Shattered Circle (Persephone Alcmedi)

by Linda Robertson

  Menessos must have had enough of her taunts. He walked over, pushed her head to the side, and bit into her neck. She squirmed and screamed—tearing wider the wound his fangs made. He drank and drank. When she slumped in the arms of the guards holding her, Ailo cried, “Master! Please, show mercy to my sister.”

  Snarling, Menessos spun around. His thin beard was covered in blood. In a flash he was before Ailo, his hand wrapping her throat, pressing her to the wall. “What she sought to steal was mine, and it is my right to exact compensation!”

  “Yes, Master. Yes,” Ailo pleaded, holding her reddened cheek. “But do not kill her. Please.”

  Even as she spoke, the blood he drank affected him. The dark circles under his eyes vanished, his cheeks were no longer sunken. She knew he had gifted the child, but she wondered what else he had done this evening that had drained him so.

  He was touching her.

  Even as her eyes fluttered shut to search for the answers in their physical contact, he jerked away. “No!” he shouted and raised his hand as if to strike her.

  She cowered before him and slid down the wall to sit on the floor. “I helped you!” she blubbered pitifully, her hands defensively raised above her head. “I helped you again!”

  Menessos held his pose, rigid, breathing hard, then lowered his arm. “That you did.”

  “I’ve almost fixed it,” the accountant said.

  Everyone’s attention transferred to him and the computer screen.

  With every back turned to her, Ailo eased along the floor and silently exited the room. She headed directly for the suites beyond the theater.

  • • •

  The gloved guards held Talto as she struggled, and their hands flitted about her body in their efforts to keep her contained. She had to be mindful of the fabric of her dress moving and resituating repeatedly to keep the phone from being discovered.

  The anger was so easy to show because it was real. The struggle was easy to make because she didn’t want to be restrained. It was shouting at Ailo that was hard. But Talto knew when the guard’s grip loosened a little that she could break free, that she could fling herself at her sister and scream her condemnation. She knew that would be convincing to the audience at hand.

  She did not expect to actually slap Ailo. She thought the guards would pull her back before the attempt succeeded. It hurt her greatly that she was able to get that strike onto her sister’s face.

  But it hurt her more to read in that brief touch that Ailo’s concern was only about fleeing and stealing the powerful child. There was nothing in her sister’s thoughts that betrayed a concern for Talto’s plight. In fact, there was a measure of pleasure in it for Ailo.

  Talto was subdued again, and she felt as if she was the one who’d been struck.

  Then Menessos drank of her.

  It weakened her as much as it strengthened him. Her world became hazy, her knees weakened. She heard Ailo beg for mercy. She heard Ailo say she’d helped Menessos again.

  Though someone held a compress to her neck, darkness swirled at the edges of her vision. She fought to keep her feet under her, then gave up and let her full weight pull her down in their grip. For several minutes, she heard the chatter of the men like the buzzing of bees. She heard the clack of typing, she heard the accountant triumphantly announce he’d corrected all her attempted thievery.

  The ambiance of the room shifted from tense and angry to relieved. The guards patted the accountant on the back. Through the forest of legs that were moving about before her eyes, Talto realized they were all wearing pants. No gray silk.

  Ailo’s gone. She left me. She left me here to die in his wrath. She’s taken the girl.

  With a scream of anguish she began to sob. “Ailo’s gone,” she said.

  Everyone turned to check the room.

  “She made me do this,” Talto wept. “She made me read the accountant. She made me steal from you so there would be a distraction.”

  Menessos crouched before her. “Why?”

  Talto looked up into his eyes. “So she could steal the girl-child.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  People say water is crisp and refreshing when they are hot and the liquid is cool. I don’t think I’ve ever been that hot. To me, if a drink has the same adjective as, say, a cracker, something is wrong.

  But the water in the goblet Hades gave me hit my tongue like a brittle frost. It was so sweet and so cold at once that it hurt. It seeped through my teeth, infused my tongue. It crackled into my jawbone like magic. And I could feel it moving higher.

