Circle of Death (Damask Circle 2)

Shoving her hands in her pockets, she walked back. At the car, she stopped, her gaze going to the second-floor window. There was nothing to see but shadows, but she frowned. Doyle was in trouble. Big trouble. How she knew this, she wasn’t sure. It was just a feeling—a certainty—deep in her mind. And she was just as certain that if she didn’t do something to help him, he would die. Something was in that room with him, something bigger and stronger than he was. Something from beyond the grave.

Not giving herself time to think—or fear—she ran toward the house.

DOYLE ROLLED BACK TO HIS FEET, ONLY TO BE CONFRONTED by a seven-foot mass of rotten flesh—something that had once been human, but now was not.

A goddamn zombie! And one of the biggest he’d ever seen. In a confined space like this, the odds of beating it weren’t exactly good. The stinking creatures were faster than they looked, and strong despite the decay.

It lunged toward him, and he backpedaled fast. A fist the size of a spade hammered the air. He ducked and swung, kicking the zombie in the gut. The blow bounced off the creature’s flesh and jarred his whole leg. It felt like he was kicking bricks. The zombie had to have been a boxer or bodybuilder in life to have stomach muscles that strong in death. He half wished he’d taken the time to put his boots back on. He had a bad feeling that bare feet weren’t going to make much of a dent in this particular dead man.

He danced away from another blow, then jabbed at the creature’s jaw. Its head snapped back, and it snarled—or smiled. It was a little hard to tell given half its mouth had decayed away. He jabbed again, but the zombie caught the blow in his fist and twisted hard. Pain burned white-hot up Doyle’s arm and sweat beaded his brow. Gritting his teeth, he dropped, sweeping the creature’s feet out from under it. It fell with a crash that shook the foundations of the building but began scrambling upright almost immediately. Doyle jerked his wrist from the zombie’s grasp, then punched the creature in the neck, feeling flesh and muscle give under his blow. The zombie’s eyes went wide and it started gasping, as if unable to breathe. Zombies weren’t the brightest creatures. They were dead and didn’t actually need air, but most didn’t realize that immediately, if ever.

He jumped toward it, wrapping an arm around its throat and squeezing tight. The zombie roared—a sound that came out strangled and harsh. It reached back, grabbing Doyle by the back of the neck and wrenching him over its head. Doyle hit the wall with a grunt and dropped in a heap to the floor, only to feel the boards quiver as the zombie ran at him. He scrambled away on all fours, resisting the sudden urge to shapeshift. A panther wouldn’t have a hope against the superior strength of this zombie. And in that form, he certainly couldn’t snap the creature’s neck—the only surefire way of killing it.

Fingers raked his side, seeking purchase. He rolled to his feet and grabbed the zombie’s arm, twisting around and pulling hard. The creature sailed past him and landed with a crash on its back. Doyle stiffened his fingers and knifed them toward the creature’s eyes. It moved, and he hit cheek instead, feeling flesh and bone give as its cheek caved in. Teeth gleamed at him in the brightening light of day.

Shuddering, he twisted, sweeping the creature off its feet again as it struggled to rise. It roared in frustration and lashed out. The blow caught the side of his face and sent him staggering. The creature was up almost instantly, arms outstretched as it sought to corner him.

He faked a blow to the creature’s head, then spun and lashed out at a bony-looking knee instead. The force of the blow shuddered up his leg, and in the silence, the crack of the creature’s knee shattering was audible. It didn’t seem to matter to the zombie, though. It staggered toward him, arms milling quicker than a high-speed fan and twice as deadly.

He couldn’t duck every blow. He was fast, but even the wind would have had trouble in this situation. The zombie’s fists hit him in the ribs. Red heat flashed through him. He hissed and spun, lashing out again at the zombie’s knee. This time, the whole knee bent backward and the creature howled, a sound loud enough to wake the dead—and the neighbors.

Downstairs, there was a crash, and magic burned across his skin. Someone had sprung the spell on the front door. Not Camille—she would have deactivated it first. Maybe one of the neighbors had heard all the noise and had decided to come in and see if there was a problem. If that were the case, he hoped the neighbor hadn’t been hurt.

He aimed another kick at the creature’s leg, but it sidestepped and caught his foot, thrusting him back. He hit the wall with a grunt, then ducked another blow. The creature’s fist hit the wall instead, and dust flew. It was so damn close its reek was almost overwhelming. Gut churning, he threw another punch, mashing the creature’s already bulbous nose. The creature howled. He spun, kicking the zombie in the gut, forcing it away, desperate to gain some room to move—and breathe.

Lightning seared through the room, encasing the zombie in a web of blue-white light and pinning it to the floorboards. It howled and thrashed but could not escape. The smell of burning flesh added depth to the already horrendous stench in the room.

Soon there was nothing left but a pile of ash on the floor. Kirby walked in, her gaze sweeping the room until she found him. “Are you all right?”

Though she was pale, the left side of her face was red, as if burned, and bits of dust and wood were caught in her hair.

“Are you?” he countered abruptly. “Did the spell on the door hurt you too much?”

She shook her head, but her gaze skated from his. Tears shimmered in her green eyes, and her mind was filled with pain. He winced as he stood and walked toward her. She didn’t retreat, didn’t move in any way. It was almost as if she were frozen by what she’d done.

I’ve never us

ed the energy to intentionally kill before.

The thought whispered through him, filled with such horror it nearly took his breath away. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She tensed, her gaze searching his briefly before she relaxed in his embrace and rested her cheek against his shoulder.

He held her close, listening to the wild beat of her heart—a rhythm that matched his own. Her body fitted his like a glove. She felt so warm against him, so right, somehow. It was as if he’d found the other half of himself. He closed his eyes at the thought. His father had once told him he would know when he found his mate. That it would hit him like a fist to the gut—suddenly, painfully. He had a horrible feeling the old man was right.

“You had no choice but to kill it,” he said. “I certainly don’t think I would have survived another round with it.”

He breathed deep the scent of her. She reminded him of spring—fresh and warm and rich with the scent of flowers.

She pulled back slightly, and he instantly regretted speaking.

“What was it?” Her breath washed warmth across his neck and stirred the already flaring embers of desire.

“Zombie,” he said, gently picking a sliver of wood from her hair. “And dead long before you got to it.”

Tears gleamed briefly in her eyes. She blinked them away and touched his cheek, her hand cool against his flesh. She must have taken his gloves off to use her magic.

“You look like shit.” A smile touched her lips. Lips that looked all too warm and inviting.

“Strange,” he murmured. “It’s just what I feel like.”