Vicious Circle c-1

by Linda Robertson

  His expression sharpened as he tried to figure out who could have told me. I think he wanted to ask, but he restrained himself. “I thought you were referring to the blood oath again.” He whispered, “So many troubled thoughts.”

  I wasn’t sure if the stain would allow him to read my mind or not, but that comment made me wonder. I didn’t want him to read the answer in my thoughts, so I guarded them.

  “Come, witch. Build me a fire in your hearth.”

  He gestured for me to precede him. My feet moved before I had a chance to think about whether or not I wanted to comply. There on the table was the notebook with the printouts from the ancient book. Thank goodness Nana had shut it. The label on it read Research so it looked like nothing Menessos would be interested in. I didn’t touch it.

  After checking the flue, I knelt before the hearth. From the basket that held old newspapers, I grabbed a piece and crumpled it, dropping it on the grate. I took a few other sheets and did the same. Before I crumpled the last piece I intended to use, I realized I was holding the front page with the picture of Beverley crying and the headline about her mother. Her grief was so fresh. Only five days ago—it seemed like so much longer than that.

  Would Beverley want a copy of this or not? It was hard to say. It was gruesome, but maybe later it would be important to her. I folded it nicely and set it aside, took another sheet of newspaper to crumple, then started placing the smaller pieces of kindling in the iron grate and, finally, topped the kindling with two quarter-logs. I struck the match and held it to the newspaper.

  Menessos made himself comfortable on my couch, striking the same pose that Samson had tried and failed at. Thinking of Samson made my mind flash on the image of his head in my refrigerator; a wave of nausea hit me. I scooted back from the heat of the fire but continued watching the flames lick and dance. “Will you…” I had to swallow down bitter bile. “Will you remove Samson’s head from my house?”

  Menessos waited before saying, “Perhaps. If I am…satisfied…when I leave.” The predator in him observed me for a long time; I could feel his gaze on me as surely as I felt the high temperature of the fire before me. “You know, if the whelp hadn’t confessed to betraying you, I would have killed you once the stake was destroyed.”

  “Are you saying that now you won’t?” I twisted to look at him. I caught a glimpse of my bat and the 40 Winks bottle still in the corner.

  He checked his fingers as if inspecting the state of his manicure. “Yes. You thought all was as it should be.”

  Though he said words I wanted to hear, I couldn’t trust him and be relieved. I turned back to the hearth. Would the water make him sleep? He was very powerful; probably not. “What about Johnny? And Nana and Beverley?”

  “Your spirited grandmother and the girl will be returned to you. They are as yet unharmed, though their individual fear limits may have been exposed.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “They are not physically harmed, Persephone, but I cannot account for their ability to mentally deal with being held hostage.”

  I waited until it was clear that he did not intend to say more. “What about Johnny?” I pressed, letting him know with my tone that I was irritated that he kept avoiding this answer.

  “As for the whelp—”

  “Cool it with the dog references already. His name is Johnny.”

  Menessos laughed out loud. I didn’t see anything funny about the comment. He sat forward, rubbing his slender fingers together. “Persephone, you’re an interesting woman, and because of that I will allow you a measure of patience. I believe laypeople would call it a ‘learning curve.’ But that measure will evaporate swiftly if you do not address me with more respect.”

  He was a liar and a murderer. He’d probably kill every one of us. I had nothing to lose. “You’re not a guest here. You can deal with the sarcasm.”

  “I don’t believe you fully comprehend the situation.”

  That sounded like a threat, so I stood up and faced him. “Sure I do. My house, my rules.” My arms crossed, and I threw my hip out in a perfect attitude-alert pose. “Anybody who commits breaking and entering, puts a dead man’s head in my refrigerator, and kidnaps my family can kiss my ass if they don’t like the words I use.”

  “I would be ever so delighted to do exactly that.”

  My face flushed crimson, but I mimicked him as I said, “I don’t believe you fully comprehend the point of flirting, because this is no time for it.” I considered going for the bat and bottle and finding out whether they would work, but—

  He stood in a lithe, liquid motion and sauntered forward. “I assure you, Persephone, I understand perfectly the art of seduction.” He spoke my name like it was a cherry atop a hot fudge sundae, a single bite with sweet and potent flavor. “You are eligible to receive the benefit of my experience, now that you have become my servant.”

  “Eligible” made me uneasy in an awkward, high-school kind of way. But “servant” was one of those “stand-up-and-take-notice” words. Preceded by “my,” it demanded attention. I sidestepped out of reach. “What did you just say?”

  He sighed. “Do you not know?”

  “I am not your servant.”

  “My mark is upon you…within you. Your words of denial can change nothing.” He eased a step closer.

  “What am I, then? Just a servant to use? A one-mark beholder?” I put my hand up, palm out. “And don’t take that as a request for a second stain. I don’t want the ‘honor’ of being an offerling.”

  “Interesting. You seem to know nothing about vampires, and then you show that you understand unexpected things. Beholders are not so lovely as you.” He eased another step closer.

  I retreated a step. “Stay away from me!”