  “What have you done?”

  Hades smiled. “You agreed that I might satisfy myself two ways. You are too suspicious, too wary of me, for me to find that satisfaction easily. This”—he indicated the goblet—“will make the transaction smoother for both of us.”

  My mind raced. The river. He told the man to fetch the water from the river. “Lethe.”

  He nodded.

  “You double-crossing bastard.” It was the river of forgetfulness. “This wasn’t part of the deal.” The magic in the water had risen to my temples. It was reaching its arms—no, its tentacles—of static across my cranium, and fingers of fire curled around my eye sockets. I covered my face with my hands. My knees weakened and buckled.

  “Don’t take my mind,” I cried. “Not my memories.”

  He crouched beside me and put a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “There’s only about a minute left now. It will be all right. I will care for you.”

  He was erasing from my mind all the people I knew and cared for, wiping away what little I knew about being the Lustrata. “You’re stealing who I am!”

  “I must be paid, dear Persephone. When I am, I will … ” He snapped his fingers and the stone of our deal appeared. He read: “ … secure the safety of all those you hold dear, without harming others, and without taking anything from others be they innocent or guilty.” He snapped his fingers and the tablet disappeared. “As promised.”

  The world swam before me. I felt like I was floating in a river, bobbing on the surface and feeling the current pulling at my feet. I put my hands down to the ground to steady myself. “They’ll be safe, you swear?” I choked on the words.

  “I swear.”

  I could tell my torso was leaning this way and that. I was trying to tell which way was up, where my balance was, but I kept overcompensating. I widened my arms and dug my fingers into the ground. “What of my destiny?”

  His warm hand cupped my chin. It was stabilizing. I was grateful for it and I loathed him for it all at once. “Who am I to interfere in your grand destiny?”

  I held on to his promises as parts of my body numbed. Inside my skull, my brain grew cold. Darkness swirled at the edges of my vision. Consciousness, I knew, was leaving me.

  “Hecate,” I whispered. Would I remember Her?

  “Hecate cannot help you,” he whispered back. “Our deal is struck.” Hades put his lips to mine and I could not fight, could not speak, could not see.

  Despair was the last thing I knew as his kiss pushed me under the surface of Lethe’s oblivion.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Johnny and Plympton arrived at the Akron-Canton Airport shortly before three in the morning. They followed the overhead signs marked LONG-TERM PARKING, and cruised up and down the long rows of parked cars, searching for a white Nissan Altima. Halfway down the third row, they found it. Stopping the Maserati behind it, Johnny cut his engine. He had time to peer inside the front and back seats of the car before Plympton managed to maneuver out of the “low” seat and join him.

  “The interior seems empty,” he said.

  Plympton patted the trunk. “Check here.”

  Johnny put the key into the lock and turned it. It clicked and the lid opened slowly. They stood back as it rose by itself. A light inside flashed on.

  Inside the trunk sat five plastic cases. Four were black with opaque tops and gray handles, and sized to hold folders and documents. One w
as red. It sat nearest the bumper and still had stickers on it indicating the price and the case’s features.

  “My situation with her is newest,” Johnny said. “I bet this one is mine.” He flipped the latch and opened the top.

  Beside him, Plympton pulled one of the black files closer to him and did the same.

  Inside the red case were two dozen files with unmarked tabs. A few in the front sat slightly open and there were pages visible within them. He lifted the front file and glanced through it. It looked like a transcription of his and Toni’s conversation on the way to New York.

  The fob was bugged. He glanced up at the fob dangling off the key that was still in the lock of the raised trunk lid.

  “Yup. This one’s mine.” He put the file back and pushed the files around inside the case to see if there was anything like a bug or homing device inside there. Finding none, he relatched the top, searched the exterior and bottom of the case, then removed it and sat it in the backseat of the Maserati.

