Hallowed Circle Page 5

  “You’ve been what?” Nana asked, incredulous.

  “You heard me,” I said.

  “Wait. You might get to replace Vivian? Poetic justice strikes again,” Johnny quipped. “Hey.” He pointed at me. “That can be your slogan. Like Batman and Robin are the Dynamic Duo, and Superman has the bullet-stopping, building-leaping intro, you can be the Lustrata, Administer of Poetic Justice.”

  I ignored Johnny. “The interim priestess nominated me.” I didn’t want to mention Lydia’s name, until I knew the circumstances of Nana’s estrangement from her.

  “Why you? You’re a solitary! Not to mention that sooner or later you’re going to have to reveal yourself as the Lustrata to the council!”

  She made it sound dirty. Of course her words caused Johnny to vigorously wiggle his eyebrows at me.

  “Why doesn’t this interim priestess just do it?” Nana demanded.

  “She claims to be too old for it.”

  “More the reason she should lead,” Nana harrumphed. “Age equals experience and nothing guides better than wise experience.”

  “Aside from her, the coven membership is mostly newbies and pretenders.” I wasn’t about to mention the current preference for youthful, telegenic coven leaders.

  “Vivian’s assistant—”

  “Is barely twenty.”

  “Lord and Lady, was Vivian that ignorant?”

  In response, I gave Nana a hard look. She knew the answer to that one.

  She pulled her cigarette case from the deep pocket of her robe, took one out, and proceeded to light it. Her eyes searched nothing as she took a long draught and thought things through. Exhaling the smoke, she said firmly, “You can’t be in this Eximium.”

  “Yeah, Red,” Johnny added. “This may not be a good idea.”

  “I want to do this. I already agreed.”

  “Well, you will just have to get out of it,” Nana said in the tone that meant her word would be the end of it.

  I bristled inside but, taking Johnny’s advice, I made my face blank. My brows didn’t lower. My arms didn’t cross over my chest. I calmly said, “I know what I’m doing.”

  Peeved, Nana feigned indifference. “You’re the Lustrata,” she muttered.

  “It’s under control.”

  Johnny frowned. With his Wedjat tattoos he looked as if he were plotting the most devious of deeds. I’d figured out, though, over the few weeks he’d been living with us, that this “evil” expression only meant his mind was racing. I was happy to see it. He was rethinking his position and giving some consideration to mine.

  Then the microwave dinged and all else seemed forgotten as the wære zeroed in on his red meat. Admittedly, the roast smelled delicious. I almost wanted some.

  Erik, successfully pretending that he wasn’t listening, slipped behind Johnny and put his plateful of food in the microwave to heat.

  Nana didn’t give up. “Your duties as Lustrata would certainly be impeded by such a demanding position.”

  Johnny’s face brightened and I knew he was thinking of a dirty remark about a “demanding position.” He didn’t say it aloud in front of Nana. But, Goddess help me, I thought it myself anyway.

  “So,” Johnny carried his plate to the dinette and sat across from me. For an instant I felt cornered and wondered if they were going to gang up on me. “What do you know that we don’t, Red?”

  I was grateful he phrased it that way and hoped Nana took the hint. “I’m not trying to win. In fact, I know I won’t. I’m just doing it to knock out another strong contender who has the wrong attitude for the job.”

  “What attitude?” she asked.

  “A bullying one.”

  “So you’re bullying back?” Nana snapped.

  “I didn’t say it was a great and principled response, but bullies don’t respond to ethical behavior. Their actions are wrong and for the wrong reasons. They’re like animals about it and all they will respect is strength.”

  “So you’re bullying back and justifying it.” Another snap.

  “No. I’m just going to beat her so she doesn’t advance to the next round, then I’ll lose in that following round.”

  “And it’s fine for you to judge her as fit or unfit?”

  So much for Nana taking hints. “She displayed it to everyone.”

  “That wasn’t my question, Persephone.”

