Circle of Death Page 7

  She bit her lip and watched the gray-slipped world rush by. There was little traffic on the roads and they reached Carlton quickly. She glanced down at the phone. “Turn left here,” she said. “Number twenty-eight should be on your side.”

  He pulled into a parking space and stopped. With the headlights off, the mist seemed to crowd in, encasing them in a blanket of gray. Even the nearby gum trees looked ghostly.

  “I don’t like the feel of this,” she muttered. There was a chill in the air that seemed unnatural. The same sort of chill she’d felt just before she pushed through her front door and discovered death had come visiting …

  His hand covered hers, his touch flushing heat through her entire body. “Why don’t you stay here in the car while I go check it out?”

  “Not on your life.” She withdrew her hand from the warmth of his. “I’m coming with you.”

  Annoyance glimmered briefly in his eyes. “It’s safer in the car.”

  “Not if one of those creatures is out there.”

  “I would know if a manarei were out there, believe me.” Yet his gaze swept the drizzle surrounding them and he frowned.

  Did he sense anything? Or was it just the blanket of gray teasing their imagination? She glanced at him. Somehow, he didn’t seem the type to have problems in that department.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I have an active enough imagination when it matters.” A smile touched his lips. “For example, I can easily imagine you actually doing something I ask.”

  Heat crept through her cheeks again. She looked away and crossed her arms. “I’m coming with you.”

  He sighed. It was a sound of sheer frustration. “Well, I guess it is one way of knowing where the hell you are. But you do what I tell you, is that clear?”

  She nodded and climbed out of the car. The mist ran damp fingers across her skin, and she shivered. The night was quiet, hushed. The street was filled with shadows. Cars and houses loomed briefly as the fine rain swirled. Streetlights puddled light down onto the pavement, looking like forlorn stars in the night. Nothing moved. It was very easy to imagine they were the only two people alive in the world right now.

  He moved to the rear of the car, then glanced back at her. “You coming?”

  She cast an uneasy look at the shrouded trees, then followed him across the road. “What are you going to say to this woman if she’s home?” She shoved her gloved hands into her pockets, still trying to warm them. “I certainly wouldn’t open the door to a couple of wrinkled-looking specimens like us at this hour of the morning.”

  He shrugged. “I’m not exactly sure yet.”

  “Oh, great. What if she decides to call the cops? What if she’s got a great, big dog and sets it on us?”

  He grinned. “Dogs don’t worry me.”

  “They worry me,” she muttered and glanced up. “You know, you never did explain what happened to that panther I saw before.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “What panther?”

  Anger surged through her. This man might be helping her, but in many ways, he was also treating her like a fool. “You want me to trust you, and yet you can’t—or won’t—answer the simplest of questions.”

  He looked at her. In the depths of his eyes she saw annoyance—and regret. “I’ll answer your questions when you decide to stop running.”

  She stared at him. He wasn’t just talking about running from him. She knew instinctively that he was talking about running from life—of being so scared of death that she was afraid to live. She pulled her gaze from his. She barely knew this man, and yet he seemed to understand her better than anyone ever had—maybe even Helen.

  Twenty-eight was the third house along in the row of eight grand old Victorian-style terraces; she believed they called them row houses in America. Unlike the rest of the houses, number twenty-eight looked in serious need of love and attention. The picket fence was missing half its pickets, and the shoe-box-sized front garden was knee high in weeds. Wood boarded the windows on the bottom floor, and the screen door was hanging off its hinges.

  She frowned. “It looks abandoned.”

  He opened the gate and ushered her through. “It’s not. I can hear someone moving inside.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “You can? How?”

  “Told you, I’ve got good hearing.”

  She had good hearing, and she couldn’t hear a damn thing. “How can you tell if it’s a human moving around inside? It might be a stray cat—or even the wind.”

  “It’s human. Cats rarely get around on two feet.” He knocked on the door. The sound seemed to echo through the silence, as sharp as thunder.

