Circle of Death (Damask Circle 2)

“You have no time to worry about him now, sister. The witch has the fourth point. You must save her.”

“But—” She hesitated, battling the tide of fear. “I can’t fight her alone. I need help.”

“You need nothing more than courage. Remember, you are the one that combines and controls. She cannot hurt you with what is yours to command.”

What in hell was that supposed to mean? If the whispering leaves knew, they didn’t say. “I don’t want to do this.”

“You must. We started this, albeit unknowingly, so long ago, and we have run from our responsibilities for too long. But revenge has overtaken us, and now you must see this finished. For the sake of us all.”

She closed her eyes. She didn’t want this responsibility. Didn’t know if she had the courage to face this woman alone.

“You must, sister. Or the cat will die.”

It felt like someone had grabbed her heart and squeezed it tight. For a minute, she couldn’t even breathe. “What do you mean?” she somehow ground out.

“In protecting you, he will draw the witch’s ire and die. I have heard it whispered on the wind.”

The wind didn’t whisper unchangeable truths, only possibilities. How often had Helen told her that? Yet it was a possibility she dare not risk. She drew in a deep breath. In one sense, Helen was right. If they hadn’t sidetracked fate so long ago, then none of these murders would have happened. They certainly couldn’t change that now, but they could stop a madwoman’s quest for power and send a demon back to hell.

Maybe. She shivered and rubbed her arms. “Where do I go?”

“To an abandoned building in Port Melbourne. She will perform the ceremony tonight, when she has more strength. You have to stop her.”

Kirby closed her eyes. Have to and would stop her were two very different things. “The address?”

It was the wind itself that answered, burning the address into her thoughts. Another tremor ran through her. The spell had worked after all.

“Call the storms, and they, too, will answer.” Helen’s words were barely audible. The dance of the leaves was dying, as was the wind. “Take care, sister …”

“Goodbye,” she whispered, and felt the quick kiss of wind on her cheeks before the day went still.

Swallowing heavily, she climbed to her feet. The chill seemed to have settled deep in her bones. She rubbed her arms, knowing it came more from fear than the wind—and from the knowledge that she might not survive this encounter with the witch. Despite Helen’s words, she was under no illusions. The witch was far stronger than she ever would be.

But she had no choice. If she contacted Doyle and told him what she was about to do, he’d either tell her to stay put or accompany her. And if the wind’s whispers were right, he’d die. Or maybe his friends would. Either way, she couldn’t take that risk. If anyone else had to die, then let it be her. This was her fault, after all. Helen was right. It was time to stop running from the past and start making things right, no matter what the consequences.

Sighing softly, she headed back to the house to collect her things and call a taxi. And while she was waiting, she’d write a note of apology to the man she feared she’d never see again.

The man she might just love.

DOYLE DUCKED PAST THE FILTH-RIDDEN WINDOW AND moved to the back door. It was padlocked, but the screws holding the latch in place were loose and rusty. Nothing a good kick couldn’t dislodge. He leaned back against the wall and glanced at his watch. Ten seconds to go.

There was no movement inside the warehouse, no smell of life. But the feel of magic lay heavy in the air—as did the smell of death. Zombies, and God knew what else, waited inside.

He glanced at his watch again. Time, he thought. From the front of the warehouse came the sound of squealing tires, then a loud bang and the sound of metal grinding. Camille, reversing the van right through the warehouse’s main doors.

He stepped away from the wall and kicked the door. It flew open, the lock flying sideways and clattering noisily to the floor. He rolled into the gloom, coming to his feet fast, silver knife in one hand and gun in the other.

Nothing but dust stirred. He rose and cautiously edged forward. Light filtered in through the filthy windows, washing hazily across the semi-dark hallway. Doors lined the walls to his left and right—and from the one at the end of the corridor, he heard the rattle of a dead man breathing.

He put his weapons away, then took a deep breath and opened the door. The zombie lunged toward him, hands clawing for his neck. The smell of decay hung heavy in the air. This one had been dead for quite a while before it had been called from its grave. He ducked under the creature’s blows and thrust his fingers deep into its neck, shattering its windpipe. It gurgled, hands gr

asping wildly at its throat, as if desperate for air it didn’t need to survive. He stepped behind it, grabbing its neck and twisting hard. Bone snapped, and the zombie fell dead at his feet.

Unease ran through him. One zombie, and not a very strong one at that. As traps and this witch went, it just didn’t mesh. Something felt wrong. Very wrong.

He got out his weapons, then stepped over the mildewed body of the zombie and continued on down the corridor. At the end, he found a set of stairs leading downward. He took them cautiously, pausing after each step. The silence felt so intense it almost seemed to be buzzing. Where the hell were Camille and Russell?

He reached the last step and stopped again. The room that stretched before him was long and narrow and wrapped in a blanket of gloom. Dust stirred, but little else. There were doors to his left, and another set at the end of the room. He hoped they led into the main section of the warehouse. Though he could hear no sound, he had a horrible feeling Camille and Russell needed help.