Circle of Death (Damask Circle 2)

Past the bridge. Past brightly lit homes that offered false illusions of warmth and safety. The creature behind her wasn’t going to be stopped by lights or warmth or even locks. If any of the people in those houses offered her sanctuary, they’d die, as Helen had died. As Constable Ryan and the pizza boy had died.

The heavy thud of footsteps drew closer. Hate sizzled across the cold night, as sharp as the sound of the creature’s breath. Up ahead, two bright beams of light rounded the corner. She threw up a hand to protect her eyes from the sudden glare, but the headlights died as suddenly as the sound of the engine.

She ran on, knowing the creature was gaining on her, knowing there was little she could do to avoid it. Energy began crackling across her fingertips again, but it was little more than a muted spark. She needed more than a few minutes to rebuild the energy she’d already spent, and mere sparks wouldn’t be enough to stop the creature behind her.

She approached the car. There was someone standing beside it—a shadowy form that looked more a part of the windswept night than anything real or solid. She swerved away, heading across to the other side of the road, not wanting to risk endangering someone else.

The creature was close. Its breath washed heat across the back of her neck. Another sob caught at her throat, and fear flushed fresh energy into her legs. It wasn’t going to be enough. It was never going to be enough. In the blustering touch of the wind, she felt the heat of the creature’s launch.

“Kirby, drop!”

She did without question. She heard two sharp retorts, like a car backfiring. She felt the heat of the creature fly over her head. She heard the crunch of its body as it hit the pavement only feet away.

She saw the black liquid that leaked across the wet concrete from the gaping hole that had once been its head.

Her stomach churned, but she swallowed against the rising bile and clenched her fist, calling to her fire once again. She wasn’t out of the woods just yet, because footsteps approached. Measured, cautious steps.

“Are you okay?”

The voice was accented, but not heavily so—American, she thought. It was deep and warm, and as soothing as hot chocolate on a winter’s night. It was also the voice she’d heard in the bathroom.

She shifted slightly, squinting up against the rain. The stranger stood by her right side, a black-cloaked figure holding a gun he kept aimed at the creature.

“Can you hear me? Are you okay?” he repeated, still not looking at her.

Somehow, she found her voice. “Who in hell are you?”

She felt more than saw his smile, which was odd. Helen had always been the empathic one, not her.

“What, no hysterical overtures of gratitude?” His tone was light, yet she sensed a hint of curiosity. “Not even a thank-you for saving your life?”

“Not until I know who you are and why you’re here.” Not until she knew if she’d jumped from the frying pan into the fire.

“You may well have done just that,” he said, voice suddenly sober. “But believe me, the danger has nothing to do with me.”

Anyone would have thought she’d spoken aloud, and her fear rose several notches. Energy danced across her fingertips, brighter than before, but still nowhere near full strength. Time, she just needed time.

“You won’t need your weapon against me,” he said softly. “I didn’t save your life just to kill you, believe me.”

Right now, she wasn’t inclined to believe anyone. Particularly someone who’d conveniently appeared out of the darkness the precise moment that she needed help. “Then what did you save it for?”

“Certainly not to hold a conversation with you in the middle of a storm. You want to get up?”

“You want to tell me your name?”

Again, she sensed his smile. “Doyle.”

“Doyle what?”

“Doyle Fitzgerald.” He glanced down. In the glow of the nearby streetlight, his eyes were blue, but a blue so dark they were almost navy. “Is that leg stopping you from getting up?”

She shook her head and pushed upright. But pain shot up her leg and she yelped, losing her balance and tumbling back toward the concrete.

He grabbed her arm, holding her upright, his touch almost white-hot against her chilled flesh. Once again her vision blurred, and she saw not her black-cloaked rescuer but a dizzying montage of images in which a big black panther was always central.

Though it made no sense, one thing was clear.

Doyle Fitzgerald wasn’t exactly human.