He edged forward. The odor seemed to be coming from the room two doors down—directly opposite the room from which he'd entered the house. At the doorway he stopped, listening again. Air stirred softly, the sound accompanied by the softest rattle. The stink had become so bad he could barely breathe. He wasn't sure if it was related to whoever was standing in that room or not, and at this point, it didn't really matter. Whoever—or whatever—it was, they were standing against the wall, close to the door, just like him. It left him with only one option.
He stripped off his long coat, placing it carefully on the floor, and dove through the doorway.
Tears tracked heat down Kirby's cheeks, and a sob caught in her throat. She knew Helen was dead, had seen her torn and bloodied remains with her own eyes—and yet here she was, smiling softly, gray eyes gentle and yet so full of mischief.
She wanted to reach out, to touch the untouchable—to hold her dead friend close and never let her go again. But she clenched her hands instead, frightened that even the slightest of movements would send this mist wraith scattering.
"You must stop her, Kirby." Helen's voice was as soft and as warm in death as it had been in life.
She somehow found her voice. "Stop who? Who did this to you?"
The wind stirred, rustling the leaves of the nearby gum trees and blowing away several strands of Helen's mist-spun figure. Kirby bit her lip, but knew there was little she could do to prevent it. The wind was no friend of hers.
"I have not enough time and so much to tell you," Helen continued softly. "You are the one that binds and controls. You are the most powerful of them all. You are the only one who can destroy her."
She frowned. What she needed right now was answers, not more damn questions. "What are you talking about? Destroy who?"
"She who seeks to control what is not hers. The power of the elements—the circle of five. Two are dead. You and one other remain. You must find her and save her. And you must find the fifth point and stop her."
How could she save some unknown woman when she hadn't even been able to save her best friend?
"We are more than just friends. And my death lies on my hands, not yours."
She stared at Helen's mist-shaped face and felt so cold her whole body began to shake. "What do you mean?" she said, her throat so restricted her question came out little more than a harsh whisper.
"My death was my choice. I chose to die by my own hand, rather than give that woman anything of mine. Now you, too, must choose your fate."
"I don't want this," Kirby muttered. "I don't want any of this." She just wanted life to go back to the way it had been, and for Helen to be real, not a creature of mist.
All of which was totally impossible now.
"Destiny creeps up on us no matter how we run, Kirby. I have learned this, if nothing else."
"But you saw the future. You saw our deaths…" her voice faded. Helen had once said the wind only whispered possibilities, never certainties. It was the things we said and did that changed the paths of fate.
Which is why they'd spent so much of their lives on the move, trying to outrun the death that had always loomed so large in their futures.
Helen sighed. "It was my actions that sent us down this particular path, and for that, I am sorry."
"What actions?" She rubbed her arms, not understanding even half of what Helen was saying.
Even that smallest of movements sent air shivering through her friend's form. "I needed to try to find out who my parents were. I'm sorry."
For what? For wanting to know the truth? For being braver than she'd ever dared? "Did you find them?"
"No." Helen hesitated. The wind stirred again, blowing through her form, snagging tendrils of mist and unraveling them quickly. "The wind calls me. I have to go."
"No!" She reached out, but her hand slipped through Helen's form, stirring the mist and dissipating her body. "No," she repeated, dropping to her knees, her whole being aching with the pain of loss and unshed grief. "Don't go. Don't leave me."
"You must go home. You must find the gift and say the words." Helen had almost completely faded.
Only her face remained. The droplets of moisture glistened in the rising light of the day, so it looked like tears were shining in her mist-colored eyes.
"What words? What are you talking about?"
"The spell. You must complete the spell." Even as she spoke, the wind was taking the rest of her mist-spun features until all that was left was the sparkle of ghostly tears. "Fear not the cat, sister, for he will not harm you."
She meant Doyle, Kirby thought, and knew that in this instance, Helen was wrong. Doyle might not harm her, but he had the power to hurt her deeply. Irreparably.
I will always be with you, Kirby. Seek me whenever the wind calls. Take care…
The words caressed her mind and faded away. She closed her eyes, rocking back and forth and battling the urge to scream. It wasn't fair. It wasn't Helen who should be dead, but her. Helen had lived life to the fullest, enjoying every moment while she… she'd done nothing more than fake it.
Biting her lip, she sat there for what seemed like ages, controlling the pain, refusing the tears. Not yet, she thought. Not until she'd made sense of Helen's death and found the woman responsible. Not until justice had been done.
Eventually, she became aware of the cold touch of moisture seeping through her jeans, chilling her skin.
She rose, her joints creaking in protest, and looked around. Though the mist was still heavy, the darkness was beginning to lift. In the trees above her, a magpie warbled, its melodious tones heralding in the new day. Across the road, lights shone in the house two doors down from twenty-eight. She frowned. People were waking. Doyle had better hurry up and get out of that house.
Shoving her hands in her pockets, she walked back. At the car, she stopped, her gaze going to the second floor window. There was nothing to see but shadows, but she frowned. Doyle was in trouble. Big trouble. How she knew this, she wasn't sure. It was just a feeling—a certainty—deep in her mind. And she was just as certain that if she didn't do something to help him, he would die. Something was in that room with him, something bigger and stronger. Something from beyond the grave.
Not giving herself time to think—or fear—she ran toward the house.
Doyle rolled back onto his feet, only to be confronted by a seven foot mass of hair and rotten flesh.
A goddamn zombie. And one of the biggest he'd ever seen. In a confined space like this, the odds of beating it weren't exactly good. The stinking creatures were faster than they looked, and strong despite the decay.
It lunged toward him, and he back-peddled fast. A fist the size of a spade hammered the air. He ducked and swung, kicking the zombie in the gut. The blow bounced off the creature's flesh and jarred his whole leg. It felt like he was kicking bricks. The zombie had to have been a boxer or bodybuilder in life to have stomach muscles that strong in death. He half wished he'd taken the time to put his boots back on. He had a bad feeling that bare feet weren't going to make much of a dent in this particular dead man.
He danced away from another blow, then jabbed at the creature's jaw. Its head snapped back, and it snarled—or smiled. It was a little hard to tell with all the hair. He jabbed again, but the zombie caught the blow in his fist and twisted hard. Pain burned white-hot up Doyle's arm, and sweat beaded his brow.
Gritting his teeth, he dropped, sweeping the creature's feet out from under it. It fell with a crash that shook the foundations but began scrambling upright almost immediately. He jerked his wrist from the zombie's grasp, then punched the creature in the neck, feeling flesh and muscle give under his blow. The zombie's eyes went wide, and it started gasping, as if unable to breathe. Zombies weren't the brightest. It was dead and didn't actually need air, but most didn't realize that immediately, if ever.