Wicked Circle c-5

by Linda Robertson

  Men.

  My gaze lingered on Johnny as he jogged up the street. At six-two his body was lean and long, but it didn’t make him awkward. He was graceful no matter what he did. My breath escaped in a soft sigh.

  “How is your mother doing?”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I had the urge to lecture Menessos sternly about the in signum amoris thing, but in fine female fashion, I decided to save that scolding for another time. “Skip the small talk and tell me what we’re facing here.”

  He slid into the seat kitty-corner to me so we could see each other more easily, but he stared at his palms. “The shabbubitum.”

  “Gesundheit.”

  “Sha-buh-BYE-tum,” he said slower.

  “And that’s what?”

  “They are unique. The best description I’ve heard is vampire-harpies.”

  My stomach did a flip. “Delightful,” I said morosely. In Greek myth, harpies were hideous sisters, part hag and part vulture, who were in charge of carrying souls to Hades. “What do you think they’ll do?”

  “They are truth-seers. They will . . . reveal . . . the truth.”

  He made it sound like torture. Maybe these shabbubitum were more like the Siberian myth of the alkonost. Similar to harpies, alkonost lived in the land of the dead and tormented the souls of the damned. “Is it as painful as you make it seem?”

  “Imagine a stranger’s fingers tearing through your mind with the same hurried zeal as a thief ransacking an office while hunting for a specific file.”

  “Ouch.”

  “That, my dear, could win you the Understatement of the Year Award.”

  His being here was making more sense. “What are your options?”

  “One, we could delve into the Hellish pits of the blackest magic and overlay my entire psyche with a completely new set of memories, hoping they are innocent memories and that they don’t affect who I actually am. Two, I could abandon you, change my name and flee, then in a century or two reemerge and pretend to be a weak, new vampire while receiving the shelter of another master for an additional century or two. Or three, I could abandon you and crawl into a random grave and lie there starving until I become a revenant. Insane with hunger, I would lose all self-awareness, and with any luck someone from SSTIX would stake me before the shabbubitum even found out.”

  The Specialized Squadron for Tactical Investigation of Xenocrime—SSTIX—was the government’s answer to the nationwide issue of state and local law enforcement’s refusing to serve and protect where nonhumans—and greater personal risks—were involved.

  That two of his options involved fleeing stunned me. And hurt me. The only choice that didn’t involve him leaving sounded infinitely dangerous and implausible. He can’t just run away. He’s part of this! We’re not whole without him. “What if you simply submitted to it?”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “No, I mean instead of resisting, what if you—” Before I could even finish I could tell by his expression that he was not fond of what I was saying.

  “That is another option.”

  “Would they go easy on you? Would it make a positive difference in the experience?”

  “No. Nor would they show any restraint on you. They are not capable of pity.”

  With an effort I swallowed down the big lump suddenly in my throat. If he has to run, it will be temporary. “Have you decided which option to take?”

  He didn’t answer.

  In fact, he was silent long enough that my own fears ignited a fiery willingness to push. “Johnny’s right, isn’t he? You’re hiding. And about to flee.” Am I actually selfish enough to prefer that he stay and be tortured by these things?

  “Changing my name and reemerging with another is the option that benefits you most.”

  “That benefits me how?”

  “If I flee, it will give the impression that I have broken your hold on me. That might spare you any further entanglements.”

  I wasn’t as worried about “further entanglements” as I was about losing him. I couldn’t fulfill my destiny without him. I wanted to scream, What about me? Instead, calmly, I said, “What about your haven?”

  “VEIN has been told that I was mastered by a witch, a witch formerly believed to be my servant. My haven is lost to me already.” His voice was tight and little more than a whisper.

  My heart was so heavy. This was all because of me. He’d known he was risking this, but he hadn’t told me. I hadn’t even considered the consequences would be this high. I should have.

  Guilt and shame chilled my stomach. Fear iced it over. “You fleeing means you avoid getting killed, and I go on the shit-list, but they won’t strike against me because of that ‘Moonchild of ruin’ business, right?”

