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  “About those runes,” I said to Nana.

  “That wasn’t exactly a reading, and it wasn’t for me,” I continued. “It was for Johnny. I wanted a hint about who’d given Johnny his tattoos.”

  “I’m sure any tattoo artist can touch up the scars he might end up with. Look up tattoo parlors in the phone book.”

  “It’s more than that, Nana. His power as Domn Lup was magically bound into the art. We have to find the artist and make him unbind it.” I ran a hand through my hair. “And fast.”

  “What’s the hurry?”

  In whispered tones I told her about the wære’s head honcho coming on Wednesday. “If I could have just tapped into Johnny’s subconscious and gotten an answer, we’d know who did this and could start searching. Instead, I got some cryptic rune reading.”

  Nana stood at the end of the dinette and twirled my note page to her. “That changes everything, and yet… the reading isn’t without truth.”

  “What?”

  “This rune, Ansuz, may look like an F, but it’s alphabetical equivalent is an A.” Her finger tapped along the row as she mumbled “Uruz is a U and Mannuz is an M. …” Then, more clearly, she announced, “You got your answer, Persephone.” Nana handed me the paper. “You got a name. Arcanum.”

  Turn the page for rave reviews of Linda Robertson’s compelling Circle series

  ARCANE CIRCLE is also available as an eBook

  Praise for the action-packed fantasy

  of

  Linda Robertson

  Fatal Circle

  “The third in Robertson’s Circle series won’t disappoint fans who’ve come to expect lots of romance, mystery, and intrigue from her books.”

  —Romantic Times (4 stars)

  “Packed full of action, intrigue, and events that would not let me put this book down. … This book was a wild pleasure to read.”

  —Fangtastic Reviews

  “A strong thriller.”

  —Alternative Worlds

  “I love this series and this book did not disappoint. … I’m hooked, baby!”

  —Book Lovers Inc.

  Hallowed Circle

  “Robertson brings back the magic and the mayhem. … Twists, turns, and narrow escapes keep the pages turning.”

  —Romantic Times (4 ½ stars)

  “An instant classic, featuring a refreshingly wise and likeable heroine.”

  —Affaire de Coeur (5 stars)

  “Readers will find themselves swept off their feet, without the use of a broomstick, and into a dangerous world that is teetering on the edge of a war between the nonhumans. Very entertaining!”

  —Huntress Book Reviews

  “Exciting characters with a good story line that equal… pure magic. Witches, werewolves, and romance… oh my!”

  —Fallen Angel Reviews

  “An enthralling supernatural urban fantasy filled with mystery, romance, and intrigue. … Loaded with action and a cast who make the paranormal seem normal, so much so that readers will believe that they exist.”

  —Alternative Worlds

  “Hallowed Circle is near perfection.”

  —Book Lovers Inc. (4 ½ “Bookies”)

  “Make sure you don’t overlook this series.”

  —Mondo Vampire

  Vicious Circle

  “Another new entry into the urban fantasy genre—with an interesting twist to it.”

  —SF Revu

  “Well-developed supernatural characters, mystery, and a touch of romance add up to an out-of-this-world thriller.”

  —Romantic Times (4 stars)

  “Refreshing and unusual.”

  —Fantasy Literature

  “An adventure filled with strong characters and their tangled human emotions.”

  —Darque Reviews

  “All you could look for in an urban fantasy, with witches, werewolves, and vampires mixing it up and each adding their uniqueness to the story.”

  —Romance Junkies

  DON’T MISS THESE OTHER

  PERSEPHONE ALCMEDI BOOKS …

  Pocket Books

  A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and

  incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are

  used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales

  or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 by Linda Robertson

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or

  portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address

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  First Juno Books/Pocket Books paperback edition January 2011

  JUNO BOOKS and colophon are trademarks of Wildside Press LLC

  used under license by Simon & Schuster, Inc., the publisher of this work.

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  Cover design by John Vairo Jr.

  Cover art by Don Sipley

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ISBN 978-1-4391-9025-8

  ISBN 978-1-4391-9026-5 (ebook)

  For Richie.

  When you read it, you’ll know why.

  Maybe.

  THANK-YOUS

  Red-Caped Hero Thanks:

  Shannon & Dave, Beth & Steve, Melissa, Costie

  Because making realistic concert T-shirts and buttons

  for a fictitious rock band just kicks ass.

  Java-N-Chocolate Thanks:

  Michelle, Melissa, Laura, Faith, Rachel, Emily, and Tracy

  As always, I am grateful to my writing group

  for reading, critiques, support, and the friendship.

  Delicioso Thanks:

  Samosky’s Homestyle Pizzeria

  For making such fabulous pizza,

  even my characters love it. Yum!

  PAMArita Thanks:

  Paula Guran

  Your keen eyes and wise guidance keep me from

  sticking my foot in my mouth,

  and to Laura Bickle

  for sharing your vast knowledge on

  a variety of unusual subjects.

  Howlin’ Thanks:

  Jim Lewis. My own wolfy bad boy.

  Reverent Gratitude:

  For the many-named Muse. You will always rock.

