Hallowed Circle Read online

  “Right. That’s the worst-case scenario …

  a bad high priestess.”

  Nana stood, lifted her arms, and turned her face heavenward. “Crone, open their eyes!” When her arms dramatically fell limp at her sides, she faced Johnny. “The Lustrata cannot be beaten in a priestess Eximium. When Seph finally decides to share that she is the Lustrata with the council, they’ll scoff. And when she goes before the Elders as part of that competition—what if they realize she’s marked by a vampire?”

  “Stained,” I corrected.

  “It’s a mark, Persephone, a mark,” Nana insisted. “You know as well as I do that it would compromise you. Having the authority of a high priestess will only entice the vampire back to your door.”

  I realized Johnny’s spine had stiffened.

  I’d been outed!

  Praise for Linda Robertson and Vicious Circle

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

  —Romantic Times

  “Robertson blends tried-and-true supernatural elements with some fresh ideas of her own, creating an entertaining combination. Vicious Circle … takes readers on an adventure filled with strong characters and their tangled human emotions.”

  —Darque Reviews

  “A fun romp of a novel. … Seph acts as any of us would and it makes her endearing and easy for the reader to root for. … Completely entertaining.”

  —Preternatural Reviews

  Hallowed Circle is also available as an eBook

  Don’t miss the first Persephone Alcmedi book …

  Vicious Circle

  HALLOWED

  CIRCLE

  LINDA

  ROBERTSON

  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 © 2010 by Linda Robertson

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

  portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information

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  First Juno Books/Pocket Books paperback edition January 2010

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  Cover design by John Vairo Jr.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ISBN 978-1-4391-5678-0

  ISBN 978-1-4391-6657-4 (ebook)

  This one is for Logan.

  Because you do so much.

  Acknowledgments

  Java-n-Chocolate Thanks

  as always to my writing group OWN: Ohio Writers

  Network. Michelle, Laura, Melissa, Rachel, Emily, Faith,

  Lisa, Tracy—for reading, honesty, and hanging out.

  Margarita Thanks

  to Paula Guran, my editor. Because she’s absolutely the

  best and editors work too hard not to be thanked profusely.

  Tour du Jour Thanks

  to Scollard, for being a knowledgeable research consultant

  past, present, future.

  High Frequency Thanks

  to my friends Ed (at NRRRadio) and Colleen for all the

  shout-outs.

  Shreddin’ 7-string Guitar Thanks

  to Jim Lewis, for being there every day. No matter what.

  You made that guitar on the cover! Ain’t that the coolest???

  Reverent Gratitude

  for the Many-named Muse. You rock.

  It’s your decisions about what to focus on,

  what things mean to you, and

  what you’re going to do about them

  that will determine your ultimate destiny.

  —Anthony Robbins

  CHAPTER ONE

  “What do you mean, you nominated me?” I held my breath.

  “Oh, dear. Shouldn’t I have?”

  Lydia Whitmore, a dear old witch who lived about ten minutes from me, was on the other end of the phone line. I could imagine her startled expression. With her kindly smile and snowy hair, always secure in a precise bun, her looks epitomized those of the cookie-baking granny. She also cornered the local market on being the goody-goody, saccharine-sweet variety of witch—what society’s more mundane humans wanted all us witches to be.

  She had called to inform me that the Witch Elders Council had announced their plans to find a replacement for Vivian Diamond, the Cleveland Coven’s high priestess who had mysteriously gone missing.

  Not that it was a mystery to me: I’d handed Vivian over to the vampire she’d betrayed. Chances were she’d be missing a very long time.

  To determine the new high priestess the Council was, according to Lydia, planning a formal competition called the Eximium. Lydia had, incredibly, nominated me as a competitor.

  “Lydia, I don’t want to be the high priestess.”

  “Pshaw and gobbledygook!” Lydia said. “You’re perfect for it, Persephone! Knowledgeable, experienced, personable. And such a charming smile, dear. You’d make a fantastic high priestess.”

  “I’m flattered,” I said, rubbing my brow, “but I can’t do it. I wouldn’t have time right now.”

  “Oh, that’s right! You have the child, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said. My new role as foster mother wasn’t the only reason I had no intention of getting involved with the Council, but maybe it would be enough of an excuse to dissuade Lydia.

  It had only been three weeks since Lorrie Kordell, a wærewolf who used to kennel in my basement during full moons, was murdered. Her daughter, Beverley, ended up with me. We’d had the funeral a week and a half ago, and Beverley started school that following Monday. The legal gears and wheels to officially establish me as Beverley’s guardian had been set in motion and we were just starting to get a sense of what “normal” was going to be for us. Beverley needed stability and the security of a routine to ground her despite all that was new in her life. “I don’t want to start anything that will take more of my time from Beverley right now.”

  “How’s she doing, poor thing?”

