of him while she could and never let him go. But the other half, the part so afraid to trust, stepped back, unable to believe that any emotional commitment made in the midst of danger could be real and lasting. They didn't know each other, damn it. How could he possibly ask such a question after being with her for little more than forty-eight hours?

"Remember my father and grandfather," he said, a smile touching his full lips. "Forty-eight hours is a lifetime when compared to them."

"I can't—" Her voice came out little more than a harsh whisper. She hesitated, swallowing to ease the ache in her throat. "I can't give you an answer. Not now. Not until I'm sure." Sure that she had a future to consider. Sure that what she was feeling was real, and not just a side effect of the situation she found herself in.

"I know. And I don't really expect one. Not now. Not even in the next few weeks or months."

He brushed a kiss across her lips, and warmth shivered through her soul. If this wasn't love, then what the hell was it? She closed her eyes, battling tears. He continued on softly, "But you needed to know what I planned, and now you do. I may have to go back home when all this is finished, but it won't be for long. I intend to come back, and I intend to make you part of my life, no matter how long that takes."

"But what about your work? Surely that's more important."

"Work can wait. I don't care."

"But—" "Hush." He kissed her again, deeper and longer than before.

Longing surged through her, mingling with need.

When he finally pulled away from the kiss, he said, "Worry about the details later. For now, just concentrate on the only question that matters—do you love me? Once you answer that, everything else will fall into place."

"Nothing is that simple," she murmured, wishing that it was.

"I'll make it that simple." He caressed her cheek, gently thumbing away a tear. "Just tell me yes or no."

She closed her eyes. "What if I say no?"

He went still, but pain surged between them, so deep and stark that tears stung her eyes. He obviously feared this might be her answer, despite everything.

"If you say no, then I'll accept that and walk away."

The thought tore at her. While she wasn't sure of her feelings, she was sure of one thing. She couldn't let him walk away. Not yet. Maybe not ever. "I just need time," she repeated softly, more to calm her own fears than his.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and stared into his beautiful eyes. The sheer depth of love and understanding she saw there chased a shiver through her soul. She still wasn't sure if she was even capable of understanding such depths, let alone of returning them. Right now, she didn't even want to think about it. After all, the witch was still out there, and tonight might be all the time they had left together. "So, while I decide whether I'm a coward or not, what are we going to do?"

He raised an eyebrow and glanced at his watch. "Two hours to fill in before we have to prepare for the ceremony. We could go eat those strawberries I prepared." He hesitated, shifting slightly, his eyes sparkling mischievously. "Or we could lie here and talk a bit more."

He slid inside her, hot and hard. She raised an eyebrow, amazed that he could be ready again so soon—amazed that she could be. "Talking suits me just fine," she murmured, wrapping her legs around his so that he couldn't escape.

His smile shimmered through her heart. He kissed her, his mouth gently demanding. From that moment on, there wasn't a lot of conversation to be had, and she didn't give a damn.

Doyle crossed his arms, watching Kirby dribble the blessed water around the confines of the circle they'd marked out earlier. He wished he could help her with this spell, be with her inside the circle, but Helen's note had been quite clear on this one point. No one but Kirby was to enter the protective circle.

It worried him. He had no doubt this spell was dangerous, which was why he was taking as many precautions as he could. But the best way of protecting her was to be with her, helping with the spell, sharing his energy with her and watching for dangers. With that option gone, he was left with little more to do than prowl around the outside of the circle and give instructions.

She poured the last of the blessed water, then glanced up. "What now?"

"The blessed salt. Do exactly the same thing as you did with the water."

She nodded and walked around again, sprinkling the salt over the ground. The wind caught at her nightdress, twisting it around her bare legs. Even though the moon was lost to the clouds and provided very little light, the outline of her body was visible through the sheer material. He scrubbed a hand across his jaw. While he understood the need for her to be wearing something special, something clean and new, for the spell, he wished it had been anything else but the nightie. She looked too vulnerable. Too desirable. It could attract the wrong sort of attention just as easily as the right.

Overhead, thunder rumbled, an ominous sound in the night's silence. He glanced at his watch. Helen's note said to be ready by midnight. It was three minutes to.

"Done."

He met her gaze, saw the fear lurking deep in the depths of her eyes. Wished he could hold her.

Comfort her. "Good. Now sit in the middle and take several deep, calming breaths."

