Hallowed Circle (Persephone Alcmedi 02) Read online

  That the girl knew my name and pronounced it correctly surprised me. I thanked her and then it hit me where I knew her from. “Mandy, right? From Vivian’s coffee shop in Cleveland?”

  A sheepish smile flashed across her round face and disappeared.

  “You changed your hair.” It had been an indistinct pale brown.

  She petted the unhealthy length of platinum blond hair stretching over her shoulder. “Yeah. Vivian’s idea.”

  I wondered if Vivian helped her make any other bad choices. Poor girl. A compliment should’ve sprung to mind, but it just didn’t. The overprocessed frizz she was stuck with couldn’t flatter anyone and I couldn’t just lie.

  She appeared as if she might cry. “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “I just miss her so much.”

  “Oh.” What was I supposed to say? If I tried to console Mandy after I’d helped the vampire get Vivian, the words would taste ashy.

  “I’ve been Vivian’s intern-slash-protege for almost two years. You’d think that, of all people, she’d give me a hint before she split.” She rolled her eyes again even as she wiped at the corners. At least someone had thought well of Vivian. “I didn’t think you’d remember me,” she said.

  I did. The coffee she’d made me had been terrible. Of course that had been the day I found out about Lorrie’s murder, so maybe it was my mood souring my palate more than the beverage. Shrugging, I said, “I didn’t at first. The new color threw me. I’m surprised you knew me.”

  “Vivian didn’t often talk to people in her office at the shop. …” Mandy paused. “How’s the kid?”

  “Adjusting well,” I said and started around the desk. “Thanks for asking.”

  “I was here first,” Hunter protested.

  “Yeah, I know,” Mandy said through gritting teeth. “You’ve been here exactly thirty-three minutes and”—she glanced at the wall clock—“fourteen seconds.”

  “So the local contender is getting preferential treatment already,” Hunter declared. “Why do you people bother having an Eximium if you’re just going to hand it to your local contestant?”

  From the office doorway, I looked over my shoulder at her quizzically.

  She said, “I was here first and I should be seen first.”

  “Wah. Get over it,” Mandy said.

  Hunter made a derisive sound and ratcheted her chin up.

  “You know,” I said to Hunter, “a high priestess ought to know the difference between pride and conceit.” I shut Lydia’s door.

  Sitting meekly in an oversize chair behind a massive mahogany desk, Lydia gave the impression of frailty but I knew better. She stood to greet me. Her usual summertime gingham dress had been replaced with a white turtleneck under a wide-collared forest green sweater, paired with a long, tan corduroy skirt. It was obvious the changing season had left her cold.

  After a quick hug, I sank into the seat across from her and asked, “Are they all like that?”

  “No, thank the Goddess, but she is the worst.”

  “Good.”

  “No, Seph. Actually, that’s bad.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, dear, she’ll take the Eximium and become high priestess … with you opting out of it and all.”

  A hard frown tightened my face. I suspected I was about to be inveigled. I’d have bet that she knew I’d protest the nomination. She likely waited to call me about it until Hunter walked in the door, knowing that I’d rush down to decline. Meanwhile, Lydia had made Hunter wait so she’d be irritated and our paths could cross on those exact terms because then I’d be more motivated to concede and be in the Eximium. Damned sneaky old witch.

  “What?” she demanded, gauging my hard expression. “Don’t tell me you didn’t instantly size her up and peg her for what she is.”

  “Lydia.”

  “Jolted you, didn’t she?”

  “She tried.”

  “I knew it!” Lydia’s expression brightened considerably and she smacked the desktop. “Got nowhere with you, did she?” She tapped gnarled fingers on the desk. “She’s jolted everyone in this office, except poor little Mandy. Even reached across the desk trying to shake Mandy’s hand, but Mandy ignored her. She just kept typing and said, ‘If you want to impress me, stick both of your thumbs up your ass and walk on your elbows.’ ” Lydia chuckled. “She can be so bland, that girl, then she spouts something like that!”

