"Jumped in and drove it off, didn't I?" Camille said. "It runs a might faster than these old bones, let me tell you that. Besides, it was Russell's only hope. The sunshine would have killed him." She rose and lurched toward the driver's seat. "Now, where's this farm you two were staying at?"
"Gisborne," he said. "It's out along the Calder Freeway."
"Wherever that is. Russell, grab the street map and give me some directions."
The van started. Doyle closed his eyes, letting the movements of the old van lull him into a semi-sleep. Pain drifted through him, but its feel was distant. No doubt Camille had put something in the water to take away the aches. The noise of city traffic gave way to the hum of freeway travel. Not far now, he thought wearily, and hoped Kirby was okay. Hoped he was worrying over nothing.
Awareness tingled across his senses, and a wave of tension and fear rushed though his mind. Not his— Kirby's. He sat up abruptly. She was somewhere close. He scooted down to back windows and tore away the plastic.
"What's wrong?" Russell said, voice sharp with concern.
"She's here." They were still on the freeway. There were no cars immediately behind them, but across the other side, a yellow cab sped by. "Turn the van around," he added, urgently.
Camille didn't argue. Tires squealed, then they were bouncing through the dividing strip of grass. "What car?" she said, once they were on the other side.
"The cab. Hurry." He leaned back against the side of the van and closed his eyes, wondering if she were a prisoner to evil or merely breaking another promise.
The traffic closed in around them again. Camille swore, and the blast of the van's horn was almost lost in the squeal of tires. "Idiot," she yelled out the window.
Doyle edged forward and peered out the windshield. Not a cab in sight.
"It turned left two streets down," Russell said, glancing at him. "But from there, it's anyone's guess. How good is this connection between you and Kirby?"
"Good enough to find her, I think." I hope.
Camille turned left then slowed. The street stretched before them, devoid of traffic of any kind. "Where to now?"
He frowned, reaching for the link. Though her thoughts were still distant, her fear surrounded him, so sharp it became his own. He flexed his fingers, trying to control the growing knot of anxiety in his gut. 'Take the next right." Camille swung into the street. Down the far end, a yellow cab cruised out of a side street and drove toward them. Kirby wasn't in it. He knew that without looking.
"You want me to stop in front of that sucker and ask where he dropped her?" He hesitated. Could they afford to waste the time? Could they afford not to? "Do it," he said.
The van slewed sideways, blocking the road. The cab stopped and the driver rolled down the window as Camille hustled over. Three minutes later she was back. "Rodger Street," she said. "Outside some sort of packing factory. He didn't have a specific number."
"Was she alone?" Some part of him hoped she wasn't. Hoped that she was being forced into this action. He just didn't want to believe she was breaking another promise.
Camille nodded. "Whatever she's doing, she's apparently doing it willingly."
"Damn." Why? What could have gone so wrong in the few hours he'd left her alone that she was now willing to risk her life going up against the witch?
Camille patted his hand, then reversed out of the cab's way before continuing up the street. They quickly found Rodger Street and slowed to a crawl.
'There's the packing factory," Camille said, pointing to the right. He knew without looking that she wasn't there. "Keep going." They continued to cruise down the street. "Heartbeats, coming from that abandoned building up ahead," Russell said. 'There are at least three that I can hear."
"Human or otherwise?" Doyle asked. Not that it really mattered beyond knowing what he was up against.
Russell hesitated. "Hard to say."
Camille pulled into the driveway and stopped. "Gates are padlocked," she said. "If I drive through them, they're going to know we're here."
"She didn't enter via the gates." He spotted the brief flutter of material on the fence several feet away from the gate and thrust open the van's side doors, clambering out.
"Damn it, shifter, get back in here. Let us deal with this. You can't go wandering around with that leg of yours."
He ignored her and hobbled over to the fence. Pain rose, a promise of the agony he would no doubt be in once the pain killers wore off. He plucked the thin scrap from the wire and sniffed it quickly. Basil, geranium and pine—the oils she'd soaked in last night. He clenched his fingers around the material, his gaze searching the structure. She wasn't in the building itself, but underneath—in the parking garage.
"Damn it, Doyle—"
The rest of Camille's word were lost to the buzz of magic as he shifted shape. Even in panther form, his leg was useless. It didn't matter. As a cat, he had three other legs and could move faster than any human. He slipped past the wire and ran for the parking garage.