  In a flash, his vise-like hands held me. “Yet offerlings are not so difficult!” I struggled, though I knew escape was hopeless. When I realized he was not squeezing tighter, not fighting back, not moving at all, simply restraining—no, he was just holding me—I stopped. In my ear he whispered, “Bliss does not have to be a difficult thing to find, Persephone.”

  “I don’t want your damned stain upon me. I never wanted it.”

  He thrust me back, incredulous. “You asked for it!”

  “The hell I did!”

  “You asked for a guarantee!”

  My mind raced, trying to fathom what that meant. “What part of ‘I want a guarantee’ means ‘I want to bear your everlasting stain’?”

  Matter-of-factly, he replied, “My mark is the only means by which I could guarantee the safety you requested.”

  “You didn’t tell me that.”

  He waved his hand dismissively. “At the time, I did not know you were so ignorant of our ways.”

  “Liar! You just said a minute ago that you were surprised at how much I know!”

  “All your arguments are pointless. My blood now marks your home and you. It tells every vampire who might happen past that I have laid claim to this place and nothing can be done against you without my consent. To ignore this is to cross me, and all who cross me know great torment before they cease to exist.”

  “I wanted protection from you!” I growled, irritated that my words still didn’t convey what I meant. “Protection from the threat that you personally are to me.” Miserably, I added, “Besides, I don’t think I need protection from any other vampires.”

  “There are many eager for a place in the echelons of the vampire hierarchy. Many have been rejected. There are a few who appraise my every step in pursuit of some means to avenge their wounded pride. Had I come here and neither ruined your domicile nor laid claim to it, someone would have taken an interest in seeing what was here that had briefly held my interest, and then labored at discovering how it could be exploited. Would you care to know how many of my casual acquaintances have expired within a fortnight of a meeting with me?”

  “No.” I sat before the fire, rubbing my arms. Turning my back to him may have been unwise, but I di
dn’t care—I wanted to feel warm. The quarter-logs were blazing earnestly, and the heat felt good, but it couldn’t reach the chill set into my bones. By association I knew wærewolves well enough to write a column about them. But vampires—the filthy, rotten things—the less I knew about them, the better. Yet it was my ignorance that had gotten me into this. I knew so very little. If I was supposed to walk between worlds, I needed to get a handbook or something.

  “Are your thoughts always this troubled, Persephone?”

  “You’re not giving me any cause to have happy thoughts.”

  Softly he said, “You wouldn’t need them to fly in my Neverland.”

  I hadn’t expected him to know literature. I mean, I know vampires are supposed to be knowledgeable. Their extended life spans give them every opportunity to become snotty, overeducated know-it-alls. I just hadn’t expected him to speak of it softly, to share those words as if sharing a secret.

  I asked over my shoulder, “Can you read my mind?”

  He smiled in a small and unassuming way. “No, Persephone. With the first mark, a master becomes empathetic to his servant. Exact subjects remain hidden, but with familiarity they may become more obvious. Admitting this to you is surely dangerous, but I want you to trust me. We could have a bountiful future. You could become everything your name implies—the Queen of the Underworld.”

  Chapter 30

  When I thought that you had betrayed me,” Menessos said, “my anger bested me. But now, now that I know it was the whelp—I mean, now that I know it was Johnny who betrayed us both, I am determined to prove to you that I am infinitely more worthy of your trust than he.” He added softly, “And I sincerely hope that you will find yourself liking me.”

  Focusing on the blaze before me because I didn’t want to see his expression, I asked, “You never really answered me about Johnny.”

  Fabric rustled, and easy footsteps brought him beside me, where he sat, imitating my position before the fire. A glance told me the flames lent color to his skin, color that suited him well. I could almost have thought him human.

  “I hope you can acknowledge his mistake and understand that a punishment is in order. Consider it a lesson in how unreliable and capricious wæres can be. Placing trust, or responsibility, in them is an incautious decision with an often disastrous result.”

  I thought of Nana’s predilection, “Witches and wæres weren’t meant to mingle.” The last few days had chiseled the sharp edge off that belief for her. I wondered what it would take to change the vampire’s mind. “Trusting you was an incautious decision.”

  Menessos seemed offended. “Have I not done everything I said I would?”

  I snorted. “That and more! You made the wærewolves change, all of them, during the spell. Not just Theo.”

  He held up a finger. “Ah, I said they would not be harmed, and they were not. I never said they would not transform. Perhaps you told them they would not, but I made no such assurances.”

  I glared at him. “If there hadn’t been enough power to change them fully—”

  “Persephone, I owned that book a long, long time and I know it well. And I know that if I had let the wærewolf transform without her alpha also in wolf form to guide her and communicate with her, she would have been disoriented and lashed out. I do not make oaths lightly, or without thinking them through to the end.”

  I faced the fire again. Part of me wanted to demand how he had known her alpha was among them, but another part of me was aware that I was simply arguing because that kept the vampire comfortably at arm’s length. Peripherally, I was aware that Menessos had arched his neck to glance down at his chest. “Admittedly, I had not considered this possibility.”

  “What?”

  He shifted his torso and opened his shirt. There, inches above his heart, was a deep gash, coated with drying blood, dark and thick. A sickening flap of wasted skin with a piece of muscle still attached lay on his chest, exposing the depth of the cruel stroke that had made it.

