Vicious Circle

by Linda Robertson

  “It’s okay. I mean, the school knows about my mother and all. Then there was all that…stuff with the reporters and all. I don’t think they expect me back in class right away. Besides, I deserve a break.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  She washed on in silence. I put the cleaning supplies away in the laundry room. When I came back through, she said, “Seph?”

  “Yeah?”

  “When the wolves changed in the circle, was it…” She kept her attention focused on the plate she was rubbing a rag over. “Was it like that for my mom too?”

  I sat down at the table. “Yeah.”

  “So that wasn’t different because of the circle or the magic?”

  “No.” Staying matter-of-fact about it would keep me from over-or underrating the experience of being a wære.

  She let the plate and the rag drop back into the soapy water and faced me. “Looked like it hurt.”

  “I think it does hurt. A lot.”

  Beverley shifted her weight, then turned back to the sink.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’ve seen it, Seph. I think I can handle the verbal details.”

  She sounded so much older than nine; well, she was almost ten. Her birthday was in the first part of November, making her a Scorpio.

  I got up and went to her. If she’d turned to me, I would have hugged her, but she didn’t, so I grabbed a dish towel and started drying the dishes and putting them away. She wouldn’t know where they all went anyway. “I’m not holding back, Beverley. I just don’t know more than that.”

  “But you write a column about them.”

  “Yeah, I do. But that’s social stuff. This is more specific individual experience stuff.” I looked around. “Where’s Johnny? I’m sure he would answer your questions. He knows it because he lives it; I just observe it.”

  “I think he went out to get the stake and have it ready for the pickup.” She paused. “What if he doesn’t think I’m ready to hear the answers?”

  “If you’re able to ask the questions, I guess you are able to hear the answers.”

  I thought that satisfied her, but a minute later I realized there were long streaks on her face. I put the rag down. “Beverley?”

  With her hands in the water, she dropped her head to her chest and the sobs came out.

  I touched her shoulder. “What is it?”

  “Me and Mom used to do dishes like this and talk.”

  “Oh, honey.” Regardless of her dripping hands, I turned her and took her into my arms and hugged her tight.

  “I miss her so much.”

  “Of course you do.” I stroked her hair. However many times she needed to cry, I vowed to myself I’d embrace her and let her do so.

  When her grief subsided enough that she could pull away and wipe her eyes, she said, “Sorry.”

  “You have nothing to be sorry for or ashamed of.”

  She nodded, but she still looked miserable.

  “I should teach you to meditate.”

  “Meditate?”

  “Yeah. It’s a great way to clear your mind or get your thoughts in order. If you’re feeling scattered or lost, it can help. It helps me, anyway.”

  “Maybe.” She bit her lip. “I’ll try.”

  The door from the garage opened, and Johnny stepped inside. Ares bounded in with him. Beverley backed up from me, embarrassed. “Find it?” I asked Johnny.

  “Yep,” he said with a quick smile. He tapped his nose. “Followed your tracks.” He put the wooden box against the wall just inside the door.

  That he would be back to himself and not hold a grudge about having to give up the stake reassured me.

  “I have a surprise for you,” he said.

  Apprehensive, I asked, “What is it?”

  “Let’s go see.” He took my arm and led me into the dining room and to my desk.

  “What?” I said, fearing a joke of some kind coming.

  He bent down and slid my binder marked Research from the shelf.

  “My notebook?”

  He held it out to me. “Open it.”

  “I already know what’s in it.” Had he looked through it and corrected passages or added information? Had he found something he didn’t like?

  “Do you?” he asked.

  Now I was really curious, and concerned.

  He wagged the notebook at me. I took it and opened it. It felt much heavier than I remembered, but the first page was just as it should be, a handwritten table of contents. Nothing new listed. I tilted it to the side. The index tabs were all marked as they should be: Historical, Medical, Social, Shelters, Laws Enacted, Laws Proposed, Local, and National. The last two had clippings of articles and lists of governmental and citizen sympathizers, support groups, and anti-wære groups.

