Mariel raised an eyebrow. "You are well informed, aren't you?"
She shrugged. "Sometimes it pays to know what you're up against."
Mariel nodded serenely. "Yes, I guess it does." She sipped her coffee again, then tilted her head, her gaze narrowing a little.
The sense of danger leapt tenfold, squeezing her throat so tightly she could barely breathe. Yet Mariel hadn't moved, hadn't done anything beyond change her expression. I'm out of my league, Kirby thought, and flexed her hands, her fingers aching with the energy that burned across them. The sparks danced in jagged lines across the darkness, clashing with the dirty light of the fire. Mariel glanced down briefly, a slight smile touching her lips.
"The power of air," she said. "I'm keen to see how well it stands up to fire and water."
Kirby wasn't. The only thing she was keen to do was get the hell out of here. But that wasn't an option—not yet, and not without Trina. "You didn't answer my question."
"Didn't I? How remiss of me."
Her smile was cold, cruel. It whispered of death, of a darkness so deep Kirby felt the chill of it clear through to her soul.
"Do you know how hard it is to find information about raising the dead? It took me five years to find anything decent on the subject. Five years is a long time in hell, you know."
Her hands clenched around the cup, shattering it. Shards of china clattered over the concrete, a brittle sound that sawed against Kirby's nerves. "Then you were sixteen when you raised her—why wait until now to go after us?"
"You really don't know anything about magic, do you?" Mariel snorted and shook her hand. Blood splayed across the concrete and into the flames. They hissed and recoiled. "It takes time to learn the craft, time to gain strength and knowledge. And time to find what the government had scattered."
So, it was true. In trying to track down their origins, Helen and the other girls had led a killer to their door. Kirby rubbed her arms, showering herself with sparks that tingled across her skin but did little to ease the chill from her bones.
"Why? Answer me that. It can't be all about revenge." Surely no one, no matter how mad, would go through all this for something as simple as revenge.
"I thought you would know the answer to that." Mariel hesitated and shook her head, as if in disbelief.
"You raised the power. You, more than any of us, felt the full extent of it. How could you not want to feel all that again?"
Kirby stared at her. Was that what this was all about—the need to control? The need to be the most dominant force? Mariel had never been entirely sane. Anyone who raised dead bugs for the sheer fun of terrorizing other children could never be described as sane. But that night, when they'd joined hands and raised a force that had shaken the very foundations of the world around them, they'd obviously destroyed what little rationality she'd had. For one brief moment, Mariel had had a glimpse of the absolute power she'd craved—only it wasn't hers to control. Would never be hers to control.
Unless she destroyed the circle and sucked its powers into her own being.
"You'll never get away with it," Kirby said softly. Her voice sounded uncertain, even to her own ears.
"I'll stop you."
Mariel smiled gently. "How, when I already have three of the five powers? And I have the final two here, awaiting my gift of darkness."
Tension ran through her. Her fists were clenched so tight her nails were cutting into her palms. "Gift of hell, more likely."
"Well, yes, if you're going to get technical about it." Mariel sniffed and waved a hand.
Kirby tensed, certain that the witch had done something. Certain that trouble was now headed her way.
"I must say," Mariel continued serenely, "that you've caught me on the hop. I was expecting to have to pry you away from the hands of that damn shifter." She hesitated, smiling again. It was a picture of maliciousness itself. "I set a trap for him, you know. Just how well do you think a shifter can survive a bomb?"
Kirby's stomach churned, her mind snared by the sudden image of Doyle being caught in flames and imprisoned under a mountain of concrete. Fear rose, threatening to engulf her. She took a deep breath and thrust the images away. Doyle wasn't dead. She'd know if he was.
She opened her mouth to reply, but the words froze in her throat. The wind stirred, caressing her cheeks, whispering the secrets of the night-held car park. They were no longer alone. Something was creeping up behind her—something that smelled like death.
She spun and thrust out her hand. The pent up energy surged from her fingers, lashing the darkness, thudding into the chest of the dead man behind her. Fingers of blue-white light webbed across his body, encasing him in a net of heat, burning him to a crisp in seconds flat. The smell of burnt flesh stung the air, and her stomach rolled.
He's dead, she reminded herself fiercely. You can't feel responsible about killing a man who is already dead.
The air behind her boiled with heat, reaching toward her with fiery fingers she felt rather than saw. She dropped, her hands and knees smacking painfully against the concrete. Heat seared across her back, burning her T-shirt but barely touching her skin. She rolled to smother the flames, then saw something glitter out of the corner of her eye, and kept on rolling. Ice exploded against the floor, showering her with shards that tore at her skin and hair.
She flung out her hand. Lightning arced from her fingers, cutting across the darkness, hitting the knife hovering above Trina and flinging it back, deep into the darkness. Without pausing, she shifted her hand, this time aiming at Mariel. Energy cut through the darkness, momentarily highlighting the surprise on the witch's face before she dove out the way. The lightning exploded against the edge of the fire, and scattered the ring of stones. With an odd sort of sucking sound, the purple flames died and darkness swept in, a black curtain she could almost touch.
"Now, that's just plain nasty," Mariel commented from the darkness to Kirby's left. "Do you know how difficult it is to raise one of those fires?"
Trying to get around me,Kirby thought. She slid off her shoes and edged barefoot toward the table. If she could just get Trina down… Flames shot across the darkness. She cursed and dove away, hitting the concrete again and skinning her chin in the process. She wiped away the blood dribbling down her neck, then yelped as fiery fingers of heat licked towards the soles of her feet. But the flames never touched her, recoiling millimeters away from her feet before dying. She frowned and remembered Helen's words—
she cannot hurt you with what is yours to command. Did that mean the powers of fire could not be used against her? She fervently hoped so, if only because it gave her some sort of chance.
She pushed upright. Thunder rumbled again. The storm was close, so close. She could feel the power of it beginning to thrum through her body, her soul.
Then the wind stirred again, whispering its secrets. Kirby spun, but far too late. Something hit the side of her head and darkness closed in.
A ring of dead men surrounded him. Doyle hesitated in the parking garage's entrance, studying the zombies for several heartbeats. There were six of the stinking damn things. At any other time, it wouldn't have much mattered. These six didn't possess the size or the brute strength of the zombie that had attacked him at Rachel Grant's, and even though he was wounded, generally wouldn't have caused him much of a problem.