Circle of Death (Damask Circle 2)
“Do that. And keep in touch.”
He shoved the phone back into his pocket, then glanced at Kirby again. “You interested in breakfast?”
She shook her head. “I think I’ll throw up if I eat right now.”
He wasn’t entirely surpri
sed. Not after she’d walked into her home and found her friend ripped to shreds. “What about a shower?”
She raised a dark eyebrow. “You trust me to take a shower?”
He shrugged. “Believe me, I have very good hearing. You try to get out of that window, and I’ll know.”
“Oh.”
She didn’t move toward the bathroom, just continued to study him warily. Her green eyes gleamed as bright as a cat’s in the light flickering past the curtains. He frowned and glanced at them. Why were the curtains moving?
“What were you talking about on the phone? Who killed themselves?” She hesitated, then added, voice lowered, “What’s wrong?”
“I’m not sure.” He rose and stepped toward the window. Magic stirred, its touch so sharp it felt as if he’d walked into a hornet’s nest.
“Kirby, get dressed.”
She didn’t argue, simply scrambled out of bed and ran for her clothes. He narrowed his gaze, trying to concentrate on the flow of power. It condensed near the window, finding form, finding shape. And became the biggest damn wolf he’d ever seen.
KIRBY FROZE AND STARED AT THE CREATURE THAT had suddenly appeared before them. It was big, with a shaggy gray coat and wild yellow eyes that were somehow almost human. It looked like a wolf. It even snarled like a wolf. But wolves didn’t exist in Australia—not outside the confines of zoos, anyway. Maybe this one had escaped, though that didn’t explain how it had gotten past the locked door and windows and into their room.
The wolf took a pace forward. It snarled again, teeth gleaming brightly. She reached for the energy of the approaching dawn, drawing it in swiftly.
“Don’t,” Doyle said softly. “Wait.”
“Are you crazy?” But she clenched her fists, holding the power that flowed warmly across her fingers in check.
He continued to stare at the wolf. After a moment, the animal stopped snarling, but its head was still lowered, and it looked ready to attack.
“You are under a light glamour,” Doyle said softly to the wolf. “I can feel its restraints on you.”
Kirby frowned. A glamour was some kind of spell. She knew that much from Helen. But why would he think the wolf was under one? And why would he think a wolf would even understand or care?
“If you attack, you will die,” he continued. “You know what I am, and you know I am faster and stronger than you.”
The wolf didn’t move, just continued to stare at Doyle with an odd sort of intelligence in its eyes. It was almost as if it could understand what Doyle was saying, which meant it was a good two steps ahead of her.
“I can open the door and let you leave, or you can die. The choice is yours, wolf.”
No one moved—not Doyle, not the wolf, not her. Energy burned across her fists, flickering wild fingers of light across the ceiling. She continued holding her power in check, even though she doubted the sanity of doing so. After several seconds, the wolf sat back on its haunches.
“Wise move,” Doyle said and opened the door.
The wolf glanced at her a final time, then padded out.
Doyle locked the door and swung around. “Move. I don’t think we have much time before another attack comes.”
“How did that thing get in here?” She grabbed a pair of jeans out of her bag and pulled them on. She didn’t bother with socks, just slipped on her still damp running shoes over her bare feet.
He’d stripped off his coat and was pulling on his shirt. He had the body of an athlete—a runner. Trim, taut and well tanned. Very nice, even with the white ring of bandages around his ribs.
He glanced at her, amusement glimmering in his eyes. Heat stole across her cheeks. “Stop reading my thoughts and just answer my damn questions,” she snapped.