"What were you talking about on the phone? Who killed themselves?" She hesitated, then added, voice lowered. "What's wrong?"
"I'm not sure." He rose and stepped toward the window. Magic burned across his skin, its touch so sharp it felt as if he'd walked into a hornet's nest.
"Kirby, get dressed."
She didn't argue, simply scrambled out of bed and ran for her clothes. He narrowed his gaze, trying to concentrate on the flow of power. It condensed near the window, finding form, finding shape.
Became the biggest damn wolf he'd ever seen.
Chapter Six
Kirby froze and stared at the creature that had suddenly appeared before them. It was big, with a shaggy gray coat and wild yellow eyes that were somehow almost human. It looked like a damn wolf. It even snarled like a wolf. But wolves didn't exist in Australia, not outside the confines of zoos, anyway. Maybe this one had escaped, though that didn't explain how it had gotten past the locked door and windows and into their room.
The wolf took a pace forward. It snarled again, teeth gleaming brightly. She reached for the fire.
"Don't," Doyle said softly. "Wait."
"Are you crazy?" But she clenched her fists, holding in check the energy that flowed warmly across her fingers.
He continued to stare at the wolf. After a moment, the animal stopped snarling, but its head was still lowered, and it looked ready to attack.
"You are under a light glamour," Doyle said softly to the wolf. "I can feel its restraints on you."
Kirby frowned. A glamour was some kind of spell. She knew that much from Helen. But why would he think the wolf was under one? And why would he think a wolf would even understand or care?
"If you attack, you will die," he continued. "You know what I am, and you know I am faster and stronger than you."
The wolf didn't move, just continued to stare at Doyle with an odd sort of intelligence in its eyes. It was almost as if it could understand what Doyle was saying, which meant it was a good two steps ahead of her .
"I can open the door and let you leave, or you can die. The choice is yours, wolf."
No one moved—not Doyle, not the wolf, not her. Energy burned across her fists, flickering wild fingers of light across the ceiling. She continued holding her power in check, even though she doubted the sanity of doing so. After several seconds, the wolf sat back on its haunches.
"Wise move," Doyle said and opened the door.
The wolf glanced at her a final time, then padded out.
Doyle locked the door and swung around. "Move. I don't think we have much time before another attack comes."
"How did that thing get in here?" She grabbed a pair of jeans out of her bag and pulled them on. She didn't bother with socks, just slipped on her still damp running shoes over her bare feet.
He'd stripped off his coat and was pulling on his shirt. He had the body of an athlete—a runner. Trim, taut and well-tanned. Very nice, even with the white ring of bandages around his ribs.
He glanced at her, amusement glimmering in his eyes. Heat stole across her cheeks. "Stop reading my thoughts and just answer my damn questions," she snapped.
"I have no idea why I'm catching your thoughts so clearly, so I can't exactly stop it." He put his coat back on and swept up her bag. "And to answer your question, that wolf was sent here by whoever is after you."
She frowned. "But sent here how?"
"Magic. You ready to go?"
"Yes." The sooner they got moving, and the sooner she got away from this craziness, the better. "Where are we going?"
"To find a woman named Rachel Grant." He ushered her through the door, then grabbed her arm and walked her down to reception.
Not taking a chance on her running, she thought with amusement. Which she would, if he made one wrong move. "Why are we trying to find this woman?"
He hesitated, his gaze considering her for several seconds. Judging her, she thought, and wondered why it suddenly seemed so important she pass his test.
"We believe she's the next in line to be murdered." He opened the reception door and motioned her through.
A chill ran through her. "Have you told the police?"
"I doubt the police will take a great deal of notice of the words of an old witch."
An old guy wandered in, his presence stopping her from asking any more questions. Doyle paid their room account, and chatted cheerfully with the manager. It was hard to imagine his easy grin hid a killer's instincts.
He flashed her an annoyed look, and she bit her lip, glancing away. Killer or not, he had saved her life.
And she'd have to remember to watch what she was thinking when she was around him.
They headed back to his car and climbed in. "The cops will pull you over with a windscreen like that," she commented.
"A risk we'll have to take. I don't have the time to get it fixed right now." He started the car, then reached into his pocket and handed her a breakfast menu. On it were three addresses. "You navigate.
There's a street map in the back."
She twisted around and grabbed it. The first address was in Carlton, barely fifteen minutes away. She found the street, then backtracked and gave him directions from where they were.
He sped off. The wind whipped in through the hole in the windscreen, it's touch forceful and icy. She zipped up her coat and fleetingly wished she had gloves. Her hands were so cold her fingers were aching.
"Here," Doyle said, producing a pair of black leather gloves from his pockets. "Wear these. They'll be too big, but they will at least keep you warm."
She accepted the gloves with a smile of thanks and pulled them on. "What don't you keep in those pockets of yours?" Like him she had to raise her voice to be heard above the wind.
"Lots of things," he said. "Like answers. Did you or Helen ever try to find out who your parents were?"
Helen had certainly been thinking about it, but now she'd never get the chance. She blinked away the sudden sting of tears and looked out the side window. "No. Why do you ask?"
"Because the first victim had begun a search to find her relatives. We thought maybe that was a possible connection."
"What makes you think Helen's murder is even remotely connected to this other murder?" Helen had spoken to the wind many times, but she'd never seen their deaths being connected to anything more than an accident of fate.
She crossed her arms and shivered. It wasn't supposed to be like this. They were supposed to die together in a car crash years from now. Why had fate stepped in and snatched Helen away long before her time?
"Two things connect her," he said. "A manarei tore her apart, and it carved a symbol on both doors."
Bile rose in her throat. She swallowed against it. She didn't want Helen connected to the other murder, and she didn't know why. "Why in hell would someone want to do something like that?"
He shrugged. "If we knew the reason, we would probably have been able to prevent it."
She looked at him. His profile was a painter's dream, classic and stunning. "What do you mean, we?
Who else is working on this with you?"
He hesitated. "I work for an organization called the Damask Circle. There are three of us currently in Melbourne, trying to solve these murders."
She frowned. "Why would a brutal murder in Australia be reported in America? It's not that newsworthy."
"No. And it wasn't reported. Seline, the lady in charge of the Circle, did a reading and sent us out here."
"Reading? What is she? Some sort of psychic or witch?"
"Witch," he said. "But not the witch I referred to earlier. That's Camille, who's here with me and Russell."