Maybe.She shivered and rubbed her arms. "Where do I go?"
"To an abandoned building in Port Melbourne. She will perform the ceremony tonight, when she has more strength. You have to stop her."
Kirby closed her eyes. Have to and would stop her were two very different things. "The address?"
It was the wind itself that answered, burning the address into her thoughts. Another tremor ran through her. The spell had worked after all.
"Call the storms, and they too will answer." Helen's words were barely audible. The dance of the leaves was dying, as was the wind. "Take care, sister…"
"Good-bye," she whispered and felt the quick kiss of wind on her cheeks before the day went still.
Swallowing heavily, she climbed to her feet. The chill seemed to have settled deep in her bones. She rubbed her arms, knowing it came more from fear—and from the knowledge that she might not survive this encounter with the witch. Despite Helen's words, she was under no illusions. The witch was far stronger than she ever would be.
But she had no choice. If she contacted Doyle and told him what she was about to do, he'd either tell her to stay put or accompany her. And if the wind's whispers were right, he'd die. Or maybe his friends would. Either way, she couldn't take that risk. If anyone else had to die, then let it be her. This was her fault, after all. Helen was right. It was time to stop running from the past and start making things right, no matter what the consequences.
Sighing softly, she headed back to the house to collect her things and call a taxi. And while she was waiting, she'd write a note of apology to the man she feared she'd never see again.
The man she might just love.
Doyle ducked past the filth-ridden window and moved to the back door. It was padlocked, but the screws holding the latch in place were loose and rusty. Nothing a good kick couldn't dislodge. He leaned back against the wall and glanced at his watch. Ten seconds to go.
There was no movement inside the warehouse, no smell of life. But the feel of magic lay heavy in the air—as did the smell of death. Zombies, and God knew what else, waited inside.
He glanced at his watch again. Time, he thought. From the front of the warehouse came the sound of squealing tires, then a loud bang and the sound of metal grinding. Camille, reversing the van right though the warehouse's main doors.
He stepped away from the wall and kicked the door. It flew open, the lock flying sideways and clattering noisily to the floor. He rolled into the gloom, coming to his feet fast, silver knife in one hand and gun in the other.
Nothing but dust stirred. He rose and cautiously edged forward. Light filtered in through the filthy windows, washing hazily across the semi-dark hallway. Doors lined the walls to his left and right—and from the one at the end of the corridor, the rattle of a dead man breathing.
He put his weapons away, then took a deep breath and opened the door. The zombie lunged towards him, hands clawing for his neck. The smell of decay hung heavy in the air. This one had been dead for quite a while before it had been called from its grave. He ducked under the creature's blows and thrust his fingers deep into its neck, shattering its windpipe. It gurgled, hands grasping wildly at its throat, as if desperate for air it didn't need to survive. He stepped behind it, grabbing its neck and twisting hard. Bone snapped, and the zombie fell dead at his feet.
Unease ran through him. One zombie, and not a very strong one at that. As traps and this witch went, it just didn't mesh. Something felt wrong. Very wrong.
He got out his weapons, then stepped over the mildewed body of the zombie and continued on down the corridor. At the end, he found a set of stairs leading downward. He took them cautiously, pausing after each step. The silence felt so intense it almost seemed to be buzzing. Where the hell were Camille and Russell?
He reached the last step and stopped again. The room that stretched before him was long and narrow and wrapped in a blanket of gloom. Dust stirred, but little else. There were doors to his left, and another set at the end of the room. He hoped they led into the main section of the warehouse. Though he could hear no sound, he had a horrible feeling Camille and Russell needed help.
He moved left and tested the handle. Magic tingled across his fingers, sharp enough to burn. He jerked his hand away, then carefully brushed his fingers across the door itself. The whole thing was spelled.
If this door was trapped, then no doubt the other one would be, too. He stepped back and studied the wall. No windows, no vents—nothing he could use to gain access into the next room.
Frowning, he moved right, running his hands across the wall. Plasterboard. Maybe he could kick it in and gain access that way. He walked to the middle of the wall, far enough away from both doors to ensure he didn't trigger either spell, then began kicking the wall. White dust flew and the plaster gave way, revealing the struts and wall beyond. He kept kicking until there was a hole large enough for a cat to fit through, then shifted shape. But he didn't enter, not immediately.
The silence in the room beyond felt tense, electrified. Magic stirred, breezing across his senses, but its touch had the feel of distance. He padded a little closer, listening to the undertones of the silence. He could hear breathing, sharp and rapid. Could almost taste the sting of sweat, the acrid smell of fear.
Human smells and sounds, not animal. Not zombie or any other nightmare creature.
There was no one close. He pushed through the hole, then shifted shape and reached back for the knife.
The gloom in this part of the warehouse was not as intense, the sunlight filtering in from skylights dotted across the ceiling. In the middle of the large room stood a crate. On it, an odd looking parcel. His gut clenched. He had a horrible feeling he knew what that parcel was. This time, the witch wasn't taking any chances with magic alone. This time, it looked as if she'd set a bomb to ensure their destruction.
He looked quickly to the right, wondering where the hell his friends were. The van was half in and half out of the main entrance, the roller door still wrapped around it. Camille had jumped out, and was standing next to the door, reaching back into the van. Russell had thrust open the van's side door and had one foot on the ground, but he was more in the van than out. Neither of them appeared able to move any further.
Frozen by magic, he thought, and smelled again the sting of fear, the sense of urgency. He ran towards them, looking at the parcel as he passed it but not daring to go any closer. He had no experience in dealing with bombs and no desire to go near it and risk blowing them all up. All he needed to know was the time they had left, and the clock showed that all too clearly—less than two minutes.
Magic thrummed against his skin. He skidded to a stop, gaze sweeping the floor. Saw the wide semicircle drawn onto the concrete, and the wards spaced at regular intervals along that line. They'd had no hope. The minute they'd breached the warehouse's entrance, the spell had been activated. It had snared them the moment they touched the concrete. No doubt a similar spell had been set on the doors.
No wonder Trina was still alive. It would have taken a tremendous amount of personal energy to set these spells, and it would take the witch more than a few hours to recover.
He squatted, eyes narrowed, watching the slight ripple of energy cutting the air. Urgency beat at him, through him. Though he couldn't see the timer, he knew the seconds were slipping away too quickly. But if he hurried, if he touched this spell the wrong way, it would snare him too and they'd all be blown up.