  Menessos quoted the poem:

  Lustrata walks,

  unspoiled into the light.

  Sickle in hand,

  she stalks through the night

  Wearing naught but her mark and silver blade.

  The moonchild of ruin, she becomes Wolfsbane.

  “Yeah.”

  “That depends on whether or not you’re willing to be marked by the Excelsior.”

  It did say Wearing naught but her mark . . . “If it saves our asses . . .” I started, but I really meant, If it means you don’t leave.

  “No, Persephone! The three of us are bound in a way that our respective groups dare not hope to accomplish. That we have achieved a workable union both frightens and fascinates them. Our binding to each other strengthens us, but none of us can afford a binding to anyone of higher rank, or to others not of our own kind. It would break us.”

  But your leaving wouldn’t? I held my tongue.

  “Persephone, I believe the Excelsior has only the best interests of his people at heart, but if he had control over you, it would be only for whatever benefit he could achieve for VEIN. The Witch Elder Council would not abide their Lustrata being controlled by the Excelsior.”

  I let my head rest against the glass, appreciating the way the coldness of it balanced my frozen stomach.

  “Your current solitary status means you lack affiliation to a coven. That forces WEC to pigeonhole you into a role that reflects the disaffected segment of their kind. That already has given the Elders much to worry about—and they’re so old they sleep little as it is, meaning they have vast amounts of time to plot and plan. Their designs would only worsen if they thought you were marked by the Excelsior.”

  I crossed my arms and moped.

  “When the news of dear John’s confirmation as the Domn Lup breaks, your lover will be included on, as you delightfully put it, the shit-list.”

  “Have we hit the worst-case scenario yet?” I was being sarcastic. Sadly, Menessos had an answer.

  “The worst-case scenario,” he said, “is if WEC, VEIN, or the Zvonul discover the sorsanimus spell that binds the three of us. We did it to keep you from being Bindspoken by the witches, but it strengthens us all. If detected, it will appear that we’re preparing a coup d’état.”

  “Are we?”

  Menessos was silent.

  “If they think we’re prepping for a power grab, they’ll just kill us all outright. Won’t they?”

  “They will have to assume the three of us are sharing what confidential information we know about our respective groups. Further, they will assume that we will use the growth of our individual powers to our mutual benefit. We could all be targeted for execution, as you suggest. Or . . .” He made a visual sweep of the perimeter before answering. “They might act with more cunning. Each group has the potential to send operatives to test our loyalties to each other. Just one could pit us against each other. Dividing us would not only end the union but it would also offer that group an advantage via the information they learn in doing so.”

  Could Menessos or Johnny be played by outside forces?

  Could I?

  Wonderful. His adherence to the Machiavellian vampire stereotype was making my head hurt. I
rubbed my forehead as if that might deflect the spinning-out-of-control sensation.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Congratulations. You’ve just made me paranoid of everyone.”

  He leaned forward. “I am sorry, Persephone. I truly am. That paranoia is the only thing that will keep us united and safe.”

  When he said my name a wave of warmth poured over me like a magical embrace. It emboldened me enough to ask, “How can we be united and safe if you flee?”

  The vampire studied the world beyond the car window. “I do not want VEIN to know I am the original progenitor of the vampires. If that information is exhumed, it cannot be reburied.”

  He’d told me this before. A little more than two weeks ago. Goddess, it seems like so long ago. I’d wanted him to tell VEIN the truth so they would rally to his aid against the fairies, but he’d refused. He had been willing to die to keep that secret. And he had.

  I was not insensitive to the fact that he had given the most precious thing he’d had—his very life—to maintain his anonymity, or that losing it now would render his sacrifice pointless in hindsight.

  “You did the right thing, for the right reason,” I said. That mantra had bitten me in the ass a few times, but it was still, overall, a good policy.

