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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 to 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. 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 was 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 farther.
Frozen by magic, he thought, and he smelled again the sting of fear, the sense of urgency. He ran toward 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, his gaze sweeping the floor. He 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.
He studied the curve of energy to his right. It pulsed rich and strong, cutting the air as cleanly as a knife. But to his left, down near the entrance, the shield rippled. One of the wards had been knocked slightly off-line by the van’s impact as it came through the door. All he had to do was knock it out of line completely, and the circle would be broken.
He rose, putting away his gun and switching the knife to his right hand. He glanced at the clock and saw they had less than a minute. Sweat trickled down his back. He quickly followed the arc of energy and stopped near the ward. The knife wasn’t long enough to break through the shield and reach it. He cursed vehemently. He certainly couldn’t touch the circle. The minute he did, he’d be caught. And the energy would repel anything except silver. He glanced at the clock again. Forty seconds. No time, and no choice. He’d have to throw the knife and hope like hell the impact was enough to knock the ward off-line.
Otherwise, they were all dead.
He ran back until he was at the right angle and took aim. He threw the knife as hard and as fast as he could. It pierced the shield cleanly, light flaring like lightning down the blade as it arrowed toward the ward. It hit dead center, sliding the ward several inches sideways. Not far, but enough to break the circle. Energy exploded, a wave of heat and power that knocked him off his feet.
Hands grabbed him, hauling him upright. “Ten seconds!” Russell yelled. “Move, Camille.”
Doyle pulled away from Russell’s grip. “I’m okay. Go!”
He thrust Russell forward, then grabbed his knife and followed him. Behind them, the timer beeped. For several heartbeats, nothing happened. Relief swept through him. Maybe the witch wasn’t as clever as she liked to think …
The bomb blew. A fiery wave of destruction picked him up, thrusting him sideways. A second later, the heat hit, searing him. Pain surged, and a scream tore up his throat. Then the darkness encased him and he knew no more.
KIRBY STEPPED INTO THE SHADOW OF AN OLD ELM and studied the building halfway down the street. It was nothing spectacular—a square, five-story brick affair, surrounded by a high chain-link fence that almost looked solid, thanks to the weeds and rubbish that clogged it. If the smashed state of the windows and the amount of graffiti scrawled across the walls were anything to go by, the building had obviously been abandoned for some time.
Why here? It seemed a strange sort of place for a witch to be conducting a spell. Though admittedly, she didn’t know an awful lot about witches or spell casting, despite the fact that Helen had been involved in both. But it was too late now to regret her reticence when it came to learning anything about the subject.
She glanced down at the bag clutched tightly in her hand. She had no idea why she’d bothered to bring it. It wasn’t as if she were going to need it, particularly if she didn’t beat the witch. She thought of the note she’d left behind, of the things she hadn’t said, and wished she could go back to yesterday, to the moment in time when she lay wrapped in the warmth of Doyle’s body and he’d asked her to marry him. Wished she’d had the courage to take the chance rather than giving in to fear yet again.
At least then she would have had a moment of happiness to remember now, when death was so close she could smell it.
Terror stole through her heart, squeezing it tight. She took several deep breaths, trying to calm her nerves, then resolutely headed toward the building. She couldn’t delay any longer. Dusk was beginning to creep across the sky. If she waited until night, Mariel would be at full strength, and she wouldn’t have a chance.
The gate was locked, but the wire in the nearby fence had been cut and pushed back, leaving a small gap. She threw her bag through, then squeezed in after it. The sharp ends of the wire brushed her
back, snagging through her T-shirt and tearing into her skin. She cursed and pulled away, leaving a jagged scrap of material hooked on the wire.
Great, just great, she thought, twisting around in an attempt to see the cut. Though she couldn’t see it, there was warmth trickling down her back. It didn’t feel like much, so with any luck, the cut wasn’t all that bad. The last thing she needed right now was to be leaving a trail of blood. Who knew what sort of attention that might attract?
Goose bumps fled across her body. Trying to ignore the growing sense of danger, she picked up her bag and headed down the driveway. Several stacks of crates lay to her left and she hesitated. She had to stow her bag somewhere, and they looked just as safe as anywhere else. She doubted there would be any kids around. Surely the witch would have made sure there was no one near to disturb her spell casting.
In the distance, thunder rumbled. She glanced up. The skies were blue and clear, yet electricity thrummed through the air—through her. Sparks danced across her fingers, but it wasn’t that energy she felt. It came from the sky itself, from the distant hum of a waiting storm. Hers to call, thanks to Helen’s sacrifice.
An all-too-familiar ache washed through her. I have to win this. For Helen, and for the other girls in the circle.
She tucked her bag under a couple of nearby crates, then turned, her gaze sweeping the front of the building. Where would a witch go to perform a ceremony?
She bit her lip, remembering the vision she’d had—the concrete walls slung with slime, and the feel of empty desolation. The parking garage, she thought, gaze sweeping to the side of the building. There, near the end of the building, she saw the entrance.
