She looked up, barely able to make out the water tank that trapped him. She felt so weak her whole body was shaking. She couldn't walk up there. She didn't have the strength to even stand right now.
There is no back. It's round. For God's sake, tell me what's wrong.
I can see the hatch it's sitting on.
She closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. Then she reached for the fire again. It burned through her, almost wild and uncontrolled. She clenched her fists, somehow restraining it, and opened her eyes. The water tank had become three white blobs dancing erratically on the hill above her. She blinked again, and the three became one, a blob of white surrounded by a darkness that was quickly closing in on her. She launched the pent- up energy, then the darkness encased her, and she knew no more.
The side of the tank exploded inwards, showering Doyle with chunks of rocks. Concrete dust billowed, filling the small tank with a choking cloud that made it difficult to breathe. Coughing, he battered away the worst of the missiles and shifted shape, diving through the hole Kirby had created. It was a tight squeeze, even in his panther shape. He pushed through, skinning his shoulders against the jagged sides of the hole, then ran down the slope to the house.
Smoke trailed skyward, and the smell of burning flesh stung the air. But the zombie was still alive, pulling its burning body along the ground, reaching with blackened claws toward Kirby. She wasn't moving, wasn't protecting herself in anyway.
Fear shot through him. He didn't know what was wrong, but the warmth of her mind's touch had became an inferno of confusion and darkness.
He shifted shape, grabbed the zombie by the leg and wrenched it back and away from her. The creature snarled, a sound filled with anger and pain. It twisted and threw a punch. He ducked past it and grabbed the creature by the throat. Flames danced around his hand, burning his skin. He ignored them, shifted his grip, and snapped the creature's neck sideways. Bones shattered, and the burning creature went limp in his hold.
He dumped the body on the ground and ran across to Kirby. Kneeling, he felt for a pulse. It was racing, and her skin was hot, as if the energy she controlled was burning her up from the inside.
He ran up the back steps and along the veranda to the door. Setting her down momentarily, he picked the dead bolt and carefully opened the door. No alarms sounded, and in the large living room-cum-kitchen beyond, there didn't appear to be any sensors. If the run-down state of the furniture and fittings was anything to go by, the small farm was little more than a holiday retreat. Which meant, hopefully, they wouldn't be disturbed by nosy neighbors.
He picked her up again and kicked the door shut behind him. Light peeked past the drawn curtains, flushing a hazy brightness through the dusty room. He headed left, following the hallway, moving past several small bedrooms and a laundry before he found the bathroom.
He stripped off her coat and boots, then found the plug and began filling the bath with cold water. He dumped her in, clothes and all, fearing the fever and knowing the extra few minutes it would take to strip her could push her into convulsions.
Grabbing a towel from the cupboard under the sink, he wet it and quickly began wiping her heat-flushed face. She moaned, battering weakly at his hands, struggling to rise out of the water. Though her eyes were open, there was no life in the green depths, no awareness. She was delirious, fighting on instinct alone.
He held her down lightly and continued to wash her face. Lightning flickered across her fingers and jumped to his hands, webbing across his flesh. It felt like electricity but did little more than singe the hair on his arms. She must have spent most of her energy on the zombie and getting him out of the tank. For that, he was extremely grateful. In her present condition, she could have killed him without even realizing it.
But if it wasn't the energy she controlled causing this fever, then what was?
He didn't know, and it worried him. She'd been all right only a few hours ago. It had to be something serious to come on so fast.
He continued to wash her down, holding her head above the water once the bath had filled. Her struggles eventually ceased, only to be replaced by shivering. He touched her face, gently brushing away the wet strands of hair from her cheeks and lips. Though her skin was still hot, the heat was nowhere as fierce as before. Time to get her out.
He dragged her free of the water and stripped her down, quickly toweling her dry—a task he would have enjoyed any other time. But it was then he discovered the reason for her fever. Her back was a mass of infected, swollen cuts—cuts that looked to have come from claws rather than a knife. The
He ignored the thrust of fear and wrapped the towels around her. She wouldn't die. He wasn't going to let her.
There were two bedrooms downstairs, but the beds looked older than Camille and had little more than moth-eaten comforters covering them. Guessing the main bedroom was in the loft, he carried her up the stairs and was relieved to find the bed here had both blankets and pillows. He flipped back the blankets and placed her stomach-down on the bed. The wounds were scabbed over, but red and bulging with infection. Why in hell hadn't she told him about the wounds? Frowning, he headed back downstairs and raided the cupboards until he'd found everything he needed.
Cleaning her wounds was a hell of a job. He was glad she wasn't conscious enough to feel any of it, though wisps of agony skittered through his mind—ghosts of the pain she'd be in if she were awake.
Once he'd pushed the worst of the infection from her wounds, he packed them with what was left of Seline's healing herbs and wrapped them in bandages. He tucked the blankets tightly around her so she couldn't thrash around, then headed back downstairs to clean up. There was nothing much more he could do for her right now, other than to keep her fluid levels up and hope he'd caught the infection in time to save her.
The fever broke close to midnight. It was something Doyle felt rather than saw—just a sudden easing in the troubled rush of pain running from her mind to his. He brushed the sweaty strands of hair from her closed eyes, running his fingers down to her lips. Her skin no longer felt consumed by fire, and her cheeks and mouth had a more healthy, rosy glow.
She stirred at his touch, murmuring softly, and reached with one hand for him. He caught her fingers, kissing them gently, then wrapped his hand around hers and held it close to his heart. He ached to do more. Ached to strip and lay under the covers with her, hold her lithe body close to his. But he didn't think he had the strength to touch her, hold her so close, and do nothing more. He wasn't made of stone, and the image of her naked body still hovered bright in his mind whenever he closed his eyes.
Besides, if ever they were going to make love, then the first move should be hers. It couldn't happen now, when she was still half delirious after the fever. It would have to be a conscious decision on her part. Otherwise she'd still have excuses to run. And if it did happen, he wanted her aware of the commitment he was making to her with his touch and with his body.
As for his heart—he smiled wryly. That had been committed from the time he'd picked up her photo and stared into her incredible green eyes.
And to think he'd spent years stating lightning could not strike thrice in one family. How wrong he'd been. His old man would no doubt fall over with laughter when he found out.
He leaned forward, brushing a kiss across her sweet lips, and knew it was time to catch some shut-eye himself. Even as uncomfortable as it was lying on top of the blankets, fully clothed and aching with the need to make love to her, he knew he would sleep. Years of living on the wrong side of the law had trained him to catch rest whenever he could.
