"I doubt the police will take a great deal of notice of the words of an old witch."
An old guy wandered in, his presence stopping her from asking any more questions. Doyle paid their room account, and chatted cheerfully with the manager. It was hard to imagine his easy grin hid a killer's instincts. He flashed her an annoyed look, and she bit her lip, glancing away. Killer or not, he had saved her life. And she'd have to remember to watch what she was thinking when she was around him.
They headed back to his car and climbed in. 'The cops will pull you over with a windscreen like that," she commented.
"A risk we'll have to take. I don't have the time to get it fixed right now." He started the car, then reached into his pocket and handed her a breakfast menu. On it were three addresses. "You navigate. There's a street map in the back."
She twisted around and grabbed it. The first address was in Carlton, barely fifteen minutes away. She found the street, then backtracked and gave him directions from where they were.
He sped off. The wind whipped in through the hole in the windscreen, it's touch forceful and icy. She zipped up her coat and fleetingly wished she had gloves. Her hands were so cold her fingers were aching.
"Here," Doyle said, producing a pair of black leather gloves from his pockets. "Wear these. They'll be too big, but they will at least keep you warm." She accepted the gloves with a smile of thanks and pulled them on. "What don't you keep in those pockets of yours?" Like him she had to raise her voice to be heard above the wind.
"Lots of things," he said. "Like answers. Did you or Helen ever try to find out who your parents were?"
Helen had certainly been thinking about it, but now she'd never get the chance. She blinked away the sudden sting of tears and looked out the side window. "No. Why do you ask?"
"Because the first victim had begun a search to find her relatives. We thought maybe that was a possible connection."
"What makes you think Helen's murder is even remotely connected to this other murder?" Helen had spoken to the wind many times, but she'd never seen their deaths being connected to anything more than an accident of fate.
She crossed her arms and shivered. It wasn't supposed to be like this. They were supposed to die together in a car crash years from now. Why had fate stepped in and snatched Helen away long before her time?
Two things connect her," he said. "A manarei tore her apart, and it carved a symbol on both doors."
Bile rose in her throat. She swallowed against it. She didn't want Helen connected to the other murder, and she didn't know why. "Why in hell would someone want to do something like that?"
He shrugged. "If we knew the reason, we would probably have been able to prevent it."
She looked at him. His profile was a painter's dream, classic and stunning.
"What do you mean, we? Who else is working on this with you?" He hesitated. "I work for an organizaton called the Damask Circle. There are three of us currently in Melbourne, trying to solve these murders." She frowned. "Why would a brutal murder in Australia be reported in America? It's not that newsworthy."
"No. And it wasn't reported. Seline, the lady in charge of the Circle, did a reading and sent us out here."
"Reading? What is she? Some sort of psychic or witch?"
"Witch," he said. "But not the witch I referred to earlier. That's Camille, who's here with me and Russell."
Russell was obviously the man she'd heard him talking to earlier. She had a feeling there was a whole lot more about his companions—and himself—that he wasn't telling. "So, you have no idea who is behind all this?"
"None whatsoever." He glanced at her, eyes gleaming in the darkness. "But whoever it is seems to want you dead pretty badly. Remember that the next time you decide to run."
What could she say? She certainly couldn't deny there wouldn't be a next time, because she did have every intention of running. Eventually. If there was one lesson she and Helen had learned well over the years, it was to depend on no one but themselves. Rely on no one but themselves.
She blinked back tears and looked out the side window. The rain fell in a mist, muting the glow of the streetlights and filling the silent streets with a curtain of gray. Anything could be out there, she thought. Anything at all. She shivered again. She felt so cold it seemed to be seeping deep into her bones. Death, reaching out for her.
"He won't get you while I'm here," Doyle said softly. She didn't glance at him. Couldn't. She didn't want him to see her tears.
"I'm not afraid of death." Just of being alone. Of never finding anyone who would care for her as much as Helen had cared.
Of never finding that one person who could love her as she was rather than being terrified of what she could do.
She bit her lip and watched the gray-slipped world rush by. There was little traffic on the roads and they reached Carlton quickly. She glanced down at the street map. 'Turn left here," she said. "Number 28 should be on your side."
He pulled into a parking space and stopped. With the headlights off, the mist seemed to crowd in, encasing them in a blanket of gray. Even the nearby gum trees looked ghostly.
"I don't like the feel of this," she muttered. There was a chill in the air that seemed unnatural. The same sort of chill she'd felt just before she'd pushed through her front door and discovered death had come visiting... His hand covered hers, his touch flushing heat through her entire body.