She did, crossing her legs, her arms resting on her knees, palms up, as if meditating.

"Now, I want you to raise your body energy by tightening your muscles. Start at your toes, and work your way up. Imagine the energy as a purple mist… squeeze it up through your body until it reaches your hands."

He hesitated, waiting. Saw her slowly tense, felt the thrum of magic beginning to pulse through the air.

Midnight was a minute away. They didn't have much time. "Now, without moving, send that energy out through your fingers and in a clockwise circle around you. Imagine yourself encased in an orb of purple fire. Feel the power of it pulsing through you and out into the night."

The air shimmered, crackling with energy. Overhead, thunder ripped. Lightning forked across the skies, briefly turning night into day and electrifying the air around them.

"Now, repeat the spell exactly as Helen wrote it."

She began murmuring. Light flared across the night again, faster, closer than before. He frowned, looking skyward. He didn't like the feel of this.

Lightning split the night and crashed to the ground. Energy rippled through the earth, tingling through his boots and up his legs. Not energy from the fast approaching storm, but from Kirby, from the spell she was murmuring. He clenched his fists and prowled around the circle, needing to move, to do something to ease the fear sitting like a weight in his gut.

Thunder rumbled again, a deep, dangerous sound. The wind became sharper, stronger, tugging at his coat, thrusting like ice against his skin. Kirby sat in a sea of calm, the circle untouched by the rising wind.

But the sense of power was building, burning across his skin, flaring across the night, reaching for the storm-held skies.

He thrust his hand into his pocket, wrapping his fingers around the silver knife hidden there. If all hell broke loose, it might be his only hope of protecting her. Silver was immune to magic—and it was the one weapon that could slice through the circle's protection.

Light leapt upward, following the trail of energy. The skies answered its call. Rain lashed downward, needle sharp and drenching. Water plastered his hair, ran like a river down his back. He ignored it, watching her, waiting.

Thunder rumbled again, long and hard. Lightning clapped, and the air shook at its fury. Energy streaked across the night and splintered into two, one jagged finger leaping back up into the fury of the clouds, the other arcing downward, towards the ground. Toward her. No! He stepped forward, but before he could do anything more, the fork of lighting crashed into the circle, through Kirby, and exploded into the earth.

The force of the blast lifted him off his feet and thrust him back. He hit the ground with a grunt of pain, for an instant seeing stars. He coughed, barely able to breathe, fear clenching his gut tight. What if he'd been wrong? What if this spell hadn't come from Helen, but from the witch who was trying to kill her?

I can't lose her now.He thrust to his feet, then stopped, stunned. She wasn't even hurt. She was still sitting in the circle, but her arms were spread wide, as if greeting the electricity that played around her—through her. Another bolt arced down from the skies, splitting as it neared her outstretched hands, running across her fingers, her skin, until her whole body seemed to glow with the storm's heat.

The air screamed around him. Rain lashed him, lashed her, shredding her night dress and pounding against her pale skin. Red welts rose then just as quickly faded, but she didn't seem to notice—didn't even flinch. Her gaze was still skyward, as if entranced by the fiery light that danced through her. He tried to touch her mind, wanting to be sure she was okay. The wall of power that met him pushed him off his feet and near blew his senses.

He struggled up again. The thunder rumbled, a muted sound that quickly faded. A heartbeat later, the rain and wind also died, and the sudden silence felt almost eerie. Kirby was still sitting cross-legged in the circle, but she was slumped forward, as if all her energy had been sapped by the force of the storm.

He walked over to her. Energy tingled across his skin, a warning that the protection of the circle was still in place. He stopped at the perimeter, not wanting to enter unless it was absolutely necessary. He could hurt her if he did.

"Kirby?"

She stirred and rubbed her arms, groaned softly, then looked up. Her eyes were no longer entirely green, but ringed by a smoky silver band, as if the lightning had branded her. "God, everything is aching."

He wasn't surprised. After being hit by so much lightning, it was a wonder she was even alive. He clenched his fingers, wanting to touch her, hold her, make sure she was really okay. She looked okay—beyond her eyes, she looked amazingly untouched. But he still had to be sure.

"You have to close the circle. Imagine that orb again. Feel it, then draw its power back through your fingertips and down into you body. Relax with it."

She took a deep breath, and resumed her meditation position. After a few minutes, the tingling sensation of power died. She opened her eyes. "Now the broom?"