  “Samson endeavored to use the stake to strike me down. He had learned of this weapon through rumors, so his information was questionable and lacking. For instance, he was unaware that if he carried the true stake on his person, he would not be able to tread within a hundred yards of me or any of my people without us knowing it. Unaware of this limitation, he boldly brought the fake to our meeting place under his coat. He was able to enter with it because we felt nothing of the pain that heralded the true weapon.” He stared at the burning logs, words coming faster, posture rigid and hands fisted. “In order to deliver the details of how he had destroyed it privately, I required him to be in close proximity to me…and he used the short distance to his gain. He distracted me and struck. I raged and slew him. Too quickly. But it was done. My temper has never been mild.” He paused, unclenching his hands and relaxing his position. “I reasoned that you had deceived me. I came here immediately.” He paused. “This is why the wærewolf has not yet been punished enough.”

  I looked away. What could I do? Nothing. Nothing to stop him, nothing to change his mind. And where was Johnny? Were beholders beating him up while I warmed myself by the fire?

  “Do something for me, Persephone, and perhaps I will feel more kindly toward your Johnny.”

  “Let me guess—you want to put a second mark on me?”

  “I could be devious and say yes, because I think you just might take it to save the wære. But as I said, I want your trust.” He paused. “No, Persephone. It does not involve a second mark.”

  “What do you want me to do for you, then?”

  “Tend my wound.”

  The thought of tending something as awful and deep as that gash on his chest was not one that sat well with me, but for Johnny’s sake, I agreed. “Fine. This way.” In the kitchen, I retrieved my first aid kit and stared down into the plastic box of supplies. “I don’t even know what’s appropriate to use on a vampire.”

  “Proceed with whatever you would use on your own wound.” He stripped out of the shirt. The ugly wound marred the beauty of him: swells of masculine strength in his chest and shoulders proportioned perfectly under pale, smooth skin.

  “But you’re a vampire. It’s dead flesh. It seems ridiculous to apply healing cream to the wound of a dead man. Won’t that just fester during the daylight hours and make everything worse? It’ll stink and—” I realized that Menessos didn’t smell like the bottom of a leaf pile. “Why don’t you smell?”

  “What?”

  “Most vampires smell rotten. You don’t.”

  “I am not like other vampires.”

  “That’s pretty much what I just said. Why?”

  He caressed my hand. “Perhaps, someday, I will tell you.” He paused. “Please tend my wound.”

  I laid out the gauze, tape, and antibiotic cream atop the kitchen counter and focused my attention on the horrible gash. Taking clean dishcloths from the drawer, I dampened one under the sink faucet and gave him the other. “To wipe with,” I said. After adding a disinfectant from the kit to the wet cloth, I squeezed the solution over the gash. Menessos sucked air through his teeth as pink water ran down his chest. “It hurts?”

  He wiped the rivulets from his abdomen. “Of course it hurts. Do you think I don’t feel?”

  “I guess I did.” I made certain to not make a disgusted face as I dabbed at the flecks of dirt and mud clinging to the torn skin. If he could bear the physical pain of this, then I could bear looking at it. “There’s dirt in there, and some splinters that’ll have to come out.” Now I understood how the true stake could have destroyed him, leaving pieces like these behind.

  I rinsed the wound again. After pouring disinfectant over the tweezers, I used them to pick out the dirt and wood. Blood welled up anew, and I rinsed a third and fourth time to be sure I’d gotten all of the pieces out. “The skin where the splinters were is all gray now.”

  “It will rejuvenate.”

  I blotted it dry, as much as I could, and picked up the antibiotic
cream. “Yes or no?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “If I feel pain, then I cannot be entirely dead, can I?”

  I squirted the cream into the gash, way more than I thought was necessary, and held the flap in place, securing the parted flesh with three bandage-sutures and then covering it with gauze and tape.

  When I finished, Menessos gently lifted my chin until I met his dangerous gaze. He said:

  “Only when the sun’s light has fled

  is my life lived and my hungers fed,

  but I will live on and on, forever

  if you will but swear to leave me never.”

  He leaned in and put his lips to mine.

  The mouth of a vampire is a dangerous, deadly weapon. But when used for pleasure…that weapon transforms into a sensual tool. Deep within me, my core shivered and sighed, yet an undercurrent of exquisite pain razored the edges of my tattered soul. I clung to him, as if we could become one and make this bliss last forever.

  The smell of cedar and sage drifted to my nostrils and I woke as if from a dream.

  “Johnny.” He stood in the doorway from the garage, stake in hand.

  His posture was a rictus of pain; his expression was agonized. It was more than the blood drying on his face or his blackened eye, which was now nearly swollen shut. He was hurt. Emotionally. It was killing him to see me in Menessos’s arms and enjoying it. I thrust myself away from Menessos, but as soon as our contact broke, all the ease and comfort evaporated.

  Pain overwhelmed my every nerve, contracting every muscle. My body rebelled against living. Anguish swallowed me. I crumbled to the floor, writhing, unable to speak.