  I didn’t back down. “I know what’s right and what’s wrong, Nana. Proceeding in this competition is the right thing to do and I’m doing it for the right reason.”

  “And what reason is that?”

  “That coven was manipulated by Vivian. It’s time that a real leader takes the reins and guides a sincere group forward, instead of someone who’s power hungry and looking only to build a résumé. The true practitioners will come back if a suitable leader, someone strong and smart and experienced, is in place.”

  “This woman you’re bullying, is she not smart or experienced?”

  I shrugged. “She probably is.”

  “Aren’t bullies strong?”

  “I see what you’re saying, Nana, but a dictatorship isn’t the way to go. Power like that corrupts. We don’t need any more of that.”

  “So you’re suggesting that to avoid forceful leadership you will subvert that leadership by force? Do you hear yourself? Leading by force works for the vampires. It works for the wæres. It worked for Vivian for a long time. Look at the Covenstead she built. Look how she used the local media to create positive hype. Look how—”

  “Nana. Maybe you should compete instead of me.”

  She thumped her fist on the table. “I had a coven once. I’ll never do that again.”

  Into the silence that followed I offered a humbled, “I didn’t know that.” Another tidbit to file away.

  “If this woman wants the job and can win it, let her have it! The contest will prove whether she is worthy and will dismiss her if she isn’t. Who are you to interfere, solitary?”

  Around a mouthful of roast, Johnny said, “As Lustrata, she is supposed to make judgment calls.”

  Nana glared at him.

  “Thank you,” I said to him. It earned me a share in her glare.

  “I’m proud of her, Demeter. Worst-case scenario,” he said, “this bully beats her and becomes the high priestess anyway.”

  “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 an Eximium! When she decides to finally share that she is the Lustrata with the Council, they’ll scoff. And when she goes before the Elders as part of that competition—it’s standard, they always do that—what if they realize she’s marked?”

  “Stained,” I corrected.

  “Goddess, why are you so pigheaded?” Nana almost snarled.

  I was pretty sure I knew: if pigheadedness was an inherited trait then I’d inherited it from her, but pointing this out would only make this argument last longer and get us further off-subject. My mouth stayed shut.

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

  I realized Johnny’s spine had stiffened.

  Oh, shit. I’d been outed.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “You’ll be Bindspoken,” Nana went on, “and they’ll put your name under the Faded Shroud! That, of course, will be really good for you.”

  Nana using sarcasm was unsettling. Add in the fear that Johnny knew I was still stained … I was ready to vomit.

  She shuffled toward the hall, then turned back to me. “You’re going to need the Council on your side, Persephone. Setting yourself up to fail one of their major tests won’t win their trust. And that’s something you’re going to need.”

  I sat there in the wæres’ dumbfounded silence. They both
quickly returned full attention to their food. Erik had wisely stayed away from the dinette, opting to hold his plate and eat leaning against the counter. This meant they were on either side of me and it seemed their forks scraped on the plates in stereo, loud in my ears. Was this the stain too? I could hardly bear it.

  By then, Nana had made it to the stairway. Her groaning as she climbed the steps joined with the scraping forks. No wonder stained people are so idiosyncratic. All these amped senses were giving me OCD.

  “What’s Bindspoken?” Erik asked. “And that shroud thing?”

  Glad for something else to concentrate on, I said, “If your name is put under the Faded Shroud, WEC will no longer recognize you as a witch. No membership, no benefits, no voting on witch issues, no attending rituals. You’re not ‘recognized’ by them ever again, and you’re denied the right to perform magic for others. Not even to read their cards. It forces you to be a solitary, but ignores you while you go on about your life. No big deal if you are already a solitary. ‘Bindspoken,’ however, is like imprisoning your witch abilities. They bind your power. Kind of like hardening and sealing the aura until it’s a wall, so that you’re effectively severed—magically speaking—from the universe.”

  Saying the words made me realize how devastating it would be. If I was Bindspoken and the ley line called to me, I wouldn’t hear it. I wondered if it would sever a vampire’s binding without making me give up the good parts of myself.