He nodded. She grabbed the broom lying on the ground behind her, then pushed upright, her movements unsteady. He flexed his fingers, watching impatiently as she slowly brushed at the salt that defined the confines of the circle. It was a symbolic gesture more than a necessary one, a way of grounding her spirit back to the Earth after the spell's force. When the last of the salt had been swept away, he entered the circle, taking off his coat and quickly wrapping it around her. She huddled into it, body trembling and lips blue with cold.

"Let's get you back inside." He picked her up, holding her close as he raced back into the house. "I think you'd better take a shower and warm up."

"No." She touched his cheek, her fingers like ice against his skin. "Just lay with me, hold me."

Her voice was distant, frail. Worry snaked through him. He took her upstairs, peeling away the remains of the night dress before tucking her under the blankets. He stripped off his own clothes and climbed in beside her, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close.

"So cold," she murmured, nestling against him.

"I know." It felt like he was hugging ice rather than a flesh-and-blood woman. He pulled the thick comforter over them both then ran his hands up and down her arms, trying to get some heat into her.

"How are you feeling?"

"Sore. Cold." A tremor ran through her, through the link between them. But her thoughts, like her voice, were still distant, still weak. "My hair hurts."

No surprise there. Given the force of the energy that had flowed through her, it was a wonder she hadn't been burned to a crisp. "Would you like some coffee? Something to warm you up?"

"No. Just hold me."

He did, long into the night. It was close to dawn by the time the ice melted from her skin, and she began to retain some heat and regain her color. He didn't relax, just held her close, listening to her breathe and fighting the growing need to close his eyes and catch some sleep himself.

Dawn came and went. Light crept past the curtains, slithering heat and warmth into the room. Birds chirped noisily, cows mooed and, somewhere in the distance, a tractor spluttered and chugged. Finally, she stirred, though it was more a soft sigh of pleasure than any real sense of movement. But the quick thrust of heat through the link told him she was not only awake, but aroused.

He ran his hand up the warm length of her body and gently teased a nipple to life. Amusement ran through her thoughts, warm and lazy. But she didn't stir and didn't open her eyes. Making him do all the work, he thought with a smile.

He kissed her shoulder, her neck, her ear, all the while continuing to stroke her breasts. Her breathing became sharper, and the link between them grew hazy with need—his as well as hers. He pressed himself against her, thrusting gently against the round perfection of her bottom. She sighed again and reached back, touching him. Her caress ran heat though his body and almost shattered his control. He groaned and ran his fingers down her stomach to the mound of her hair. She shifted slightly, opening her legs to his touch. Lord, she felt wonderful—warm and wet and oh-so-ready for him. He stroked her gently, teasingly, bringing her close to the edge of a climax before pulling away.

"Tease," she murmured, her breathing hot and hard.

He smiled and continued his gentle exploration of her body. Got lost in the wonder and warmth of it, until the ache in him was a fire that burned through the link, wrapping them in passion and love.

Love that was returned, even if she wouldn't admit it.

He ran his hand down to her hip and cupped her again, caressing her, gently at first then more urgently as her breathing grew sharp and wildfire ran through the link, threatening to explode. As the shudders began to overtake her, he shifted, thrusting himself inside her. She groaned, a soft sound of pleasure he echoed. Her heat encased him, her muscles contracting against him as her climax grew. She touched his hip, holding him close, her movements as urgent as his. He thrust hard and fast, wanting, needing to come with her. Then the wildfire exploded, and her climax sent him spiraling beyond control and into bliss.

For several minutes he could do nothing more than simply lie there, wrapped in the warmth of her body, too contented, too spent, to move. A man could get used to this , he thought, and fervently hoped she'd give him the chance to do just that. While he had no doubts about his feelings—or hers—he still wasn't sure whether she'd step past her fears and looked towards the future.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, after a while.

"Wonderful," she said, and turned to face him.

Her eyes were no longer green, but the ethereal silver-gray of a storm-witch.

"What?" she asked, the warmth fleeing her expression and replaced by fear.

"Nothing," he said, as calmly as he could. "It's just your eyes. They've changed color."

She scrambled out of the bed and ran to the mirror. For several seconds she simply stood and stared, her fists clenched and every muscle taut. Then she reached out, touching her reflection, as if not quite believing it was she. "How is that possible," she whispered. "My eyes were green. How can they change so completely overnight?"