  Menessos plucked at his pant leg. “If the world learns it has someone to blame, I will become the target of every extremist group with a grudge against vampires and every vengeful person who has ever suffered because of my children’s thirst.”

  “You’re not alone in the I-Dislike-My-Exposed-Destiny Category,” I snapped. “Everyone either knows or suspects I’m the Lustrata. They also seem to know more about it than I do, and have heavy expectations of me. Johnny’s not in such a different position either.”

  He stilled, but said nothing more.

  “How can that possibly scare you so much?” I asked.

  He laughed, but there was an offended note to it. “If VEIN learned my secret, they would seize me and demand explanations. It could derail everything. My attention must remain fixed upon this purpose. The only thing I fear is not being able to finish this, Persephone, with you and John. I fear the repercussions that would befall any two of us, should the other one falter or . . . be slain.”

  I couldn’t deny his devotion to this destiny of ours. “We must endure risks, but we all know the consequences of not following through get higher every day.”

  “Exactly,” he whispered. “I can’t risk not following through on what we must do because I’m distracted by the other.”

  “But you can’t leave!” I swallowed as if I could reclaim those revealing words. Hurriedly I added, “We’re all dealing with things happening that we didn’t want to happen. That’s part of the price we have to pay.” I stared at the steering wheel because I couldn’t meet his gaze after what I’d blurted. “I didn’t want Xerxadrea, Aquula, Ross, or Maxine to die. Not even Samson D. Kline. But they all did.”

  After the slightest hesitation, Menessos asked, “Do I not make your list of noble dead? I died for you, too.”

  He was right. And he repeated his dying every sunrise. It was my turn to shamefully examine the dark world beyond the car.

  “Does the fact that I sit here talking to you now diminish my sacrifice?”

  We were all surrendering things we didn’t want to forfeit, but I still felt like an ass. “It shouldn’t.”

  “But it does.”

  I whispered, “I didn’t have to grieve for you, Menessos.”

  He shivered when his name was spoken, and I wondered if he was experiencing something similar to what I felt when he said my name. “Menessos.” I said it slower, tasting the syllables on my tongue, on my lips.

  He arched his back, took a deep breath, held it for a second, then sighed it away. Panting, openmouthed, he looked directly at me, displaying a sexual hunger my body reacted to—places low in my abdomen tightened.

  Between the seats, I offered him my hand. “You came back. You come back every night.”

  “If I didn’t, would you have wept for me?”

  “I did weep.”

  Menessos wrapped both of his hands around mine. He rubbed little circles with his thumbs. “You’ve been away for so long.”

  I twisted my wrist upward. Menessos bore two of my hexes, making him the equivalent of my Offerling. He needed to partake of my blood occasionally, and it had been over a week. “Go on,” I said. “Drink.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  As Johnny strode from his car, fall air gusted behind him. Stray leaves scuttled across the asphalt as if daring him to try to catch them.

  Part of him wished the wind could carry him away from everything and everyone he’d ever known, to hide from this enormous destiny, burying it in lyrics and melodies like he had before. But the bigger part of him knew that wasn’t an option anymore.

  It wasn’t an option for Menessos, either. Seeing the vamp hiding from his troubles made Johnny’s blood boil. It wasn’t like Menessos was the Excelsior or anything. If Johnny had to accept being the Domn Lup, the vamp could damn well accept the responsibilities and consequences of being a Quarterlord.

  Johnny wasn’t going to feel guilty over lashing out either. The vamp was being a wuss and he deserved it.

  Presently, that vamp was alone with his girlfriend.

  Johnny thrust the thought away. He trusted Persephone. She was Menessos’s master. She’d even eliminated the in signum amoris he had put on them.

  He had to admit he was disappointed by the loss of the connection to Seph the spell had given him. And she’d undone it without asking if he’d wanted it gone.

  He understood her reasons, but both she and the vamp had acted on something that affected him just as much as them, and neither had asked his permission. With the vamp it was inexcusable but expected; Persephone, however, should have known better.