  Without another word, I left the guys in the kitchen with their savory-smelling meat. My feet took a route through the other rooms, away from the stairs, so Nana didn’t see me in the hallway and start in on me again. Not that she’d likely have had the breath to shout at me while on the stairs. I sank onto the corduroy-covered couch in the darkened living room.

  My mind flitted about, searching for some other thing to think about.

  This living room was my serene space, although I hadn’t found much time for serenity in the past few weeks. I kept all my books on Arthur and Camelot here; the deep red walls were decked with framed posters of nineteenth-century portrayals of legendary characters. The furniture was a mix of antiques I’d found in yard sales and more modern comfort. The room reflected me more than any other in the house.

  I thought about the attic room Johnny had moved into. He’d finished it out since moving in a couple of weeks ago. It had drywall and a subfloor to start, but now the walls were painted the color of powdered rosemary and mock-hickory Pergo had been installed as flooring. He kept it neat and made his bed—a twin mattress and springs on Hollywood rails without a headboard or footboard. It occurred to me that his feet must hang over the end, he’s so tall. His seven-string guitar sat in a stand next to an amplifier in the corner. A folding octagonal poker table, various plastic bins, and shaggy beige area rugs completed it. There was nothing homey about the room, no photos, posters, or knickknacks, as if he were a throwback to the Spartans. Since he was here as my guard, at least in part, it fit.

  Not that I’d been paying him intimate visits there. But I did drop off the occasional basket of laundry he’d left in the dryer.

  Thinking about Johnny’s bedroom was not bringing me the tranquility I sought.

  I sat up and opened the drawer in a side table and found a lighter. After meandering around the room lighting three tangerine-and ginger-scented candles, I returned to the couch. In the flickering light of the candles, my thoughts came to rest on the painting over the mantel.

  It was an original John William Waterhouse oil painting, Ariadne. It must have been worth a fortune; Menessos had sent me the painting after I chose not to stake him. Hanging it here above my hearth in my rural farmhouse was incredibly impractical, but I loved knowing it was here for me to study and daydream over. If I ever had time to sit and daydream, that is.

  Documents concerning the insuring of the artwork, at Menessos’s expense, had arrived by courier a day after I’d received the painting. With it was a notification that some bonded professional group would be installing security devices. A phone number and an email address that was supposed to be Menessos’s private account had been included, in case I needed to discuss the matter. Though I suspected Menessos had something up his sleeve with all this, like maybe he was bugging the place to keep tabs on me, having the painting here meant so much to me it might be worth it. I’d finally let the security company schedule for next week.

  In the painting, Ariadne reclined, sleeping, with jaguars at her feet, and in the distant harbor, a boat was sailing away. Though subdued by candlelight, I knew the red of her dress matched my room perfectly. The frame was almost decadent: thick ebony wood with gilded and elaborately carved corners. My poster frames had gold paint on the corners. Menessos’s wealth assured the gold on this frame was 24-karat gold leaf.

  I thought of the tale … how Ariadne’s father, King Minos, demanded as tribute from the Athenian king, Aegeus, seven young men and seven maidens who would be devoured by the monstrous half-man, half-bull Minotaur. Ariadne fell in love with Theseus, the son of Aegeus who had volunteered to be among the sacrificial youth in order to slay the monster. She gave Theseus a spool of thread to help him find his way out of the maze of the Labyrinth where the Minotaur lived. Theseus slew the Minotaur and escaped, taking Ariadne with him to the island of Naxos. There, the gods shrouded his mind and made him forget her. He left while she slept.

  I suddenly remembered something: Nana had done a Tarot reading for Johnny and the crossing card, the “current problem,” was the King of Wands. On Nana’s deck the King of Wands was pictured as Theseus. In my interpretation Menessos was the King of Wands: Theseus.

  For Johnny, Menessos was a major problem.