  There was a new tab at the back, blank. I put my finger on it; glanced at Johnny, who was grinning; and flipped to that section. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Flipping the pages quickly, I realized what it was. “The Codex?” Every page, copied, from the ancient book Menessos had taken. “How did you—?” I looked up.

  “Your scanner, duh. You really need to catch up with the times, tech-wise. Although you do have one non-techy thing I like.”

  “And that is?” I had an idea of what he might say.

  “That three-hole-punch thing. It is handy.”

  * * *

  I didn’t get to enjoy the surprise for long. When Nana found out, she took the notebook from me and started translating. “I’ll have Dr. Lincoln look these over, of course.”

  I turned my attention to dinner. My cupboards were nearly empty. I mumbled, “Old Mother Hubbard’s cupboards are bare.”

  “Don’t tell me this poor dog’s gonna get none.”

  Johnny could put temptation into his voice so easily. I smiled. “Dinner’s gonna be slight.”

  “Slight? You’ve got pasta and tomato sauce. I can work with this.” He reached and turned the oven on.

  “Seph?” Beverley called from atop the steps.

  “Coming.” I started for the hall.

  She added, “Someone’s coming up the drive real slow-like.”

  I stopped in my tracks and shot a look at Johnny. He stopped midway through pulling a skillet out of the cupboard and slid it back into place. He straightened and turned the oven off. With a dramatic gesture, one that revealed some of his still-remaining irritation with my decision about the stake, we headed for the front door.

  “Beverley, you stay up there. Nana—”

  “I’m not moving!” The sound of her lighter flicking followed her shout.

  Johnny took up a position just out of sight beside the door as I started unlocking it. The steps of whomever Menessos had sent to collect the stake thudded purposefully onto my porch. When he came into view, I couldn’t believe it. And then—then it made perfect sense.

  “Samson D. Kline.”

  “Miss Alcmedi.” He grinned at me. “Didn’t expect me, did ya?” he said with a laugh. “Well I didn’t expect what I’ve heard that you’ve done, either.”

  “What have you heard?”

  His grin turned sly. “Gossip on the front porch. How very white-trash. I expected better of the great Persephone Alcmedi, the witch who tempted Menessos back into a circle.”

  “What do you mean ‘back’?”

  He made a mock show of sympathy. “It’s girls like you who end up disappeared and on the alarmist, scandal-mongering media better known as the evening news. Girls like you who don’t find out enough about the boys they’re playing with.”

  “Since background searching led to a near-fatal accident for a friend of mine, why don’t you save me the risk and fill me in yourself, so I can stay off the evening news? I mean, I’d hate to think of you watching those awful shows waiting to hear of my gory end and being infected by the lust-indulging breaks better known as commercials.”

  Samson leered. “Fine.”

  I opened the door and gestured for him to enter, but didn’t say t
he inviting words.

  He made a show of wiping his boots on my welcome mat, then stepped in, came up beside Johnny, and jerked, startled. As he took in the long line of Johnny’s tall body and his tattooed and pierced face, the preacher seemed to wilt in his blue polyester suit like a kid who has just realized that rope he’s been yanking on is attached to a rather ominous-looking monster.

  He recovered himself enough to proceed hurriedly into the living room. “Waterhouse,” he grumbled. “Suits you.”

  “I’m surprised you know the artist’s name. I had you pegged as one of those people who decorated with paintings of Jesus on black velvet and considered it high art.”

  In the dining room, Nana sniggered but didn’t look up from the notebook.

  Samson flopped down onto my couch without having been invited to take a seat. He spread his arms across the back as he put one ankle up on the opposite knee, trying for a pose of comfort and indifference. The position, however, made his pant legs rise up to show that he wore old-man short boots that zipped up the inside. He followed my gaze and slipped out of the position. “Got anything to drink? Like Scotch?”

  Beside me, Johnny crossed his arms and took up a mean-bouncer expression.