  “She’s still grieving, and she will for a while, but she’s tough stuff. We’ll make it.” I truly cared for Beverley. When her mom got a job in the city and quit kenneling here, I’d missed more than just the popcorn and Disney nights I’d shared with the kid. “So, Lydia,” I asked, intentionally changing the subject, “how’d you end up nominating entrants for this … eggzemmyoom thing anyway?”

  “Because I’m the oldest!” Lydia laughed. “WEC wants savvy, smart, and pretty young women as covenheads nowadays, what with the internet and media always poking around the h
igh-profile urban covens.” She pronounced the acronym for the Witch Elders Council as weck, like a kid who can’t make R sounds saying wreck. “They know I deserve the authority, but can’t keep up with the social scene. This is their way of coddling me for what I can’t do.”

  Over the last few years I had become friends with Lydia, who happened to be the previous owner of my old saltbox-style farmhouse. She’d sold off pieces of her land and bought a double-wide, then stuck the For Sale by Owner sign in the front yard. We met shortly after I called the number written on the sign. One-level living suited her knees better, she’d said. The only downside, according to her, was “trading the charm and earthy smell of a root cellar for a sterile, wire-shelved pantry.” A kitchen witch, she canned the vegetables she grew in her garden and made the best black raspberry jelly I’d ever tasted, period. When she shared her scrumptious goodies, they always came with a little checkerboard gingham ribbon tied around the neck of the Mason jar. I was certain that fabric came from her worn-out dresses. She could’ve walked onto the set of Little House on the Prairie and assumed a place as an extra without being questioned. All she lacked was a sunbonnet.

  “I tried to tell them from the start that Vivian was a no-good hustler,” she continued. “I tried to stop her from being in Cleveland’s last Eximium, but my objections went unheard. After she reconfigured the membership into nothing more than a who’s-who list of wealthy local socialites, though, they understood.”

  “I know,” I said. Lydia didn’t know the half of it. Vivian had done wrong by the coven, but that was only a minor part of her no-goodness. Vivian not only set me up and used me in attempt to gain an Elders Council seat, but she had murdered Lorrie and been responsible for the near-death of Theo, another friend of mine. That’s why I’d turned her over to the vampire.

  Truthfully, it wasn’t like I could have kept him from taking her, so “I turned her over to the vampire” may be overstating my role in the situation.

  My part of it aside, the vampire had taken her and she hadn’t been seen since. Now, Hallowe’en was coming and there was no high priestess to conduct the all-important annual Witches Ball. It was the single biggest fundraiser of the year for the coven and its largest publicity opportunity. Having a standin or temporary priestess just wouldn’t suffice—or so Lydia claimed the Elders had said.

  “I wonder what happened to her,” Lydia mused.

  “I think she disappeared after she dropped Beverley here. Maybe the role of godparent was too much for her.” That was the angle the media had taken. Any story that left me out of the loop was a good one and I was sticking to it.

  “Will you adopt her, Persephone?”

  “Sure, if she wants, but I think we’ll just keep me as the legal guardian. She needs to settle in and just be a kid.”

  “See, dear, you’re such a responsible soul! You should be the one to lead the coven, not a stranger to the area. You know Clevelanders are slow to warm up to outsiders, and I don’t want another fast-talking swindler misusing the privilege.”

  Vivian had carried a vampire’s mark—I call it a “stain”—and that should have prevented her from attaining any authority in the first place. Under the influence of a vampire and in authority over witches? Totally bad idea. Vivian had pulled it off only because of a magical stake she created to keep her vampire master at bay. Now, due to her involving unsuspecting but responsible little ol’ me in her plot, the stake was destroyed, she was with the vampire, and I, too, carried a nefarious stain.

  Ethically, I didn’t deserve being high priestess any more than Vivian had, but that wasn’t something I wanted to advertise. “Lydia, honestly, I don’t want the authority.” Not the whole truth, but not a lie either.

  “That’s exactly why your name’s in. They asked me to nominate someone local from the coven to take over and I gave them your name—”

  “But I’m a solitary! I may be local, but I’m not really part of the coven! I never even attended the esbats, let alone the sabbats or—”

  “You’re still the best person for the job, Persephone Alcmedi, and if you want out, you’ll have to come to the Covenstead and formally decline it. Good day.”

  The phone went dead in my hand.

  So … if she didn’t get her way, dear old granny-witch was going to be difficult.

  It’s always the sweet ones you have to watch out for.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I’d been to the Covenstead only once, almost a decade ago when I officially signed the adult roster and designated myself as a solitary—a witch who practices solo with no coven affiliation, but who still can vote on matters affecting the witch community. Back then, the building, situated on four semirural suburban acres, was little more than a concrete-block cube with garage doors on four sides that could be opened to let nature in while keeping the rain out. Now, a surprisingly attractive circular building topped with a geodesic dome was centered on the manicured lot. Stone walls rose from subtle “natural” landscaping that surrounded the dome; a wide paved parking area ringed the grounds. The rest of the terrain was as meticulously perfect as a golf course with large elder, ash, oak, and thorn trees in each corner. The acreage could easily accommodate outdoor rituals and the indoor facility offered the coven comfortable shelter during cold northeast Ohio winters. All in all, it seemed the perfect blending of witchcraft symbolism—nature, the circle, the triangle—enhanced for the comfort of those who could afford it.