  When I stopped laughing, the moment sobered and I said, “Seemed like Mandy was going to cry there for a moment.”

  Lydia sighed. “She’s lost without Vivian.” Leaning closer, she put one arm up on the desk, cupped her mouth with a hand, and whispered, “She’s moody too. Probably bleeding.” Leaning back, she went on at normal volume, “Still, if Hunter couldn’t jolt you, that just confirms to me that you need to be in this competition!”

  I couldn’t tell her the reason I nullified her jolt was more likely due to the vampire stain I now carried. “This is all very … I don’t know. But—”

  “I know, I know. You’re here to opt out.” She pulled open a drawer and began digging around. “Vivian was so organized and in a week I’ve managed to undo it all. Poor Mandy is so aggravated with me.” Her delicate digging turned into rough rummaging. “Where is that form?”

  “Form?”

  Lydia nodded, still searching in the drawer.

  “Why do I have to fill out a form? I didn’t fill one out to be nominated.”

  “You don’t fill it out. I do. The Elders require formal notification if they have to make the local choice themselves.”

  “I don’t understand coven politics.”

  “Of course not; you’re a solitary.” She shut the drawer and opened another. “I had it a second ago. …”

  “Why can’t you just pick someone else?”

  “Not allowed. If my choice refuses, then the Elders come in a few days early to evaluate everyone from the coven and nominate one of them.” She fixed me with an expression of annoyance. “A waste of time, to be sure.” She resumed hunting through the newly opened drawer. “Vivian filled the coven with influential people who would run it like a country club, where exclusivity is more important than spirituality. The rest of us were pushed aside and belittled. Some moved away, some became solitary. Some have their own covens now, though not WEC endorsed.”

  “The Elders will surely include them in the evaluations. I mean, one of them will be more suitable, right?”

  Lydia shut the drawer forcefully. “I know what I’m doing. And I know that with you out, Hunter will take the Eximium. She will be the high priestess. She strikes me as the type who will use the exposure to further inflate her ego.”

  “Lydia, I don’t want the coven left to further internal disintegration. I can see this means a lot to you and I do want to help, but I have enough responsibilities. I’ve had a lot thrust upon me recently. Other than Beverley, I have to take care of my Nana now and—”

  “Demeter?”

  “Yes, she—” I started to go on but she cut me off again.

  “I thought she was in a home?”

  “They kicked her out. I’m sure her pushy attitude and nicotine cravings had nothing to do with it.”

  Lydia caught my sarcasm. “Oh, of course not.”

  “Wait—you know my Nana?”

  “I used to. A long time ago, dear. A very long time ago.” She smiled fondly as if at a good memory. “Plucky as ever, is she?”

  “Plucky? Um, more like mulish and obstinate. You should visit—”

  “Oh, I don’t think she’d appreciate that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, we didn’t part on the best of terms.” She paused. “That was her on the phone, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Didn’t even occur to me at the time.” Lydia relaxed into her chair, the warm-hearted smile on her face continuing as she waxed nostalgic.

  “As I was saying,” I forged ahead with my list of duties. “In addition to Nana,
there’s Beverley, the dog, the house and yard, and my newspaper column is now nationally syndicated.” My column devoted to making readers aware of the plight of those maintaining their “normal” lives despite being waerewolves was finally paying off. The syndication was, unfortunately, thanks to the vampire who stained me, but still, my broker was going to be a happy boy. He might even learn to pronounce both my first and last names correctly. “So the pressure is high.”

  “That’s the one under the pseudonym of Circe Muirwood, right?”

  “Yeah.” Lydia, who had sold the house herself and not used an agent, had asked me many questions before she agreed to sell me her farmhouse, citing it was her responsibility to make certain that such a decidedly witchy home not end up in the wrong hands—what with its nearby ley line and all. And in the interest of keeping it in the right hands, she’d been interested in how I’d pay the mortgage and whether my work was steady. I’d told her about the column.

  “You’re casting a rather positive light on waerewolves with that column, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. Many of my friends are waere.” I was accustomed to people being negative about them for no good reason. “Does that bother you?” Maybe it would get me out of the competition.

