Circle of Death (Damask Circle 2)

Watching the energy-forming hand, he stepped back.

And fell into darkness.

THE HIGH-PITCHED HOWL FILLED THE AIR, AND GOOSE bumps chased down Kirby’s spine. She froze, listening to the sound and wondering what in hell was coming after them now. Then, as abruptly as it started, the sound stopped.

But the silence that followed was in some ways more frightening.

“Doyle?” She leaned over the banister and tried to look down. She couldn’t see him, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t there. She couldn’t see her handbag or the front door, either, and she knew the front door, at least, would be there.

Doyle? she queried tentatively. Still no response. And the wash of warmth that she’d come to associate with the odd connection forming between them was gone, leaving her feeling suddenly bereft.

She bit her lip, then picked up her bag and slowly edged down the stairs. Lightning streaked across her fingers, sending jagged edges of light flickering across the walls.

“Doyle?” she repeated, hesitating halfway down.

Still nothing. Her handbag was lying near the door, contents scattered across the carpet. Her car keys didn’t seem to be among them, although the wallet that held her credit cards and driver’s license was.

Where the hell was he?

She edged down the remaining stairs and stopped again, listening. Nothing moved. The silence seemed so intense it was like a hammer, battering at her.

With her heart thumping somewhere in her throat, she edged toward the front door. Why had he tipped everything out of her handbag? Something glinted in the morning light, catching her eye. She bent, frowning. It was a small silver coin etched with a star. It was nothing she’d ever owned—or seen—before.

Even as she watched, the coin began to dissolve, until there was nothing but a small patch of black dust staining the carpet. Some form of magic, obviously, meant to capture or kill her. And Doyle, who could sense the presence of magic, had somehow been caught by it.

Fear shot through her, and her stomach churned. God, if he was hurt or dead because of her—because of his stupid insistence that he had to protect her—she didn’t know if she could ever forgive herself.

She picked up the wallet, then rose and stared out the front window for a moment. She had to try to find him, but how? She could no lo

nger hear the warm whisper of his thoughts, and she didn’t want to think about the implications of that. He wasn’t dead. She had to believe that, if nothing else, or panic might set in.

She turned, her gaze skating past the blood and outlines in the living room. Her car keys were missing, but Helen had a spare set on her key ring. Only trouble was, they were probably hanging on the key holder near the refrigerator, and to get them, she’d have to go past all the gore in the kitchen.

Not something she wanted to do, but she had very little choice. They couldn’t keep using taxis to get around. It would cost them a fortune.

She took a deep, calming breath and headed into the kitchen. Her stomach churned, threatening to revolt as she edged past the thick, dark pools, smashed crockery and taped outlines. Snatching the keys from the hook, she ran for the back door and out into the yard, where she was violently sick.

After a while, she rinsed out her mouth with water from the outside tap and resolutely headed into the garage, opening the door just in time to see more cops pull into her driveway.

“WELL, WELL, WELL,” A COLD VOICE SAID INTO THE silence. “It looks like my little trap caught the cat rather than the mouse.”

Doyle rolled onto his back and rubbed his eyes. He felt as though he’d been picked up and thrown around like some rag doll, and given the howl of the wind before he’d stepped into nothingness, maybe that impression wasn’t far off.

Beyond the speaker’s whisper of breath to his left, he could hear the rustle of leaves and a bird’s piping tune. The air was an odd mixture of smells—sweet and fresh, free of the usual fumes that were associated with city living, and yet touched by a muskiness usually linked with damp basements. He flexed his fingers. Concrete met his touch—cold, wet and just a little slimy.

“I know you’re awake, so stop your foxing. I’m not coming anywhere near you, if that’s your plan.”

The voice was rich and soft—the same voice he’d heard performing the spell at Rachel’s. He opened his eyes. A square patch of sunlight swam before them, framing and shadowing the face that stared down at him. A face that was thin and long and crowned by short, dark hair. Felicity Barnes, he thought, and wondered if it was her real name or an assumed one. Wondered if this was her real face or a disguise. The slight wash of magic suggested it was the latter.

“What do you plan to do?” he asked, his gaze sweeping his surroundings. The room was circular and fully concrete. By the look of it, it was an old tank of some kind.

“With you? Nothing. You’re not what I intended to catch at all.”

For which he had to be extremely thankful. Though in some respects, Kirby was probably better equipped to deal with this situation than he was. At least her lightning could have blasted a way out.

“You can stay here and rot,” the woman continued. “I’m certainly not going to waste my strength on the likes of you.”

Now that his eyes were getting used to the darkness, he could see her features more clearly. Her face was extremely gaunt, her eyes protruding and ringed with shadows, and her mouth little more than a slash of pale blue. Blood magic was sucking her dry, he thought. Maybe that was why she was killing the rest of the circle. She wanted power without cost.