  Vivian had left her legacy by exploiting the deep pockets of her preferred flock. They bankrolled the bulldozer-demise of the old structure and funded the construction of the modern gymnasium-sized facility to replace it.

  As I drove around it, the repeating triangle shapes of the dome reminded me of the Earth’s global geodesic lines, the ley lines. One ran across the back of my rural twenty acres and its energy fueled my house wards as needed.

  I parked my Toyota Avalon—I loved all things Arthurian and chose the model for its evocative name, not its style or gas mileage. Cool early evening air swirled around me as I opened the door and got out. Rain was expected later tonight. It was my plan to get home and cut some corn stalks for decorations before it started falling.

  The Covenstead had four pairs of oversize wooden doors—each placed to coincide with a compass point. The giant E carved into the middle of the pair of doors in front of me confirmed I was approaching the eastern entrance, as if the darkening evening sky behind me wasn’t clue enough. Over the entry was a wooden plaque elaborately carved with a leafy “Green Man” face and the inscription: “Merry Meet and Merry Part.”

  Despite its weight, the door opened inward easily with a push.

  Inside, it was nearly pitch black. Overhead, dim pinpoint lights twinkled like stars in the heavens and illuminated the points of a pentacle inlaid in the floor. Made with the deep, reddish tones of cherrywood, the symbol was centered on an otherwise pale pine floor. The flooring where I stood just inside the door and that of the area surrounding the wooden circle was of a durable exposed aggregate, a pebbly mix of earthy shades. The room seemed so vast it felt like an empty sports arena, thrumming with potent silence.

  Hello? The ley line whispered timidly to my senses, as if it were hiding far away.

  The ley line on my property had spoken to me once, the first time I walked in the rows of corn behind my home. Since then, it always sent a barely noticeable pulse in greeting when I ventured into the cornfield, like a neighbor waving from across the street. Those who weren’t sensitive to magical energy simply didn’t feel it. They wouldn’t hear it calling either. Those who were sensitive to it usually felt it as an indication of something bad, the sort of feeling most folks described as “this place gives me the creeps.”

  “Hello,” I whispered back.

  The smell of ylang-ylang filled my nostrils and I could sense remnants of energy. As I stepped farther in, eyes adjusting to the dimness, my every footstep seemed amplified.

  I became aware of sound to my left.
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  Several stairways led up to a railed catwalk encircling the structure about ten feet above the floor level. How convenient: a well-placed media area where cameras could get a good view of rituals below. My, my, Vivian and her crowd had thought of everything, hadn’t they?

  But the sound I heard came from below. Wide descending stairs between the eastern door I’d entered and the southern door to my left leaked light and what was now discernable as chattering people and a ringing phone. I started down.

  “Venefica Covenstead.” Pause. “Yes, we received your fax.”

  At the bottom of the stairs were arrows, universal restroom signs, and the glass wall of an office area, its door propped open. Inside, a bleached blonde sitting at a desk rolled her thick-lined eyes as she held her pen poised above a pad of paper. She seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place her. Another woman stood leaning on an elbow-high counter and a pair of women sat on cushioned seats along the wall flipping through New Witch and Green Egg magazines.

  “Okay,” the receptionist said. “I’ll make a note of that in your file, Ms. Taylor. … you’re staying at the Motel 6 near the airport. Sure, we’ll contact you there.”

  The woman waiting at the counter sniggered at the words “Motel 6” and turned to me. She looked me up and down, taking in my hiking boots, jeans, black tee, and dark flannel shirt in a quick assessment. “Getting the grounds ready for the winter?”

  “The grounds?”

  She flapped a hand in the air. “Here. The Covenstead grounds.” She sounded annoyed with me, as if I weren’t keeping up.

  She thought I was the groundskeeper? I said, flatly, “No.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re here to sign in for the Eximium?” She crossed her arms, made a second up and down evaluation of me, and laughed.

  Okay, so I had been outside preparing to cut fodder shocks when roughhousing with Beverley and Ares, our black Great Dane, took precedence. Then Nana had yelled there was a call for me. After taking Lydia’s call I came straight here. I wasn’t expecting a dress code. “And if I am?”

  “Are you?” she asked curtly.

  She was tan, tall, and rail thin. Her glossy blue-black hair was straight and down to her elbows. Her expertly applied makeup was done in natural colors, except for fire-engine-red lipstick. The expensive white blouse was crisp; the flipped-up cuffs gave it a nonchalant flair. Her dark designer jeans were tight and pressed so they had a razor-sharp line down the front; the bottoms were folded up in wide cuffs to show thin ankles—a dainty gold chain around one—and pumps that matched her lipstick.