Circle of Death

by Keri Arthur

  She turned to run, but her leg buckled. She went down, hitting the pavement hard. Cursing softly, she twisted around, looking behind her again. The shadows seemed to part, disclosing a tall man with gaunt features and matted-looking hair. He looked like someone spaced out on drugs, and there was an odd sort of neediness, maybe even desperation, in his eyes. Then he smiled. His canines were long and white—the sort of canines you saw on Hollywood vampires. He was crazy—or was she? Had the crack on her head sent her imagination tripping?

  Evil washed across the night, burning her skin. This is no dream, she thought, horror rising. The stranger snarled and leapt toward her. She screamed and scrambled backward.

  From out of nowhere came a growling black mass, all sinew and power. Panther, she thought, and rubbed her eyes. Maybe she was tripping. Only the creature reminded her of the cat she’d seen when she’d first touched Doyle. He and the animal were connected—of that she was certain.

  The cat hit the vampire hard, and the two went down in a fighting tangle of claws and teeth. The shadows seemed to close around them, momentarily hiding them from sight. When they parted, it was Doyle fighting the vampire—Doyle wrapping an arm around the stranger’s neck and twisting hard. There was an audible snap, and the man with the vampire teeth went limp. He didn’t move; he wasn’t even breathing.

  Dead, she thought, and felt her stomach rise. She scrambled over to the grass and threw up what little she’d eaten for lunch.

  Footsteps approached. Kirby wiped her mouth and sat back on her heels. She didn’t turn around. Didn’t want to face him. His gaze all but burned a hole in her back. She clenched her fingers and waited.

  “A person is only worth as much as her promise,” he said eventually.

  Though his voice held no inflection, his anger surged around her. She rubbed her arms and wondered again why she could feel his emotions so clearly.

  “Well, I’ve pretty much been told all my life that I’m worthless, so I guess that it’s true, isn’t it?” Bitterness crept through her words, but she just couldn’t help it. He had no right to judge her, even if he had saved her life. Twice.

  “At least now I know I can’t trust you.”

  Tears stung her eyes. She blinked them away. She didn’t need his trust. She didn’t need anyone’s trust. All she wanted was to wake up from this nightmare. “A fine statement coming from a man who’s just killed someone.”

  “That someone was about to suck you dry and spit out the remains.”

  She closed her eyes and tried to ignore the chilled fingers of dread creeping through her body. She knew instinctively that tonight’s strangeness had only just begun. “What do you mean? What was he? And what happened to that cat I saw?”

  He made a sound that was close to a growl. “I refuse to answer any more questions out here in the rain.” Exasperation sharpened his warm voice. “Get up—or do you need help?”

  “I don’t need anyone’s help,” she muttered and pushed upright. The night spun violently, and she swallowed heavily against the sudden rise of nausea.

  “God grant me strength against stubborn women,” he muttered.

  Suddenly his arms were around her and he was lifting her up, cradling her gently against his chest. It felt safe and warm and oh-so-secure. Frighteningly so.

  “Put me down,” she said, struggling against the strength of his grip.

  “No.” His arms tightened slightly. He was holding her so close that she could feel the wild beat of his heart. It might have been her own.

  “Damn it, Doyle, release me!” She thumped his chest.

  His gaze met hers. Deep in the depths of his eyes wildness burned—the sort of wildness she’d seen briefly in the panther’s rich blue gaze.

  “I’m wet, I’m cold, and I’m running out of patience,” he said grimly. “And you just punched the wounds the manarei gave me.”

  She looked at her fist. It was bloody. “Oh God, I’m sorry. I didn’t know … You didn’t tell me.”

  “And you didn’t bother asking.”

  She bit her lip. No, she hadn’t. This man had risked his life twice now to save hers, and the fact that she didn’t know why worried her. But that didn’t excuse her lack of courtesy. He’d earned that much, at least. “I’m sorry,” she said. “And thank you for saving me.”

