Circle of Death Read online

  She yelped and rolled away. The zombie hit where she’d been only seconds before, and the ground literally shook. He screamed in frustration and lashed out again, fingers clawing the air inches from her face. She scrambled farther away and called to the energy. It burned through her body, flashing jaggedly across her fingertips before she launched it toward the zombie.

  Pain surged through her mind, and again her vision blurred. Suddenly there were two zombies burning up in front of her. Two pairs of flaming hands fighting the force of her net, trying to reach for her.

  She scrambled backward, even though her net seemed to be containing the zombie for the moment. But there was no easy escape from the stench of the dying zombie’s burning flesh, and her already churning stomach rebelled again. She threw up in the grass and felt like she was going to die. The madman in her head had obviously found some friends to help him, and the pounding was mixed with a weird buzzing that hurt so intensely she could barely see.

  Kirby! Damn it, answer me. Doyle’s mind-voice seemed hollow, as if it were coming from a million miles away.

  She looked up, barely able to make out the water tank that trapped him. She felt so weak her whole body was shaking. She couldn’t walk up there. She didn’t have the strength to even stand right now.

  Move to the back of the tank.

  There is no back. It’s round. For God’s sake, tell me what’s wrong!

  I don’t know. She blinked, but it didn’t seem to help her blurry vision.

  Can you see the rock at all?

  I can see the hatch it’s sitting on.

  Face it, then move to your left. The buzzing was getting louder, becoming a tunnel of noise that was closing in around her. Quickly.

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Then she reached for the fire again. It burned through her, almost wild and uncontrolled. She clenched her fists, somehow restraining it, and opened her eyes. The water tank had become three white blobs dancing erratically on the hill above her. She blinked again, and the three became one, a blob of white surrounded by a darkness that was quickly closing in on her. She launched the pent-up energy, then the darkness encased her, and she knew no more.

  THE SIDE OF THE TANK EXPLODED INWARD, SHOWERING Doyle with chunks of rocks. Concrete dust billowed, filling the small tank with a choking cloud that made it difficult to breathe. Coughing, he battered away the worst of the missiles and shifted shape, diving through the hole Kirby had created. It was a tight squeeze, even in his panther form. He pushed through, skinning his shoulders against the jagged sides of the hole, then ran down the slope to the house.

  Smoke trailed skyward, and the smell of burning flesh stung the air. But the zombie was still alive, pulling its burning body along the ground, reaching with blackened claws toward Kirby. She wasn’t moving, wasn’t protecting herself in any way.

  Fear shot through him. He didn’t know what was wrong, but the warmth of her mind’s touch had become an inferno of confusion and darkness.

  He shifted shape, grabbed the zombie by the leg and wrenched it back and away from her. The creature snarled—a sound filled with anger and pain. It twisted and threw a punch. He ducked past it and grabbed the creature by the throat. Flames danced around his hand, burning his skin. He ignored them, shifted his grip, and snapped the zombie’s neck sideways. Bones shattered, and the burning creature went limp.

  He dumped the body on the ground and ran across to Kirby. Kneeling, he felt for a pulse. It was racing, and her skin was hot, as if the energy she controlled was burning her up from the inside.

  Let it be just a fever and not something more serious. He picked her up and ran for the house. She felt so hot he might well have been cradling a fire, not a woman. He had to get her cool, and fast, before she started convulsing.

  He ran up the back steps and along the veranda to the door. Setting her down momentarily, he picked the dead bolt and carefully opened the door. No alarms sounded, and in the large living room–cum–kitchen beyond, there didn’t appear to be any sensors. If the run-down state of the furniture and fittings was anything to go by, the small farm was little more than a holiday retreat. Which meant, with any luck, that they wouldn’t be disturbed by nosy neighbors.

  He picked her up again and kicked the door shut behind him. Light peeked past the drawn curtains, flushing a hazy brightness through the dusty room. He headed left, following the hallway, moving past several small bedrooms and a laundry before he found the bathroom.

