Kirby's stomach churned, her mind snared by the sudden image of Doyle being caught in flames and imprisoned under a mountain of concrete. Fear rose, threatening to engulf her. She took a deep breath and thrust the images away. Doyle wasn't dead. She'd know if he was.
She opened her mouth to reply, but the words froze in her throat. The wind stirred, caressing her cheeks, whispering the secrets of the night-held car park. They were no longer alone. Something was creeping up behind her—something that smelled like death.
She spun and thrust out her hand. The pent up energy surged from her fingers, lashing the darkness, thudding into the chest of the dead man behind her. Fingers of blue-white light webbed across his body, encasing him in a net of heat, burning him to a crisp in seconds flat. The smell of burnt flesh stung the air, and her stomach rolled.
The air behind her boiled with heat, reaching toward her with fiery fingers she felt rather than saw. She dropped, her hands and knees smacking painfully against the concrete. Heat seared across her back, burning her T-shirt but barely touching her skin. She rolled to smother the flames, then saw something glitter out of the corner of her eye, and kept on rolling. Ice exploded against the floor, showering her with shards that tore at her skin and hair.
She flung out her hand. Lightning arced from her fingers, cutting across the darkness, hitting the knife hovering above Trina and flinging it back, deep into the darkness. Without pausing, she shifted her hand, this time aiming at Mariel. Energy cut through the darkness, momentarily highlighting the surprise on the witch's face before she dove out the way. The lightning exploded against the edge of the fire, and scattered the ring of stones. With an odd sort of sucking sound, the purple flames died and darkness swept in, a black curtain she could almost touch.
'Now, that's just plain nasty,' Mariel commented from the darkness to Kirby's left. 'Do you know how difficult it is to raise one of those fires?'
She pushed upright. Thunder rumbled again. The storm was close, so close. She could feel the power of it beginning to thrum through her body, her soul.
Then the wind stirred again, whispering its secrets. Kirby spun, but far too late. Something hit the side of her head and darkness closed in.
A ring of dead men surrounded him. Doyle hesitated in the parking garage's entrance, studying the zombies for several heartbeats. There were six of the stinking damn things. At any other time, it wouldn't have much mattered. These six didn't possess the size or the brute strength of the zombie that had attacked him at Rachel Grant's, and even though he was wounded, generally wouldn't have caused him much of a problem.
But right now he couldn't afford any kind of delay. Kirby's fear was like a blanket, threatening to smother him. She was with the witch and in trouble. Any delay might have deadly consequences for them both.
The zombies lunged toward him. He sprang over their backs and shifted shape, then wrapped an arm around one of the creatures' neck and twisted hard. Bone snapped, and the zombie went limp. He thrust it into the path of another one, then backpedaled as fast as his leg would allow as a third zombie lurched at him. He twisted away from its grasping fingers, and pain shot up his leg. He cursed and limped away, aware of the warmth dribbling down his thigh. The creatures formed a pack and ran at him as one. He shifted shape and leapt away, but the grasping fingers of a zombie on the outskirts of the pack caught him, bringing him down before it jumped on top of him. He slashed at the creature's face with his paws, cutting deep, then shifted back to human shape and smashed his fist into the face of the creature pinning him. Bone shattered, but the blow itself had little effect. Fingers grasped at his neck, seeking to choke him, while others grabbed his legs and feet and pulled, as if intent on ripping him apart. Agony burned through his body, and the rush of warmth from the wound became stronger.
Behind the pack of zombies, the darkness shifted and became Russell's bandaged form. He picked up the creatures by the scruff of the neck, tossing them back into the shadows as if they were nothing more than unwanted garbage.
Then he held out a bandaged hand and hauled Doyle to his feet. 'You keep going. I'll take care of these maggots.'
For an instant, the darkness swam around him, and pinpricks of heat danced before his eyes. Sweat broke out across his brow, and he knew it was only Russell's grip on his arm that was keeping him upright.
'You look like shit,' Russell continued, the concern in his voice deeper.
'That's because I feel like shit.' The scuff of a foot against concrete told him the zombies were on the move again. 'Where's Camille?'
'Turns out the gate was spelled. She's disconnecting it so she can bring the van in.' He hesitated, and shoved something into Doyle's hand. 'You may need this.'
He glanced down. It was the silver knife. He squeezed Russell's shoulder. 'Thanks. And be careful.'
The vampire snorted. 'I'm not the one in danger of bleeding to death here. Go and rescue your lady before you fall down dead.'
Doyle limped away. One of the zombies tried to follow, but Russell grabbed its arm and tossed it back at its brethren. The sounds of the ensuing scuffle followed Doyle into the darkness.
Light began to dance across the wall, but its color was the sick hue of dark magic. He was so close now that it burned across his skin, a foul sensation which churned his gut. Kirby's fear sharpened abruptly, then both the light and her thoughts cut off, leaving an odd sort of emptiness in his mind. She wasn't dead, but he wasn't certain of anything more than that. Apprehension became a blade digging deep into his gut.
He shifted shape, then picked up the knife between his teeth and hurried on, his breathing sharp and a bitter taste in his mouth.
In panther form, he could hear the sound of movement more cleanly. Could hear someone grunting in effort, then the slap of flesh against stone. Heard the sharp click of heels moving away through the darkness.
He reached the parking garage's bottom level and stopped in the shadow of a concrete pillar. The witch squatted near a ring of stone, rearranging them and muttering something under her breath. Kirby and Trina were both lying on a sacrificial table. Neither of them moved, but they both breathed, and relief washed through him.
Yet even from where he stood, he could smell the blood that had leeched into the stone over time. Death had tasted the life of its victims many times on that table. If he wasn't very careful, it would savor the taste of two more.
He padded forward. The witch stood, and her muttering grew more intense. She produced a knife and slashed her wrists, dripping the blood into the ring of stone. Magic stirred, caressing his skin with evil.
Light woke in the ring of stone, flickering sick shadows across the darkness.
He didn't have much time left. He shifted shape near the table and rose, quickly slashing the ropes binding Kirby and Trina's limbs.
Behind him, the chanting grew, becoming fever-pitched. Magic seared the air, and the night shifted as flames began to dance and burn within the ring of stones.
He hefted the knife and turned to throw—only to find himself eyeballing a gun.
The sound of gunshot jerked Kirby awake. Fear filled her mind—fear and pain—a wave of red heat that almost suffocated her.
Doyle was with her here in the darkness, but he was hurt. Seriously hurt. Just as Helen had warned.
Biting her lip and fighting the need to get up and look for him, help him, Kirby opened her eyes. Cold stone
