She looked up, saw the pitched roof and the strings of cobwebs trailing the length of room, and frowned. If she didn't know any better, she'd swear they were inside the old farmhouse. But that didn't make any sense. Surely it would be too dangerous. Their murderer would come here, if only to make sure that Doyle was still in her trap.
She climbed out of bed and walked across to the window, peering out. Trees swayed beyond the roof of the veranda, and on the ground to her left, a patch of black soil in a sea of yellow-green grass. Zombie remains, she thought with a shiver. They were definitely at the farm house, then.
She wrapped a blanket around herself, and headed down the stairs. Doyle looked around as she entered the living room.
"Nice outfit," he commented, eyes bright in the hazy light. "I especially like the teasing flash of thigh as you walk."
She blushed and tugged the blanket around. "Why are we still here?"
He turned away, stirring the contents of a bubbling pot. "Why are you not getting dressed?"
"Because I want answers."
"You'll get them when you get dressed."
He moved across to the freezer and opened the lid, then hesitated and met her gaze. Heat trembled between them, skimming like electricity across her skin. She knew that if she so much as breathed his name right now, he would take her in his arms and make love to her, right here in this dusty old living room. And while she ached for his touch, she wasn't ready yet to give in to desire. Wasn't ready to trust that completely. So she tugged the blanket closer and remained silent.
He sighed. "I'm not made of stone, Kirby. I've made no secret of my desire for you, and right now, you're not making it any easier for me to keep my distance."
Her blushed deepened. "Sorry," she muttered and retreated. God, she hadn't even thought… which was so extremely unlike her. She'd only been with two men in her life, and both times it had been an uncomfortable experience. She'd certainly never been relaxed enough with either of them to parade around semi-naked. Yet here she was, draped in nothing but a blanket, padding about in the presence of a man she barely knew.
Maybe she'd lost some brain cells somewhere in the last twenty-four hours.
She found the bathroom but skipped the shower, deciding a wash was easier thanks to the bandages.
By the time she was dressed the smell of toast was drifting through the air, making her stomach rumble.
She headed back out and sat on one of the stools near the kitchen bench, sniffing the air appreciatively.
"Smells good."
"Thank God for canned food and freezers," he said, sliding a plate of baked beans and toast across to her. "Remind me to leave some money behind for our unknowing hosts when we leave."
She raised an eyebrow. "A considerate thief?"
He smiled. "Always." He motioned with his fork to her plate. "Eat. You need to regain your strength."
She ate, discovering she was hungrier than she'd thought. He offered her a second helping, and she demolished that as well, feeling a whole lot better for it.
"Thank you," she said as he replaced her empty plate with a cup of coffee. "Now, answers, if you don't mind."
He sipped his coffee for a second, leaning back against the sink and regarding her steadily over the rim of his mug. There was a touch of accusation in his gaze, and heat crept across her cheeks, though she wasn't entirely sure why.
"Why didn't you tell me about the wounds on your back?" he asked.
She frowned for a second, then remembered the manarei attacking her as she'd tried to flee over the fence. "To be honest, I forgot. It was my leg that hurt, not my back."
"The wounds got infected and could have killed you. Next time, mention it."
A shiver ran through her. She hoped there never would be a next time. "What's that got to do with the reason we're still here? Shouldn't we go before Felicity gets back?"
"She left me here to die, and I don't think she'll be back for a while. Too obvious."
She raised an eyebrow. "So we're here because it's safe?"
"No, we're here because you collapsed with a high fever, and I had no other choice but to stay here."
And he'd been worried about her, really worried. The thought warmed her. Maybe he wasn't just attracted in a physical sense…
"It's way beyond physical, and I've already told you that."
He had? When? She stared at him, more than a little troubled by his words. How could any emotion be real after little more than twenty-four hours? "Doyle, we barely know each other."
He shrugged. "Sometimes you don't have to know to care."
Care, not love. She looked away for a moment, inexplicably hurt by his choice of words. "Your boss told me I should ask about your father and grandfather."
"The old witch should mind her own business."
"Does that mean you're not going to tell me?" She sipped her coffee and regarded him steadily over the rim.
He sighed again. "My father asked my mother to marry him after knowing her for precisely ten minutes.
My grandfather waited a whole hour before he did the same with my grandmother."
She grinned. "You're kidding."
He shook his head. "Of course, in my mother's case, she thought my father was crazy, and at one stage she asked her brother the policeman to threaten him. But in the end she came around."
"And your Grandmother?"
"Shoved my grandfather in the car and headed for Las Vegas as fast as her old Ford would go."
Her grin widened. "So this sort of insanity runs in your family, huh?"
"Apparently so." He considered her for a moment, then said, "Do you remember what happened last night?"
She blinked and wondered why he had suddenly changed the subject. It was almost as if he didn't want to talk about his family, but why? "No. What happened last night? I thought you said I had a fever?"
"You did, but it broke around midnight. At three, you were up and talking to the wind."
A sense of dread ran through her. She wasn't a storm witch, and the wind had never talked to her before, so why would it be doing so now?
"Can you remember any of it?"
"No." She hesitated. Images ran through her mind, fractured remnants of dreams that had assailed her during the night. The wind had not featured in any of them, but Helen had.
She frowned. "I dreamt about Helen. Dreamt that I was dancing with her in the wildness of a storm. She talked to me."
Even though it sounded crazy, he appeared to take her dreams seriously. "Can you remember what she said?"
She sorted through the memories, trying to catch fragments of conversations. "She was trying to warn me about something—or someone. I'm not sure. And she said I had to perform the spell tonight, at midnight."
"That present she left you," he said. "There was magic within it."
She rubbed her arms. The coldness was back in the pit of her stomach, and she was beginning to wish she hadn't eaten so much. "Why would she be asking me to perform a spell? I've never had anything to do with magic, even when she was performing it."
He hesitated. "Camille went to the morgue and checked out Helen's body. Her magic was gone, but unlike the first victim, it had not been ripped from her but rather spelled away. Maybe Helen's final gift to you is her magic."
"No." She wouldn't—couldn't—accept such a gift. "Surely something like that is impossible." Yet life, time and again, had shown her nothing in this world was impossible.
Then the realization hit, and horror rushed through her. Oh God, no . Helen had died because of her .
Had died because she'd spelled her abilities away and had nothing to protect herself against the manarei "It was Helen's choice—Helen's decision," Doyle said. "There was nothing you could have done to prevent it."