  “If that’s an old lady moving around in there, you’ve just given her a heart attack.” She glanced across to the park. Nothing had moved, and no sound broke the silence. Yet something was out there, near the trees, watching them.

  Doyle looked over his shoulder. “Nothing’s there,” he said after a moment.

  He was wrong. Something was. She felt no sense of danger, no sense of doom drawing close, as she had last night when she’d stood on her front porch and watched the approaching police lights flash red through the night. It was just a sense of … waiting. And expectation. Neither of which made any sense.

  Inside the house, something moved. Wood scraped against wood, then footsteps approached. “Yes?” The voice was high-pitched and quavery. The voice of an old woman.

  He frowned. “Sorry to bother you, ma’am, but I’m looking for Rachel Grant.”

  “At this hour? Go bother someone else, or I’ll call the police.”

  “Told you,” Kirby muttered.

  Doyle ignored her. He splayed one hand across the door but quickly jerked it away. Light glowed briefly where his hand had rested, and she saw the same symbol that had been carved into her and Helen’s door. Only this time, it had two points. Doyle’s gaze met hers, his expression grim as he added, “It’s urgent we speak to Rachel. Is she there?”

  “There’s no one here by that name.”

  Lights appeared in the neighboring house. If he wasn’t careful, he’d have the whole street down on them. But if he was at all worried by such a prospect, he certainly didn’t show it.

  “Do you know where we can contact her?” he continued, his voice a little louder.

  “Told you, there’s no one here by that name. I got the phone in my hand, you know. I’m dialing.”

  “Thanks for your help, ma’am.” He cupped Kirby’s elbow and guided her down the steps. On the way past the mailbox, he snatched an envelope that was half sticking out.

  “That’s theft in this country.”

  “It’s theft in mine, too, but right now, I don’t really care.” He handed her the envelope. “Take a look.”

  She did. It was addressed to Rachel Grant. “Could be a mistake. Maybe she’s just moved and hasn’t had her mail redirected.”

  “You really think that?”

  “No. But it’s better than the thought of breaking into that house and seeing who’s really in there. That’s what you’re thinking of doing, isn’t it?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “I see I’m not the only one reading minds here.”

  She rubbed her arms and looked away from the warmth in his gaze. “It doesn’t take a mind reader to guess that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “But I bet you can guess what else I’m thinking.”

  She grimaced. “Yeah. And you no doubt can guess my answer.”

  “Kirby, get serious. I need to get into that house quickly and quietly. I can’t do that if you’re with me.”

  “Meaning I’m a lumbering noisemaker?”

  “Lumbering, no. Far from it.” He hesitated, his gaze sweeping her briefly. Her nerves jumped, as if touched by fire. “Noisy? Yes.”

  He opened the passenger-side door and motioned her to get in. She crossed her arms and stood her ground.

  “That old lady is probably watching to see if we leave,” he said. “I have no doubt she will call the cops if we
don’t.”

  “Oh.” Feeling foolish, she got in. He climbed into the driver’s side and reversed out, heading down the street. He turned right onto another street, then switched off the headlights and turned around, heading back. He parked several houses up from the terrace, this time on the same side of the road.

  He took off his seat belt, then turned to face her. “I want you to climb into the driver’s seat and keep the engine running. If anything—or anyone—remotely threatening approaches, drive off.”

  She frowned. “What about you?”

  “I’ll be okay. I’ll meet you at the zoo. It’s not that far away, is it?”

  She shook her head, wondering how he knew if he’d never been there. He might have good hearing, but surely even he couldn’t hear the zoo animals from here.

  “I can’t just leave you here,” she said. “What if you get into trouble and need help?”

  “At the slightest hint of trouble, I’ll leave. It’s more important right now that you keep safe. Climb out and come around to the driver’s side.”

  She did. He was holding the door open for her. She stopped, suddenly reluctant to get any closer, though what she feared she couldn’t exactly say.

