Circle of Death (Damask Circle 2)

She did. He repeated the whole process on her hand, then rose and carried the bloody water over to the sink.

“If all goes well, your wounds should be basically healed come morning,” he said, rinsing the bowl and filling it again.

If they were healed by the morning, it would be nothing short of a miracle. Or magic, she thought with a chill. “You want me to wash your wounds?”

He shook his head. “I’ll do it. You get out of those wet clothes and into bed.”

She raised an eyebrow and didn’t move. He thrust a hand through his shaggy hair and looked more than a little annoyed. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, stop acting so immature. If I wanted sex, I sure as hell wouldn’t be here with you. I don’t find you that attractive.”

Though she should have been totally relieved, his words inexplicably hurt. She looked away. A man with his looks could have the pick of the crop. Why would he waste his time on someone like her?

And why was she even worrying about it?

She frowned. “I’m not changing with you standing there watching.” And yet the thought of doing just that excited her. She crossed her arms and wondered if she was going out of her mind.

“Then I’ll be in the bathroom.” He picked up the antiseptic, the bandages and the dried herbs, then hesitated. “You will stay in this room, won’t you?”

“I promise not to leave,” she murmured.

“Don’t promise me anything if you don’t damn well mean it,” he said and walked from the room.

She shook her head. Doyle Fitzgerald was certainly proving to be a man of extremes—he could kill without a second’s thought, yet he seemed to believe in the integrity of something as fragile as a promise. And she had a feeling she hadn’t even begun to scratch the surface of the enigma he presented.

She rose and quickly stripped. Once she’d hung her sodden clothes over the back of the kitchen chairs to dry, she pulled a shirt out of her backpack and slipped it on. Then she dug out the present and stared at it intently. If Helen had guessed she might not be around for Kirby’s birthday, why hadn’t she tried to avoid that fate? It wouldn’t have been the first time they’d done that … The toilet flushed, reminding her that she wasn’t alone. She shoved the present back into the pack and climbed into bed, pulling the blankets up around her nose. Not that she really thought Doyle would harm her in any way.

Warmth finally began to creep through her body. She yawned hugely and closed her eyes, listening to the howl of the wind outside. The wind of change, she thought. Goose bumps raced across her flesh. What changes did the wind whisper about tonight? The urge to get up and go outside to listen was so strong that she flipped the blankets aside. But the chilled air hit her skin and knocked the fanciful thought from her mind. It wouldn’t have done any good, anyway. Helen was the one who could read the nuances of the breeze, not her.

She yawned again and snuggled deeper into the blankets. But as she drifted into sleep, the wind whispered through her thoughts, speaking of changes that would affect her heart and her soul.

Speaking of power that was hers to claim—if she dared.

SHE WAS ASLEEP BY THE TIME DOYLE WALKED OUT OF the bathroom. Given her prickly demeanor, he had expected her to be nose deep in the blankets, fingers afire with electricity, waiting to attack should he decide to pounce.

To find her curled up in bed and snoring softly was definitely a surprise.

Maybe he’d misjudged her. Or maybe the night’s events had simply worn her down to the point of sheer exhaustion. It was actually a miracle she was still alive. Very few people lived through the attack of one manarei, let alone two. Either she was very lucky or there was more to her abilities than what he’d seen so far.

He draped his wet socks and freshly washed shirt next to her clothing, then pulled on his coat to keep warm. After making himself a cup of coffee, he walked across to the table and went through Kirby’s pack. Just as she’d said, there was nothing there. Nothi

ng that even vaguely resembled a tracker. Which didn’t mean that either a piece of clothing or one of the toiletries couldn’t be spelled; he might be magic sensitive, but that didn’t mean he could feel all magic. And a well-woven, well-hidden spell was a difficult find even for someone like Camille.

He drank some coffee, then dug the phone out of his pocket and called Russell.

“Hey, wild man. How’s it going?” Russ said, sounding more alive than any dead man had a right to sound.

Doyle grinned. “Sounds like you’ve had a breakthrough.”

“A minor one. Seems Kirby Brown and Helen Smith were dumped on hospital doorsteps as babes on exactly the same day. No trace of their parents was ever found, and both were later placed for adoption. Interestingly enough, they both ended up in the very same center for troubled teenagers as eleven-year-olds.”

Kirby, at least, had never been adopted. He’d caught that much from her thoughts. She’d been shuffled around various foster homes, never staying at one for more than a few months. He wondered why. “Maybe that center is our connection.”

“Camille’s certain it is.”

“What is she up to at the moment?”

“She’s headed off to the morgue to get a look at Smith’s remains.”

Doyle picked up one end of the sofa, moving it around until it was positioned in such a way that he had a clear view of the door, the window, and Kirby. “Has she tried to do another reading?”