"I would say it has something to do with the spell and the powers involved." He hesitated. "Other than your eyes, do you feel any different?"

She shook her head, and outlined her reflection's eyes with her fingers. "I look like Helen."

"I've seen photos of the two of you, and you've always looked like her." The eyes only made it more noticeable.

"But… it's not me. I look in the mirror, and I see Helen. I don't see me any more."

He rose and wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. She was trembling, but whether it was from fear or cold he wasn't sure. "What I see is what I have always seen—a beautiful, courageous woman with amazing eyes. Whether those eyes are green or gray doesn't matter. It's only a surface alteration. It doesn't alter who you are inside."

"But I don't know who I am any more." There was more than a hint of despair in her voice.

"Everything's been twisted around. The past I remember has turned out to be nothing more than a lie, and it's killing people. Killed Helen…"

She broke off, a sob catching in her throat. He turned her around, and she buried her face against his chest. Tears tracked silently down his skin, their touch warm. He brushed a kiss over the top of her head and just held her. Nothing he said would make any difference right now. Too much had happened in too brief a period, and she just needed time to sort it all out.

Though time was the one commodity they didn't have a lot of.

As if to confirm the thought, his phone rang. Kirby jumped, her fingers clenching against his side. He brushed another kiss across her head, then released her and walked across to the pile of their clothes.

Picking up his still damp coat, he dug into a pocket and dragged out his phone.

"We got problems," Camille said immediately.

He rubbed a hand across his eyes. More problems was the last thing they needed. "What?"

"Russell's been attacked. They grabbed Trina and left him for dead."

But obviously not dead dead , he thought with relief, or Camille's tone would not be so calm. "How badly is he hurt?"

Camille snorted. "That fool witch obviously doesn't know much about vampires. Even damn Hollywood knows a stake through the heart is one of the better ways to incapacitate—" "Camille—" She sighed. "She shot him though the heart. Didn't even use a silver bullet. Then she roped him in front of the window. Maybe she just intended to let him fry."

"From what I've seen, that's more her style. She seems to like her victims to suffer." And thanks to that thirst, Russell was still alive. It would have been a different story had she aimed for his head. "Where is he now?"

"Still at the motel. The manager heard the ruckus and called the cops, and by the time Russ had it sorted out, it was daylight."

Kirby stood beside him. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and shifted the phone so that she could hear. "So, what's the plan?"

"I've done a reading from some hair I snipped off Trina. She's being held at some warehouse down near the docks."

Surprise rippled through him. "She's not dead yet?" Why? Particularly when every other time the witch had killed, she'd done so as quickly—and painfully—as possible.

"No, she's not dead yet, but I've got a feeling we'll have to move fast or she will be. I'll head over and pick up Russell, and we'll meet you around the back of the warehouse. You got a pen?"

He grabbed one and quickly wrote down the address. "What about Kirby?" he added, glancing down at her.

"She can't come with you. It's too dangerous. We'll just have to chance leaving her there."

"No, we can't—" "We have no choice, Doyle. We must catch the witch, and this is our best shot. But if something goes wrong, we can't risk Kirby being close."

But dare they risk leaving her alone? He certainly couldn't.

She placed a hand on his stomach, her touch so warm against the ice suddenly encasing his gut.

"I'll be okay," she said, voice soft. "I can protect myself, and I still have Camille's beads. If the very worst happens and the witch turns up, I can use them to shield my appearance while I make a run for it."

"No. I'm not leaving you alone." Especially now that Russell had been attacked. If the witch could find him so easily, she might know where they were, as well.

"I heard what she said, shifter, and she's making perfectly good sense."

Only if you didn't love the person in question. But he did, and there was no way on this earth he was going to leave her here alone. "I don't care. I'm not leaving her unprotected."

"But I'm not unprotected." She raised up on her toes and brushed a kiss across his cheek. "I have both my abilities and Helen's."

" Ifthe spell worked. We don't know that it did."

"I trust Helen, and we have no reason to believe that it didn't work."

"Kirby—" "No. We both know this might be your only shot to stop this woman, and you can't risk that by worrying over my safety. I'll be okay. I promise."

He sighed. She was making perfectly good sense, and he knew it. The only way she was ever going to be totally safe was by them finding and killing the witch. He just wished there was a way they could do that without leaving her unguarded.