  He stripped off her coat and boots, then found the plug and began filling the bath with cold water. He dumped her in, clothes and all, fearing the fever and knowing the extra few minutes it would take to strip her could push her into convulsions.

  Grabbing a towel from the cupboard under the sink, he wet it and quickly began wiping her heat-flushed face. She moaned, batting weakly at his hands, struggling to rise out of the water. Though her eyes were open, there was no life in their green depths, no awareness. She was delirious, fighting on instinct alone.

  He held her down lightly and continued to wash her face. Lightning flickered across her fingers and jumped to his hands, webbing across his flesh. It felt like electricity but did little more than singe the hair on his arms. She must have spent most of her energy on the zombie and getting him out of the tank. For that, he was extremely grateful. In her present condition, she could have killed him without even realizing it.

  But if it wasn’t the energy she controlled causing this fever, then what was?

  He didn’t know, and it worried him. She’d been all right only a few hours ago. It had to be something serious to come on so fast.

  He continued to wash her down, holding her head above the water once the bath had filled. Her struggles eventually ceased, only to be replaced by shivering. He touched her face, gently brushing away the wet strands of hair from her cheeks and lips. Though her skin was still hot, the heat was nowhere as fierce as before. Time to get her out.

  He dragged her free of the water and stripped her down, quickly toweling her dry—a task he would have enjoyed any other time. But it was then that he discovered the reason for her fever. Her back was a mass of infected, swollen cuts—cuts that looked to have come from claws rather than a knife. The manarei, he thought, and swore savagely. Using her powers must have exacerbated the fever, made it flare hotter and faster. If he didn’t clean the wounds quickly and stop the infection running through her body, she might die. He’d seen it happen before, and with people far stronger than she.

  He ignored the thrust of fear and wrapped the towels around her. She wouldn’t die. He wasn’t going to let her.

  There were two bedrooms downstairs, but the beds looked older than Camille and had little more than moth-eaten comforters covering them. Guessing the main bedroom was in the loft, he carried her up the stairs and was relieved to find that the bed there had both blankets and pillows. He flipped back the blankets and placed her stomach-down on the bed. The wounds were scabbed over, but red and bulging with infection. Why in hell hadn’t she told him about the wounds? Frowning, he headed back downstairs and raided the cupboards until he’d found everything he needed.

  Cleaning her wounds was a hell of a job. He was glad she wasn’t conscious enough to feel any of it, though wisps of agony skittered through his mind—ghosts of the pain she’d be in if she were awake.

  Once he’d cleaned the worst of the infection from her wounds, he packed them with what was left of Seline’s healing herbs and wrapped them in bandages. He tucked the blankets tightly around her so she couldn’t thrash around, then headed back downstairs to clean up. There was nothing much more he could do for her right now, other than to keep her fluid levels up and hope he’d caught the infection in time to save her.

  THE FEVER BROKE CLOSE TO MIDNIGHT. IT WAS SOMETHING Doyle felt rather than saw—just a sudden easing in the troubled rush of pain running from her mind to his. He brushed the sweaty strands of hair from her closed eyes, running his fingers down to her lips. Her skin no lon
ger felt consumed by fire, and her cheeks and mouth had a more healthy, rosy glow.

  She stirred at his touch, murmuring softly, and reached with one hand for him. He caught her fingers, kissing them gently, then wrapped his hand around hers and held it close to his heart. He ached to do more. Ached to strip and lie under the covers with her, hold her lithe body close to his. But he didn’t think he had the strength to touch her, hold her so close, and resist doing anything more. He wasn’t made of stone, and the image of her naked body still hovered bright in his mind whenever he closed his eyes.

  Besides, if ever they were going to make love, then the first move should be hers. It couldn’t happen now, when she was still half delirious after the fever. It would have to be a conscious decision on her part; otherwise she’d still have excuses to run. And if it did happen, he wanted her aware of the commitment he was making to her with his touch and with his body.

  As for his heart—he smiled wryly. That had been committed from the time he’d picked up her photo and stared into her incredible green eyes.

