"I gather there's no spell," he said, voice dry as he squatted in front of the lock.
"Of course not. If there was, I would have removed it."
Kirby crossed her arms and watched Doyle work on the lock. "Are you sure your friend is inside?"
"Something is," he said, as the lock clicked open. "I can hear them scuffing around."
She frowned. Did vampire's scuff? Somehow it didn't fit the image she had of them. "It could be a trap."
"Could be," he agreed, rising. "Which is why you'll wait out here."
"I'm not—" "You are. We need someone to watch for security patrols. You're it."
She bit her lip. It made perfectly good sense for her to remain out here, and they both knew it. Problem was, she didn't want to be left alone in this place. Something about it spooked her. But whether it was forgotten memories finally surfacing, or something else, she wasn't entirely sure.
Camille patted her arm, fingernails painted purple and glittering in the pale morning light. "Don't worry dear. Whatever they're using to track you, it's not with you now. You're safe."
Doyle's glance was sharp. "It must be in her backpack. That's the only thing from last night we haven't got with us."
Camille nodded. "Could be. Find it and get rid of it, fast."
"But I packed it myself," Kirby protested. "Believe me, nobody put anything in there that I don't know about."
"Doesn't mean there can't be anything in there." Camille glanced back to Doyle. "You ready?"
He nodded, his gaze meeting Kirby's. "Stay here. Don't go anywhere and don't run." Warn me like this if you hear or see anything. Don't yell, and don't enter the building.
His thoughts were firm but warm as they whispered through her mind. She stared at him for several heartbeats, wondering if she should take this opportunity to run. His blue gaze narrowed slightly.
Don't,he added, mind voice more forceful this time.
She nodded. He opened the door and ushered Camille inside. Sighing, Kirby leaned back against the wall. The chill of the bricks pressed into her back, easing the fire a little. Her gaze skated across the nearby buildings and settled on the perimeter fence. Bottle brush and flowering gums lined it, the bright red and gold of their flowers flashing like fire in the fog. For an instant, a memory surfaced—Helen and her, weaving through the trunks, running in fear. She closed her eyes, trying to remember just what—or whom—they'd run from. But the memory slipped back to the recesses of her mind. She swore and opened her eyes.
Her gaze drifted across the buildings, coming to rest on the third of the five that sat opposite. That was theirs—that was where they'd stayed.
She pushed away from the wall and headed over. It couldn't hurt to look, and it was certainly better than hanging around here doing nothing.
She walked around the side of the building, heading for the third dorm's main entrance. If she remembered rightly, the doors were half glass. Maybe she could peer in and jog a few more memories loose.
She turned the corner and stopped abruptly. The doors were open. She tensed, for an instant ready to run, then heard someone inside, tunelessly whistling. Memories beckoned.
She knew that tune. Had heard it often when she was a little girl stuck in the darkness of this place.
Clenching her fingers, she walked past the ramps and up the steps, heading inside.
Chapter Nine
Doyle stopped. Motes of dust danced sluggishly in the light filtering in from the skylight above them, but it did little to lift the shadows that filled the corridor. Boxes and broken bits of furniture lined the walls, and the whole place smelled of age and decay. No one had been through here for a very long time. No one human, anyway.
"Can you smell him?" Camille whispered softly.
He nodded. "Three doors down."
"Magic?"
"Two doors down." Its feel was so sharp his skin burned with it. "It's got the same feel as the magic that was being performed on Rachel Grant."
Which had to mean there was something here to find; otherwise, why bother setting a spell in this wasteland of decay?
Camille grunted and pushed past. She stopped near the door, studying it for several seconds. Magic burned across his skin again, but this time it felt clean, sunshine compared to rain. Camille, battling the spell with one of her own. After several seconds, she gave a satisfied sigh.
"Looped it," she said. "So we can get past without triggering it. And it'll still feel set to the originator."
"Good." He hurried to the third door. The scuffing had stopped. No one moved inside, no one breathed.
And the only person he could smell was Russell.
Warily, he stepped inside. The room was another wasteland of decay and boxes. Dust-caked windows lined the far wall, filtering brightness into the room—brightness that could kill his friend. Russell was lying in one corner, half in the shadows, half out, his hands and feet tied by wire, and tape covering his mouth.
Sweat beaded his forehead, and his skin looked red, as if sunburned.
Doyle swore. "Camille, get your van and bring it around the back. The gate is open."
She hurried off. He took off his coat and flung it over his friend, protecting his uncovered skin from the sun's rays. Then, tucking his hands under Russell's shoulders, he dragged him back into the safety of the shadow-filled corridor.
He ripped the tape off Russell's mouth. As he began unwinding the wire from the vampire's hands, expletives fell thick and fast into the gloom.
"Tell us what you're really feeling," Doyle said, amused.
"When we catch the bitch," Russell muttered, "she's going to get a taste of her own medicine."
Doyle flipped the wire into the rubbish behind him, then shifted to undo the wire around Russell's feet.
"Meaning she's a vamp?"
"No," Russell snapped, rubbing his head. "Meaning I'm going to hit the witch over the head and kick her in the gut and groin a few times, just like she did to me."
"Tsk. That's no way to treat a lady."
"This is no lady we're dealing with, believe me."
He rose and offered Russell a hand up. "It's unlike you to let anyone sneak up on you. What happened?"
"A goddamn spell happened. I was looking through the files in some boxes, and suddenly I couldn't move. Then she appears from nowhere and clubs me."
He raised an eyebrow. "Which suggests she didn't know you were a vampire. Otherwise, she might have staked you."
"True," Russell muttered. "I guess she figured it out pretty quickly, though, because she was cackling when she dragged me into the sunlight."
"Did she take the files you were looking at?"
"Yeah. But I did manage to get a look at a couple of them."
Doyle glanced around as Camille approached. She offered Russell some sunburn cream and patted his shoulder, a look of relief on her face.
"And?" he prodded Russell.
"One was Helen Smith's file. Apparently she was adopted, but her parents were killed in a freak storm.
Tree went through the roof and crushed them in bed."
"How old was she when this happened?" Camille asked, frowning.
"Seven."
"Too young to have gone through puberty," she murmured. "Talents don't usually appear until then—unless they're freakishly strong. What happened to Helen after that?"
"None of the relatives wanted her, so she came back into government care. She was farmed out to a series of foster parents, but she never lasted in any of them. The records state she was classed a
'difficult' child and she ended up in this center."
"And the second file?" Doyle asked, although he had a pretty good idea who that second file was about.
Russell glanced at him. "Kirby Brown. She was never adopted, and there's no mention of why. She stayed in several long-term foster homes, but she always ended up back here."