"So the fools still think they've got themselves a plain old serial killer." Camille's voice held an edge of disbelief. 'They never learn, do they?"
'They do their best, given the limited resources and expertise they have in these cases." Though Russell's voice was mild, there was a flash of annoyance in his brown eyes. He'd been a cop himself before he'd crossed the line between the living and the dead, and even now, he readily defended them.
"What do we know about this Kirby Brown?" Doyle asked, before Russ and Camille could get into yet another argument on the merits of the police force.
"Very little. She paints houses for a living and portraits for fun, and she has apparently known Helen most of her life."
"Photo?"
"Yeah, in the back of the folder. I took it from one of the bedrooms." He shuffled through to find it. The two women could have passed for sisters. They had the same build and the same dusky-brown hair, only Kirby's was highlighted with streaks of pale gold. Their eyes differed, too. Helen Smith had the eyes of a storm witch—a smoldering, ethereal gray. Kirby's were a vibrant green. Even though it was only a photo, those eyes seemed to cut right through him and touch something deep in his soul.
Frowning, he slid the picture across to Camille. "Could be the Manarei went after the wrong woman."
Camille picked up the photo and studied it for several seconds. "She don't fit the profile, either. Look at her eyes. There's power in that gaze. She may not be a witch, but she's got abilities, and she's used them. The first victim's powers were basically unwoken."
'The first victim might not have realized the potential that lies within her, but someone obviously did." Russ grabbed the photo off Camille and considered it for a second. "Did you manage to get into the morgue?" Camille grimaced. "Yeah. Had time enough to sneak in and do a reading. She'd had her powers ripped from her before she died. The manarei's little more than a cover for the true reason of death."
Doyle's frown deepened. "How can that be possible? How can you siphon someone's psychic abilities like it was nothing more than blood?" Camille snorted. "Boy, there's things in this world that can suck the energy from a person until they're nothing more than a husk. There are even creatures that feed on souls. Why can't there be something that siphons psychic energy or abilities?"
He shrugged. Put like that, it almost seemed reasonable. "So, the real question is, why these particular girls?"
Camille nodded. "How you going with those background checks on the first victim?"
He grimaced. "Not good. Her parents were killed when she was six years old, and she was placed into the foster care system. She was eleven when she was sent to a government-run facility for troubled teenagers."
"No relatives?" Russell asked.
He shook his head. "None listed, though I dare say she has them somewhere." Camille lightly tapped the table. "Do a check on Brown and Smith, and see what you come up with." She glanced back to Russell. "You get anything personal from the house?"
Russ reached into his shirt and pulled out a plastic bag. Inside were two hair brushes.
Camille smiled. "Such a clever boy."
"Such a damn thief," Doyle muttered dryly.
Russ raised an eyebrow, his expression amused. "Now there's a case of the pot calling the kettle black if ever I heard one."
He grinned and didn't deny it.
Camille drew a hairbrush out of the bag. She unwound several strands of hair from the bristles, then closed her eyes and ran the lengths through her fingers. A shudder shook her slender frame. 'This was Helen's," she said softly.
"She was one with the storms, a friend to the wind. But she was the weaker of the two."
He shared a glance with Russell. Storm witches were pretty damn powerful. If she were the weaker, then what kind of power did this Kirby have?
'They've been on the run foryears." Camille hesitated, frowning. "Running not from the past but the future."
"She obviously didn't see this future," Russ commented. Camille's frown deepened. "I feel she did...but chose to accept her fate." Another shudder rocked the old woman's frame. Sweat began to bead her forehead. The hair slipped from her fingers, falling softly to the desk. Camille leaned back in her chair and took a deep breath. "I can't read much further. There's some sort offeree blocking me."
He reached across to touch the spider-web of hair.
Energy tingled across his fingertips, a muted echo of the power Helen Smith had controlled. The Manarei should not have been able to kill her. At the very least, she should have been able to keep it at bay 'til help arrived. But she'd chosen to die. He wondered why.
Camille took another deep breath, then leaned forward and took the second brush from the bag. "Kirby's," she said. "She is the key, the one that binds. She is..."
Her eyes flew open. "The Manarei is after her. Doyle, go. Go now. Or she'll die."
He rose so swiftly his chair toppled backwards. "Where?"