  He nodded, though amusement seemed to gleam briefly in his eyes. “Now, will you just remain still until we get to the motel?”

  “I suppose I can manage that.” She didn’t mean to sound ungracious, but she couldn’t help it. Being held so carefully, as if she were precious cargo, was doing odd things to her pulse rate.

  This time a smile touched his full lips, but he didn’t reply, just kept striding through the night. They reached the motel in no time. His car was parked in front of a room two doors down from reception. He placed her back on her feet, holding her arm with one hand as he rummaged in his coat pocket and pulled out a key.

  He opened the door but didn’t immediately enter, his gaze searching the shadows. After several seconds he relaxed and switched on the lights. Which was odd, Kirby thought. It was almost as if he could sense danger better in the darkness.

  He ushered her inside and locked the door. She dumped her pack on the table and limped into the bathroom. Like the first motel, it had a window above the sink.

  “Don’t even think of it,” Doyle said behind her.

  She jumped slightly and clenched her fists as she swung around. The damnable man seemed able to read her mind. “Don’t even think of going to the toilet? Why on earth not?”

  He was standing in the doorway, his expression half amusement, half anger. In the light, his eyes looked bluer, richer—cobalt rather than navy. His face was a depiction of perfection, framed by thick, dark hair that even when wet somehow managed to look wild. Rather like the man himself, she suspected.

  “Leave the door open,” was all he said. He grabbed a couple of towels, then walked away.

  Trapped by my own lies, she thought. She glanced at the window a final time and limped after him. He pointed to a chair, then moved across to the kitchenette. “There’s one thing I like about Australian motels—these little kitchenettes they all seem to have.”

  He was making small talk, trying to get her to relax. Not something that was going to happen anytime soon.

  “You don’t have kitchenettes in American motels?”

  “You’ll occasionally find a motel that has a couple of rooms with a kitchenette, but most don’t have them.” He filled a small bowl with hot water. Into this he poured antiseptic.

  “Where’d you get that?” She sat down on one chair and propped her leg up on a second. Blood dripped steadily onto the carpet. She frowned, wondering if she should have gone to the hospital after all.

  “The manager gave it to me.” He squatted down next to her, placing the bowl on the carpet. “I’m going to have to cut your jeans away from the wound.”

  “Cut away. They’re pretty much ruined anyway.”

  He nodded and produced a knife from his boot. A criminal for sure, she thought, and she wondered suddenly about her sanity. Just because he’d saved her life didn’t mean she was any safer in his presence.

  “If I wanted you dead, I would have left you to the manarei or the vampire.” He slid the knife against her skin and carefully began to cut.

  She stared at him, chilled as much by his matter-of-fact tone as by what he had said. Vampires were real? Surely he was joking. He had to be. Vampires couldn’t exist. They were a product of fiction, of Hollywood. They could not be real.

  “Vampires are as real as the lightning that springs from your fingers,” he murmured, peeling the remainder of the rain-soaked material from her leg.

  “You are reading my thoughts.” It should have scared the hell out of her, but given the nightmarish events of the last few hours, this discovery was definitely the least disturbing.

  “So it would seem.” He dunked the end of the towel in the antiseptic wash, then
glanced at her. “This will hurt.”

  He began washing the wound, and her whole leg suddenly felt like it was on fire. Sweat broke out across her forehead, and she hissed, gripping the sides of the chair so tightly her fingers ached. “Tell me why you’re here,” she all but ground out.

  “I’ve already told you—I’m investigating a murder.” Though his touch was gentle, it felt like he was pounding her leg with a hammer.

  “Is Helen’s death connected to your murder?”

  It came out sharper than she’d intended, and he looked up. There was sympathy in his expression, as well as understanding. It made something ache deep in her heart. Which was stupid, really, considering she didn’t even know this man, let alone trust him. She pulled her gaze from his.

  “Yes.”

  “Am I?”

  “Probably.” He hesitated. “Someone obviously wants you dead.”

