Circle of Death (Damask Circle 2)

He ran his hand down to her hip and cupped her again, caressing her, gently at first, then more urgently as her breathing grew sh

arp and wildfire ran through the link, threatening to explode. As the shudders began to overtake her, he shifted, thrusting himself inside her. She groaned, a soft sound of pleasure he echoed. Her heat encased him, her muscles contracting against him as her climax grew. She touched his hip, holding him close, her movements as urgent as his. He thrust hard and fast, wanting, needing to come with her. Then the wildfire exploded, and her climax sent him spiraling beyond control and into bliss.

For several minutes he could do nothing more than simply lie there, wrapped in the warmth of her body, too contented, too spent, to move. A man could get used to this, he thought, and fervently hoped she’d give him the chance to do just that. While he had no doubts about his feelings—or hers—he still wasn’t sure whether she’d step past her fears and look toward the future.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, after a while.

“Wonderful,” she said, and turned to face him.

Her eyes were still ringed by the ethereal silver-gray of a storm witch.

“What?” she asked, the warmth fleeing her expression and replaced by fear.

“Nothing,” he said, as calmly as he could. “It’s just your eyes. They’ve changed color.”

She scrambled out of the bed and ran to the mirror. For several seconds she simply stood and stared, her fists clenched and every muscle taut. Then she reached out, touching her reflection, as if not quite believing it was she. “How is that possible?” she whispered. “How could my eyes change like that?”

“I would say it has something to do with the spell and the powers involved.” He hesitated. “Other than your eyes, do you feel any different?”

She shook her head, and outlined her reflection’s eyes with her fingers. “I look like Helen.”

“I’ve seen photos of the two of you, and you’ve always looked like her.” The silver edge in her eyes only made it more noticeable.

“But … it’s not me. I look in the mirror, and I see Helen. I don’t see me anymore.”

He rose and wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. She was trembling, but whether it was from fear or cold he wasn’t sure. “What I see is what I have always seen—a beautiful, courageous woman with amazing eyes. Whether those eyes are green or gray or a bit of both doesn’t really matter. It’s only a surface alteration. It doesn’t alter who you are inside.”

“But I don’t know who I am anymore.” There was more than a hint of despair in her voice. “Everything’s been twisted around. The past I remember has turned out to be nothing more than a lie, and it’s killing people. It killed Helen …”

She broke off, a sob catching in her throat. He turned her around, and she buried her face against his chest. Tears tracked silently down his skin, their touch warm. He brushed a kiss over the top of her head and just held her. Nothing he said would make any difference right now. Too much had happened in too brief a period, and she just needed time to sort it all out.

Though time was the one commodity they didn’t have a lot of.

As if to confirm the thought, his phone rang. Kirby jumped, her fingers clenching against his side. He brushed another kiss across her head, then released her and walked across to the pile of their clothes. He picked up his still damp coat, dug into a pocket and dragged out his phone.

“We got problems,” Camille said immediately.

He rubbed a hand across his eyes. More problems was the last thing they needed. “What?”

“Russell’s been attacked. They grabbed Trina and left him for dead.”

But obviously not dead dead, he thought with relief, or Camille’s tone would not be so calm. “How badly is he hurt?”

Camille snorted. “That fool witch obviously doesn’t know much about vampires. Even Hollywood knows a stake through the heart is one of the better ways to incapacitate—”

“Camille—”

She sighed. “She shot him through the heart. Didn’t even use a silver bullet. Then she roped him in front of the window. Maybe she just intended to let him fry.”

“From what I’ve seen, that’s more her style. She seems to like her victims to suffer.” And thanks to that desire, Russell was still alive. It would have been a different story had she aimed for his head. “Where is he now?”

“Still at the motel. The manager heard the ruckus and called the cops, and by the time Russ had it sorted out, it was daylight.”

Kirby stood beside him. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and shifted the phone so that she could hear. “So, what’s the plan?”

“I’ve done a reading from some hair I snipped off Trina. She’s being held at some warehouse down near the docks.”

Surprise rippled through him. “She’s not dead yet?” Why? Particularly when every other time the witch had killed, she’d done so as quickly—and painfully—as possible.