"My death was my choice. I chose to die by my own hand, rather than give that woman anything of mine. Now you, too, must choose your fate."
"I don't want this," Kirby muttered. "I don't want any of this." She just wanted life to go back to the way it had been, and for Helen to be real, not a creature of mist.
All of which was totally impossible now.
"Destiny creeps up on us no matter how we run, Kirby. I have learned this, if nothing else."
"But you saw the future. You saw our deaths..." her voice faded. Helen had once said the wind only whispered possibilities, never certainties. It was the things we said and did that changed the paths of fate. Which is why they'd spent so much of their lives on the move, trying to outrun the death that had always loomed so large in their futures.
Helen sighed. "It was my actions that sent us down this particular path, and for that, I am sorry."
"What actions?" She rubbed her arms, not understanding even half of what Helen was saying.
Even that smallest of movements sent air shivering through her friend's form. "I needed to try to find out who my parents were. I'm sorry." For what? For wanting to know the truth? For being braver than she'd ever dared? "Did you find them?"
"No." Helen hesitated. The wind stirred again, blowing through her form, snagging tendrils of mist and unraveling them quickly. 'The wind calls me. I have to go-"
"No!" She reached out, but her hand slipped through Helen's form, stirring the mist and dissipating her body. "No," she repeated, dropping to her knees, her whole being aching with the pain of loss and unshed grief. "Don't go. Don't leave me."
"You must go home. You must find the gift and say the words." Helen had almost completely faded. Only her face remained. The droplets of moisture glistened in the rising light of the day, so it looked like tears were shining in her mist-colored eyes.
"What words? What are you talking about?"
"The spell. You must complete the spell." Even as she spoke, the wind was taking the rest of her mist-spun features until all that was left was the sparkle of ghostly tears. "Fear not the cat, sister, for he will not harm you." She meant Doyle, Kirby thought, and knew that in this instance, Helen was wrong. Doyle might not harm her, but he had the power to hurt her deeply. Irreparably.
I will always be with you, Kirby. Seek me whenever the wind calls. Take care...
The words caressed her mind and faded away. She closed her eyes, rocking back and forth and battling the urge to scream. It wasn't fair. It wasn't Helen who should be dead, but her. Helen had lived life to the fullest, enjoying every moment while she...she'd done nothing more than fake it.
Biting her lip, she sat there for what seemed like ages, controlling the pain, refusing the tears. Not yet, she thought. Not until she'd made sense of Helen's death and found the woman responsible. Not until justice had been done. Eventually, she became aware of the cold touch of moisture seeping through her jeans, chilling her skin. She rose, her joints creaking in protest, and looked around. Though the mist was still heavy, the darkness was beginning to lift. In the trees above her, a magpie warbled, its melodious tones heralding in the new day. Across the road, lights shone in the house two doors down from twenty-eight. She frowned. People were waking. Doyle had better hurry up and get out of that house.
Shoving her hands in her pockets, she walked back. At the car, she stopped, her gaze going to the second floor window. There was nothing to see but shadows, but she frowned. Doyle was in trouble. Big trouble. How she knew this, she wasn't sure. It was just a feeling—a certainty—deep in her mind. And she was just as certain that if she didn't do something to help him, he would die. Something was in that room with him, something bigger and stronger. Something from beyond the grave.
Not giving herself time to think—or fear—she ran toward the house.
***
Doyle rolled back onto his feet, only to be confronted by a seven foot mass of hair and rotten flesh.
A goddamn zombie. And one of the biggest he'd ever seen. In a confined space like this, the odds of beating it weren't exactly good. The stinking creatures were faster than they looked, and strong despite the decay. It lunged toward him, and he back-peddled fast. A fist the size of a spade hammered the air. He ducked and swung, kicking the zombie in the gut. The blow bounced off the creature's flesh and jarred his whole leg. It felt like he was kicking bricks. The zombie had to have been a boxer or bodybuilder in life to have stomach muscles that strong in death. He half wished he'd taken the time to put his boots back on. He had a bad feeling that bare feet weren't going to make much of a dent in this particular dead man.
He danced away from another blow, then jabbed at the creature's jaw. Its head snapped back, and it snarled—or smiled. It was a little hard to tell with all the hair. He jabbed again, but the zombie caught the blow in his fist and twisted hard. Pain burned white-hot up Doyle's arm, and sweat beaded his brow. Gritting his teeth, he dropped, sweeping the creature's feet out from under it. It fell with a crash that shook the foundations but began scrambling upright almost immediately. He jerked his wrist from the zombie's grasp, then punched the creature in the neck, feeling flesh and muscle give under his blow. The zombie's eyes went wide, and it started gasping, as if unable to breathe. Zombies weren't the brightest. It was dead and didn't actually need air, but most didn't realize that immediately, if ever.
He jumped towards it, wrapping an arm around its throat and squeezing tight. The zombie roared—a sound that came out strangled and harsh. It reached back, grabbing Doyle by the back of the neck and wrenching him over its head. He hit the wall with enough force to see stars and dropped in a heap to the floor, only to feel the boards quiver as the zombie ran at him. He scrambled away on all fours, resisting the sudden urge to shapeshift. A panther wouldn't have a hope against the superior strength of this zombie. And in that form, he certainly couldn't snap the creature's neck—the only surefire way of killing it.
Fingers raked his side, seeking purchase. He rolled to his feet and grabbed the zombie's arm, twisting around and pulling hard. The creature sailed past him and landed with a crash on its back. Doyle stiffened his fingers and knifed them toward the creature's eyes. It moved, and he hit cheek instead, felt flesh and bone give as its cheek caved in. Teeth gleamed at him in the brightening light of day.
Shuddering, he twisted, sweeping the creature off its feet again as it struggled to rise. It roared in frustration and lashed out. The blow caught the side of his face and sent him staggering. The creature was up almost instantly, arms outstretched as it sought to corner him.
He faked a blow to the creature's head, then spun and lashed out at a bonylooking knee instead. The force of the blow shuddered up his leg, and in the silence, the crack of the creature's knee shattering was audible. It didn't seem to matter to the zombie, though. It staggered toward him, arms milling quicker than a high speed fan and twice as deadly.
He couldn't duck every blow. He was fast, but even the wind would have had trouble in this situation. The zombie's fists hit him in the ribs. Red heat flashed through him. He hissed and spun, lashing out again at the zombie's knee. This time, the whole knee bent backward and the creature howled, a sound loud enough to wake the dead—and the neighbors.
Downstairs, there was a crash, and magic burned across his skin. Someone had sprung the spell on the front door. Not Camille. She would have deactivated it first. Maybe it was the neighbor they'd seen earlier, coming to see what all the noise was. He hoped he wasn't too hurt.
He aimed another kick at the creature's leg, but it sidestepped and caught his foot, thrusting him back against the wall. He hit with a grunt, then ducked another blow. The creature's fist hit the wall instead, and dust flew. It was so damn close its reek was almost overwhelming. Gut churning, he threw another punch, mashing the creature's already bulbous nose. The creature howled. He spun, kicking the zombie in the gut, forcing it away, desperate to gain some room to move— and breathe.
Lightning bit through the room, encasing the zombie in a web of blue-white light. It howled and thrashed but could not escape. The smell of burning flesh added depth to the already horrendous stench in the room.