  “Why?” The question was more a desperate plea for understanding, and she didn’t really expect an answer. Until they found the person responsible for Helen’s slaughter, the answer to such a question would be little more than guesswork.

  “I’d say because someone wants something you have.”

  She snorted softly. “That statement is so wrong it’s almost laughable. I have nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

  His bright gaze caught hers again and something deep inside her shivered. This man saw too much, knew too much. He was dangerous on so many different levels that she should just get up and run while she still could.

  “If that were true, they would not be so determined in their efforts to find you. Remember that the next time you decide to run off.”

  There wasn’t much she could say to that, so she childishly stuck her tongue out instead. He smiled and continued washing her leg. The wounds, once cleaned, turned out to be fairly deep and a good inch long. They were still bleeding profusely.

  She frowned. “Maybe you should take me to the hospital.”

  “Maybe.” He dug into his pockets and pulled out a small, cloth-wrapped parcel.

  “What’s that?”

  “An old witch’s herbal cure-all for wounds,” he said, carefully unwrapping the parcel. Inside was what looked to be little more than dried-up garden clippings.

  “You’re not putting that on my leg,” she said.

  He grabbed her leg before she could move it, his grip gentle yet unyielding. The heat of his touch burned past the coldness of her skin and seemed to sear her entire body. “This stuff works better than any doctor’s needlework, believe me.”

  “Yeah, and pigs can fly.”

  Her voice was tart, and his gaze narrowed. “I will take you to the hospital if you prefer, but just remember exactly what you’ve seen tonight. If the manarei could assume the shape of a cop, what’s to stop it from assuming the form of a doctor? Or even a nurse?”

  She shivered and rubbed her arms. “How can something like that exist? Or a vampire? How is anything like that even possible?”

  “There are more strange things that walk the Earth than you or I could ever imagine,” he said, his voice edged with coldness. “What’s your choice?”

  Her continuing distrust was annoying him, she realized. And yet wasn’t it natural, given the situation? Surely he could see that. “If my leg gets infected or I bleed to death, I’m going to come back from the dead and make your life a living hell.”

  He raised his eyebrows slightly. “Well, I can think of worse things. At least you’d be easy on the eyes.”

  Heat crept across her cheeks. “Thanks. I think.”

  He smiled. “Don’t move while I’m putting this stuff on. I haven’t got much, and I need some for my wounds, as well.”

  She nodded. He began packing the four claw wounds with the mix. Oddly enough, it didn’t hurt. Her skin seemed to go numb the minute the mix touched it, and while the blood didn’t stop, it at least slowed to a trickle. He grabbed a roll of white gauze and quickly bandaged her leg.

  “Give me your hand,” he said, when he’d finished.

  She did. He repeated the whole process on her hand, then rose and carried the bloody water over to the sink.

  “If all goes well, your wounds should be basically healed come morning,” he said, rinsing the bowl and filling it again.

  If they were healed by the morning, it would be nothing short of a miracle. Or magic, she thought with a chill. “You want me to wash your wounds?”

  He shook his head. “I’ll do it. You get out of those wet clothes and into bed.”

  She raised an eyebrow and didn’t move. He thrust a hand through his shaggy hair and looked more than a little annoyed. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, stop acting so immature. If I wanted sex, I sure as hell wouldn’t be here with you. I don’t find you that attractive.”

  Though she should have been totally relieved, his words inexplicably hurt. She looked away. A man with his looks could have the pick of the crop. Why would he waste his time on someone like her?

  And why was she even worrying about it?

  She frowned. “I’m not changing with you standing there watching.” And yet the thought of doing just that excited her. She crossed her arms and wondered if she was going out of her mind.

  “Then I’ll be in the bathroom.” He picked up the antiseptic, the bandages and the dried herbs, then hesitated. “You will stay in this room, won’t you?”

  “I promise not to leave,” she murmured.

  “Don’t promise me anything if you don’t damn well mean it,” he said and walked from the room.