  And to think he’d spent years insisting that lightning could not strike thrice in one family. How wrong he’d been! His old man would no doubt fall over with laughter when he found out.

  He leaned forward, brushing a kiss across her sweet lips, and knew it was time to catch some shut-eye himself. Even as uncomfortable as it was lying on top of the blankets, fully clothed and aching with the need to make love to her, he knew he would sleep. Years of living on the wrong side of the law had trained him to catch rest whenever he could.

  At least they should be relatively safe from discovery here in the old farmhouse. Felicity, or whatever her real name was, had said the owners were overseas, so they weren’t likely to suddenly drop in. And if Felicity had the keys, then she was no doubt looking after the place for them, which implied no relatives. He’d moved Kirby’s rental car into the shed, out of sight. As long as they kept the lights off, they shouldn’t draw any attention from the neighboring farms, and he doubted Felicity herself would come back until she thought he was dead.

  They were probably safer here than they would be anywhere else. Surely this was the one place Felicity would not think to look for them. Or so he hoped.

  Closing his eyes, he went to sleep.

  Movement woke him sometime later. He lay on his side, facing the windows. Outside, the wind had picked up again, and the nearest trees tossed and groaned. The old house creaked in response, shuddering slightly under the impact of the oncoming storm.

  The bed shifted, and he turned around. Kirby climbed out, her pale skin almost ghostly as she padded naked out of the bedroom.

  “You okay?” he asked softly.

  She didn’t answer him, and her thoughts were distant, almost sleepy. Frowning, he rose and followed her down the hall. She hesitated in the living room, then headed for the back door, battling to open it.

  Sleepwalking, he thought. But why was she attempting to go outside? He reached past her, unlocking the door. She showed no awareness of his presence, and though her eyes were open, it was obvious she wasn’t seeing anything beyond whatever images filled her dreams. He grabbed his coat to wrap around her once the dream had ended and followed her outside.

  Sure-footed as a cat, she walked down the steps and out into the wildness of the night. The wind spun around her, snagging her warm brown hair and playing with it wildly. She raised her hands, as if reaching for the wind, then laughed, a soft sound of pleasure that sent a shiver of desire running through him.

  She moved down the hill, a slender apparition barely visible in the darkness. He followed her past the black patch of grass that was the remains of the zombie, to the trees. There she sat cross-legged on the grass, staring up at the tossing trees.

  Communing with the wind, he thought. He stopped behind her, watching the goose bumps chase across her pale skin, wishing he could hear what the wind was telling her. Wishing he knew why this was happening. She wasn’t a storm witch, and talking to the wind was not something she’d been able to do before now. He knew that from her earlier thoughts and words.

  She raised her hands again, as if reaching for someone. Sorrow ran through her, through him, and he knew without looking that there were tears on her cheeks. Maybe it wasn’t the wind she was talking to after all. Maybe it was the ghost of her dead friend.

  The wind played about her again, briefly including him in its wild dance. For an instant he heard the song—a gentle, melodious sound of love. Then it died, and Kirby collapsed sideways to the ground. He tucked his coat around her and carried her back inside.

  She snuggled back under the blankets and sighed contentedly. He caressed her cheek, wondering if she’d remember her nocturnal journey in the morning. Wondering if she’d remember what the wind and her dead friend had told her—and whether she’d pass that information on to him.

  He glanced at his watch. It was barely three o’clock, and he really needed to get some more sleep. But that wasn’t going to happen just yet, especially if he tried to lie down beside her. Good intentions were all well and good, but right now he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anyone in his life. Time, he thought, for a shower. A very cold shower. He bent and kissed her cheek, then headed into the bathroom.

  KIRBY DREAMT OF WARMTH AND DESIRE. IT WRAPPED around her, pressed heat against her, providing a security, a tenderness, she’d never felt before.

  She sighed and turned toward it. An arm wrapped around her, pulling her close. Breath whispered against her skin, sleepy and warm. Lips sought hers, lips that were tender yet sensuous. Lips she just wanted to keep tasting forever.

