Circle of Fire (Damask Circle 1)

Someone had shot him, but not with a gun, as Madeline had presumed. Someone in Taurin Bay knew what he was. He’d used arrows made of white ash, a wood that was deadly to those with magic in their souls when embedded in their flesh.

He’d broken off most of the shaft, but a section remained, and while it was probably the only reason he hadn’t bled to death, it was also slowly but surely killing him.

Oddly enough, he felt no pain. Not now, anyway. Maybe it was the cold. Maybe it was the numbness beginning to infuse his body. Or maybe he was as thick-skinned as many of his friends believed.

He grimaced and closed his eyes. He’d thought about dying many times in his life, but he never thought death would come like this, with him lying helpless and alone in the cold, cold night.

And yet, in some ways, it was oddly fitting. He’d spent most of his adult life alone, so why not die the same way?

He wouldn’t have cared much, either, if only he’d had the chance to see his family one more time and explain why he’d avoided them so much over the last ten years.

An owl hooted softly in the distance. He listened carefully, then heard the soft snap of wings, the small cry of a field mouse. If the owls were out looking for a meal, it meant there was no one about to disturb their hunting. And therefore, no one hunting him. Trapped down this damn well, he’d be easy pickings. A day had passed since he’d been shot. By all rights, he should be safe from attackers, but he’d learned over the years never to relax his guard.

He toed the water lapping the edges of the small ledge. The water had been his salvation in more ways than one. It had broken his fall and, no doubt, saved his life. And it was drinkable, which meant he wasn’t in any danger of dehydration. But it might yet kill him, too. His abilities gave him some protection against the cold, but he knew he was starting to push his limits. His plunge into the water had soaked every bit of his clothing, and now he was so cold it hurt to move.

If Madeline did find the courage to come to his rescue, she might discover nothing more than a five-foot-ten-inch icicle.

Madeline—what was he going to do about her? How could he convince her that she was sane and that he really needed her help? What had happened in her life that made her so afraid?

A wave of dizziness hit him, and there was nothing he could do except ride out the feeling. He probably had enough strength left to contact her one mo

re time. If he couldn’t convince her to help him, he’d just have to hope that someone in the Circle realized he was in trouble and came to his rescue.

Because if someone didn’t, more kids would die.

THE SNOW HAD TURNED TO RAIN, WHICH FELL IN A SOAKING mist. Rivers of water were beginning to run past the house, scouring tiny trenches along the freshly graded driveway. The tops of the cedars, claret ashes, and silver birches that crowded the fence line were lost to the mist, and though dawn should have come and gone, night still seemed to hold court.

Maddie raised the coffee mug she held between both hands and took a sip. The wind was bitter, but the wide old verandah protected her from the worst of the storm, and her threadbare coat kept her warm enough. She couldn’t face going indoors just yet. As much as she’d tried to go back to sleep, she couldn’t. The old house suddenly felt too big, too full of ghosts …

Except for one.

She sighed and leaned back against a verandah post. She couldn’t shake Jon from her thoughts. Couldn’t shake the desperation she’d glimpsed in his eyes.

What if he really was in need of her help?

She sipped her coffee and stared out across the snow-flung wilderness of her yard. In a last-ditch effort to salvage her life, she’d moved to Oregon to be a little closer to her sister and nephew, and had bought this house and its untamed three acres six years ago. It had become her haven, the one place she felt truly safe. Or it had until a ghost had started invading her nights.

Still, she had no real wish to be anywhere else. The flowers she raised in the barn she’d converted to a greenhouse made small luxuries possible, and she had enough money invested to see her through the hard times. Even Jayne had given up her efforts to get Maddie back into what she called “mainstream” life.

Maddie chewed on her lip. The question she had to face was clear. Could she simply stand by and let Jon die?

If she believed him, the answer was no. But that was the crux of the matter. Part of her was afraid to believe, and part of her was afraid not to. She took another sip of coffee and shivered as the wind ran icy fingers across the back of her neck.

Then she stiffened. Something told her she was no longer alone. Slowly, she turned.

Jon stood several feet away, his face as pale as the snow behind him, blue eyes still bright despite the shadows beneath them. He looked like death, and the thought chilled her soul.

“What can I do to make you believe me?” he asked softly.

There was a hoarseness to his voice that had not been evident a few hours before, an edge of weariness and pain that tore at her need to stay safe.

“Maybe it’s not a case of me believing you. Maybe it’s just a case of knowing I can’t help you.”

He ran a hand through his hair and looked away, appearing to study the silvery drops dripping steadily from a hole in the gutter. “Then you have killed me as surely as those who shot me,” he whispered after a moment.

“No!” She closed her eyes. How could she ever survive the weight of another death, whether or not it was her fault? “Isn’t there someone I could contact, maybe a friend in a better position to help?”

“My companions live in Washington, D.C., and my time is running out.” He looked at her. “You’re my only chance, Madeline. Please.”