Hallowed Circle c-2

by Linda Robertson

  "Nana. Maybe you should compete instead of me."

  She thumped her fist on the table. "I had a coven once. I'll never do that again."

  Into the silence that followed I offered a humbled, "I didn't know that." Another tidbit to file away.

  "If this woman wants the job and can win it, let her have it! The contest will prove whether she is worthy and will dismiss her if she isn't. Who are you to interfere, solitary?"

  Around a mouthful of roast, Johnny said, "As Lustrata, she is supposed to make judgment calls."

  Nana glared at him.

  "Thank you," I said to him. It earned me a share in her glare.

  "I'm proud of her, Demeter. Worst-case scenario," he said, "this bully beats her and becomes the high priestess anyway."

  "Right. That's the worst-case scenario… a bad high priestess." Nana stood, lifted her arms, and turned her face heavenward. "Crone, open their eyes!" When her arms dramatically fell limp at her sides, she faced Johnny. "The Lustrata cannot be beaten in an Eximium! When she decides to finally share that she is the Lustrata with the Council, they'll scoff. And when she goes before the Elders as part of that competition—it's standard, they always do that—what if they realize she's marked?"

  "Stained," I corrected.

  "Goddess, why are you so pigheaded?" Nana almost snarled.

  I was pretty sure I knew: if pigheadedness was an inherited trait then I'd inherited it from her, but pointing this out would only make this argument last longer and get us further off-subject. My mouth stayed shut.

  "It's a mark, Persephone, a mark," Nana insisted. "You know as well as I do that it would compromise you. Having that authority will only entice the vampire back to your door."

  I realized Johnny's spine had stiffened.

  Oh, shit. I'd been outed.

  Chapter 6

  "You'll be Bindspoken," Nana went on, "and they'll put your name under the Faded Shroud! That, of course, will be really good for you."

  Nana using sarcasm was unsettling. Add in the fear that Johnny knew I was still stained… I was ready to vomit.

  She shuffled toward the hall, then turned back to me. "You're going to need the Council on your side, Persephone. Setting yourself up to fail one of their major tests won't win their trust. And that's something you're going to need."

  I sat there in the waeres' dumbfounded silence. They both quickly returned full attention to their food. Erik had wisely stayed away from the dinette, opting to hold his plate and eat leaning against the counter. This meant they were on either side of me and it seemed their forks scraped on the plates in stereo, loud in my ears. Was this the stain too? I could hardly bear it.

  By then, Nana had made it to the stairway. Her groaning as she climbed the steps joined with the scraping forks. No wonder stained people are so idiosyncratic. All these amped senses were giving me OCD.

  "What's Bindspoken?" Erik asked. "And that shroud thing?"

  Glad for something else to concentrate on, I said, "If your name is put under the Faded Shroud, WEC will no longer recognize you as a witch. No membership, no benefits, no voting on witch issues, no attending rituals. You're not 'recognized' by them ever again, and you're denied the right to perform magic for others. Not even to read their cards. It forces you to be a solitary, but ignores you while you go on about your life. No big deal if you are already a solitary. 'Bindspoken, however, is like imprisoning your witch abilities. They bind your power. Kind of like hardening and sealing the aura until it's a wall, so that you're effectively severed—magically speaking—from the universe."

  Saying the words made me realize how devastating it would be. If I was Bindspoken and the ley line called to me, I wouldn't hear it. I wondered if it would sever a vampire's binding without making me give up the good parts of myself.

  Without another word, I left the guys in the kitchen with their savory-smelling meat. My feet took a route through the other rooms, away from the stairs, so Nana didn't see me in the hallway and start in on me again. Not that she'd likely have had the breath to shout at me while on the stairs. I sank onto the corduroy-covered couch in the darkened living room.

  My mind flitted about, searching for some other thing to think about.

  This living room was my serene space, although I hadn't found much time for serenity in the past few weeks. I kept all my books on Arthur and Camelot here; the deep red walls were decked with framed posters of nineteenth-century portrayals of legendary characters. The furniture was a mix of antiques I'd found in yard sales and more modern comfort. The room reflected me more than any other in the house.

