Circle of Death

by Keri Arthur

  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, 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 and 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, toward 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 nothing but a shroud of darkness. 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 nightdress 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 nearly 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 toward 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 your 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 lie with me, hold me.”

  Her voice was distant, frail. Worry snaked through him. He took her upstairs, peeling away the remains of the nightdress 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. 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 through 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 sh
arp 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 look toward the future.

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

  “Wonderful,” she said, and turned to face him.

  Her eyes were still ringed by 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. “How could my eyes change like that?”

  “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 silver edge in her 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 anymore.”

  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 or a bit of both doesn’t really matter. It’s only a surface alteration. It doesn’t alter who you are inside.”

  “But I don’t know who I am anymore.” 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. It 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. He picked up his still damp coat, 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 Hollywood knows a stake through the heart is one of the better ways to incapacitate—”

  “Camille—”

  She sighed. “She shot him through 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 desire, 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,” Camille said.

  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.”

  “If the 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 were 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 Kirby’s 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 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 b
ack 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 novels, 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.