Circle of Death (9 page)

She accepted the gloves with a smile of thanks and pulled them on. “What
don’t
you keep in those pockets of yours?” Like him, she had to raise her voice to be heard above the wind.

“Lots of things,” he said. “Like answers. Did you or Helen ever try to find out who your parents were?”

Helen certainly had, but now she’d never get the chance. Kirby blinked away the sudden sting of tears and looked out the side window. “No. Why do you ask?”

“Because we thought that was a possible connection between Helen and the other women on the list.
That maybe by searching for their past, they brought themselves to the attention of our killer.”

“This list?” she said, waving the breakfast menu.

“Yes. And before you ask, an old witch named Seline did a reading and came up with those names. Helen was the first name on it.”

And now Helen was dead. “But why would searching for her parents have brought such destruction down on her?”

Helen had spoken to the wind many times, but she’d never seen her murder. Kirby crossed her arms and shivered. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. They were supposed to die together in a car crash years from now. Why had fate stepped in and snatched Helen away long before her time? And did the fact that it had now mean
she
wouldn’t die in a car crash? Or did death still lay in her future, just in a different form?

“We don’t know,” he said. “All we have is four names, and a suspicion these murders have their origin somewhere in the past.”

Bile rose in her throat and she swallowed against it. She didn’t want Helen connected in any way to these other women, and she didn’t know why. “Why in hell would someone want to do something like that for something that happened in the past?”

He shrugged. “If we knew the reason, we would probably have been able to prevent it.”

She looked at him. His profile was a painter’s dream, classic and stunning. “What do you mean, ‘we’? Who else is working on this with you?”

He hesitated. “I work for an organization called the Damask Circle. There are three of us currently in Melbourne, trying to solve these murders.”

She frowned. “But Helen only died yesterday. You were already here in Melbourne.”

“Yes, because Seline, the lady in charge of the Circle, did a reading and sent us out here in advance of the first murder. She said something big was going down.”

“Reading? What is she? Some sort of psychic or witch?”

“Witch,” he said. “But not the witch I referred to earlier. That’s Camille, who’s here with me and Russell.”

Russell was obviously the man she’d heard him talking to earlier. She had a feeling there was a whole lot more about his companions—and himself—that he wasn’t telling. “So you have no idea who is behind all this?”

“None whatsoever.” He glanced at her, eyes gleaming in the darkness. “But whoever it is seems to want you dead pretty badly. Remember that the next time you decide to run.”

What could she say? She certainly couldn’t deny there would be a next time, because she
did
have every intention of running. Eventually. If there was one lesson she and Helen had learned well over the years, it was to depend on no one but themselves.

She blinked back tears and looked out the side window. The rain fell in a mist, muting the glow of the streetlights and filling the silent streets with a curtain of gray. Anything could be out there, she thought. Anything at all.

She shivered again. She felt so cold it seemed to be seeping deep into her bones. Death, reaching out for her.

“He won’t get you while I’m here,” Doyle said softly.

She didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. She didn’t want him to see her tears. “I’m not afraid of death.” Just of being alone. Of never finding anyone who would care for her as much as Helen had cared.

Of never finding that one person who could love her as she was rather than being terrified of what she could do.

She bit her lip and watched the gray-slipped world rush by. There was little traffic on the roads and they reached Carlton quickly. She glanced down at the phone. “Turn left here,” she said. “Number twenty-eight should be on your side.”

He pulled into a parking space and stopped. With the headlights off, the mist seemed to crowd in, encasing them in a blanket of gray. Even the nearby gum trees looked ghostly.

“I don’t like the feel of this,” she muttered. There was a chill in the air that seemed unnatural. The same sort of chill she’d felt just before she pushed through her front door and discovered death had come visiting …

His hand covered hers, his touch flushing heat through her entire body. “Why don’t you stay here in the car while I go check it out?”

“Not on your life.” She withdrew her hand from the warmth of his. “I’m coming with you.”

Annoyance glimmered briefly in his eyes. “It’s safer in the car.”

“Not if one of those creatures is out there.”