  I thought about the attic room Johnny had moved into. He'd finished it out since moving in a couple of weeks ago. It had drywall and a subfloor to start, but now the walls were painted the color of powdered rosemary and mock-hickory Pergo had been installed as flooring. He kept it neat and made his bed—a twin mattress and springs on Hollywood rails without a headboard or footboard. It occurred to me that his feet must hang over the end, he's so tall. His seven-string guitar sat in a stand next to an amplifier in the corner. A folding octagonal poker table, various plastic bins, and shaggy beige area rugs completed it. There was nothing homey about the room, no photos, posters, or knickknacks, as if he were a throwback to the Spartans. Since he was here as my guard, at least in part, it fit.

  Not that I'd been paying him intimate visits there. But I did drop off the occasional basket of laundry he'd left in the dryer.

  Thinking about Johnny's bedroom was not bringing me the tranquility I sought.

  I sat up and opened the drawer in a side table and found a lighter. After meandering around the room lighting three tangerine- and ginger-scented candles, I returned to the couch. In the flickering light of the candles, my thoughts came to rest on the painting over the mantel.

  It was an original John William Waterhouse oil painting, Ariadne. It must have been worth a fortune; Menessos had sent me the painting after I chose not to stake him. Hanging it here above my hearth in my rural farmhouse was incredibly impractical, but I loved knowing it was here for me to study and daydream over. If I ever had time to sit and daydream, that is.

  Documents concerning the insuring of the artwork, at Menessos's expense, had arrived by courier a day after I'd received the painting. With it was a notification that some bonded professional group would be installing security devices. A phone number and an email address that was supposed to be Menessos's private account had been included, in case I needed to discuss the matter. Though I suspected Menessos had something up his sleeve with all this, like maybe he was bugging the place to keep tabs on me, having the painting here meant so much to me it might be worth it. I'd finally let the security company schedule for next week.

  In the painting, Ariadne reclined, sleeping, with jaguars at her feet, and in the distant harbor, a boat was sailing away. Though subdued by candlelight, I knew the red of her dress matched my room perfectly. The frame was almost decadent: thick ebony wood with gilded and elaborately carved corners. My poster frames had gold paint on the corners. Menessos's wealth assured the gold on this frame was 24-karat gold leaf.

  I thought of the tale… how Ariadne's father, King Minos, demanded as tribute from the Athenian king, Aegeus, seven young men and seven maidens who would be devoured by the monstrous half-man, half-bull Minotaur. Ariadne fell in love with Theseus, the son of Aegeus who had volunteered to be among the sacrificial youth in order to slay the monster. She gave Theseus a spool of thread to help him find his way out of the maze of the Labyrinth where the Minotaur lived. Theseus slew the Minotaur and escaped, taking Ariadne with him to the island of Naxos. There, the gods shrouded his mind and made him forget her. He left while she slept.

  I suddenly remembered something: Nana had done a Tarot reading for Johnny and the crossing card, the "current problem," was the King of Wands. On Nana's deck the King of Wands was pictured as Theseus. In my interpretation Menessos was the King of Wands: Theseus.

  For Johnny, Menessos
was a major problem.

  Realizing that Menessos had sent me a painting with a woman who loved Theseus on it, a woman who gave up everything to be with him only to be abandoned, made a chill crawl up my spine.

  "Thanks for the ride, man," I heard Johnny say. He and Erik came down the hall.

  "No problem."

  They stopped at the front door. "Sure you won't stay for a beer?" Johnny whispered the last two words; Nana didn't like the idea of alcoholic beverages in the house, so we kept the beer in the old refrigerator in the garage.

  Erik laughed. "Nah. Gotta get home while Celia's still awake or there'll be no sex." I smiled in spite of myself; I was glad my friend was loved.

  "Ah," Johnny said appreciatively, peering into the living room at me. "Pleasure with a special someone. Can't say I remember what that's like." He made whining puppy sounds and gave me a sweet, adorable expression.