  Desire ached through her, and in that instant, she fully woke, realizing with shock that it was no dream. She was indeed lying in bed and kissing a man. And she was naked to boot.

  Her breath caught in her throat, and she pulled back abruptly. We couldn’t have, she thought, not daring to open her eyes. Surely she would remember if she and Doyle had made love …

  “I would certainly hope so,” he said, his voice gravelly and sexy as hell.

  She opened her eyes. His face was inches from hers, blue eyes filled with mischief, warmth and desire.

  “How are you feeling this morning?” he asked.

  “Fine.” A little on the weak side, maybe, but that was probably due to lack of food more than anything else. She touched his smooth cheek, running her finger down to his chin. “You’ve shaved.”

  He was also fully dressed and lying on top of the covers, rather than underneath. Relief ran through her, though it was touched by an odd sense of disappointment.

  His sudden grin sent another shiver of desire through her.

  “I thought I’d better,” he said. “Didn’t want to give you whisker burn, if I ever got the chance to kiss you again.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “What made you think you were ever going to get another chance?”

  “You’re a woman. I’m a man. We’re in a dangerous situation, and we’re mutually attracted.” He brushed a stray lock of hair from her eyes, his touch flushing warmth down to her toes. “The odds are on my side, you know.”

  “Pretty damn sure of yourself, aren’t you?” she muttered. Trouble was, they both knew he was right.

  “Sure of myself, yes.” He stared at her for a moment, blue eyes intent, his thoughts suddenly troubled. “But sure of you? That I’m not.”

  It was pointless to say anything. Not when she was as unsure of herself as he was.

  He caught her fingers and kissed them lightly. “Happy birthday, by the way.”

  Her birthday. Helen’s birthday. This certainly wasn’t the way she’d imagined she’d be spending it. Nor was he the person she’d thought she’d be spending it with. She bit her lip and blinked back the sting of tears.

  “I haven’t got you a present,” he said, and rose swiftly from the bed. “But I can make you breakfast.”

  She blinked at his abrupt departure. “Great. And thanks.”

  “Your bag
is in the bathroom. Don’t get those bandages wet if you decide to wash.”

  Bandages? She glanced down and saw that she was indeed wrapped in bandages, from just under her breasts to her waist.

  “Why am I wearing bandages?” she called after him.

  “Long story. Get dressed, and I’ll explain.”

  She cursed him silently but didn’t move, for the first time taking in their surroundings. If they were in a hotel, it was certainly the dustiest hotel she’d ever seen. And the furnishings were so old and worn they looked ready for the dump.

  She looked up, saw the pitched roof and the strings of cobwebs trailing the length of the room and frowned. If she didn’t know any better, she’d swear they were inside the old farmhouse. But that didn’t make any sense. Surely it would be too dangerous. Their murderer would come here, if only to make sure that Doyle was still in her trap.

  She climbed out of bed and walked across to the window, peering out. Trees swayed beyond the roof of the veranda, and on the ground to her left was a patch of black soil in a sea of yellow-green grass. Zombie remains, she thought with a shiver. They were definitely at the farmhouse, then.

  She wrapped a blanket around herself and headed down the stairs. Doyle turned around in the kitchen as she entered the living room.

  “Nice outfit,” he commented, eyes bright in the hazy light. “I especially like the teasing flash of thigh as you walk.”

  She blushed and tugged the blanket around her. “Why are we still here?”

  He turned away, stirring the contents of a bubbling pot. “Why are you not getting dressed?”

  “Because I want answers.”

  “You’ll get them when you get dressed.”

  He moved across to the freezer and opened the door, then hesitated and met her gaze. Heat trembled between them, burning through every part of her. She knew that if she so much as breathed his name right now, he would take her in his arms and make love to her, right here in this dusty old living room. And while she ached for his touch, she wasn’t ready yet to give in to desire. Wasn’t ready to trust that completely. So she tugged the blanket closer and remained silent.