"Okay, okay, I give in." He glanced at his watch, then asked her, "how long will it take me to get to the docks from here?"

She shrugged. "Maybe an hour, maybe more, depending on the traffic."

"Let's just hope our witch hangs around that long," Camille muttered. "See you there in an hour, Doyle."

He hung up, then brushed his fingers across her cheek, tucking her hair back behind her ears. "I don't want to do this."

Her smile was tremulous. "And you think I want to be left alone? Knowing that that witch might be out there, just waiting to send her beasties after me the minute you leave?"

"Then why—" "Because it may be the only chance we get, and you have to take it."

She reached up and kissed him. He wrapped his arms around her and deepened the kiss, all the while wishing he had the time to do more. Lord, she'd barely even touched him, yet he was aching with the need to make love to her again.

"Just make sure you come back to me," she murmured, her breath warm against his lips.

"Always." He pulled back a little, staring into her smoke-colored eyes—something he hoped to be doing for the rest of his life. "Just promise me you won't go anywhere unless that witch turns up."

"I promise."

He kissed her again, briefly, urgently, then grabbed his clothes and quickly dressed. "Call me if anything happens," he said, and scrawled down his phone number.

She nodded and accepted the scrap of paper with a look of trepidation on her face. "I'll see you when you get back, then."

"Count on it." He kissed her a final time, then before he could change his mind and give in to the desire to stay with her, he grabbed the car keys and headed out the door.

Kirby crossed her arms and watched him leave, an uneasy chill running down her spine. It wasn't so much that she feared being left alone, but more that she feared something would go wrong. That this was the opportunity the witch had been waiting for. Goose bumps chased their way across her arms. She shivered and quickly dressed before heading down the stairs to make coffee.

The silence seemed to close in on her, and the natural creaking of the old house made every nerve ending jump. She wandered around aimlessly, looking for something to do. In one of the bedrooms she found a stack of romance books, and after sorting through them, she settled down to read.

The hours ticked slowly by. Outside, the wind called. She frowned, put aside her book and walked to the window. Beyond the curtains, the light was bright, almost harsh, but the day itself looked warm. The breeze stirred the trees, rustling through leaves and tugging at the brightly colored daisies in the garden beds below. She frowned and closed her eyes. Beneath the whispered song of the wind came the soft but clear call of her name.

She bit her lip and wondered if she was imagining things—wondered if all the events of the last few days had tipped her over the edge and into insanity. The call came again, more urgently this time. Definitely not imagination. She dropped the curtains back into place and headed outside.

The afternoon sun was as hot as it was bright, but it failed to chase the chill from her skin. She walked down the slight slope of grass and sat under the gums. The leaves stirred, stronger than before, and through their murmuring she heard her name. The voice was soft, warm, and oh-so-familiar. Vanilla drifted on the breeze, entwined with the slightest hint of lime. Helen's favorite scents.

Pain welled. Kirby closed her eyes and somehow found her voice. "What did your spell do to me?"

The leaves stirred and answered. "Nothing more than return what was rightfully yours."

"What do you mean?" She stared up into the gum's dark canopy, wondering if Helen's spirit danced with the wind among the leaves.

"It is as we always suspected, dear one. We were not just friends, but two parts of the whole."

"Twins." It came out harshly, her throat too constricted by sudden tears.

"As first born, the powers were yours by right. And you must use them now to stop that woman's murderous ways."

Alone? How the hell was she supposed to stop a woman who was now half demon? "Doyle's gone after her."

"No. The witch sets a trap. It is your task, your fate, to stop her."

Fear ripped through her, and she scrambled upright. "Doyle? Is he—?"

"You have no time to worry about him now, sister. The witch has the fourth point. You must save her."

"But—" She hesitated, battling the tide of fear. "I can't fight her alone. I need help."

"You need nothing more than courage. Remember, you are the one that combines and controls. She cannot hurt you with what is yours to command."

What in hell was that supposed to mean? If the whispering leaves knew, they didn't say. "I don't want to do this."

"You must. We started this, albeit unknowingly, so long ago, and we have run from our responsibilities for too long. But revenge has overtaken us, and now you must see this finished. For the sake of us all."

She closed her eyes. She didn't want this responsibility. Didn't know if she had the courage to face this woman alone.

"You must, sister. Or the cat will die."

It felt like someone had grabbed her heart and squeezed it tight. For a minute, she couldn't even breathe.

