Circle of Death (Damask Circle 2)

She somehow found her voice. “Stop who? Who did this to you?”

The wind stirred, rustling the leaves of the nearby gum trees and blowing away several strands of Helen’s mist-spun figure. Kirby bit her lip but knew there was little she could do to prevent it. The wind was no friend of hers.

“I don’t have much time and there’s so much to tell you,” Helen continued softly. “You are the one that binds and controls. You are the most powerful of us all. You are the only one who can destroy her.”

She frowned. What she needed right now was answers, not more damn questions. “What are you talking about? Destroy who?”

“She who seeks to control what is not hers. The power of the elements—the circle of five. Two are now dead. You and one other remain. You must find her and save her. And you must find the fifth point and stop her.”

How could she save some unknown woman when she hadn’t even been able to save her best friend?

“We are more than just friends. And my death lies in my hands, not yours.”

She stared at Helen’s mist-shaped face and felt so cold her whole body began to shake. “What do you mean?” she said, her throat so restricted her question came out as little more than a harsh whisper.

“My death was my choice. I chose to die by my own hand rather than give that woman anything of mine. Now you, too, must choose your fate.”

“I don’t want this,” Kirby muttered. “I don’t want any of this.” She just wanted life to go back to the way it had been, and for Helen to be real, not a creature of mist.

All of which was totally impossible now.

“Destiny creeps up on us no matter how we run, Kirby. I have learned this, if nothing else.”

“But you saw the future. You saw our deaths …” Her voice faded. Helen had once said the wind whispered only possibilities, never certainties. It was the things people said and did that changed the paths of fate. Which was why they’d spent so much of their lives on the move, trying to outrun the death that had always loomed so large in their future.

Helen sighed. “It was my actions that sent us down this particular path, and for that, I am sorry.”

“What actions?” Kirby demanded, not understanding even half of what Helen was saying.

The wind shivered through her friend’s form. “I needed to find out who my parents were. I’m sorry.”

For what? For wanting to know the truth? For being braver than she’d ever dared to be? “Did you find them?”

“No.” Helen hesitated. The wind stirred again, blowing through her form, snagging tendrils

of mist and unraveling them quickly. “The wind calls me. I have to go.”

“No!” Kirby reached out, but her hand slipped through Helen’s form, stirring the mist and dissipating her body. “No,” she repeated, dropping to her knees, her whole being aching with the pain of loss and unshed grief. “Don’t go. Don’t leave me!”

“You must go home. You must find the gift and say the words.” Helen had almost completely faded. Only her face remained. The droplets of moisture glistened in the rising light of the day, so it looked like tears were shining in her mist-colored eyes.

Kirby frowned. “I have the gift; it’s in my pack.”

“That is not the gift I left. Find it, say the words, and complete the circle.”

Her frown deepened. “What circle? What are you talking about?”

“The spell. You must complete the spell.” Even as she spoke, the wind was taking the rest of her mist-spun features until all that was left was the sparkle of ghostly tears. “Fear not the cat, sister, for he will not harm you.”

She meant Doyle, Kirby thought, and knew that, in this instance, Helen was wrong. Doyle might not harm her physically, but emotionally? He had the power to hurt her deeply. Irreparably.

I will always be with you, Kirby. Seek me whenever the wind calls. Take care …

The words caressed her mind and faded away. Kirby closed her eyes, rocking back and forth and battling the urge to scream. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t Helen who should be dead, but her. Helen had lived life to the fullest, enjoying every moment, while she … she’d done nothing more than fake it.

Biting her lip, she sat there for what seemed like ages, controlling the pain, refusing the tears. Not yet, she thought. Not until she’d made sense of Helen’s death and found the woman responsible. Not until justice had been done.

Eventually, she became aware of the cold touch of moisture seeping through her jeans, chilling her skin. She rose, her joints creaking in protest, and looked around. Though the mist was still heavy, the darkness was beginning to lift. In the trees above her, a magpie warbled, its melodious tones heralding the new day. Across the road, lights shone in the house two doors down from number twenty-eight. She frowned. People were waking. Doyle had better hurry up and get out of that house.