Circle of Death (Damask Circle 2)

A tremor ran through her, and the energy playing across her fingers became fierce enough to stand on end the hairs along her arms. She continued on down the driveway.

The garage loomed, dark and cavernous. No sunlight filtered in past the entrance; it was almost as if a curtain of night had been drawn across it.

Might as well be entering hell itself, she thought, and had a horrible feeling that might be the case.

Thunder rumbled, closer than before. She looked up one more time at the blue skies and hoped she lived to see them again.

Then, taking a deep breath, she stepped past the curtain and entered the parking garage.

THERE WAS SOMETHING ON DOYLE’S BACK, PRESSING down hard, squashing him. Every breath hurt—the air burned, scorching his throat and his lungs. Heat licked at his feet, his legs. He groaned and tried to move. Fire twisted down his side, a living thing that threatened to consume his consciousness.

He groaned again and tried to open his eyes. Couldn’t. Something seemed to be gluing them shut. He sniffed the air and regretted it almost instantly. It was pungent and gaseous, and seemed to burn through his entire body. He coughed so hard it felt as if he were tearing apart.

“Doyle!” Russell’s shout seemed to be coming from a great distance.

“Here.” The word came out harsh but little more than a whisper.

The weight pressed deeper. He fought to breathe, to stay conscious. The heat of the flames danced across his feet, and the smell of burning leather joined the junket of toxic odors surrounding him.

“Doyle! Answer me, damn it.”

Here, he wanted to say, here! But the words lodged somewhere in his throat and refused to budge. Sounds reached through to his prison—the scrape of metal against concrete, a grunt of effort, the sharp sound of swearing. He smiled. Camille had never been much of a lady.

Dirt showered him. The weight on his back shifted, and pain shot through his leg, reflecting across his entire body. A scream tore at his throat, but it came out as little more than a hiss. Swearing filled the air, as colorful as the smoke surrounding him. He coughed again, harsher and longer, until spasms shook his body and it felt like he was going to throw up. Then the weight lifted from his back and leg, and suddenly he could breathe again. Only the fresh air sent him into another spasm of coughing and made him wish for the bliss of unconsciousness.

Hands grabbed him, hauling him upright. The world blurred, and then he was out in bright light, with the warmth of the late afternoon sun glaring down on him. That was quickly replaced by cool darkness. The van, he thought vaguely, looking around. But hadn’t that been blown up?

Moisture dribbled across his lips. He licked at it quickly, desperate to ease the burning in his throat.

“Easy with that,” Camille said from his right. “Not too much or he’ll throw up.”

“I know, I know.” Russell’s voice sounded impatient and worried.

I’m okay, he wanted to say, but his vocal cords still refused to work. Something cool and moist touched his face, wiping the stickiness from his eyes. He blinked and opened them. A man knelt in front of him, his head and hands swathed in bandages that were covered in soot and dirt. He blinked, but the vision refused to go away.

“Russell?” His question came out as little more than a harsh croak.

The bandaged face nodded. Doyle looked to his left and saw the bright sunshine peeping past the black plastic covering the van’s back windows. He realized then that Russell was wearing the bandages for protection. It was the only way he possibly could have ventured out into the sunlight without burning up.

“Keep still a while,” Russell said. “Camille’s fixing your leg.”

Russell lifted the cup, dribbling more moisture into his mouth. He swished it around, then swallowed. The fire in his throat began to ease. He looked down, but couldn’t see anything beyond Camille’s back. Couldn’t feel anything beyond an odd sort of numbness in his right leg.

Fear stirred his gut. “What’s wrong with my leg?”

“A large chunk of metal has speared your thigh. It missed the bone, but that’s about all it missed,” Russell said. “Camille’s plastered the area with a numbing salve and has cut off what she could, but basically, that’s all we can do beyond getting you to a hospital. If we try to take it out here, you’ll bleed to death.”

At least that explained the numbness in his leg. He drank a few more drops of water and rolled his neck, trying to ease the ache. It felt as if someone had played baseball with his entire body.

“Not if I shapeshift. It’ll heal enough to stop me from bleeding out.”

Camille’s expression showed serious doubt. “I’m not sure—”

“But I am. Do it, then bandage it tight. It’ll hold, Camille.” He sure as hell wasn’t going to any damn hospital. Not when that mad bitch was still running around out there.

Camille took a deep breath, then nodded. “You ready?”

“Go for it.” He released his grip on the knife and tensed, even though he knew it was completely the wrong thing to do. He felt the momentary pressure on his leg as Camille gripped the rod; then, without warning, she ripped it free. A scream tore up his throat, and for a moment, everything went black. He could feel the warmth gushing down his leg, and he knew that if he didn’t do something quick, he’d die.