Circle of Death (Damask Circle 2)

She looked away from the old woman’s knowing gaze. Part of her wanted to believe that such a thing as predestined love could exist, if only because it would mean that there might be someone out there for her, that she wasn’t fated to spend the rest of her life alone—a fear that had been with her for as long as she could remember. A fear that even Helen’s presence in her life hadn’t eased.

But if she did let go, did take the chance and give in to the attraction she felt for Doyle, she was more than a little certain she’d end up getting hurt. In some ways, he reminded her of Helen. He seemed to like walking the edge, courting danger. He didn’t seem the type to want to settle down, and that was the one thing she wanted above anything else. Stability. A place to call her own. “What’s so special about his family?” she said eventually.

Camille laughed, a short, sharp sound of amusement. “Ask him sometime about his dad and his granddad.” She glanced in the rearview mirror. “There’s an address in the glove compartment, along with a satnav. Find Doyle, then hide somewhere safe for the night. Tell him to contact me when you’re settled.”

Kirby opened the glove box and found both the satnav and address. “What about the woman we’re supposed to be looking for? Shouldn’t we be trying to find her before the murderer does?”

“For the moment, it looks like the murderer has set her sights on you. Russell and I will continue the search tonight, and we’ll see what happens after that.”

She tucked the two bits of paper into her pocket and noticed Camille looking in the rearview mirror again. Tension ran through her. “Are we being followed?”

“Maybe. There’s a large white car that appears to be mighty interested in where we’re going.” The old woman’s voice was vague, her attention more on the mirror than on the road. She reached into her pocket and withdrew what looked like a string of diamond-shaped beads. “Take these.”

Kirby did. They felt warm against her skin and pulsed slightly, as if alive. These were no ordinary beads, obviously. She frowned. “What are they?”

“A shield, of sorts. It won’t work for more than a couple of minutes, but that’s all you’re going to need.”

“Why do I need a shield?” She clenched her fingers around the string of beads and felt the sharp edges cut into her palm. An odd tingle of electricity ran through her.

“Because you’re going to get out of the car and walk away as if you had all the time in the world.”

Her frown deepened. “But isn’t that a little dangerous? If we are being followed, they’ll see me, plain as day.”

“Not with that shield, they won’t. It’ll warp your appearance long enough to fool whoever’s following us.”

She glanced down at the beads clenched in her hands. Odd that something so incongruous could do magic powerful enough to change a person’s appearance, if only for a few minutes. “When am I going to do this?”

“I’m going to run the next red light and do a quick left. I remember seeing a small café on my way to the police station. Walk down there, get yourself a coffee and a seat, and don’t move for a good ten minutes. By then, I should be well clear.”

Camille had slowed the van as she was talking, but the minute the lights ahead changed to red, she flattened the accelerator. The scream of the tires mingled with abuse from scattering pedestrians as she sped through the light and into the next street.

“I’m not stopping long,” Camille muttered, “so grab your bag and get ready to jump.”

Kirby undid her seat belt, the beads and her bag gripped in one hand and the other braced against the dash. The van slid to a stop. She wrenched open the door and clambered out—and barely had time to slam the door shut before the old woman was off again, burning rubber as she disappeared up the street. She had to have been a race car driver sometime in her life, Kirby thought as she headed for the café. She’d barely made it inside when a white sedan thundered past.

“Teenagers,” a woman in the shop muttered. Kirby wondered what the woman would say if she knew one of those teenagers was at least sixty. After ordering a coffee, she sat down at a table near the back of the café and got out her phone, dialing directory assistance. Within a couple of minutes she had the number of the nearest car rental agency. She called them, got their address and made arrangements to rent a car.

An hour later she cruised down the Calder Freeway, heading toward Gisborne. According to the address she’d entered into the satnav, Doyle was being held on a farm sitting on the outskirts of the small township, close to the Macedon Ranges foothills.

Which didn’t exactly make sense. If the woman was powerful enough to transport someone Doyle’s size so far, why was she bothering to kill the circle? Surely her powers were greater than all of theirs combined. And why leave Doyle alive? It was odd—especially since her actions up until now suggested she had no qualms about killing. Kirby drove through Gisborne, then slowed, looking for the right road. She turned right, and the asphalt gave way to dirt and dust. If there were any guards on this farm, they’d see her coming a mile away. She bit her lip and slowed, watching the numbers on the roadside mailboxes. They slowly climbed, as did the road. The gums huddled closer, casting deep shadows through which the occasional beam of sunlight danced.

Eventually she found number thirty-eight and pulled off the road, squeezing the small Honda behind the wattles that framed the driveway with a haze of yellow. After locking the car, she made her way toward the gate. It was chained and padlocked. She climbed over it and walked up the deeply rutted driveway. Cicadas sang around her, their noise almost piercing.

She wiped the sweat from her forehead and glanced skyward. Trees sighed in the breeze, but despite this, it suddenly felt a hundred times hotter up here near the mountains than it had in the city. She wished she had a drink. Her throat felt so dry it was aching.

A house appeared through the trees up ahead. It was long and ramshackle in style and looked somewhat forlorn. She slowed, wondering if anyone was home. Wondering if there were guards—or dogs. But nothing moved. The curtains were drawn across the windows, and no clothes fluttered on the washing line. She walked on carefully. No dogs barked or emerged from the shadows.

Where was Doyle? Surely he couldn’t be in the house. It didn’t look strong enough to contain a gnat, let alone a fairly ingenious thief. But if he wasn’t in the house, where was he?

Doyle? she queried tentatively.

Warmth rushed through her mind, its force so strong it knocked her several steps backward.

Kirby? What in hell are you doing here? There was both relief and anger in his mind-voice. He obviously didn’t want her here—or at least, he didn’t want her in the line of fire.

And that annoyed the hell out of her. I’ll turn around and leave, if you prefer.

No! He hesitated, and his sigh shimmered through her, a breeze so cool when compared to the heat of his mind’s touch. No. I’m sorry. It’s just that the rock on the top of this tank has been spelled. It might be safer to call Camille in.