"Now is never the time," she muttered, stomping after him. They rounded the corner of the building. About halfway along this section was an old wooden door. Squatting in front of it was a woman. Though she had gray hair and from a distance looked reasonably old, her multi-colored sweater was so bright you almost had to squint to look at it. To complement this, she also wore black leather pants and red runners. A woman who didn't care about the opinions of others, Kirby thought with a smile.
The woman glanced up as they approached, a smile creasing her lined features.
"About time you got here, boy. I can't get this damn lock to open." The woman's bright gaze swept past Doyle, fixing on her. "You'd be Kirby, then?" Her blue eyes were luminous, almost electric. Not a woman who missed much. Kirby nodded. "You're Camille?"
"That I am." She swatted Doyle's arm then rose a little stiffly and moved out of the way. "Get a move on. We can't stand out here all day, you know."
"I gather there's no spell," he said, voice dry as he squatted in front of the lock.
"Of course not. If there was, I would have removed it." Kirby crossed her arms and watched Doyle work on the lock. "Are you sure your friend is inside?"
"Something is," he said, as the lock clicked open. "I can hear them scuffing around."
She frowned. Did vampire's scuff? Somehow it didn't fit the image she had of them. "It could be a trap."
"Could be," he agreed, rising. "Which is why you'll wait out here."
"I'm not—"
"You are. We need someone to watch for security patrols. You're it." She bit her lip. It made perfectly good sense for her to remain out here, and they both knew it. Problem was, she didn't want to be left alone in this place. Something about it spooked her. But whether it was forgotten memories finally surfacing, or something else, she wasn't entirely sure. Camille patted her arm, fingernails painted purple and glittering in the pale morning light. "Don't worry dear. Whatever they're using to track you, it's not with you now. You're safe."
Doyle's glance was sharp. "It must be in her backpack. That's the only thing from last night we haven't got with us."
Camille nodded. "Could be. Find it and get rid of it, fast."
"But I packed it myself," Kirby protested. "Believe me, nobody put anything in there that I don't know about."
"Doesn't mean there can't be anything in there." Camille glanced back to Doyle. "You ready?"
He nodded, his gaze meeting Kirby's. "Stay here. Don't go anywhere and don't run." Warn me like this if you hear or see anything. Don't yell, and don't enter the building.
His thoughts were firm but warm as they whispered through her mind. She stared at him for several heartbeats, wondering if she should take this opportunity to run. His blue gaze narrowed slightly.
Don't, he added, mind voice more forceful this time.
She nodded. He opened the door and ushered Camille inside. Sighing, Kirby leaned back against the wall. The chill of the bricks pressed into her back, easing the fire a little. Her gaze skated across the nearby buildings and settled on the perimeter fence. Bottle brush and flowering gums lined it, the bright red and gold of their flowers flashing like fire in the fog. For an instant, a memory surfaced—Helen and her, weaving through the trunks, running in fear. She closed her eyes, trying to remember just what—or whom—they'd run from. But the memory slipped back to the recesses of her mind. She swore and opened her eyes.
Her gaze drifted across the buildings, coming to rest on the third of the five that sat opposite. That was theirs— that was where they'd stayed. She pushed away from the wall and headed over. It couldn't hurt to look, and it was certainly better than hanging around here doing nothing. She walked around the side of the building, heading for the third dorm's main entrance. If she remembered rightly, the doors were half glass. Maybe she could peer in and jog a few more memories loose.
She turned the corner and stopped abruptly. The doors were open. She tensed, for an instant ready to run, then heard someone inside, tunelessly whistling. Memories beckoned.
She knew that tune. Had heard it often when she was a little girl stuck in the darkness of this place.
Clenching her fingers, she walked past the ramps and up the steps, heading inside.
Nine
Doyle stopped. Motes of dust danced sluggishly in the light filtering in from the skylight above them, but it did little to lift the shadows that filled the corridor. Boxes and broken bits of furniture lined the walls, and the whole place smelled of age and decay. No one had been through here for a very long time. No one human, anyway.
"Can you smell him?" Camille whispered softly. He nodded. "Three doors down."
"Magic?"
"Two doors down." Its feel was so sharp his skin burned with it. "It's got the same feel as the magic that was being performed on Rachel Grant." Which had to mean there was something here to find; otherwise, why bother setting a spell in this wasteland of decay?
Camille grunted and pushed past. She stopped near the door, studying it for several seconds. Magic burned across his skin again, but this time it felt clean, sunshine compared to rain. Camille, battling the spell with one of her own. After several seconds, she gave a satisfied sigh.
"Looped it," she said. "So we can get past without triggering it. And it'll still feel set to the originator."