  Extra Thanks:

  Derek Tatum & Carol Malcolm @ DragonCon;

  Larissa @ Larissa’s Bookish Life; Rachel Smith @ Bitten

  by Books; Abigail @ All Things Urban Fantasy; Roxanne @ Fang-tastic Books; Susi & Caroline @ Booklovers, Inc.; Erik & Justin @ nightstalkersradio.com; and Scollard;

  and all the reviewers, bloggers, and tweeters

  who’ve helped spread the word.

  There are too many of you to list and that’s fantastic!

  ARCANE

  CIRCLE

  CHAPTER ONE

  Nearly dragging the veterinarian behind me, I raced up the tight and twisting stairs, desperate for him
to treat my boyfriend. It was just after two P.M. and the vet, Dr. Geoffrey Lincoln, was already well acquainted with his patient, Johnny Newman. What other type of doctor would make an emergency house call to treat a wærewolf?

  Johnny, wearing only dark jeans and an Ace bandage wrapped high around his rib cage, lay on his narrow bed in the attic bedroom of my saltbox farmhouse. Despite a grimace of pain, he made no sound.

  As soon as Kirk, a wærewolf from Johnny’s pack, saw the doc and me enter the room, he rose from the folding chair next to the bed. He hadn’t moved since we’d gotten Johnny in the bed hours earlier. Kirk nodded at us and then walked quietly to the foot of the bed.

  Dr. Lincoln set his bag on the chair, pulled latex gloves from it, and bent to inspect Johnny’s wound. It kept seeping blood and had completely saturated numerous gauze pads and two of the elastic wraps already. In the time I’d been gone, the blood had again soaked through layers of padding and was darkening the bandage like an ever-expanding Rorschach blot.

  I hoped that I appeared to be holding myself together and functioning, but my shaking hands threatened to expose my counterfeit calm. This is all wrong. Johnny was in wolf form when injured. These wounds should have healed when he transformed back, but they didn’t. My fears ricocheted inside me like wild bullets—the crossfire could shatter my cool and collected façade at any moment, exposing my panic.

  A veterinarian by trade, Doc Lincoln had experience with the traumatic wounds animals sometimes inflicted on each other, and he had treated Johnny and other wæres before. At five-foot-nine, with receding brown hair, brown eyes, and glasses, the doctor appeared at first glance to be an average man, but the fact that he was willing to provide care to wærewolves—albeit secretly—made him very special indeed.

  He took a pair of scissors from his bag and cut carefully through the wrapped bandage. “I need more light.”

  When Johnny moved his rock ’n’ roll self in a few weeks ago, he’d brought a table lamp made from a guitar neck. I jerked the shade off and twisted the little knob. A hundred watts brightened the narrow, slope-sided room.

  “Hold it closer.”

  I stretched the lamp’s cord as far as possible. Under the harsh illumination, he peeled the bandage back and exposed Johnny’s gruesome chest injury. The three jagged slashes were deep, each at least six inches long. Despite the swelling, each time Johnny inhaled the wounds gaped wider. Fresh blood welled up, flowing across his chest. It was thick enough to hide the winged pentacle tattoo that spanned his pectorals.

  Dr. Lincoln examined the gashes, and even though his touch seemed light, Johnny grimaced, compressing his features so tightly the Wedjat tattoos around his eyes almost disappeared. But the “wolf king” does not whimper. He had recently revealed to his pack he was the fated Domn Lup, able to make a full transformation at will, not just when the moon was full.

  At least the doctor was here now. He’d know what to do to help Johnny. Doing something, anything, was better than the helplessness I’d felt while waiting for him to show up.

  As he completed his examination, the doc’s thin lips pressed into a firm line and he announced, “I’ve sewn up worse on you, John, but this doesn’t show any indication of that accelerated healing you wærewolves are notorious for. Was it silver that cut you?”

  “Nope.” Johnny shot me a grim look that, in effect, passed the task of answering the doctor’s question to me.

  Johnny’s wounds had been inflicted by a phoenix raking him with her claws during a dawn battle with fairies. Another consequence of that battle was the myriad elementals—unicorns, griffons, dragons, phoenixes—now grouped in the wooded grove behind my house. I was planning to ask the doc if he’d serve as their vet—several of them were injured.

  But, for now, if I told him the source of the injury was a creature that supposedly didn’t exist, he’d go all skittish and spew questions. He wouldn’t believe it until he saw it for himself, so I answered cryptically. “It was a creature of magic that cut him.”

  “Magic?” The doc rubbed at his brow. “Then some residual effect must be preventing the healing.”

  Magic had a negative effect on wæres. It could force them into a partial shift and leave them forever stuck that way: neither human nor wære. “He’s the Domn Lup,” I said. “He isn’t as susceptible to magic as other wæres.” Even as I said it, I realized I’d dismissed the obvious. Mad at myself for missing it, anger squashed most of my worry. The doc’s theory was a good one. “This wasn’t exactly magical energies being stirred up around Johnny. Magic made physical contact with the intent to damage him. Any wære without the powers of the Domn Lup probably would have bled to death from an attack like this.”

