Circle of Death (Damask Circle 2)

She glanced toward the terraces. Doyle had told her to stay in the car, and it made perfectly good sense to do so. She could very easily walk into a trap, despite the fact that she could feel nothing dark or dangerous about the presence that waited.

Yet she wasn’t going to get any answers sitting around waiting for Doyle to do all the work. She grabbed the keys and climbed out of the car.

Damp fingers of mist crept across the back of her neck, and she shivered. She flipped up her jacket’s collar, then shoved her hands into the pockets and walked across the street. She stopped at the edge of the park, listening to the silence, studying the looming gum trees. Waiting, but for what she wasn’t entirely certain.

A warning instinct stirred. Something approached. She clenched her fists and felt the lightning dance warmth across her skin.

Ten feet in front of her, the mist stirred, gently at first but gradually becoming more frantic. The wind had died and nothing moved in the predawn darkness, yet the mist continued to condense. Gradually, the tiny droplets of water found shape, found form. Found life.

Became Helen.

THE ALLEY BEHIND THE ROW HOUSES LAY WRAPPED in shadows. Doyle walked in the middle of the lane to avoid the trash cans and scattered rubbish, his gaze searching the houses for any sign of life. As a thief, he’d loved this type of setup—houses with a small, private alley behind them. It was like shopping at a supermarket. All you had to do was walk along until you found the ripest fruit to pick.

When he reached number twenty-eight, he peered over the back fence, studying the yard intently. There was no movement and, more important, no dog smell. The last thing he needed right now was some too-alert mutt giving him away.

He climbed the fence. At the back door, he splayed his fingers across the lock, feeling for any hint of magic. Unlike the front door, this one was not triggered with a spell. Yet the feel of magic was still in the air—distant fireflies that lightly burned his skin. Someone inside the house was conjuring, though what, he wasn’t entirely sure.

He frowned and stepped back, studying the house. All the windows on the lower floor were boarded up. The top floors were clear, but there was no easy way of getting up there. The drain spouts didn’t look as if they’d support his weight, and he didn’t have his climbing gear or ropes with him. Nor was there a handy tree close by.

He turned his attention to the houses on either side. The one on the left had a balcony decorated with graceful arches of wrought iron. Perfect for climbing. He could get to the roof with little problem, then make his way across to the front of this terrace. From there, it should be easy enough to swing down onto the front balcony.

He’d have to go barefoot, though—his boots weren’t pliable enough, and would make too much noise on the old tin roofing. He took them off and shoved them into the carryall pockets inside his coat, half grinning as he imagined the sort of look Kirby would have given him. But he hadn’t lied to her earlier. His pockets did hold just about everything. As a thief, they’d certainly come in handy—the hidden ones more so than the obvious ones. And even now, with his thieving days long behind him, he still carried an extraordinary amount of stuff around in them, although these days it was more likely to be an assortment of charms and ready-to-use spells than the tools of his former trade.

Climbing the wrought iron proved exceptionally easy, even for someone as out of practice as he was. He pulled himself up onto the roof and followed the rows of nails across to the front of the building. On the balcony roof, he hesitated, listening. Nothing moved in the house below him, yet the distant touch of magic still skittered through him.

He peered over the edge. There was no light in any of the windows, no sense of anyone close. Whoever was performing the magic was on the ground floor, in the back half of the house. Maybe that was why there’d been no magical lock on the back door. There’d been no need with the magician so close.

He swung down and headed for the nearest window. The windows were the old sash-and-weight style, which were usually easy to open. He reached into another pocket and grabbed a lock pick, then slid it into the gap between the two windowpanes and carefully

knocked open the catch.

He slipped on some gloves, then slid the window open and looked inside. Furniture sat in the middle of the room, half covered by sheets, and several tins of paint were gathered in one corner. Rachel Grant was obviously in the process of redecorating. The question was, would she ever get the chance to finish? He had a feeling the answer was no.

He climbed into the room and slid the window shut. The last thing he needed right now was a breeze springing to life and gusting fresh air through the house. It would be warning enough to whoever was below that someone had entered.

He walked to the door and carefully looked out. The stairs were at the end of the long, dark hallway. Light rose from below, a pale blue glow that seemed to flicker in and out of focus.

Frowning, he headed toward the stairs, keeping close to the walls so there was less chance of hitting a squeaking floorboard. The buzz of magic got sharper, prickling his skin with heat. With it came a murmur. Someone was chanting. Someone whose voice was young and rich. Not the old woman who’d greeted them at the door, if she’d even been real in the first place. Somehow, he doubted it.

But whoever was casting the spell was walking the dark path, not the light. The stench of evil lay heavy in the darkness, overriding even the sharp smell of fresh paint. He hesitated at the base of the stairs, listening.

The tempo of magic increased, its touch searing. The spell was reaching a peak. The light pulsed rapidly in the darkness, its color now a sickly yellow-green touched by red—blood red. It was coming from a room down at the far end of the hall. He stepped forward, then hesitated as a shadow whisked across the brightness. Its shape was a woman’s, not a man’s.

There was a bright flash, then a wave of energy crashed around him, burning through his mind and sending him reeling back against the wall. He grunted in pain, every intake of breath parching his throat.

The chanting stopped abruptly, and the sense of evil left the house. Cursing, he pushed away from the wall and staggered down the hall.

And found Rachel Grant.

She was lying on her back in the middle of the kitchen floor. If the look on her face was anything to go by, death had caught her by surprise. There was a shattered teapot near her left hand and a still burning candle near her feet. The black river of tea had run across the tiles, mingling with the blood that surrounded the back of her head.

He squatted next to her, lightly touching her neck. No pulse—not that he expected any with the amount of blood on the floor. But her skin still held a touch of warmth. She hadn’t been dead long. He’d missed saving her by maybe ten minutes. Ten lousy minutes.

Biting back his anger, he rose and walked across to the table. The tea in the mugs was still warm. Rachel had known her attacker—known and trusted her. Why else would she have let the woman into her house at this hour of the morning and made her a cup of tea?

He turned, studying the kitchen. The candle’s small flame flickered at her feet, barely breaking the darkness. He frowned. It was a rather odd place to stick a candle, and it certainly wouldn’t have provided the two women with much light. Then he saw the color of the wax—black. It was the sort of candle used in spells.

Frowning, he studied the floor. There were smudges of ash scattered around Rachel’s body. Though the lines were now broken, the shape of the pentagram was still evident.