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She wrenched her hand from Doyle’s and raced outside, barely making it to the garden to the left of the door.
When she’d finished, she leaned back against the cool brick wall and closed her eyes. She didn’t want to do this. Didn’t want to remember the past—especially if it was going to reveal more horrors like the caretaker. And it would reveal more; of that she was certain.
But as Doyle had said earlier, it was time she faced the past. For Helen’s sake. And for her own. She’d spent too many years in retreat, afraid to trust, afraid to live. Part of the reason why had now been revealed, but she couldn’t stop, not until the whole truth was out. Helen had once said their future lay locked in acceptance. It was only now that she realized Helen had meant acceptance of the past, of what had happened, and what they’d done.
But just what, exactly, had they done?
She wasn’t sure, and that scared her. What could five prepubescent children have done to this Felicity Barnes that she now exacted bloody revenge all these years later?
Footsteps approached. Doyle walked through the doors and stopped. “Are you okay?”
She didn’t open her eyes. Didn’t want to see the caring in his eyes that she could feel in his thoughts. It was a lie. It had to be. No one could care for her—especially a man who was still such a stranger.
“I’m fine,” she said, her voice a little sharper than she’d intended. “Is the caretaker still alive?”
“Scared out of his wits, but yeah, he’s still alive.” His gaze swept over her, a heated touch she felt rather than saw. “I’m not a cold-blooded killer, Kirby. I’m not an animal. I’m just a man.”
No one who could assume the shape of a panther was just a man. She felt an insane desire to laugh at the thought and crossed her arms, trying to hold it back, trying to hold in all the pain. It didn’t work, and a sob escaped.
“Come here,” he all but growled.
Wrapping a hand around her arm, he pulled her toward him. His touch was gentle
yet firm, and she made no effort to resist. Couldn’t resist, in fact. That one sob had broken the dam wall, and she felt so weak her knees were shaking. She fell into his embrace, sobs racking her body, her tears soaking his shirt.
He didn’t say anything, just held her tightly as all the pain, all the fear of the last few days, poured out of her. Even when the sobbing had eased, she remained in his arms, finding strength in his strength, finding comfort in the warm flow of his thoughts through her mind.
After a while, she sighed softly. “Thank you,” she murmured into his chest.
His smile shimmered through her, as warm as sunshine. Anytime you want a chest to cry on, I’m here. Out loud, he said, “Feeling a little better?”
He caressed her hair, his touch running warmth to the pit of her stomach. She looked up, saw the heated look in his eyes, and felt an insane desire to rise up on her toes and taste the sweetness of his lips again. But that had nearly gotten them into trouble an hour ago, so she pulled away instead. His hand slipped from her back to her hip and rested there, warming the base of her spine.
“I’m afraid I’ve soaked your shirt,” she said, plucking at the wet material.
His smile touched his eyes and made her heart stutter. “It’s drip-dry, so don’t worry.” He brushed some hair away from her cheek, his touch trailing heat against her skin. Then he froze, and his grip on her waist tightened slightly. “What the hell …?”
He turned, thrusting her behind him. Fear rose in her throat, and lightning warmed her fingertips. “What—”
She got no further. A chill ran through her, and for an instant, her vision blurred. Suddenly she was seeing inside the dorm, inside the nurse’s quarters where the old man was checking numbers and ticking them off on his clipboard. A small figure cowled in black appeared behind him, its face little more than a rotting skull.
Death, she thought with a shiver. But it wasn’t there for them.
Inside the dorm, the caretaker began screaming.
MAGIC BURNED ACROSS HIS SKIN. IT HAD THE SAME foul flavor as the trap he’d sensed in the other building and the magic he’d felt at Rachel Grant’s. She was getting rid of the evidence, he thought, as the caretaker’s screaming reached fever pitch.
He stepped forward, but Kirby grabbed his arm. “She’ll kill you,” she murmured.
Images streamed from her mind to his—a figure cowled in black, wearing a death mask. Long, thin hands from which flames sprung, surrounding the old man. Fire burning through the air, through the old man. His screams clashing with the howl of the inferno before dying abruptly.
The searing touch of magic flashed again, and the figure was gone, leaving only a burning wreck that had once been a man.
“Not a man,” Kirby murmured. “A monster.”
Doyle turned away from the door. The old man was dead, but the flames still burned. If the alarms in the building were still working, they would no doubt go off soon. They had to be out of here before the fire department arrived.
He caught Kirby’s hand and squeezed her fingers gently. There were tears in her eyes, and he could feel the pain in her thoughts. As much as she’d hated the caretaker, as much as she might have wished him dead, she hadn’t wanted him to die in such a manner. She was a gentle spirit, despite everything she’d faced as a child.
