Her grin widened. "So this sort of insanity runs in your family, huh?"
"Apparently so." He considered her for a moment, then said, "Do you remember what happened last night?"
She blinked and wondered why he had suddenly changed the subject. It was almost as if he didn't want to talk about his family, but why? "No. What happened last night? I thought you said I had a fever?"
"You did, but it broke around midnight. At three, you were up and talking to the wind."
A sense of dread ran through her. She wasn't a storm witch, and the wind had never talked to her before, so why would it be doing so now?
"Can you remember any of it?"
"No." She hesitated. Images ran through her mind, fractured remnants of dreams that had assailed her during the night. The wind had not featured in any of them, but Helen had.
She frowned. "I dreamt about Helen. Dreamt that I was dancing with her in the wildness of a storm. She talked to me."
Even though it sounded crazy, he appeared to take her dreams seriously.
"Can you remember what she said?"
She sorted through the memories, trying to catch fragments of conversations. "She was trying to warn me about something—or someone. I'm not sure. And she said I had to perform the spell tonight, at midnight." That present she left you," he said. 'There was magic within it." She rubbed her arms. The coldness was back in the pit of her stomach, and she was beginning to wish she hadn't eaten so much. "Why would she be asking me to perform a spell? I've never had anything to do with magic, even when she was performing it." He hesitated. "Camille went to the morgue and checked out Helen's body. Her magic was gone, but unlike the first victim, it had not been ripped from her but rather spelled away. Maybe Helen's final gift to you is her magic."
"No." She wouldn't—couldn't—accept such a gift. "Surely something like that is impossible." Yet life, time and again, had shown her nothing in this world was impossible.
Then the realization hit, and horror rushed through her. Oh God, no. Helen had died because of her. Had died because she'd spelled her abilities away and had nothing to protect herself against the manarei.
"It was Helen's choice—Helen's decision," Doyle said. "There was nothing you could have done to prevent it."
His thoughts wrapped around her, offering sympathy and strength. She thrust him away angrily. "I could have been there. I could have stopped her."
"If you had been there, you'd be dead as well," he said, voice sharp. "All you can do now is make sure Helen's sacrifice doesn't go to waste." She swiped at the tears on her cheeks. He was right. She knew that deep down. But right now, she just wasn't ready to accept any of it, particularly the gift her best friend had died to give her.
"I don't want to do this," she muttered.
"You have no real choice now."
"Maybe." She looked away from the understanding in his eyes. She wasn't ready to accept that, yet, either. "What now?"
"Right now, we're going to join the hunt for the fourth member of this elemental circle of yours."
His tone was still a little sharp. Maybe he'd heard her thoughts. "Camille didn't have any luck last night, then?"
He shook his head. "I was talking to her earlier this morning. They've eliminated eight addresses, and Vicki Campbell is off the list completely. Camille found her last night, and she doesn't fit the profile. No psychic ability at all—woken or unwoken. That leaves us with seven still to check."
"So either Trina Jones or Marline Thomas is the killer?"
"Presumably. And neither of the names ring any bells?" She shook her head. The past was still a cloud she just couldn't navigate. And it was beginning to get a little frustrating. Somewhere in that fog lay the reason behind all this. Somewhere in that fog lay the true identity of the killer.
An image ran through her mind—a skinny girl in jeans and a red sweater, brown hair tied back in pigtails, silver eyes ablaze as she chased her and Helen through the trees.
Mariel, who liked to tear the wings off bugs. Mariel, who could make dead things come to life. She was their killer, of that Kirby was suddenly certain. Only trouble was, there was no Mariel on Camille's list.
"She might have assumed another identity," Doyle commented. "No one is stating that Camille's list is one hundred percent accurate, but right now, it's all we have."
She nodded and rose. 'Then let's get going." Because she had a feeling time was running out—for them, and for the next victim.
He didn't move. The window behind him threw his features into shadows, but his eyes gleamed blue fire. There was concern in his gaze and in his thoughts.
"Are you really feeling okay? You were so sick yesterday, maybe you shouldn't push it today. It might be better—