  "Yeah," I said. "I hear it's just like self-pleasure only it's sweatier and it's supposed to take longer, but that's not always the case."

  They both cracked up, but I hushed them with a reminder that Beverley and Nana were trying to sleep upstairs.

  Erik said, "Good night. I'll see you at Feral's tomorrow for rehearsal." Phil «Feral» Jones was the bassist for Lycanthropia.

  "Right. See ya tomorrow." Johnny shut and locked the door. Shortly, Erik's Infiniti started and the gravel in my drive crackled under the tires. With a low rev, he drove away. In the next instant I mentally checked my perimeter wards; all set. I'd increase the perimeter tomorrow.

  Johnny stood in the doorway to the living room. The forty-watt hall light silhouetted him as he reached up to place his hands on the molding over the entryway. A physique-enhancing stretch, it made for a very nice silhouette. A handsome darkness, a living shadow, watching me like the savage predator he was deep down inside.

  If only Nana hadn't outed me.

  The stain I still carried—"a filthy vampire's mark" as Celia had once called it—made me feel repugnant in his sight. That's why I didn't want him to know. I'd wanted him to see me, not the stain.

  When I first met Johnny, all I saw was his ominous tattoos, not him. I'd been shallow and unfair. Johnny wasn't either of those, but knowing that the connection between Menessos and me still existed might be more than he could handle.

  "Red?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Demeter has a point."

  I hadn't expected the Eximium to still be the subject at hand. "I know." I yawned, then stretched. "I just wish she didn't have to make her points the way she does."

  He eased into the living room to share the darkened space with me, but my serene room suddenly felt like a jail cell. He might ease into it, but we were going to talk about my stain. It was unavoidable now.

  His hands slipped into his pockets. "I want to start sparring with you."

  "You fight a lot?" I asked. Bands, bars, beer, and waerewolves. It wouldn't take much to start an all-out brawl.

  "With the exception of that vamp, not lately."

  That vamp.

  "That wasn't a good example," he said quietly. Johnny hadn't done so well in that fight, but he'd healed in three days. "He's not a normal enemy."

  "Master vampire-wizard. No, not exactly an everyday sort of guy."

  His shoulders slumped. Johnny seemed to take my words as if I were complimenting the manipulating bastard. Or maybe his ego still smarted remembering how badly he'd been beaten. "We need to make sure you're ready, as the Lustrata, for this contest."

  Despite my longing for his touch and knowing how sparring would give us an excuse to be close, I had to admit, "I'm sure there's not going to be hand-to-hand combat in the competition for high priestess."

  "I understand that, but the martial arts gives you a mental edge. That couldn't hurt."

  "Well, yes, but—"

  "When is your Eximium?"

  "Starts at dawn this Saturday."

  He calculated. "Three days isn't enough time," he whispered as he pulled his hands from his pockets.

  "Why do I have to be ready 'as the Lustrata'?"

  He came and sat next to me with safe inches between us, hands on his thighs, fingers galloping. "I thought if you knock this other woman out in the early running and then win, you could bow out at the end and announce that you are the Lustrata. Win-win."

  My shoulders tensed even tighter. "No. I'm not going to announce anything. Just because I've come to believe it doesn't mean the Elders are just going to accept my word. Anyone could make that claim. Simply claiming to be something doesn't make it true—or you'd have been a mega-rock star a long time ago."

  He acquiesced with a grin. "You mean I'm not?"

  The glow from the candle warmed the colors of his face and gleamed on the curls of his dark hair. The Wedjat tattoos became less like art and more like shadow.

  "You'll have to announce it sometime."

  "Why? Why can't I just do this incognito? WEC will probably have some test for me to take as verification or to use as a means to denounce me. Or, worse, they'll examine me like a bug under a microscope. I don't want that, Johnny."

  He considered it. "How about we plan to evaluate tomorrow morning, form a plan, and just hit it? With only a few days to consider your strengths and weaknesses, what to do about them, how to approach them, our options are minimal timewise."