  Plympton was standing rigidly at the back of the Altima as Johnny returned. Giving Plympton a little time, he slid the key from the trunk lock and popped the fob apart. He found no microphone inside it. He put it back together. “Is that what you’re looking for?”

  The diviza nodded slowly, engrossed in what he was reading.

  “Jacques?”

  The old man looked up.

  “I have to go now. You’ll take this car?”

  “Yes.” His eyes slid back to the documents in his hands.

  Johnny wanted to hurry off, but something kept his feet planted. The old man had been true to his word. He’d let Johnny keep the information that was clearly pertinent to him. “Hey.”

  “Hmmm?” Plympton didn’t stop scanning the paper in hand.

  “Diviza.”

  The use of his title made him break his focus on the newfound data. “Yes, sire?”

  “Let’s get together tomorrow at the den and see what can be done about your situation.”

  Plympton shook his head. “Not at the den.”

  “Wherever you would like, then,” Johnny said, extending his hand to shake. “I will help you, Jacques.”

  The diviza shook his hand. “And I will give the court my account of your beast.”

  • • •

  Johnny pulled into the driveway at the farmhouse at a quarter ’til four, mentally singing praises for the Maserati’s speed and handling, and the lack of police on the roadways that night.

  Mountain met him at the door. “There’s been no change in Persephone,” he said.

  “Demeter arrive?”

  “Not yet.”

  Johnny strode into the kitchen and stood with his arms crossed. He frowned and he paced. He circled Red. Then he sat before her and mimicked her pose. He couldn’t imagine staying positioned like this for hours.

  What went wrong?

  He wondered if the goose egg on her head had anything to do with it. What if she had a concussion? Doctors tended to want people to stay awake for a while after taking a knock to the head. Did meditation count as sleeping?

  The urge to reach out and touch her arm, to shake her gently as if to rouse her from a deep sleep, was overwhelming. But he couldn’t do that.

  If I hadn’t gone after Aurelia, she’d still be alive, I wouldn’t have made a deal with Plympton, and Red wouldn’t be like this.

  From the living room, Mountain said, “There’s a car coming up the drive. I don’t recognize it.”

  “Check the plates,” Johnny called out.

  “Pennsylvania.”

  “It’s someone from the Pittsburgh den bringing Demeter.”

  He heard Mountain’s heavy steps heading for the door.

  Johnny stood up, intending to go and greet her, but he stopped when Mountain said, “Look out. The granny looks distressed and she’s got a serious move on.” He opened the door. “Hello, Demeter.”

  “Out of the way,” she said, pushing through the doorway. She gasped and stopped dead as her gaze took in the hole in the floor near the stairs, the broken handrail, and the splintered spindles. Finally, her eyes locked onto Johnny. “Where is she?” she demanded.

  He put his back to the wall and pointed down the hall.

  Her bad knees, worry, and the late hour combined to make her wobbly; she barreled past like a wild bowling ball, weaving side to side. Johnny fell into step, albeit on a straighter path, behind her. In the kitchen doorway she stopped again.

  He was sure that the broken dinette table and chair, the tabletop against the wall, the bench lying on its back, the pieces of the old phone scattered around, and the set of claw marks torn into the linoleum stunned her. And there sat Red, posed peacefully in the midst of the wreckage that her kitchen now was.

  Neither of them spoke.

  Breathing heavily, Demeter studied Red. The moment grew interminable for Johnny. When he was about to say something, she finally shuffled one slow step forward. Then another. With her head cocked, she approached Red. She made two circuits around her granddaughter, and Johnny watched her face for a clue.

  “What caused the lump on her head?”

  Johnny told her about Red being hit with the chair, but didn’t mention that the attacker was a woman or, more specifically, his own wærewolf assistant. “That was after the attack. From the mark on her neck I have to guess her assailant tried to strangle her first.”

  Demeter looked up from her granddaughter and held his gaze. There was no blame in her eyes, no anger, but the grave trepidation was unmistakable. “This shit isn’t going to stop.”