  “Not at all. I’ve been close to many waeres in my time, it’s just that, well … Demeter isn’t fond of them.”

  “Witches and waeres—” I began.

  Lydia joined me in finishing, “—weren’t meant to mingle.”

  I laughed.

  Lydia did too, then we sobered. “Is that still her mantra?” she asked.

  “It certainly was, but lately she has been warming up to one of my waere friends. Surprised the heck out of me.”

  “How does she feel about your column?”

  “It’s my main income and the means through which I’m supporting her, so she can’t gripe. Of course, that won’t stop her.”

  Lydia was silent, considering, but her disappointment was clear. “I see. You do have a lot of irons in the fire.” She tapped her hand gently on the table. “I had hoped you would do this. I trust you because you haven’t been subjected to all the politics or tainted by them.”

  “If things were different, Lydia, I would do this.” What Lydia didn’t realize was that I was tainted. Bearing the stain of the master vampire Menessos meant I couldn’t do this. Shouldn’t do this. It would be unethical. Plus, I was already afraid Menessos would find some reason to further insinuate himself into my life. Becoming a high priestess with political clout might be reason enough.

  And there was more. According to Nana and Johnny—a waerewolf friend who was oddly knowledgeable about mystical things and yet another complication in my life, albeit a pleasant one—I was the Lustrata. The walker between worlds. I was still learning what, exactly, that meant. Johnny had moved into the attic room, at first as a guard of sorts, but also to help guide me in this new role. Nana had been insisting that I present myself as the Lustrata to the Council. I wasn’t about to do that until I knew what in Hades being Lustrata meant. Who knew how this Lustrata stuff would affect being a high priestess, politically, personally, spiritually, whatever.

  I exhaled resignedly; I’d come out here to decline this and should—

  Wait. This sly she-devil of a pagan was full of tricks, wasn’t she? “Lydia, since you fill out the form, I came out here for what? To sign it?”

  Her regret disappeared, replaced by peevishness. She crossed her arms and turned away, brow furrowing. “You didn’t have to come out.”

  About to give her my I-don’t-appreciate-being-made-to-jump-through-hoops speech, I stopped when, beyond the door, someone yelped loudly.

  I started out of my seat to see what was going on.

  “Sit down, Persephone,” Lydia said gently.

  “But—”

  “Hunter just jolted someone else. Another contestant must have come in.”

  I eased back into my chair. “Can’t you disqualify her or something?”

  “This is the way high priestesses have come to be, dear. Best with their broomsticks. By wick and by wand. Oh, the tests have evolved with the times, but if she earns it, proves better than her peers, she leads. Even if she’s too young. Even if she’s a persnickety, silver-spoon-fed Midwestern girl who doesn’t have a chance at understanding the nuances of this city and these people.”

  We sat in silence.

  Beyond the door, Mandy shouted, “Ow!” Followed by, “You bitch!”

  Lydia looked woefully at me.

  “Fine,” I said. “I’ll do it.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Desiccated cornstalks shifted in the night breeze, the sound scraping my ears as I stood at the edge of the field behind my home. Hallowe’en was coming. One week. I stood on the cusp of seasons, feeling the world adjusting, preparing for hibernation and the barren cold.

  The goddess Persephone, my namesake, descended into the underworld for six months of every year. Her mother, the goddess Demeter, caused the world to grow colder and dormant, creating winter, while she mourned her daughter’s absence. Like my namesake, I’d departed from my “normal” world and entered another.

  But I wouldn’t be returning. At least, not as the same person I was before leaving.

  My life had become the polar opposite of what it had been a month ago; a warped caricature of what I used to know. Everything was backward, as if I’d been hibernating all this time only to awaken just at the onset of the world’s bitter, frozen season. The green world was dying, a contradiction to the forced growth in my life.

  Nevertheless, Hallowe’en was my favorite holiday and I was going to make the best of it. That meant decorating for harvest with pumpkins and gourds. It meant making caramel apples. It meant that, despite the coming cold, I would create a warm home environment … for Beverley.

