Keri Arthur - Circle Of Death

He slipped past the wire and ran for the parking garage.

Kirby stopped at the end of the ramp. Electricity danced across her fingers, shooting slivers of light through the veil-heavy darkness. Somewhere in the distance water dripped, a steady sound like fingers tapping impatiently. She shivered, and thrust her imagination back into its box. The last thing she needed was to be imagining the worst. No doubt the witch would be doing that soon enough.

She edged forward, her steps becoming more sure as her eyes grew used to the darkness. Columns loomed before her, some hung with slime, others scrawled with graffiti. Beer bottles decorated the far corners, scattered about like abandoned toys. The air smelled stale and was perfumed with the rich scent of rubbish and urine. Her vision come to life.

A chill crept icy fingers down her spine. She shivered again, wondering why the car park was so cold when the air outside was so hot. Surely this close to the entrance some of the day's heat should have crept in. Or maybe the unnatural curtain of darkness that seemed to hang over the entrance somehow blocked the heat as well.

She continued to follow the ramp down, reaching the next level. Mariel would be on the last one, though why she was so sure of this, she couldn't say. Oddly enough, the air here seemed warmer. The dripping water had faded, to be replaced by a hum that seemed to reverberate up through her feet. She hesitated, listening. And heard, underneath the hum, the soft chanting.

A spell of summoning, she thought. And wondered how the hell she knew.

The closer she moved to the last level of the car park, the louder and stronger the humming became.

Wisps of red and purple light flickered across the walls, and the air seemed to vibrate with urgency and power. Then it was gone, and a dead sort of silence prevailed.

Goose bumps crawled across her skin. There was something in the darkness with her. Something not human. She froze. A footstep scraped against the silence. Breathing, harsh and heavy, approached. She didn't move, pinned by fear, her hands clenched against the energy burning across her fingertips.

A man lumbered into view. Only it wasn't a man, but a decayed replica, its clothes little more than tatters of material that barely covered the skeletal remains of its body. It reeked of death and rotten meat. Her stomach stirred, threatening to revolt. She bit her lip, watching the creature plod by. Why was Mariel summoning things like that into being? Surely, if she was going to summon the dead to help her, she could get something a little more… lively. Like the zombie that had attacked Doyle…

Pain rose, and she closed her eyes. God, he was going to be so angry at her for doing this. But what other choice did she have? She couldn't be responsible for his death—couldn't live with that, on top of everything else.

She continued on. Ahead in the darkness, light beckoned. Someone was humming, a happy tune that set her teeth on edge.

She rounded a corner and stopped. A fire burned within a circle of stone, but its flames were an unnatural purple and green and cast sick shadows across the darkness. A tripod had been set up over it, and from this hung a steaming kettle. To the right of this was a black stone table. On it lay Trina. Even from where she stood, she could see the rise and fall of the other woman's chest. Relief swept through her. At least she wasn't too late to stop this madness.

A woman swept in from the darkness. She had sharp features, short brown hair, and a lanky, almost boyish body. Mariel. She hadn't changed all that much since Kirby had last seen her. She'd gained some height, but other than that, she could still have been the child that had haunted the worst of her dreams for so many years. She flexed her fingers, needing to move, to hide. But the minute she did either, the witch would spot her. All she could do was remain still and hope fate was on her side for a change.

It wasn't.

Mariel bent over the fire, grasping the kettle with a gloved hand. Then she hesitated and looked up.

Kirby met her gaze and saw only madness.

"Well, well, well, this is a nice surprise," Mariel murmured. Her voice, unlike her gaze, was warm and pleasant, her tone that of a friend rather than a foe. "Please, do come down. I've just made a cup of coffee, if you'd like to share it with me."

"Thanks, but I'm comfortable right where I am." She flexed her fingers, trying to ease the tension knotting her muscles. The energy that danced across her fingers shot fiery sparks across the darkness.

If Mariel noticed, she gave no indication. "Maybe so, but I prefer you to come closer—and you will do so, or the tramp on the table shall suffer the consequences."

She raised a hand, and a knife appeared from nowhere, hovering above Trina's stomach. Kirby took a deep breath. Any sort of choice had disappeared. If she didn't do what Mariel wanted, if she tried to retreat or attack, it would be Trina who suffered, not her. She stepped into the circle of light provided by the fire, and stopped.

"One wrong move, and that knife will taste blood," Mariel said, then bent and poured some water in her mug. "You sure you don't want a cup?"

She nodded, fingers clenched by her sides. Thunder rumbled, closer, sharper, than before.

"Must be a storm brewing," Mariel commented, holding the mug in two hands, as if warming them. "But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

Kirby shook her head, watching her cautiously. It felt as if she'd stepped into the Twilight Zone. The last thing she'd expected to be doing right now was standing here having a semi-normal conversation with the fiend who'd murdered her friend— her sister.

Mariel considered her for a second. The firelight cast shadows of green and purple across her features, making her face look gaunt, almost skeletal. She seemed in no great hurry to do anything more than talk, and that in itself was worrying.

"How did you find me?" Mariel asked, eventually.

"Does it matter?" Kirby glanced across at the black stone table. The knife still hovered above Trina's midriff, rotating rapidly, as if it were a drill barely held in check. Attack Mariel, and the knife would drop.

Attack the knife, and Mariel would use the moment to attack her . She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, wanting— needing—to move, to do something to end this impasse. Every second she delayed bought them a second closer to night and the witch gaining full strength. Yet right now, she had no other option than to play this Mariel's way.

"I guess it doesn't matter." Mariel sipped her coffee, watching her steadily, gray eyes a mix of hate and madness.

It was the hate Kirby couldn't understand. What had they ever done to Mariel to deserve such depth of feeling? Yes, they'd killed her best friend, but that had been an accident, and Mariel herself had been a contributing power… her thoughts stuttered to a stop. If Camille was right, it wasn't just Mariel who stood before her now, but Felicity—or at least, Felicity's spirit. A spirit that may well have been dragged from the depths of hell. "Tell me, when did you raise Felicity's spirit? And why?"

Mariel raised an eyebrow. "You are well informed, aren't you?"

She shrugged. "Sometimes it pays to know what you're up against."

Mariel nodded serenely. "Yes, I guess it does." She sipped her coffee again, then tilted her head, her gaze narrowing a little.

The sense of danger leapt tenfold, squeezing her throat so tightly she could barely breathe. Yet Mariel hadn't moved, hadn't done anything beyond change her expression. I'm out of my league, Kirby thought, and flexed her hands, her fingers aching with the energy that burned across them. The sparks danced in jagged lines across the darkness, clashing with the dirty light of the fire. Mariel glanced down briefly, a slight smile touching her lips.