  She shook her head. Doyle Fitzgerald was certainly proving to be a man of extremes—he could kill without a second’s thought, yet he seemed to believe in the integrity of something as fragile as a promise. And she had a feeling she hadn’t even begun to scratch the surface of the enigma he presented.

  She rose and quickly stripped. Once she’d hung her sodden clothes over the back of the kitchen chairs to dry, she pulled a shirt out of her backpack and slipped it on. Then she dug out the present and stared at it intently. If Helen had guessed she might not be around for Kirby’s birthday, why hadn’t she tried to avoid that fate? It wouldn’t have been the first time they’d done that … The toilet flushed, reminding her that she wasn’t alone. She shoved the present back into the pack and climbed into bed, pulling the blankets up around her nose. Not that she really thought Doyle would harm her in any way.

  Warmth finally began to creep through her body. She yawned hugely and closed her eyes, listening to the howl of the wind outside. The wind of change, she thought. Goose bumps raced across her flesh. What changes did the wind whisper about tonight? The urge to get up and go outside to listen was so strong that she flipped the blankets aside. But the chilled air hit her skin and knocked the fanciful thought from her mind. It wouldn’t have done any good, anyway. Helen was the one who could read the nuances of the breeze, not her.

  She yawned again and snuggled deeper into the blankets. But as she drifted into sleep, the wind whispered through her thoughts, speaking of changes that would affect her heart and her soul.

  Speaking of power that was hers to claim—if she dared.

  SHE WAS ASLEEP BY THE TIME DOYLE WALKED OUT OF the bathroom. Given her prickly demeanor, he had expected her to be nose deep in the blankets, fingers afire with electricity, waiting to attack should he decide to pounce.

  To find her curled up in bed and snoring softly was definitely a surprise.

  Maybe he’d misjudged her. Or maybe the night’s events had simply worn her down to the point of sheer exhaustion. It was actually a miracle she was still alive. Very few people lived through the attack of one manarei, let alone two. Either she was very lucky or there was more to her abilities than what he’d seen so far.

  He draped his wet socks and freshly washed shirt next to her clothing, then pulled on his coat to keep warm. After making himself a cup of coffee, he walked across to the table and went through Kirby’s pack. Just as she’d said, there was nothing there. Nothi
ng that even vaguely resembled a tracker. Which didn’t mean that either a piece of clothing or one of the toiletries couldn’t be spelled; he might be magic sensitive, but that didn’t mean he could feel all magic. And a well-woven, well-hidden spell was a difficult find even for someone like Camille.

  He drank some coffee, then dug the phone out of his pocket and called Russell.

  “Hey, wild man. How’s it going?” Russ said, sounding more alive than any dead man had a right to sound.

  Doyle grinned. “Sounds like you’ve had a breakthrough.”

  “A minor one. Seems Kirby Brown and Helen Smith were dumped on hospital doorsteps as babes on exactly the same day. No trace of their parents was ever found, and both were later placed for adoption. Interestingly enough, they both ended up in the very same center for troubled teenagers as eleven-year-olds.”

  Kirby, at least, had never been adopted. He’d caught that much from her thoughts. She’d been shuffled around various foster homes, never staying at one for more than a few months. He wondered why. “Maybe that center is our connection.”

  “Camille’s certain it is.”

  “What is she up to at the moment?”

  “She’s headed off to the morgue to get a look at Smith’s remains.”

  Doyle picked up one end of the sofa, moving it around until it was positioned in such a way that he had a clear view of the door, the window, and Kirby. “Has she tried to do another reading?”

  “Not yet.”

  He sat down and propped his bare feet on the small coffee table. “That means despite the fact that our killer seems pretty intent on grabbing Kirby, Rachel Grant could still be the next victim. You any closer to tracking her down?”

  “I’ve got three possible addresses. And before you ask, no, I haven’t checked them out yet. I might be able to run like the wind, but I can still only do one thing at a time, and Camille wants me to check the government center first.”