  I nodded in agreement. Trying to keep the subject off me, I asked, "How do you know so much?"

  Johnny tapped his temple. "It's in here. Don't remember where it came from and I can't access my past, but the part that works is filled up with rock'n'roll and the Lustrata." He shook his head. "I've known every minute of every day since I woke in that park, with these tattoos, that I would find the Lustrata. That I would instruct and serve her. That I was… prepared… just for her." His rapacious, masculine expression stole my breath. "For you."

  He saw me, and the glistening light of the Lustrata wasn't dimmed knowing I had a stain. Hoping my eyes shone with as much sincerity as his voice held, I said very seriously, "I hope I can appreciate that as much as you deserve."

  A boyishly lopsided smile sprang to his face. "I know how you can start."

  "Yeah?"

  He reached to caress my cheek. "Yeah."

  He guided me closer as if I were floating like Aquula—

  I jerked away. "Shit!"

  Exasperated, Johnny asked, "What now?"

  "I forgot to tell you! In the grove, a water-fairy came to me. She warned me. Said three other fairies were plotting against Menessos and might strike at me to get at him. That's who might have been out there in the field tonight." I started to get up. "I'll need to ask Nana tomorrow if anything in the Codex could help and I have to warn Menessos."

  Johnny caught my arm and kept me sitting. "Why do you need to warn the vamp?"

  Staring pointedly at his hand on my arm, I let disapproval show in my expression.

  He straightened and released me, his arm sliding across the back of the couch. Twisting into the corner, he pretended to be relaxed, but his pose was too rigid. "Let the three little fairies do their worst."

  My head dipped forward. "They're more dangerous than you think!"

  "Not to me."

  "They might target me, or did you miss that part?"

  "So we get you ready, I help protect you, and we ignore the threat to him."

  "I have to tell him."

  "Why?"

  "Because it's the right thing to do."

  In a flash, Johnny was off the couch, pacing before me. "I get the right-action-for-the-right-reason thing, Red. But this isn't either! This is nothing but showing obedience to him."

  "It is not showing obedience, it's me being me! Doing the right thing. You thought the stain was gone. You don't trust me now because you know it's not."

  "Of course I trust you. I don't trust him. You're marked, Red. Still. That's why you can run so fast." His arms went up as he figured it out, then his fingers ran over his hair. "Why you smelled the metal
of my strings. He is here and he'll always be here. In you."

  "Doing the right thing for the right reason is important to me, Johnny. It always has been, and that hasn't changed. If I don't act when I know I can make a difference, I fail. I fail at being a good person and fail at being the Lustrata."

  "The right thing to do would be for you to acknowledge that you feel something for me that's remotely close to what I feel for you. I've asked for only a single grain of sand from you, Persephone, while I'm the whole fucking beach at your feet. You want to appreciate me but your thoughts are always turning to him!"

  What could I say? I stood, walked to a table, and blew out one of the candles. The tang of smoke hit my nostrils sharply.

  Behind me, Johnny continued in an angry whisper. "If you contact him, even to warn him, he'll find a way to reel you in a little more, manipulate you again. That's what fucking vamps do!"

  Johnny came toward me, motion fluid and easy. "I saw you take the stake. I saw the pain transfer back to him. He could not dump it on you anymore. He would have if he could have. How can you still be marked?"

  I didn't want to tell him I chose to keep the stain; he'd never understand how it was bound to the parts of me I knew I would lose if I were free of the stain. "I don't fully understand it myself, Johnny." That was true. "Maybe he pulled the pain back to himself to trick me into getting close enough to stake him, maybe he was hoping to thrust it back at me at the last second…" I let it trail off.

  He let out a long, slow breath. "Yeah. I can see that. But you destroyed it and he didn't have to follow through." He ran hands through his dark waves again as he turned and paced away. "Can't trust vamps. Ever!" he grumbled. His motion turned into another stretch, then his arms fell to his sides, limp. His shoulders were straight, and I admired the lines and curves of his masculine strength—even if it radiated anger at me.