Circle of Death by Keri Arthur

what? For wanting to know the truth? For being braver than
she’d
ever dared to be? “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!” Kirby 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.
    Kirby frowned. “I have the gift; it’s in my pack.”
    “That is
not
the gift I left. Find it, say the words, and complete the circle.”
    Her frown deepened. “What circle? 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 physically, but emotionally? 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. Kirby 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 thefullest, 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 the new day. Across the road, lights shone in the house two doors down from number 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 than he was. Something from beyond the grave.
    Not giving herself time to think—or fear—she ran toward the house.
    D OYLE ROLLED BACK TO HIS FEET , ONLY TO BE CONFRONTED by a seven-foot mass of rotten flesh—something that had once been human, but now was not.
    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 backpedaled 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