  When was he going to get a say in all this magic shit? Or was Persephone thinking she was his master, too?

  Stop it.

  His fingers raked through his hair. He was just being a dick.

  She embodied the grounding sense of the future for him. The sense of family he’d yearned for, he felt with her. Living at the farmhouse with her, Nana, and the kiddo, he’d felt more complete than he ever had before.

  And you called the vamp a wuss.

  Johnny shoved his fists into his jeans pockets. As he neared he could see the upper floor of the bar. The windows of the apartment were darkened. Ig had lived there.

  He’d killed Ig there.

  At the thought, unwanted images of the scene flashed into his mind, and he could remember the taste of Ig’s blood. His mouth watered.

  Damn it.

  You didn’t tell me it would be like this, old man.

  For over eight years, all he’d wanted was to know his past. Where had he lived? Who had he been before? But Ig, after learning that Johnny could transform his hands at will, had ended his search into Johnny’s past and focused intensely on Johnny’s future. He’d justified it by explaining that this ability was rare, and a full transformation would mean Johnny was the Domn Lup.

  Ig had insisted on privately tutoring him in the responsibilities of a leader. Having so much attention from the dirija meant Johnny became known as Ig’s “pet.” Some picked on him; others toadied to him to gain the dirija’s favor.

  Johnny understood now that Ig had been trying to do the right thing, but at the time the exposure to politics and phony friendships had left him disaffected. He’d distanced himself from the pack, and Ig’s efforts to bring him back had been drowned under the music from his band’s cranked amplifiers.

  He’d tried so damn hard to forget the destiny Ig had said was before him. He’d been worse than a prodigal son to Ig. He’d captured the man’s kindness and hope and run away, returning only when his desire to protect Persephone had offered him no other options. He’d taken Ig’s life and claimed command of the pack only to help her, not because Ig had wanted him to
.

  For Persephone, he’d willingly accepted his fate, but the one thing he really, truly, desperately wanted—the truth of his past—she’d failed to give him. Not even her magic had been able to retrieve his memories after the phoenix had clawed him . . . a phoenix he’d attacked to protect her.

  Approaching the bar, Johnny could hear the thump of the bass and drums from the jukebox. The wæres on door duty bowed their heads as he passed. Inside, the smoky bar was a feast for the senses. The smell of wolf and sweat, of beer and tobacco and liquor tickled his nostrils. Disturbed’s “Ten Thousand Fists” filled his ears. He pushed into the crowd.

  His pack greeted him with howls.

  Warm bodies danced against him. The scent of “female” overpowered everything else as the women converged on their unattended sovereign. He lifted his arms to avoid touching them, but they touched him. Hands ran over him. Hips pressed against him. His cock grew hard. For an ego-swelling moment he was immobile, fully aware of the curves they flaunted, of the heat they created, of the bare skin they displayed and how much he wanted sex again.

  Clenching his jaw he maneuvered through them, touching a shoulder here and an arm there. His fingertips did more than tingle when he brushed the bare skin of a pack mate. It was like electricity crackling through him, a magnetic stirring of lust and territorial rights.

  He could claim Ig’s apartment and make use of his bed. God, how his whole body might react, invigorated by the potent touch of one or two or three pack bitches with their bare skin against his. . . .

  As he neared the end of the bar, someone unplugged the jukebox, and the instant silence cued the pack to howl again. With everyone’s attention locked on him, Johnny knew they expected a speech.

  He wasn’t in the mood to conduct a pep rally. He wanted to fuck—and the disregard for who wasn’t like him. He felt dominant and invincible, but confused at the same time.

  He met their expectant faces. Johnny remembered when Ig had wanted to make him second-in-command. The pack had seen favoritism and resisted the idea of one so young in a position of power. Several challenged him to fight for the position. Ig retracted his nomination, but his credibility had taken a dive. Johnny had learned that having power meant being enslaved to maintaining the trust of those under one’s authority.