  For a second, neither of them moved. She stared at him, caught by the sudden intensity in his eyes—an intensity that seemed to delve right through her, touching her soul. Touching her heart. He reached out, trailing the back of his fingers down her cheek. Heat shivered through her, and her breath caught somewhere in her throat. She licked her lips and saw the heat flare deep in his eyes. God, it would be so easy to step fully into his embrace, to let him wrap the lean strength of his arms around her and keep all the demons and fear away. She clenched her fists, fighting the desire—the need—to do just that. It was nothing but crazy thinking. He was a stranger, and she shouldn’t even be trusting him, let alone wanting him to hold her. Aching for him to kiss her. Swallowing nervously, she tore her gaze from his.

  He placed a finger under her chin, raising it until her eyes met his again. “Please don’t run.”

  His voice was little more than a warm caress in her thoughts, and it scared her.

  But what scared her more was the longing she saw in the depths of his richly colored eyes—a longing that echoed through every inch of her. This man knew loneliness as intimately as she did, only he hid it a whole lot better.

  “I can’t promise you that,” she whispered. Because this time he wasn’t talking about running from life or even running away. Far from it. And in many respects, he was just as dangerous as whatever was out there in the darkness, watching her, stalking her.

  Regret flickered in his eyes, and he dropped his hand, though her skin continued to tingle with the warmth of his touch.

  “Get in the car and lock the doors. And remember what I said.”

  “At the first sniff of danger, drive off and meet you at the zoo,” she said, climbing into the car.

  He slammed the door shut, then tapped the window. She smiled slightly and hit the lock button. He gave her the thumbs-up, then walked away, quickly disappearing into the drizzle.

  She leaned back and watched the misty rain eddy around her. Minutes dragged by. The silence suddenly seemed so heavy it was a weight pressing down on her, making it difficult to breathe. She shifted slightly in the seat. In the park opposite, the mist’s dance quickened, as if someone—or something—had stirred it. The trees seemed to loom in and out of focus, and the feeling of being watched returned tenfold.

  Lightning danced across her clenched fingers, sending jagged flashes of brightness through the night. She scanned the park, looking for some sense—some hint—of what the mist was hiding.

  There was no suggestion of evil or danger. Nothing more than a sense of expectation—and warmth. She frowned. It was almost as if the mist wanted her to go over there.

  She glanced toward the terraces. Doyle had told her to stay in the car, and it made perfectly good sense to do so. She could very easily walk into a trap, despite the fact that she could feel nothing dark or dangerous about the presence that waited.

  Yet she wasn’t going to get any answers sitting around waiting for Doyle to do all the work. She grabbed the keys and climbed out of the car.

  Damp fingers of mist crept across the back of her neck, and she shivered. She flipped up her jacket’s collar, then shoved her hands into the pockets and walked across the street. She stopped at the edge of the park, listening to the silence, studying the looming gum trees. Waiting, but for what she wasn’t entirely certain.

  A warning instinct stirred. Something approached. She clenched her fists and felt the lightning dance warmth across her skin.

  Ten feet in front of her, the mist stirred, gently at first but gradually becoming more frantic. The wind had died and nothing moved in the predawn darkness, yet the mist continued to condense. Gradually, the tiny droplets of water found shape, found form. Found life.

  Became Helen.

  THE ALLEY BEHIND THE ROW HOUSES LAY WRAPPED in shadows. Doyle walked in the middle of the lane to avoid the trash cans and scattered rubbish, his gaze searching the houses for any sign of life. As a thief, he’d loved this type of setup—houses with a small, private alley behind them. It was like shopping at a supermarket. All you had to do was walk along until you found the ripest fruit to pick.

  When he reached number twenty-eight, he peered over the back fence, studying the yard intently. There was no movement and, more important, no dog smell. The last thing he needed right now was some too-alert mutt giving him away.

  He climbed the fence. At the back door, he splayed his fingers across the lock, feeling for any hint of magic. Unlike the front door, this one was not triggered with a spell. Yet the feel of magic was still in the air—distant fireflies that lightly burned his skin. Someone inside the house was conjuring, though what, he wasn’t entirely sure.

