Keri Arthur - Circle Of Death

"At least now I know I can't trust you."

Tears stung her eyes. She blinked them away. She didn't need his trust. Didn't need anyone's trust. All she wanted was to wake up from this nightmare. "A fine statement coming from a man who's just killed someone."

"That someone was about to suck you dry and spit out the remains."

She closed her eyes and tried to ignore the chilled fingers of dread creeping through her body. She knew instinctively that tonight's strangeness had only just begun. "What do you mean? What was he? And what happened to that cat I saw?"

He made a sound that was close to a growl. "I refuse to answer any more damn questions out here in the rain." Exasperation sharpened his warm voice. "Get up—or do you need help?"

"I don't need anyone's help," she muttered and pushed upright. The night spun violently, and she swallowed heavily against the sudden rise of nausea.

"God grant me strength against stubborn women," he muttered.

Suddenly his arms were around her and he was lifting her up, cradling her gently against his chest. It felt safe and warm and oh-so-secure. Frighteningly so.

"Put me down," she said, struggling against the strength of his grip.

"No." His arms tightened slightly. He was holding her so close that she could feel the wild beat of his heart. It might have been her own.

"Damn it, Doyle, release me." She thumped his chest.

His gaze met hers. Deep in the depths of his eyes wildness burned—the sort of wildness she'd seen briefly in the panther's rich blue gaze.

"I'm wet, I'm cold, and I'm running out of patience," he said grimly. "And you just punched the wounds the manarei gave me."

She looked at her fist. It was bloody. "Oh God, I'm sorry. I didn't know… you didn't tell me."

"And you didn't bother asking."

She bit her lip. No, she hadn't. This man had risked his life twice now to save hers, and the fact that she didn't know why worried her. But that didn't excuse her lack of common courtesy. He'd earned that much, at least. "I'm sorry," she said. "And thank you for saving me."

He nodded, though amusement seemed to gleam briefly in his eyes. "Now, will you just remain still until we get to the motel?"

"I suppose I can manage that." She didn't mean to sound ungracious, but she couldn't help it. Being held so carefully, as if she were precious cargo, was doing odd things to her pulse rate.

This time a smile touched his full lips, but he didn't reply, just kept striding on through the night. They reached the motel in no time. His car was parked in front of a room two doors down from reception. He placed her back on her feet, holding her arm with one hand as he rummaged in his coat pocket and pulled out a key.

He opened the door but didn't immediately enter, his gaze searching the shadows. After several seconds he relaxed and switched on the lights. Which was odd, Kirby thought. It was almost as if he could sense danger better in the darkness.

He ushered her inside and locked the door. She dumped her pack on the table and limped into the bathroom. Like the first motel, it had a window above the sink.

"Don't even think of it," Doyle said behind her.

She jumped slightly and clenched her fists as she swung around. The damn man seemed able to read her mind. "Don't even think of going to the toilet? Why on earth not?"

He was standing in the doorway, his expression half amusement, half anger. In the light, his eyes looked bluer, richer—cobalt rather than navy. His face was a depiction of perfection, framed by thick, dark hair that even when wet somehow managed to look wild. Rather like the man himself, she suspected.

"Leave the door open," was all he said. He grabbed a couple of towels then walked away.

Trapped by my own lies, she thought. She glanced at the window a final time and limped after him. He pointed to a chair, then moved across to the kitchenette. "There's one thing I like about Australian motels—these little kitchenettes they all seem to have."

He was making small talk, trying to relax her. Not something that was going to happen any time soon.

"You don't have kitchenettes in American motels?"

"You'll occasionally find a motel that has a couple rooms with a kitchenette, but most motels don't have them." He filled a small bowl with hot water. Into this he poured antiseptic.

"Where'd you get that?" She sat down on one chair and propped her leg up on a second. Blood dripped steadily onto the carpet. She frowned, wondering if she should have gone to the hospital after all.

"The manager gave it to me." He squatted down next to her, placing the bowl on the carpet. "I'm going to have to cut your jeans away from the wound."

"Cut away. They're pretty much wrecked anyway."

He nodded and produced a knife from his boot. A criminal for sure, she thought, and wondered suddenly about her sanity. Just because he'd saved her life didn't mean she was any safer in his presence.

"If I wanted you dead, I would have left you to the manarei or the vampire." He slid the knife against her skin and carefully began to cut.

She stared at him, chilled as much by his matter-of-fact tone as by what he had said . Vampires were real?Surely he was joking. Had to be. Vampires couldn't exist. They were a product of fiction, of Hollywood—they could not be real.

"Vampires are as real as the lightning that springs from your fingers," he murmured, peeling the remainder of the rain-soaked material from her leg.

"You are reading my thoughts." It should have scared the hell out of her, but given the nightmarish events of the last few hours, this discovery was definitely the least disturbing.

"So it would seem." He dunked the end of the towel in the antiseptic wash, then glanced at her. "This will hurt."

He began washing the wound, and her whole leg suddenly felt on fire. Sweat broke out across her forehead, and she hissed, gripping the sides of the chair so tightly her fingers ached. "Tell me why you're here," she all but ground out.

"I've already told you. I'm investigating a murder." Though his touch was gentle, it felt like he was pounding her leg with a hammer.

"Is Helen's death connected to your murder?"

It came out sharper than she'd intended, and he looked up. There was sympathy in his expression, as well as understanding. It made something ache deep in her heart. Which was stupid, really, considering she didn't even know this man, let alone trust him. She pulled her gaze from his.

"We think she could be connected, yes."

"Am I?"

"Probably." He hesitated. "Someone obviously wants you dead."

"Why?" The question was more a desperate plea for understanding, and not one she really expected an answer to. Until they found the person responsible for Helen's slaughter, the answer to such a question would be little more than guesswork.

"I'd say because someone thinks you're a threat."

She snorted softly. "That statement is so wrong it's almost laughable."

His bright gaze caught hers again. Something deep inside her shivered. This man saw too much, knew too much. He was dangerous on so many different levels that she should just get up and run while she still could.

"If you were not a threat, they would not be so determined in their efforts to find you. Remember that the next time you decide to run off."

There wasn't much she could say to that, so she childishly stuck her tongue out instead. He smiled and continued washing her leg. The wounds, once cleaned, turned out to be fairly deep and a good inch long.

They were still bleeding profusely.

She frowned. "Maybe you should take me to the hospital."

"Maybe." He dug into his pockets and pulled out a small, cloth-wrapped parcel.

"What's that?"

"An old witch's herbal cure-all for wounds," he said, carefully unwrapping the parcel. Inside was what looked to be little more than dried-up garden clippings.