  “Can you cleanse the magic away?” The doc mimed waving a wand.

  The answer wasn’t going to make Johnny very happy. “Yes. With salt.”

  “Salt in my wound,” the wære grumbled.

  My hand gripped Johnny’s. “Sounds like a song title,” I said. Being the guitarist and front man of a band, he could make lyrics out of just about anything.

  The doc peered at me over the tops of his glasses. “Is using salt like that something you specifically, as a witch, have to do?”

  “You mean: Does it take magic as well as salt?”

  “Medicine is magic to me. But,” he reached into his bag, “I was thinking more along the lines of washing the wound with this.” He lifted an IV bag of saline solution. “It’s sterile.”

  He was a thinker. That made me even happier he was on our side. “Saline should be fine. Give it a shot.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I use it to magically cleanse a space, but mundane humans often use salt to protect themselves. Ever spilled salt and then tossed a pinch over your left shoulder? You were supposedly protecting yourself from evil.”

  Dr. Lincoln turned to Kirk. “Would you fetch some towels from the bathroom? Wait, I-I didn’t say fetch because you’re a … I mean, I would’ve said it that way to anyone.”

  The handsome Asian wære smiled and replied, “That political correctness shit is for pansies who can’t stomach the truth.” He left the room.

  The doc laid the IV bag on the bed and clasped Johnny’s shoulder. “I can try just stitching it, but cauterizing it first is my recommendation.”

  “Just do what you need to do,” Johnny said.

  “My stitches aren’t quite as refined as those of a plastic surgeon working on a starlet, but then my usual clients don’t worry much about scarring. Wære healing is good, but I don’t know how the magic will play into this. It could leave a scar. Cauterizing it is even more certain to leave a mark.”

  “I don’t care.” Johnny’s teeth were grinding.

  I set the lamp back in its place while the doctor dug in his bag and brought out a small tray and what must have been a cautery tool. It looked something like a soldering iron.

  When Kirk handed me the towels, I rolled them up and tucked one on either side of Johnny’s rib cage.

  The doctor punctured the IV bag. “I just want to make sure you know it’s possible the scar will show in all your shirtless rock-star pictures,” he said, squirting the fluid into the cuts. I lifted the lamp again—and saw a white flash of rib bone as the solution washed out the slashes. Johnny sucked air through his teeth. The doc blotted around the injury with another of the towels, then dabbed the wounds directly with gauze.

  The bleeding continued. I might have thought it was just a reaction to the wound washing if Dr. Lincoln hadn’t directed a silent question at me with his eyes.

  My icy unease returned, wintry fingers stirring my emotions again, nearly forcing me from hidden fear into obvious panic. He can’t keep on bleeding like this and we can’t take him to a hospital. They transfer wæres to state shelters rather than treat them. State shelters were more like human dog pounds than hospitals.

  I wasn’t going to give up. “Let’s try a higher concentration of salt.”

  “Easy for you to say,�
�� Johnny grumbled as I charged down the stairs to my second-floor bedroom. From the cabinet where I kept magical supplies, I grabbed a pouch of coarse sea salt. This was already empowered for use in my spells, intended to cleanse the ritual area into a sacred space. Surely this would counteract the magic in the injury, but it was going to hurt like hell.

  Back in the attic, I apologized to Johnny and dropped an overflowing fistful of the coarse beadlike chunks onto his chest. Immediately, he growled, writhed once and dug his fingers into the mattress. Concentrating, I visualized the salt foaming like baking soda and vinegar being mixed, and imagined it neutralizing the lingering magic.

  When a coastal aroma wafted around me, it was a signal that the salt cleansing was complete. I gestured for the doc to take over. He pierced another saline bag and washed away the sea salt.

  This time, the bleeding had markedly decreased. My panic receded.

  The doc surveyed the wound again, holding the cauterizing tool ready. He motioned Kirk over. “Hold him down.”

  “Not necessary.” Johnny set his jaw; Kirk stayed where he was.

  Dr. Lincoln leaned in. “I’ll do this as minimally as possible, but your tattoo is going to need a touch up—”

  “Wait!” Johnny grabbed for my arm, jerked, and swore loudly. A fresh spill of blood ran across his chest. “The tattoo.”

  My breath caught.

  Someone had found out long ago that Johnny was the Domn Lup. Whoever it was had magically locked his power into the various tattoos on his body. We needed to find out who had done this and have them reverse it to unlock that power.

  “Will scars on this tattoo keep it from being unlocked?” Johnny asked.

  “I don’t honestly know.” The real question is: Can magic in a phoenix’s talons sever the magic in a tattoo?

  Johnny’s cell phone rang from the bedside table—the chorus of Ozzy Osborne’s “Bark at the Moon.” It was his ringtone for all the pack wæres. Kirk checked the display and announced, “It’s Todd. Probably wants a status report.”

  “Give him one,” Johnny said.

  Kirk opened the phone. “This is Kirk.”

  The doc waved his utensil to refocus us all on him. “Am I doing this?”