Then he held out a bandaged hand and hauled Doyle to his feet. “You keep going. I’ll take care of these maggots.”
For an instant, the darkness swam around him, and pinpricks of heat danced before his eyes. Sweat broke out across his brow, and he knew it was only Russell’s grip on his arm that was keeping him upright.
“You look like shit,” Russell continued, the concern in his voice deeper.
“That’s because I feel like shit.” The scuff of a foot against concrete told him the zombies were on the move again. “Where’s Camille?”
“Turns out the gate was spelled. She’s disconnecting it so she can bring the van in.” He hesitated, then shoved something into Doyle’s hand. “You may need this.”
He glanced down. It was the silver knife. He squeezed Russell’s shoulder. “Thanks. And be careful.”
The vampire snorted. “I’m not the one in danger of bleeding to death here. Now, go and rescue your lady before you fall down dead.”
Doyle limped away. One of the zombies tried to follow, but Russell grabbed its arm and tossed it back at its brethren. The sounds of the ensuing scuffle followed Doyle into the darkness.
Light began to dance across the wall, but its color was the sick hue of dark magic. He was so close now that it burned across his skin—a foul sensation that churned his gut. Kirby’s fear sharpened abruptly, then both the light and her thoughts cut off, leaving an odd sort of emptiness in his mind. She wasn’t dead, but he wasn’t certain of anything more than that. Apprehension became a blade digging deep into his gut. He shifted shape, then picked up the knife between his teeth and hurried on, his breathing sharp and with a bitter taste in his mouth.
In panther form, he could hear the sound of movement more clearly. Could hear someone grunting in effort, then the slap of flesh against stone. He heard the sharp click of heels moving away through the darkness.
He reached the parking garage’s bottom level and stopped in the shadow of a concrete pillar. The witch squatted near a ring of stones, rearranging them and muttering something under her breath. Kirby and Trina were both lying on a sacrificial table. Neither of them moved, but they both breathed, and relief washed through him.
Yet even from where he stood, he could smell the blood that had leeched into the stone over time. Death had tasted the life of its victims many times on that table. If he weren’t very careful, it would savor the taste of two more.
He padded forward. The witch stood, and her muttering grew more intense. She produced a knife and slashed her wrists, dripping the blood into the ring of stone. Magic stirred, caressing his skin with evil. Light woke in the ring of stone, flickering sick shadows across the darkness.
He didn’t have much time left. He shifted shape near the table and rose, quickly slashing the ropes binding Kirby and Trina’s limbs.
Behind him, the chanting grew, becoming fever-pitched. Magic seared the air, and the night shifted as flames began to dance and burn within the ring of stones.
No time left. Nor was there any chance of him getting Kirby out of here without being seen. The only option left was attacking the witch.
He hefted the knife and turned to throw—only to find himself eyeballing a gun.
THE SOUND OF A GUNSHOT JERKED KIRBY AWAKE. Fear filled her mind—fear and pain—a wave of red heat that almost suffocated her.
Doyle was with her here in the darkness, but he was hurt. Seriously hurt. Just as Helen had warned.
Biting her lip and fighting the need to get up and look for him, help him, Kirby opened her eyes. Cold stone pressed against her back, and darkness loomed above her. Trina was lying beside her, as cold and still as death itself. Terror rose, grasping her by the throat, threatening to strangle her.
Sound scuffed to her right, then the sharp click of heels approached. She closed her eyes, feigning unconsciousness, knowing that until she knew where Doyle was, it was better not to move. Better if the witch thought her still unconscious.
Mariel stopped beside her. She ran her hand almost lovingly down Kirby’s arm, and it took every ounce of willpower to remain still and not shudder away from the sting of her touch.
Then she turned away and addressed the shadows. “Come into light where I can see you, shifter, or the next shot will remove your charge’s toes.”
A chill ran through Kirby. She had no doubt Mariel meant what she said. Obviously, neither did Doyle.
He moved into the circle of dusky firelight, and her breath caught. Blood glistened wetly on his arm and darkened his jeans almost black. He was barely even standing—most of his weight seemed to be resting on his left leg. Sweat beaded his forehead, and his eyes were little more than deep b
lue slits. He was a bloodied warrior ready to die to protect her, and she knew she could do no less for him. She shifted her hand carefully, reaching for Trina. Found her fingers and clasped them tightly.
Overhead, thunder rumbled—a violent sound that seemed to shudder through the very air around them. Energy burned into her body, her soul. Though her eyes were still closed, she could see the swiftly running clouds far above them, could feel the lick of their power, as if they were her own.
Mariel glanced at her—a brief but heated touch she felt rather than saw.
“Drop the knife, shifter,” the witch said after a moment, her voice filled with sudden anxiety.
The knife clattered to the concrete. Doyle’s concern ran around her, through her. Are you okay?