  “I don’t keep liquor, Mr. Kline. How about some water?”

  He waved the suggestion off with a sneer like he’d just tasted something very bad. “Well, then, let’s get on with this. Where’s the stake?”

  “I thought you were going to tell me about Menessos getting back in the circle.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Yes.” He sat forward. “A glass of Scotch would make this a lot easier, though.”

  “I still have only water.”

  “Not even beer?” He looked Johnny over. “Don’t tell me you don’t keep any beer here.”

  Enunciating slowly and loudly, Johnny said, “Waaaa—terrrrrr.”

  “Right. Right.” Samson frowned. “It’s simple. Menessos gave up magic when Vivian bested him by creating the stake and keeping it secret from him. He vowed never to use magic again until the stake was destroyed.”

  “He broke that oath.”

  “Exactly.” Samson grinned lasciviously at me. “Broke it for you.” He sounded like a fifth grader at the lunch table.

  “You sure have a way of making people uncomfortable, Mr. Kline.”

  “My messages aren’t ever meant to put people at ease. I’m a fire-and-brimstone kind of preacher.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  He seemed to take that as a compliment, though I hadn’t meant it that way.

  “I’m curious,” I said. “How did you find out about this sensitive subject?”

  “That thing that used to be my brother.”

  I should have guessed. “Our last talk left me with the impression that you didn’t speak with him anymore.”

  “It has its uses.” He glanced around. “Now…that stake?”

  I turned for the kitchen and heard Johnny ask, “So what do you get out of this deal?”

  Samson must have paused to gauge the wærewolf before answering, because he was just starting to answer as I came back down the hall.

  “Do you have any idea who I happen to be?”

  Johnny said, “You’re that prick on TV.”

  Samson leaned forward, putting his forearms on his knees. His hands rubbed together. “I guess you do.”

  “So why are you playing errand boy for a vampire? Isn’t this a new low in your life of hypocrisy?”

  “This is my out, son. My—”

  “Don’t call me ‘son.’” The darkness in Johnny’s tone sent a shiver down my spine. Made me glad he was on my side.

  “My deal is to pick up the stake and destroy it. In return, that bastard Menessos will call off those freaks and wannabes who show up to my every studio sermon.” He grunted. “He sends them down there on purpose with orders that the more fervent and freakish they look, the more they damage my credibility, the more they prove themselves to him. He uses me as a test of loyalty for those wretched jerk-offs.”

  “Maybe he’s testing you,” I said from the doorway.

  “What?” He straightened. “You don’t mean the Lord—you mean the vampire?”

  “Yeah. Maybe if you had the power to get through to those wannabes and change their minds, he would see you as a threat instead of a toy.” I grinned. “Bet you don’t even try, do you? You believe in saving people so much—but just worthy people, right?”

  Face flushed, Samson stood, finger wagging and ready to deliver a sermon in my living room. Johnny took a half step forward, a low growl in his throat. “She has a point.”

  Samson’s hand fell to his side; his fists were balled tight and his chubby knuckles were white. “You don’t know anything!” he shouted. “You’re filth. You’re all filth.” He gestured to Nana, who hadn’t said anything to him. “And you’ll all rot in Hell.”

  “Cut the bullshit,” Nana snapped, rising from the table and coming at him. “Do you think your sparkling life merits any rewards? You’re pathetic.”

  “You think I don’t know what you are, you old crone? I’ve suffered too many of you for too damn long!” He held his hand out to me. “Just give me the stake and let me get out of here.”

  “I’m glad I don’t have any Scotch,” I said, starting forward. “If I did, you wouldn’t be in a hurry.”

  “I can’t expect you to understand my sacred mission. You’re already tainted. Bit into that apple, I hear. Got your mark. You’re well on your way, aren’t you? I knew you wanted to be one of them.” His pious “you-can’t-judge-me” expression—the one that was a cross between an idiot’s blankness and rapture—was set in his wrinkled skin. “The first time I met you, I recognized that gleam in your eyes. It’s the same one worn by all those fools he sends to my studio.”