"What do you mean?" she somehow ground out.

"In protecting you, he will draw the witch's ire and die. I have seen it whispered on the wind."

The wind didn't whisper unchangeable truths, only possibilities. How often had Helen told her that? Yet, it was a possibility she dare not risk. She drew in a deep breath. In one sense, Helen was right. If they hadn't sidetracked fate so long ago, then none of these murders would have happened. They certainly couldn't change that now, but they could stop a madwoman's quest for power and send a demon back to hell.

Maybe.She shivered and rubbed her arms. "Where do I go?"

"To an abandoned building in Port Melbourne. She will perform the ceremony tonight, when she has more strength. You have to stop her."

Kirby closed her eyes. Have to and would stop her were two very different things. "The address?"

It was the wind itself that answered, burning the address into her thoughts. Another tremor ran through her. The spell had worked after all.

"Call the storms, and they too will answer." Helen's words were barely audible. The dance of the leaves was dying, as was the wind. "Take care, sister…"

"Good-bye," she whispered and felt the quick kiss of wind on her cheeks before the day went still.

Swallowing heavily, she climbed to her feet. The chill seemed to have settled deep in her bones. She rubbed her arms, knowing it came more from fear—and from the knowledge that she might not survive this encounter with the witch. Despite Helen's words, she was under no illusions. The witch was far stronger than she ever would be.

But she had no choice. If she contacted Doyle and told him what she was about to do, he'd either tell her to stay put or accompany her. And if the wind's whispers were right, he'd die. Or maybe his friends would. Either way, she couldn't take that risk. If anyone else had to die, then let it be her. This was her fault, after all. Helen was right. It was time to stop running from the past and start making things right, no matter what the consequences.

Sighing softly, she headed back to the house to collect her things and call a taxi. And while she was waiting, she'd write a note of apology to the man she feared she'd never see again.

The man she might just love.

Doyle ducked past the filth-ridden window and moved to the back door. It was padlocked, but the screws holding the latch in place were loose and rusty. Nothing a good kick couldn't dislodge. He leaned back against the wall and glanced at his watch. Ten seconds to go.

There was no movement inside the warehouse, no smell of life. But the feel of magic lay heavy in the air—as did the smell of death. Zombies, and God knew what else, waited inside.

He glanced at his watch again. Time, he thought. From the front of the warehouse came the sound of squealing tires, then a loud bang and the sound of metal grinding. Camille, reversing the van right though the warehouse's main doors.

He stepped away from the wall and kicked the door. It flew open, the lock flying sideways and clattering noisily to the floor. He rolled into the gloom, coming to his feet fast, silver knife in one hand and gun in the other.

Nothing but dust stirred. He rose and cautiously edged forward. Light filtered in through the filthy windows, washing hazily across the semi-dark hallway. Doors lined the walls to his left and right—and from the one at the end of the corridor, the rattle of a dead man breathing.

He put his weapons away, then took a deep breath and opened the door. The zombie lunged towards him, hands clawing for his neck. The smell of decay hung heavy in the air. This one had been dead for quite a while before it had been called from its grave. He ducked under the creature's blows and thrust his fingers deep into its neck, shattering its windpipe. It gurgled, hands grasping wildly at its throat, as if desperate for air it didn't need to survive. He stepped behind it, grabbing its neck and twisting hard. Bone snapped, and the zombie fell dead at his feet.

Unease ran through him. One zombie, and not a very strong one at that. As traps and this witch went, it just didn't mesh. Something felt wrong. Very wrong.

He got out his weapons, then stepped over the mildewed body of the zombie and continued on down the corridor. At the end, he found a set of stairs leading downward. He took them cautiously, pausing after each step. The silence felt so intense it almost seemed to be buzzing. Where the hell were Camille and Russell?

He reached the last step and stopped again. The room that stretched before him was long and narrow and wrapped in a blanket of gloom. Dust stirred, but little else. There were doors to his left, and another set at the end of the room. He hoped they led into the main section of the warehouse. Though he could hear no sound, he had a horrible feeling Camille and Russell needed help.

He moved left and tested the handle. Magic tingled across his fingers, sharp enough to burn. He jerked his hand away, then carefully brushed his fingers across the door itself. The whole thing was spelled.

If this door was trapped, then no doubt the other one would be, too. He stepped back and studied the wall. No windows, no vents—nothing he could use to gain access into the next room.