  So, my feet were planted at the edge of the cornfield. The predicted rain hadn’t yet come, but I could feel it in the air. The wooden handle of my sickle felt smooth in my sweaty hand. A pile of stalks lay nearby, neat and stark against the dark grass. Night had fully come. The moon was new early last week; now it was officially a first quarter moon, a sharp crescent glimmering between thick, gray clouds. I was gathering cornstalks to make fodder-shocks for my front porch. Collecting them under a darkened sky matched the season’s tone.

  Unlike the front-yard Chinkapin oaks that had already begun dropping their golden leaves, in the grove the white ash and white oak trees still held most of their purple, bronze, and red ornaments. Something about the ley line crossing the field there helped them hold on to their leaves a little longer.

  Amid their roots lay the access point I used to power my home wards. Though it was not a nucleus—an intersection of lines—it was close to such a hub and the earth-energy flowed strong. I could tap it due to lifelong training, learning to feel and discern the different energies, to draw out the latent energy stored in gemstones and crystals and shape it to my will. My experience had grown to incorporate bigger sources, like the line. I hadn’t had cause to use it for more than the wards except twice: once to save my friend Theo’s life and once to re-establish my home’s innate security against vampires.

  As Nana was prone to say, Once is a mistake, but twice is a habit. I didn’t want using the ley line to be habitual.

  Thinking of habits, I allowed my gaze to drift toward the house. Beverley’s light remained on. Nana was still reading to her. I’d barely spoken to Nana since returning from the Covenstead, but a long discussion was inevitable. I would have to tell her what had happened, but it could wait a bit longer. I didn’t want to further interrupt our new evening customs.

  Our evening regimen started with Beverley going upstairs to shower with Ares on her heels so he could lie on the bathroom floor, waiting. Nana followed her up and, when Beverley finished, Nana helped her comb and dry her glossy, dark hair. They always played a board game, then ended the day with Nana reading aloud while Beverley settled in. They both seemed to enjoy the routine
; I’d watched them, undetected, from my darkened room. Beverley was getting a better version of my Nana than I had known growing up, like Demeter 2.0 or something.

  I didn’t want to mess it up, not even for one evening. Getting Nana’s input about the Eximium was important to me but, at the same time, I didn’t want to tell her about it at all. She’d surely find a reason to be against my decision.

  The breeze increased, but didn’t flutter the corn. Only the treetops danced.

  Come.

  The ley line spoke!

  The grove’s branches swayed, beckoning me. Then all at once the field was inviting me, stalks undulating, tassels nodding, pennant-like leaves waving me in, encouraging me to step into the row, into the arms of the stalks.

  Intrigued, I laid down the sickle and succumbed to the summoning. Immediately the row stilled as the dried leaves reached high, making an aisle for me, opening as if this procession of one moving toward that seat of power in the grove was a most welcome guest.

  My steps, punctuated by the crunching of dead weeds underfoot, released aromas that combined the smell of harvest: the scents of soil and a field of vegetation left to deteriorate and rot, withering in the wind of ever-cooler days. In the embrace of the stalks, my fingers trailed outward, feeling their dry husks, the texture of the season.

  The ley line sent a pulse to acknowledge me. I expected a faint hiccup, like a little gust of wind, but this was much stronger, like the tremor of a small earthquake under my feet or the bass drum at a rock concert thudding out its rhythm against my chest.

  Something was different. Why?

  You are different.

  I walked on. Great. The ley line knows I’m stained. Just what I wanted, to feel more like a freak.

  As I reached the edge of the grove, rain began sprinkling down.

  If it began to pour like the weatherman predicted, I’d be drenched before I made it back to the house. Eyes on the sky to gauge the clouds, my toes struck an exposed tree root. For all the pomp of my journey here, my arrival was doomed to gracelessness. In my attempt to catch myself, my palm grazed the ridged bark of the ambushing oak. I stumbled into the grove and went down on my knees.