  He frowned and stepped back, studying the house. All the windows on the lower floor were boarded up. The top floors were clear, but there was no easy way of getting up there. The drain spouts didn’t look as if they’d support his weight, and he didn’t have his climbing gear or ropes with him. Nor was there a handy tree close by.

  He turned his attention to the houses on either side. The one on the left had a balcony decorated with graceful arches of wrought iron. Perfect for climbing. He could get to the roof with little problem, then make his way across to the front of this terrace. From there, it should be easy enough to swing down onto the front balcony.

  He’d have to go barefoot, though—his boots weren’t pliable enough, and would make too much noise on the old tin roofing. He took them off and shoved them into the carryall pockets inside his coat, half grinning as he imagined the sort of look Kirby would have given him. But he hadn’t lied to her earlier. His pockets did hold just about everything. As a thief, they’d certainly come in handy—the hidden ones more so than the obvious ones. And even now, with his thieving days long behind him, he still carried an extraordinary amount of stuff around in them, although these days it was more likely to be an assortment of charms and ready-to-use spells than the tools of his former trade.

  Climbing the wrought iron proved exceptionally easy, even for someone as out of practice as he was. He pulled himself up onto the roof and followed the rows of nails across to the front of the building. On the balcony roof, he hesitated, listening. Nothing moved in the house below him, yet the distant touch of magic still skittered through him.

  He peered over the edge. There was no light in any of the windows, no sense of anyone close. Whoever was performing the magic was on the ground floor, in the back half of the house. Maybe that was why there’d been no magical lock on the back door. There’d been no need with the magician so close.

  He swung down and headed for the nearest window. The windows were the old sash-and-weight style, which were usually easy to open. He reached into another pocket and grabbed a lock pick, then slid it into the gap between the two windowpanes and carefully
knocked open the catch.

  He slipped on some gloves, then slid the window open and looked inside. Furniture sat in the middle of the room, half covered by sheets, and several tins of paint were gathered in one corner. Rachel Grant was obviously in the process of redecorating. The question was, would she ever get the chance to finish? He had a feeling the answer was no.

  He climbed into the room and slid the window shut. The last thing he needed right now was a breeze springing to life and gusting fresh air through the house. It would be warning enough to whoever was below that someone had entered.

  He walked to the door and carefully looked out. The stairs were at the end of the long, dark hallway. Light rose from below, a pale blue glow that seemed to flicker in and out of focus.

  Frowning, he headed toward the stairs, keeping close to the walls so there was less chance of hitting a squeaking floorboard. The buzz of magic got sharper, prickling his skin with heat. With it came a murmur. Someone was chanting. Someone whose voice was young and rich. Not the old woman who’d greeted them at the door, if she’d even been real in the first place. Somehow, he doubted it.

  But whoever was casting the spell was walking the dark path, not the light. The stench of evil lay heavy in the darkness, overriding even the sharp smell of fresh paint. He hesitated at the base of the stairs, listening.

  The tempo of magic increased, its touch searing. The spell was reaching a peak. The light pulsed rapidly in the darkness, its color now a sickly yellow-green touched by red—blood red. It was coming from a room down at the far end of the hall. He stepped forward, then hesitated as a shadow whisked across the brightness. Its shape was a woman’s, not a man’s.

  There was a bright flash, then a wave of energy crashed around him, burning through his mind and sending him reeling back against the wall. He grunted in pain, every intake of breath parching his throat.

  The chanting stopped abruptly, and the sense of evil left the house. Cursing, he pushed away from the wall and staggered down the hall.

  And found Rachel Grant.

  She was lying on her back in the middle of the kitchen floor. If the look on her face was anything to go by, death had caught her by surprise. There was a shattered teapot near her left hand and a still burning candle near her feet. The black river of tea had run across the tiles, mingling with the blood that surrounded the back of her head.