Frowning, he moved right, running his hands across the wall. Plasterboard. Maybe he could kick it in and gain access that way. He walked to the middle of the wall, far enough away from both doors to ensure he didn't trigger either spell, then began kicking the wall. White dust flew and the plaster gave way, revealing the struts and wall beyond. He kept kicking until there was a hole large enough for a cat to fit through, then shifted shape. But he didn't enter, not immediately.

The silence in the room beyond felt tense, electrified. Magic stirred, breezing across his senses, but its touch had the feel of distance. He padded a little closer, listening to the undertones of the silence. He could hear breathing, sharp and rapid. Could almost taste the sting of sweat, the acrid smell of fear.

Human smells and sounds, not animal. Not zombie or any other nightmare creature.

There was no one close. He pushed through the hole, then shifted shape and reached back for the knife.

The gloom in this part of the warehouse was not as intense, the sunlight filtering in from skylights dotted across the ceiling. In the middle of the large room stood a crate. On it, an odd looking parcel. His gut clenched. He had a horrible feeling he knew what that parcel was. This time, the witch wasn't taking any chances with magic alone. This time, it looked as if she'd set a bomb to ensure their destruction.

He looked quickly to the right, wondering where the hell his friends were. The van was half in and half out of the main entrance, the roller door still wrapped around it. Camille had jumped out, and was standing next to the door, reaching back into the van. Russell had thrust open the van's side door and had one foot on the ground, but he was more in the van than out. Neither of them appeared able to move any further.

Frozen by magic, he thought, and smelled again the sting of fear, the sense of urgency. He ran towards them, looking at the parcel as he passed it but not daring to go any closer. He had no experience in dealing with bombs and no desire to go near it and risk blowing them all up. All he needed to know was the time they had left, and the clock showed that all too clearly—less than two minutes.

Magic thrummed against his skin. He skidded to a stop, gaze sweeping the floor. Saw the wide semicircle drawn onto the concrete, and the wards spaced at regular intervals along that line. They'd had no hope. The minute they'd breached the warehouse's entrance, the spell had been activated. It had snared them the moment they touched the concrete. No doubt a similar spell had been set on the doors.

No wonder Trina was still alive. It would have taken a tremendous amount of personal energy to set these spells, and it would take the witch more than a few hours to recover.

He squatted, eyes narrowed, watching the slight ripple of energy cutting the air. Urgency beat at him, through him. Though he couldn't see the timer, he knew the seconds were slipping away too quickly. But if he hurried, if he touched this spell the wrong way, it would snare him too and they'd all be blown up.

He studied the curve of energy to his right—it pulsed rich and strong, cutting the air as cleanly as a knife.

But to his left, down near the entrance, the shield rippled. One of the wards had been knocked slightly off-line by the van's impact as it came through the door. All he had to do was knock it out of line completely, and the circle would be broken.

He rose, putting away his gun and switching the knife to his right hand. Glanced at the clock and saw they had less than a minute. Sweat trickled down his back. He quickly followed the arc of energy and stopped near the ward. The knife wasn't long enough to break through the shield and reach it. He cursed vehemently. He certainly couldn't touch the circle. The minute he did, he'd be caught. And the energy would repel anything except silver. He glanced at the clock again. Forty seconds. No time, and no choice. He'd have to throw the knife and hope like hell the impact was enough to knock the ward off-line.

Otherwise, they were all dead.

He ran back until he was at the right angle and took aim. He threw the knife as hard and as fast as he could. It pieced the shield cleanly, light flaring like lightning down the blade as it arrowed toward the ward. It hit dead center, sliding the ward several inches sideways. Not far, but enough to break the circle. Energy exploded, a wave of heat and power that knocked him off his feet.

Hands grabbed him, hauled him upright. "Ten seconds!" Russell yelled. "Move, Camille."

Doyle pulled away from Russell's grip. "I'm okay. Go."

He thrust Russell forward, then grabbed his knife and followed him. Behind them, the timer beeped. For several heartbeats, nothing happened. Relief swept through him. Maybe the witch wasn't as clever as she liked to think…

The bomb blew. A fiery wave of destruction picked him up, thrusting him sideways. A second later, the heat hit, searing across his skin. Pain surged, and a scream tore up his throat. Then the darkness encased him and he knew no more.