  He blinked.

  “None of you three are safe anymore.” Her focus dropped onto Red again and her expression turned infinitely sad. Her hands rose as if to touch the mound of her beehive hairdo—but she’d cut her hair short. She altered the gesture to place her palms on her cheeks. “When we get her out of this … things have to change.”

  Johnny nodded. Demeter didn’t even know about Beverley yet. He figured he’d save that for later. The elderly woman had enough on her mind right now. “But you can bring her out, right?”

  “Not alone I can’t.”

  “What do you need me to do?”

  Demeter sized him up, then glanced at Mountain, who’d come to stand in the doorway from the other room. “Nothing. I need witches.”

  CHAPTER forty-four

  Ailo ran through the haven to the theater, across the stage and into the backstage area. No guard had come to replace Vinny. Good. She climbed the metal stairs silently, keyed the code on the door, and opened it.

  “What the fuck?” Risqué stood up from the sofa. Seeing Ailo, her red eyes flashed and she added, “You can get your conniving ass right the hell out of here.”

  “Menessos said he needs you to come to the accounting office.”

  One thin blond brow arched. “Why?”

  “Something’s gone wrong.”

  “And that has got what to do with me?”

  “He did not elaborate.” Ailo was irritated that Risqué wasn’t simply complying. “You are an Offerling. He sent for you, and you must go.”

  Risqué crossed her arms. “I don’t know anything about accounting.”

  “So? Your master sent for you.”

  “So?” Risqué mimicked her.

  Ailo stomped across the room and right up to the one person standing between her and the child. She was taller than Risqué, who must have slipped out of her usual clear high heels to stretch out on the sofa. Looking down her nose at the red-eyed woman, Ailo said, “When he says jump, you ask how high. That is how a haven works. Offerlings obey. Period.”

  Risqué was not to be easily intimidated. Her hands dropped onto her hips. She thrust her nose against Ailo’s. “Clearly, you don’t know me very well.”

  “Your master said—”

  “Honey, Menessos and I have an understanding.” She pulled away from Ailo and tilted her head. “Besides, he isn’t the boss anymore. Goliath rules the haven now, or have yo
u forgotten?” The sweet smile she ended with was as fake as the lie Ailo was trying to use.

  Ailo didn’t have time for the banter. She had to get the child and get out of there. Balling up her fist, she hit Risqué in the jaw.

  The blow knocked Risqué to the sofa with a squeal of surprise and pain. Ailo leapt upon her. Sitting on Risqué’s chest, she held her down while repeatedly punching her in the head.

  Pinned against the cushion, Risqué’s arms were stuck at her sides. She clawed at Ailo’s dress, but that was insignificant. Ailo kept punching, right then left, until the Offerling gave up trying to fight back. Surely she would lose consciousness soon.

  Then the heel of a clear stiletto pump bit into Ailo’s side. She looked down as Risqué drew back for another awkward strike. She hadn’t given up trying to fight back; she’d managed to pick up one of her shoes to use as a weapon. This time when it slammed against Ailo’s body, it pierced the flesh and sank deep.

  Screaming in pain, Ailo instinctively leaned away from the weapon.

  Risqué used that moment to flip Ailo onto the floor. She kicked the shabbubitu repeatedly, then clambered onto Ailo’s chest and began throttling her about the head. “How do you like it, bitch? How do you like it?”

  Now Ailo’s arms were restrained, but she put her hands against Risqué’s thighs and called on her power to read people, urgently probing deep into the other woman’s mind. She hissed at the Offerling, ready to give her much agony.

  Risqué laughed and punched Ailo in the mouth, splitting her lip on a fang.

  Ailo dug her nails in, desperate to force a reading.

  Risqué slid her fingers through Ailo’s hair, gripped tightly at the sides of her head, and slammed her skull against the floor three times. “You dumbass, I’m the one person in this haven immune to your touchy-feely shit.” She twisted to slam her fist against the shoe embedded in Ailo’s side.