“I would know if a
manarei
were out there, believe me.” Yet his gaze swept the drizzle surrounding them and he frowned.

Did he sense anything? Or was it just the blanket of gray teasing their imagination? She glanced at him. Somehow, he didn’t seem the type to have problems in that department.

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I have an active enough imagination when it matters.” A smile touched his lips. “For example, I can easily imagine you actually doing something I ask.”

Heat crept through her cheeks again. She looked away and crossed her arms. “I’m coming with you.”

He sighed. It was a sound of sheer frustration. “Well, I guess it
is
one way of knowing where the hell you are. But you do what I tell you, is that clear?”

She nodded and climbed out of the car. The mist ran damp fingers across her skin, and she shivered. The night was quiet, hushed. The street was filled with shadows. Cars and houses loomed briefly as the fine rain swirled. Streetlights puddled light down onto the pavement, looking like forlorn stars in the night. Nothing moved. It was very easy to imagine they were the only two people alive in the world right now.

He moved to the rear of the car, then glanced back at her. “You coming?”

She cast an uneasy look at the shrouded trees, then followed him across the road. “What are you going to say to this woman if she’s home?” She shoved her gloved hands into her pockets, still trying to warm them. “I certainly wouldn’t open the door to a couple of wrinkled-looking specimens like us at this hour of the morning.”

He shrugged. “I’m not exactly sure yet.”

“Oh, great. What if she decides to call the cops? What if she’s got a great, big dog and sets it on us?”

He grinned. “Dogs don’t worry me.”

“They worry
me
,” she muttered and glanced up. “You know, you never did explain what happened to that panther I saw before.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What panther?”

Anger surged through her. This man might be helping her, but in many ways, he was also treating her like a fool. “You want me to trust you, and yet you can’t—or won’t—answer the simplest of questions.”

He looked at her. In the depths of his eyes she saw annoyance—and regret. “I’ll answer your questions when you decide to stop running.”

She stared at him. He wasn’t just talking about running from him. She knew instinctively that he was talking about running from life—of being so scared of death that she was afraid to live. She pulled her gaze from his. She barely knew this man, and yet he seemed to understand her better than anyone ever had—maybe even Helen.

Twenty-eight was the third house along in the row of eight grand old Victorian-style terraces; she believed they called them row houses in America. Unlike the rest of the houses, number twenty-eight looked in serious need of love and attention. The picket fence was missing half its pickets, and the shoe-box-sized front garden was knee high in weeds. Wood boarded the windows on the bottom floor, and the screen door was hanging off its hinges.

She frowned. “It looks abandoned.”

He opened the gate and ushered her through. “It’s not. I can hear someone moving inside.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You can? How?”

“Told you, I’ve got good hearing.”

She
had good hearing, and she couldn’t hear a damn thing. “How can you tell if it’s a human moving around inside? It might be a stray cat—or even the wind.”

“It’s human. Cats rarely get around on two feet.” He knocked on the door. The sound seemed to echo through the silence, as sharp as thunder.

“If that’s an old lady moving around in there, you’ve just given her a heart attack.” She glanced across to the park. Nothing had moved, and no sound broke the silence. Yet something was out there, near the trees, watching them.

Doyle looked over his shoulder. “Nothing’s there,” he said after a moment.

He was wrong. Something was. She felt no sense of danger, no sense of doom drawing close, as she had last night when she’d stood on her front porch and watched the approaching police lights flash red through the night. It was just a sense of … waiting. And expectation. Neither of which made any sense.

Inside the house, something moved. Wood scraped against wood, then footsteps approached. “Yes?” The voice was high-pitched and quavery. The voice of an old woman.

He frowned. “Sorry to bother you, ma’am, but I’m looking for Rachel Grant.”

“At this hour? Go bother someone else, or I’ll call the police.”

“Told you,” Kirby muttered.

Doyle ignored her. He splayed one hand across the door but quickly jerked it away. Light glowed briefly
where his hand had rested, and she saw the same symbol that had been carved into her and Helen’s door. Only this time, it had two points. Doyle’s gaze met hers, his expression grim as he added, “It’s urgent we speak to Rachel. Is she there?”

