Keri Arthur - Circle Of Death

No one who could assume the shape of a panther was just a man. She felt an insane desire to laugh at the thought, and crossed her arms, trying to hold it back, trying to hold in all the pain. It didn't work, and a sob escaped.

"Come here," he all but growled.

Wrapping a hand around her arm, he pulled her toward him. His touch was gentle yet firm, and she made no effort to resist. Couldn't resist, in fact. That one sob had broken the dam wall, and she felt so weak her knees were shaking. She fell into his embrace, sobs racking her body, her tears soaking his shirt.

He didn't say anything, just held her tightly as all the pain, all the fear of the last few days, poured out of her. Even when the sobbing had eased, she remained in his arms, finding strength in his strength, finding comfort in the warm flow of his thoughts through her mind.

After a while, she sighed softly. "Thank you," she murmured into his chest.

His smile shimmered through her, as warm as sunshine . Anytime you want a chest to cry on, I'm here.

Out loud, he said. "Feeling a little better?"

He caressed her hair, his touch running warmth to the pit of her stomach. She looked up, saw the heated look in his eyes, and felt an insane desire to raise up on her toes and taste the sweetness of his lips again.

But that had nearly gotten them into trouble an hour ago. She pulled away instead. His hand slipped from her back to her hip and rested there, warming the base of her spine.

"I'm afraid I've soaked your shirt," she said, plucking at the wet material.

His smile touched his eyes and made her heart stutter. "It's drip-dry, so don't worry." He brushed some hair away from her cheek, his touch trailing heat against her skin. Then he froze, and his grip on her waist tightened slightly. "What the hell…?"

He turned, thrusting her behind him. Fear rose in her throat, and lightning warmed her fingertips.

"What—" She got no further. A chill raced across her skin, and for an instant, her vision blurred. Suddenly she was seeing inside the dorm, inside the nurse's quarters where the old man was checking numbers and ticking them off on his clipboard. A small figure cowled in black appeared behind him, its face little more than a rotting skull.

Death, she thought with a shiver. But it wasn't there for them.

Inside the dorm, the caretaker began screaming.

Magic burned across his skin. It had the same foul flavor as the trap he'd sensed in the other building and the magic he'd felt at Rachel Grant's. She was getting rid of the evidence, he thought, as the caretaker's screaming reached fever pitch.

He stepped forward, but Kirby grabbed his arm. "She'll kill you," she murmured.

Images streamed from her mind to his—a figure cowled in black, wearing a death mask. Long, thin hands from which flames sprung, surrounding the old man. Fire burning through the air, through the old man . His screams clashing with the howl of the inferno before dying abruptly.

The searing touch of magic flashed again, and the figure was gone, leaving only a burning wreck that had once been a man.

"Not a man," Kirby murmured. "A monster."

Doyle turned away from the door. The old man was dead, but the flames still burned. If the alarms in the building were still working, they would no doubt go off soon. They had to be out of here before the fire department arrived.

He caught Kirby's hand and squeezed her fingers gently. There were tears in her eyes, pain in her thoughts. As much as she'd hated the caretaker, as much as she might have wished him dead, she hadn't wanted him to die in such a cruel manner. A gentle spirit, despite everything she'd faced as a child.

"We have to go," he said, tugging her forward when all he really wanted to do was take her into his arms again.

"Where to now?" she asked, making no attempt to remove her fingers from his as they quickly made their way toward the main exit.

"Breakfast for me, and hot coffee, at the very least, for you." Though her fingers were warm against his, he could feel the trembling running through them. Whether it was a reaction to what she'd learned, the old man's death, or something else entirely, he wasn't sure.

"No," she said, a smile touching her lips as her bright gaze flashed to his. "I meant what's our next plan of attack? Do we try to find the next name on that list of yours?"

He hesitated at the gate, checking to make sure there was no one around, then motioned her through.

"We can try, though we haven't exactly been too successful in getting to these people before the murderer."

"We have to stop her before she gets to the third point," she said.

He lightly touched her back and guided her across the road. "She's killed three women, not two."

"Helen was a mistake." She hesitated. Her pain shimmered through him, tear bright. "She thought Helen was me, because of her gray eyes."

"Maybe." It certainly backed up Camille's theory that Helen Smith should not have died. "The caretaker spoke of the five of you forming a circle and surrounding him with magic. Any idea what he was talking about?"

She shook her head, thoughts troubled. "It's like there's this big brick wall in my mind. I can't remember anything…" She hesitated, taking a shaky breath. "Helen told me that I was the one that binds. She said the killer seeks to control the power of the elements—the circle of five."

A chill ran through him. Helen was dead. She couldn't possibly have told Kirby anything. Was the killer playing games? "Helen said this? When?"

His voice was sharper than he'd intended, and she bit her lip, her face pale. "In the park, when you were in Rachel's house. It wasn't Helen, just her spirit. She's really one with the wind now."

Her voice faded, but images skated from her mind to his, fractured reflections of what had happened, and what Helen had said. He relaxed a little. No wraith in league with evil could be that convincing. "She didn't explain what this circle was? Or why the killer is killing the five of you?"

"Four of us," she corrected, rubbing her arms. "The killer is one of the five."

" What?"He stopped, pulling her around to face him. "Are you sure about that?" God, that meant that if Camille's list was correct, they'd had the name of the killer all along. Only Felicity Barnes's name wasn't on it, so where did she fit in?

Her face was troubled, green eyes silvered with tears. "Helen was sure."

And because it was Helen, she believed it. While he'd never been one to trust the word of ghosts, he did trust Kirby's judgement. "Did Helen say anything else?"

She hesitated. "She said that I had to find the fourth point and save her. Then I had to stop the fifth."

"You won't be stopping anyone. You'll be tucked away somewhere nice and safe."

Her gaze searched his for a second. "I'm the only one who can stop her. Helen told me that."

"Well, Helen's wrong. Camille's a damn powerful witch, and Russ and I aren't a bad backup team.

We've handled a lot worse than this, believe me."

She didn't. He could sense the doubt in her mind, the fear. Despite everything, despite what she was feeling—albeit unwillingly—she still didn't trust him. Or rather, didn't trust his ability to keep her safe.

Perhaps, given her past, that was understandable, but it was also damned annoying. "What more do I have to do to prove myself to you?" he added, voice holding an edge.

She turned away, but not before he saw the sheen of tears on her cheeks. He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry—" She held up a hand. "Forget it. Let's just go get that coffee."

Her voice was flat. Emotionless. The total opposite to her thoughts, which careened chaotically from wanting to trust to desperately needing to run from him and everything she was feeling.