He leaned forward and switched the heater to full blast. “And what question would that be?”
She made an exasperated sound. “Why are you here?” she repeated. “And how do you know my name?”
The lights changed to red up ahead. Doyle braked and glanced at the rearview mirror. Though he couldn’t see anything, he knew the manarei was out there. Its grief was so strong the night reeked with it.
“I’m here because an old witch told me to be.”
“And I suppose this old witch just happened to tell you my name, as well?” Her voice was sharp with disbelief.
“Actually, yes, she did.” He shifted gears and edged forward, wishing the lights would hurry up and change again.
“I see.”
The tone of her voice told him she didn’t. She stared out the window for several seconds. Tension rode her slender frame. Ready to run, Doyle thought, and he knew that if she did, she’d die.
“Look,” he said, trying to keep his voice as calm and nonthreatening as possible, “I’m a private investigator. I’m working on a case that bears striking similarities to what happened to your friend tonight, and I came to investigate. That’s all, nothing more.”
Though this was a lie. In truth, he’d been sent out in advance of the murders, but he knew she would never believe that.
Her eyes narrowed. “Then why did you stop back there? Why come down Grice Street at all if you were going to my place?”
He shrugged. “I got lost.” The lights finally went green. He pressed the accelerator and sped off.
She studied him for several long seconds. “You’re a liar, Doyle Fitzgerald.”
He glanced at her. Her green eyes were flecked with silver and gleamed brightly in the darkness. So pretty, and yet so full of anguish and mistrust. “I’m not lying about the reason I’m here.”
“Maybe.” She looked away. “And maybe you’d better just stop and let me—” She hesitated, and gasped.
The shadows moved ahead, and the streetlights gleamed off the metal garbage can hurtling toward them. Doyle braked hard, and the car slewed sideways. The can hit the hood of the car, then bounced into the windshield, sending a web of cracks racing through the glass before rolling off into the rain-swept darkness.
Through the cracks, Doyle could see the manarei, eyes gleaming yellow fire as it raced toward them. He cursed and threw the gears into reverse. The tires spun, then gripped, and the car lurched backward.
But not nearly fast enough.
“Look out!” Kirby screamed a second before something heavy again hit the hood.
Glass shattered, flying everywhere. Kirby screamed again, a sound lost to the manarei’s howl. It reached through the large hole it had created in the windshield, claws slashing wildly. Doyle braked, but the sudden stop failed to dislodge the creature. He thrust the car into neutral, then threw a punch, connecting with the creature’s jaw. The force of the blow jarred his whole arm but had little effect on the manarei. He might as well have been hitting concrete.
He grabbed the tire iron he always kept under car seats for emergencies like this and smashed it into the creature’s mouth. The manarei recoiled, shaking its head, splattering Doyle and Kirby with blood. Then it snarled and lashed at him again. He thrust back in the seat as far as he could, but the claws raked his side, tearing past his coat and into skin. He cursed and hit it again.
Blue fire leapt through the night. Kirby, her hands ablaze, touched the creature’s arm. The lightning leaped from her fingers and shot across the manarei’s body, encasing it in light. The smell of burnt flesh rent the air, and the creature howled again—this time a sound full of pain rather than anguish. Doyle grabbed his gun and scrambled out.
The wind whipped at his coat, and the rain stung his skin. He braced himself against the door and raised the gun. The manarei twisted around violently, trying to free itself from the web of energy that somehow pinned it to the hood of the car. Its skin was smoldering, and one large chunk near its chest had peeled away and was flapping in the wind. Kirby’s power, whatever it was, would have killed anything human.
The creature looked around, eyes gleaming malevolently. Then it lunged forward, straight at Kirby. The web stretched with the creature’s movement, the tendrils of power becoming thinner and thinner until, ultimately, they snapped. Doyle squeezed the trigger. The sounds of the shots were muted, lost quickly in the howl of the wind. Blood and bone sprayed through the night, and the creature dropped to the road. It didn’t move.
Neither did he, not for several seconds. Manarei, like snakes, had been known to keep moving, to keep reacting, even after death. It was usually better to leave them completely alone, but right now he couldn’t afford to do that, just in case the creature wasn’t dead. He walked to the front of the car, gun held at the ready. He had only two bullets left. If the manarei was still alive after having two bullets plugged into it, then two more probably weren’t going to make a huge difference.
The creature lay on the road, a huddled mass of leathery skin that wasn’t going anywhere. One bullet had torn into its brain, the other into its heart. The creature’s whole body was bubbling, steaming, disintegrating. Soon there would be nothing left but a stain that the lashing rain would quickly wash away.
A gasp made him look up. Kirby had climbed out of the car and was looking wide-eyed at the creature. She covered her mouth with shaking fingers, and her face was white—too white.
He raced around the car and caught her slumping body a second before she cracked her head against the road. He picked her up and placed her back in the car. She was lighter than he’d expected—beneath the bulkiness of her coat, she was obviously little more than skin and bone.
He fastened her seat belt, then slammed the door shut and went back to look at the manarei. It was now little more than a bubbling, pulpy mass. One of the great side effects of silver bullets, he thought grimly. They made the cleanup a whole lot easier.
He climbed into the car and started it up again. The rain was driving in through the hole in the windshield, its touch icy. Despite this, he could feel warmth trickling down his side. He’d have to tend to his wounds—and Kirby’s—as soon as possible. Manarei were filthy creatures, and infection was an all-too-real possibility.