“There’s no one here by that name.”

Lights appeared in the neighboring house. If he wasn’t careful, he’d have the whole street down on them. But if he was at all worried by such a prospect, he certainly didn’t show it.

“Do you know where we can contact her?” he continued, his voice a little louder.

“Told you, there’s no one here by that name. I got the phone in my hand, you know. I’m dialing.”

“Thanks for your help, ma’am.” He cupped Kirby’s elbow and guided her down the steps. On the way past the mailbox, he snatched an envelope that was half sticking out.

“That’s theft in this country.”

“It’s theft in mine, too, but right now, I don’t really care.” He handed her the envelope. “Take a look.”

She did. It was addressed to Rachel Grant. “Could be a mistake. Maybe she’s just moved and hasn’t had her mail redirected.”

“You really think that?”

“No. But it’s better than the thought of breaking into that house and seeing who’s really in there. That’s what you’re thinking of doing, isn’t it?”

He raised an eyebrow. “I see I’m not the only one reading minds here.”

She rubbed her arms and looked away from the warmth in his gaze. “It doesn’t take a mind reader to guess that’s what you’re thinking.”

“But I bet you can guess what else I’m thinking.”

She grimaced. “Yeah. And you no doubt can guess my answer.”

“Kirby, get serious. I need to get into that house quickly and quietly. I can’t do that if you’re with me.”

“Meaning I’m a lumbering noisemaker?”

“Lumbering, no. Far from it.” He hesitated, his gaze sweeping her briefly. Her nerves jumped, as if touched by fire. “Noisy? Yes.”

He opened the passenger-side door and motioned her to get in. She crossed her arms and stood her ground.

“That old lady is probably watching to see if we leave,” he said. “I have no doubt she will call the cops if we don’t.”

“Oh.” Feeling foolish, she got in. He climbed into the driver’s side and reversed out, heading down the street. He turned right onto another street, then switched off the headlights and turned around, heading back. He parked several houses up from the terrace, this time on the same side of the road.

He took off his seat belt, then turned to face her. “I want you to climb into the driver’s seat and keep the engine running. If anything—or anyone—remotely threatening approaches, drive off.”

She frowned. “What about you?”

“I’ll be okay. I’ll meet you at the zoo. It’s not that far away, is it?”

She shook her head, wondering how he knew if he’d never been there. He might have good hearing, but surely even he couldn’t hear the zoo animals from here.

“I can’t just leave you here,” she said. “What if you get into trouble and need help?”

“At the slightest hint of trouble, I’ll leave. It’s more important right now that you keep safe. Climb out and come around to the driver’s side.”

She did. He was holding the door open for her. She stopped, suddenly reluctant to get any closer, though what she feared she couldn’t exactly say.

For a second, neither of them moved. She stared at him, caught by the sudden intensity in his eyes—an intensity that seemed to delve right through her, touching her soul. Touching her heart. He reached out, trailing the back of his fingers down her cheek. Heat shivered through her, and her breath caught somewhere in her throat. She licked her lips and saw the heat flare deep in his eyes. God, it would be so easy to step fully into his embrace, to let him wrap the lean strength of his arms around her and keep all the demons and fear away. She clenched her fists, fighting the desire—the
need
—to do just that. It was nothing but crazy thinking. He was a stranger, and she shouldn’t even be trusting him, let alone wanting him to hold her. Aching for him to kiss her. Swallowing nervously, she tore her gaze from his.

He placed a finger under her chin, raising it until her eyes met his again. “Please don’t run.”

His voice was little more than a warm caress in her thoughts, and it scared her.

But what scared her more was the longing she saw in the depths of his richly colored eyes—a longing that echoed through every inch of her. This man knew loneliness as intimately as she did, only he hid it a whole lot better.

“I can’t promise you that,” she whispered. Because this time he wasn’t talking about running from life or
even running away. Far from it. And in many respects,
he
was just as dangerous as whatever was out there in the darkness, watching her, stalking her.