  “I know you’re accustomed to forcing your opinions on others, but save it for the studio, Sam. Everyone here knows what a fraud you are.” I shoved the box at him. “Take it and get out.”

  He wrapped his arms lovingly around the box, rubbed his cheek over its upper surface. It was unsettling. “Mark my words, little girl, Menessos is a deceiver. More than any other black-hearted creature ever to walk the creation. But then, we don’t suffer him to live, do we? He’s already dead. And we suffer him yet.”

  * * *

  The door had barely shut when the phone rang.

  I jogged to answer it. “Hello?”

  “Seph. It’s Nancy. Please don’t hang up.”

  She sounded like she was in tears. “Okay. What’s wrong?”

  “Would you please, please meet me somewhere? Like in Mansfield? I just have to talk to you.”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “Persephone?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Please.”

  “About what, Nance?” She sniffled in answer, so I added, “I mean, I didn’t like how things went last weekend either, but it kind of felt like it’d been coming for a long time.”

  “I didn’t want it to.”

  I let her have the silence this time, and I didn’t put in a pathetic sniffle for dramatic effect. Meeting with her would just stir up all the dying-friendship pain again. I understood that she was giving me—her favorite from the group—a second chance, but I didn’t want it. Nancy was good at distorting things; she did it without even thinking. It was second nature for her. Instead of her walking out on us with her head and morals high and leaving it at that, she was feeling guilty and wanted the opportunity to blame me for everything being wrong and to forgive me at the same time.

  “What did Olivia and Betsy have to say?”

  “I don’t know. I left shortly after you did.” I knew better than to let her wring any gossip out of me. “I think we should just let everything go, Nance. We’ve all grown apart, and those friendships feel like obligations now. That’s not good.”

  “Obligations?” Now she sounded hurt. “How long have I been an obligation to you?”

 
Well, if I was going to be the ruination of it all, I could do that from here and save the gas money and the time. “We’ve grown apart,” I repeated. “Gone separate ways. Only Olivia and Betsy have anything in common anymore.”

  “Bar stools and second shift at the factory.”

  “Right. If they didn’t have that, they’d have forgotten each other by now.”

  “We haven’t forgotten each other.”

  “Maybe it’s time to.”

  “I have some of your things. I can’t mail them to you. Mr. Jarrod cut my hours and my funds just don’t have any room.”

  “What things?”

  “A sweater, a few cassette tapes. A book.”

  “Keep them.”

  “No. Meet me. I’ll give them to you.”

  “Now’s not a good time.”

  “You have plans?”

  “No. I’m just really tired.”

  “I see. Too tired for obligations. I’ll bring them all the way to you, then.”

  I was sure when I responded that she would know she’d won. “Where do you want to meet?”

  “Take 71 South to 30 toward Crestline or Bucyrus. I don’t remember the name of the street, but there’s an exit by a big Meijer grocery store. In the plaza outside it is a coffee shop. We’ll meet there at seven. Thanks, Seph.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Nana threw a fit. Not because she didn’t want me to go, but because Johnny said he’d go with me—and that meant he wasn’t going to cook dinner. He whipped up a few sandwiches for her and Beverley and promised he’d go to the big grocery while I chatted with my friend. Then he leaned in and whispered something to Nana and then all was well. I made a mental note to ask him what his magic words had been.

  The sun was dipping toward the horizon and, since Mansfield was southwest of my home, I had to contend with its glare in my eyes. Even with sunglasses on, I continued squinting, and it was bringing on a headache. I wasn’t feeling very chatty. Johnny ruled the radio, but about forty minutes into the trip, he’d had enough. The local stations didn’t play much that he deemed suitable for human ears. “So…” he said, drawing out the sound and ending it with a slap on his thighs. “What’s up with this friend that you gotta drive an hour to meet her?”