Keri Arthur - Circle Of Death

Otherwise, they were all dead.

He ran back until he was at the right angle and took aim. He threw the knife as hard and as fast as he could. It pieced the shield cleanly, light flaring like lightning down the blade as it arrowed toward the ward. It hit dead center, sliding the ward several inches sideways. Not far, but enough to break the circle. Energy exploded, a wave of heat and power that knocked him off his feet.

Hands grabbed him, hauled him upright. "Ten seconds!" Russell yelled. "Move, Camille."

Doyle pulled away from Russell's grip. "I'm okay. Go."

He thrust Russell forward, then grabbed his knife and followed him. Behind them, the timer beeped. For several heartbeats, nothing happened. Relief swept through him. Maybe the witch wasn't as clever as she liked to think…

The bomb blew. A fiery wave of destruction picked him up, thrusting him sideways. A second later, the heat hit, searing across his skin. Pain surged, and a scream tore up his throat. Then the darkness encased him and he knew no more.

Kirby stepped into the shadow of an old elm and studied the building halfway down the street. It was nothing spectacular—a square, five-story brick affair, surrounded by a high, chain-link fence that almost looked solid, thanks to the weeds and rubbish that clogged it. If the smashed state of the windows and the amount of graffiti scrawled across the walls was anything to go by, the building had obviously been abandoned for some time.

Why here? It seemed a strange sort of place for a witch to be conducting a spell. Though admittedly, she didn't know an awful lot about witches or spell-casting, despite the fact that Helen had been involved in both. But it was too late now to regret her reticence when it came to learning anything about the subject.

She glanced down at the bag clutched tightly in her hand. She had no idea why she'd bothered to bring it. It wasn't like she was going to need it, particularly if she didn't beat the witch. She thought of the note she'd left behind, of the things she hadn't said, and wished she could go back to yesterday, to the moment in time when she lay wrapped in the warmth of Doyle's body and he'd asked her to marry him. Wished she'd had the courage to take the chance, rather than giving in to fear yet again.

At least then she would have had a moment of happiness to remember now, when death was so close she could smell it.

Terror stole through her heart, squeezing it tight. She took several deep breaths, trying to calm her nerves, then resolutely headed toward the building. She couldn't delay any longer. Dusk was beginning to creep across the sky. If she waited until night, Mariel would be at full strength, and she wouldn't have a hope.

The gate was locked, but the wire in the nearby fence had been cut and pushed back, leaving a small gap. She threw her bag through then squeezed in after it. The sharp ends of the wire brushed her back, snagging through her T-shirt and tearing into her skin. She cursed and pulled away, leaving a jagged scrap of material hooked on the wire.

Great, just great,she thought, twisting around in an attempt to see the cut. Though she couldn't see it, there was warmth trickling down her back. It didn't feel like much, so hopefully, the cut wasn't all that bad. The last thing she needed right now was to be leaving a trail of blood. Who knew what sort of attention that might attract.

Goose bumps chased across her skin. Trying to ignore the growing sense of danger, she picked up her bag and headed down the driveway. Several stacks of crates lay to her left, and she hesitated. She had to stow her bag somewhere, and they looked just as safe as anywhere else. She doubted there would be any kids around. Surely the witch would have made sure there was no one near to disturb her spell-casting.

In the distance, thunder rumbled. She glanced up. The skies were blue and clear, yet electricity thrummed through the air—through her. Sparks danced across her fingers, but it wasn't that energy she felt. It came from the sky itself, from the distant hum of a waiting storm. Hers to call, thanks to Helen's sacrifice.

An all too familiar ache washed through her. I have to win this. For Helen, and for the other girls in the circle.

She tucked her bag under a couple of nearby crates then turned, her gaze sweeping the front of the building. Where would a witch go to perform a ceremony?

She bit her lip, remembering the vision she'd had—the concrete walls slung with slime, and the feel of empty desolation. Car park, she thought, gaze sweeping to the side of the building. There, near the end of the building, she saw the entrance.

A tremor ran through her, and the energy playing across her fingers became fierce enough to stand on end the hairs along her arms. She continued on down the driveway.

The car park loomed, dark and cavernous. No sunlight filtered in past the entrance—it was almost as if a curtain of night had been drawn across it.

Might as well be entering hell itself, she thought and had a horrible feeling that might be the case.

Thunder rumbled, closer than before. She looked up one more time at the blue skies, and hoped she lived to see them again.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped past the curtain and entered the car park.

There was something on Doyle's back, pressing down hard, squashing him. Every breath hurt—the air burned, scorching his throat and his lungs. Heat licked at his feet, his legs. He groaned and tried to move.

Fire twisted down his side, a living thing that threatened to consume his consciousness.

He groaned again and tried to open his eyes. Couldn't. Something seemed to be gluing them shut. He sniffed the air and regretted it almost instantly. It was pungent and gaseous, and seemed to burn through his entire body. He coughed so hard it felt as if he was tearing apart.

"Doyle!" Russell's shout seemed to be coming from a great distance.

"Here." The word came out harsh but little more than a whisper.

The weight pressed deeper. He fought to breathe, to stay conscious. The heat of the flames danced across his feet, and the smell of burning leather joined the junket of toxic odors surrounding him.

"Doyle! Answer me, damn it."

Here,he wanted to say, here. But the words lodged somewhere in his throat and refused to budge.

Sounds reached through to his prison—the scrape of metal against concrete, a grunt of effort, the sharp sound of swearing. He smiled. Camille had never been much of a lady.

Dirt showered him. The weight on his back shifted, and pain shot through his leg, reflecting across his entire body. A scream tore at his throat, but came out little more than a hiss. Swearing filled the air, as colorful as the smoke surrounding him. He coughed again, harsher and longer, until spasms shook his body, and it felt like he was going to throw up.

The weight lifted from his back and leg, and suddenly he could breathe again. Only the fresh air sent him into another spasm of coughing and made him wish for the bliss of unconsciousness.

Hands grabbed him, hauling him upright. The world blurred, and then he was out in bright light, with the warmth of the late afternoon sun glaring down on him. That was quickly replaced by cool darkness. The van, he thought vaguely, looking around. But hadn't that been blown up?

Moisture dribbled across his lips. He licked at it quickly, desperate to ease the burning in his throat.

"Easy with that," Camille said from his right. "Not too much or you'll have him throwing up."

"I know, I know." Russell's voice sounded impatient and worried.

I'm okay,he wanted to say, but his vocal cords still refused to work. Something cool and moist touched his face, wiping the stickiness from his eyes. He blinked and opened them. A man knelt in front of him, his head and hands swathed in bandages that were covered in soot and dirt. He blinked, but the vision refused to go away.