"Very little. She paints houses for a living and portraits for fun, and she has apparently known Helen most of her life."
"Photo?"
"Yeah, in the back of the folder. I took it from one of the bedrooms."
He shuffled through to find it. The two women could have passed for sisters. They had the same build and the same dusky-brown hair, only Kirby's was highlighted with streaks of pale gold. Their eyes differed, too. Helen Smith had the eyes of a storm witch—a smoldering, ethereal gray. Kirby's were a vibrant green. Even though it was only a photo, those eyes seemed to cut right through him and touch something deep in his soul.
Frowning, he slid the picture across to Camille. "Could be the Manarei went after the wrong woman."
Camille picked up the photo and studied it for several seconds. "She don't fit the profile, either. Look at her eyes. There's power in that gaze. She may not be a witch, but she's got abilities, and she's used them.
The first victim's powers were basically unwoken."
"The first victim might not have realized the potential that lies within her, but someone obviously did."
Russ grabbed the photo off Camille and considered it for a second. "Did you manage to get into the morgue?"
Camille grimaced. "Yeah. Had time enough to sneak in and do a reading. She'd had her powers ripped from her before she died. The manarei's little more than a cover for the true reason of death."
Doyle's frown deepened. "How can that be possible? How can you siphon someone's psychic abilities like it was nothing more than blood?"
Camille snorted. "Boy, there's things in this world that can suck the energy from a person until they're nothing more than a husk. There are even creatures that feed on souls. Why can't there be something that siphons psychic energy or abilities?"
He shrugged. Put like that, it almost seemed reasonable. "So, the real question is, why these particular girls?"
Camille nodded. "How you going with those background checks on the first victim?"
He grimaced. "Not good. Her parents were killed when she was six years old, and she was placed into the foster care system. She was eleven when she was sent to a government-run facility for troubled teenagers."
"No relatives?" Russell asked.
He shook his head. "None listed, though I dare say she has them somewhere."
Camille lightly tapped the table. "Do a check on Brown and Smith, and see what you come up with."
She glanced back to Russell. "You get anything personal from the house?"
Russ reached into his shirt and pulled out a plastic bag. Inside were two hair brushes.
Camille smiled. "Such a clever boy."
"Such a damn thief," Doyle muttered dryly.
Russ raised an eyebrow, his expression amused. "Now there's a case of the pot calling the kettle black if ever I heard one."
He grinned and didn't deny it.
Camille drew a hairbrush out of the bag. She unwound several strands of hair from the bristles, then closed her eyes and ran the lengths through her fingers. A shudder shook her slender frame. "This was Helen's," she said softly. "She was one with the storms, a friend to the wind. But she was the weaker of the two."
He shared a glance with Russell. Storm witches were pretty damn powerful. If she were the weaker, then what kind of power did this Kirby have?
"They've been on the run for years." Camille hesitated, frowning. "Running not from the past but the future."
"She obviously didn't see this future," Russ commented.
Camille's frown deepened. "I feel she did… but chose to accept her fate."
Another shudder rocked the old woman's frame. Sweat began to bead her forehead. The hair slipped from her fingers, falling softly to the desk. Camille leaned back in her chair and took a deep breath. "I can't read much further. There's some sort of force blocking me."
He reached across to touch the spider web of hair. Energy tingled across his fingertips, a muted echo of the power Helen Smith had controlled. The Manarei should not have been able to kill her. At the very least, she should have been able to keep it at bay 'til help arrived.
But she'd chosen to die. He wondered why.
Camille took another deep breath, then leaned forward and took the second brush from the bag.
"Kirby's," she said. "She is the key, the one that binds. She is…"
Her eyes flew open. "The Manarei is after her. Doyle, go. Go now. Or she'll die."
He rose so swiftly his chair toppled backwards. "Where?"
"Grice Street, Essendon. Hurry."
He was gone before she'd even finished speaking.
Chapter Three
The scream cut through the night, a high pitched wail of distress. The hair along the nape of Kirby's neck stood on end, and for a minute she froze. The screamer was male, but it was too high, too young sounding, to be Constable Ryan. More than likely it was the delivery boy. The sound cut off as suddenly as it had begun, and in the silence she could hear movement—gentle thumps, as if something soft were being thrown around in the next room.
Move,instinct said. Move, before it comes for you.
She thrust her coat into her pack and threw it out the window. It dropped with a splat into a puddle, and brown water splashed upward.
The sounds from the living room ceased. She froze again, listening, as she knew the thing in that room was listening. Her heart was beating so hard its cadence filled the silence with fear.
Sweat trickled down her face. She clenched her fists, fighting the urge to move. Right now, she had to wait—or die.
Time seemed to stretch, sawing against her nerves. Sweat dripped off her chin and splashed to the floor near her feet. For an instant, her vision blurred, and she saw blood instead of sweat pooling at her right foot.
A shiver stole across her. She blinked, but otherwise remained still. In the other room, the noise began again, this time accompanied by a soft, slurping sound.
Drinking the life of its victim, she thought, and knew that didn't mean blood.
Swallowing heavily, she stepped onto the tub. The window was on the small side and even though she was small herself, it was a tight fit. She went out sideways, twisting as she fell so that she landed on her back rather than her head. There she lay for several seconds, gasping for breath and seeing stars.
Something thumped against the bathroom door. The creature she'd known as Dicks was coming after her. She scrambled to her feet, grabbed her backpack, and ran like hell.
In the bathroom, wood splintered and something metallic hit the tiles—the towel rack, giving way. Fear thrust energy through her limbs, and she raced toward the end of the motel units.
Glass shattered behind her. She risked a look over her shoulder and saw a reptilian head snake through the window, eyes gleaming like yellow fire in the night. It hissed, an angry, alien sound that sent chills shuddering down her spine. She stumbled over something in the grass and threw out a hand to stop herself from falling. She didn't see the glass hidden by the weeds, and she sliced her palm open. The smell of blood seemed to permeate the storm-clad night, and the creature screamed a second time.
A fence loomed in front of her. She threw her pack over it and grabbed the railing, climbing up. Splinters tore into her palms and sawed at the cut on her left hand. She ignored the pain and scrambled to the top of the fence.
The wind hit her full force, the rain like bullets thudding against her flesh. Suddenly unbalanced, she grabbed the fence, clinging precariously and wasting valuable seconds.
The creature's roar filled the night with anger. She felt its launch in the sudden gust of wind, but before she could react, it grabbed her leg. Claws ripped into her flesh and pain flamed. She screamed, a sound swept away by the wind.