  Realizing that Menessos had sent me a painting with a woman who loved Theseus on it, a woman who gave up everything to be with him only to be abandoned, made a chill crawl up my spine.

  “Thanks for the ride, man,” I heard Johnny say. He and Erik came down the hall.

  “No problem.”

  They stopped at the front door. “Sure you won’t stay for a beer?” Johnny whispered the last two words; Nana didn’t like the idea of alcoholic beverages in the house, so we kept the beer in the old refrigerator in the garage.

  Erik laughed. “Nah. Gotta get home while Celia’s still awake or there’ll be no sex.” I smiled in spite of myself; I was glad my friend was loved.

  “Ah,” Johnny said appreciatively, peering into the living room at me. “Pleasure with a special someone. Can’t say I remember what that’s like.” He made whining puppy sounds and gave me a sweet, adorable expression.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I hear it’s just like self-pleasure only it’s sweatier and it’s supposed to take longer, but that’s not always the case.”

  They both cracked up, but I hushed them with a reminder that Beverley and Nana were trying to sleep upstairs.

  Erik said, “Good night. I’ll see you at Feral’s tomorrow for rehearsal.” Phil “Feral” Jones was the bassist for Lycanthropia.

  “Right. See ya tomorrow.” Johnny shut and locked the door. Shortly, Erik’s Infiniti started and the gravel in my drive crackled under the tires. With a low rev, he drove away. In the next instant I mentally checked my perimeter wards; all set. I’d increase the perimeter tomorrow.

  Johnny stood in the doorway to the living room. The forty-watt hall light silhouetted him as he reached up to place his hands on the molding over the entryway. A physique-enhancing stretch, it made for a very nice silhouette. A handsome darkness, a living shadow, watching me like the savage predator he was deep down inside.

  If only Nana hadn’t outed me.

  The stain I still carried—“a filthy vampire’s mark” as Celia had once called it—made me feel repugnant in his sight. That’s why I didn’t want him to know. I’d wanted him to see me, not the stain.

  When I first met Johnny, all I saw was his ominous tattoos, not him. I’d been shallow and unfair. Johnny wasn’t either of those, but knowing that the connectio
n between Menessos and me still existed might be more than he could handle.

  “Red?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Demeter has a point.”

  I hadn’t expected the Eximium to still be the subject at hand. “I know.” I yawned, then stretched. “I just wish she didn’t have to make her points the way she does.”

  He eased into the living room to share the darkened space with me, but my serene room suddenly felt like a jail cell. He might ease into it, but we were going to talk about my stain. It was unavoidable now.

  His hands slipped into his pockets. “I want to start sparring with you.”

  “You fight a lot?” I asked. Bands, bars, beer, and wærewolves. It wouldn’t take much to start an all-out brawl.

  “With the exception of that vamp, not lately.”

  That vamp.

  “That wasn’t a good example,” he said quietly. Johnny hadn’t done so well in that fight, but he’d healed in three days. “He’s not a normal enemy.”

  “Master vampire-wizard. No, not exactly an everyday sort of guy.”

  His shoulders slumped. Johnny seemed to take my words as if I were complimenting the manipulating bastard. Or maybe his ego still smarted remembering how badly he’d been beaten. “We need to make sure you’re ready, as the Lustrata, for this contest.”

  Despite my longing for his touch and knowing how sparring would give us an excuse to be close, I had to admit, “I’m sure there’s not going to be hand-to-hand combat in the competition for high priestess.”

  “I understand that, but the martial arts gives you a mental edge. That couldn’t hurt.”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “When is your Eximium?”

  “Starts at dawn this Saturday.”

  He calculated. “Three days isn’t enough time,” he whispered as he pulled his hands from his pockets.

  “Why do I have to be ready ‘as the Lustrata’?”

  He came and sat next to me with safe inches between us, hands on his thighs, fingers galloping. “I thought if you knock this other woman out in the early running and then win, you could bow out at the end and announce that you are the Lustrata. Win-win.”