Fatal Circle c-3 Read online

  “Because I’m holding your heavy-ass breakfast tray.”

  Oh. Good reason. I worked at the strange locks and opened the door.

  “Finally.” Risqué barged in, blazing past me like a five-foot inferno. She marched toward the kitchen. Mounds of blond ringlets hung down her back and bounced as she walked, hitting the top of frilly orange boy shorts that left her shapely, tan legs bare—legs that seemed long despite her lack of height. “Thank Hell your groceries are going to arrive today,” she said belligerently. “Boss said there’s no food in your kitchen, and to be sure you and the wolf-man have enough to eat.” She shoved the tray onto the counter. “So there you fucking go.” She turned, showing me a disparaging frown and big eyes—the color of which matched her fire-engine-red lipstick. It stunned me silent.

  Offerlings and Beholders are the humans accepted into the vampire’s court. The former for their beauty and the latter for their muscle. Risqué might not be entirely human, or she might just have a thing for albino rabbit contacts, but either way, she was scary and beautiful. If pressed, I’d have pegged her as an Offerling.

  Offerlings get two marks at the outset, so even new Offerlings outranked longtime Beholders in a vampire’s court. An Erus Veneficus outranked any Offerling. Status: reason for her irritation with me. She might have benefits above every Beholder in the building, but my newly arrived self represented a dose of comeuppance—hence, she was carrying my tray. Menessos had mentioned there would be jealousy and her behavior fit. And he also mentioned he was not sex starved.

  Risqué gave me the once-over and evidently disapproved of my sheet. “Do not tell me you’re going for the Greek goddess morning-after look. Ugh.”

  I decided her hair reminded me of powdered eighteenth-century hairstyles, but with less height and even more ringlets. She had ringlets in front, too. They—and nothing else—covered her breasts. More or less.

  “Boss put clothes in the closet for you, you know.” Those startling eyes squinted up angrily when she spoke. “I’m sure there’s a nice Vera Wang robe in there.”

  Letting her get to me would be a mistake. I walked to the kitchen bar. “Mind your tone, Risk.”

  “It’s Risqué. Ris-kay. And he told me to tell you about the clothes.”

  I lifted the silver lid on the tray. Eggs, sausage, bacon, pancakes, oatmeal. Mmmm, oatmeal. In a tone that could’ve been used to inquire about salt, I asked, “Did he tell you to be a bitch, too?”

  “No. That’s just part of the delivery service.” Her scowl was fantastic, but lowered brows were an intrinsic part of such an expression. Her brows didn’t lower. Instead of curving down on the outside to frame her eyes, they rose above her temples and seemed to join with her hairline. The not-quite-human theory was gaining.

  “Do I smell bacon?” Beside the now-dark hearth, the curtain parted and Johnny emerged, wearing only jeans. He hadn’t bothered to zip them all the way or button them, so the patch of dark hair under his belly button showed.

  “Ooooo. Yes, darlin’, you do,” Risqué said, tone shifting to a Texas drawl as sweet as pecan pie. “But I will personally take your order if what’s on the tray ain’t enough to satisfy you.”

  He reevaluated the scene in a glance that was well aware of her short-shorts, shapely legs, and, uh, ringlets. “Yeah, I’ve got an order,” he said, hungrily.

  “Tell me.” Risqué shimmied her shoulders a little, resettling the blond curls so the tips of her pert breasts peeked through. Her nipples were too red, and I wasn’t sure if that was a sign of abuse or a trait related to her eye color. She moved away from the counter and toward him as if to greet him. “What’s your order?”

  “Get out.” At the last moment, Johnny angled and graced her with that rude shoulder bump that punks do to people on sidewalks. With their varied heights, it was more of his elbow bumping her shoulder.

  With a loud “hmpf” of protest, she spun on her heel and left.

  As the door shut, Johnny zeroed in on the bacon.

  Thankful she was gone, I said, “I’m glad you’re up.”

  Lifting three slices, he stopped to check his jeans front, then shot me a grin. “Huh. It was there when I woke up. Guess she scared it away. Just let me refuel . . .” He bit into the bacon.

  “I meant awake.”

  “But that’s not what you said. You’re refueling, too, right?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  While he searched for a plate, I tied the sheet ends and sat at the bar with my oatmeal. The sausage smelled so good. “Menessos insinuated that I had bonded to you, and that because of it I’d probably want meat.”

  He snickered. “I suppose you want two innuendo points now?”

  “Of course. I can’t hope to win this little contest, but I don’t want to give the impression that I’ve given up, either.” I lifted my spoon. “Do you know what he’s talking about?”

  “Nope.”

  “Do you know the lore of the Domn Lup or any mystical bonding-type stories with waeres?”

  “Oh, I’ve heard some stories about waere bondage but I don’t think that’s the same thing.” He served himself a hearty helping of everything but the oatmeal. “And I don’t know how you survive without meat.” On his fork, he held a curiously shaped sausage link. “Wanna bite?”

  After studying it and seeing how much grease was on it, I said, “Not really.”

  “One bite.” He held the fork at me insistently. “You get an innuendo point for it.”

  “For biting it, not sucking it, right?”

  “Right. Oh, and nice one, now I’ll give you two points.” He watched me with more interest than he should have, but after I’d “mmmmed” appropriately, he didn’t push for more. “So what’s on the agenda today?”

  I shrugged. “Eat. Shower. Wait for Nana’s announcement, I guess. I’m hoping that sometime soon we’ll hear from Xerxadrea—if not, we may have to make a conference call on the protrepticus—and get our plans for dealing with the fairies in order.”

  “Sam will coordinate that, right?”

  “I intend to insist.”

  “Well, all that sounds like stuff to do later. I’ve got a plan of my own in mind, and this one will keep you from pacing the floor here.”

  • • •

  I thought the “not pacing” idea was going to convert into a suggestion of shower sex followed by more sleep. Actually, I was hoping for that. But Johnny, oddly, had something else entirely on his mind, though it did involve wrapping my legs around him.

  We rode around Cleveland astride his Harley. Before we took off, he explained it was a Night Train and that my seat was called a badlander and bragged on the motor in terms I couldn’t understand. He also proudly showed me the custom paint job—black and silver wolves—which he’d done himself. Guitars, he said, were painted with automotive paint.

  We let the sun warm us at red traffic lights and then had the November air cool us down again when the signals turned green. We cruised University Circle and stopped for coffee at Arabica where I asked whether or not he needed to see Doc Lincoln, the vet he’d coerced into helping a fellow waere in need, about his apparent lack of libido. Johnny, of course, insisted his libido was fine and mentioned again I’d already been drained by “the fang-face.” He promised after the ceremony we’d celebrate.

  It was nearly three o’clock when Johnny parked the bike outside a bar called The Dirty Dog.

  I indelicately wrestled myself off the motorcycle and strolled up to the establishment that had unquestionably inspired the term “seedy beer joint.” Even from the outside it was conspicuously not a quaint tavern or an upscale martini bar. I barely made out the neon Corona sign in the front window—the glass was that grimy.

  The inside wasn’t any better. The smoking laws may have been new, but cigarette smoke had had many years to permeate the wood and furniture, and to tarnish the ceiling into what those folks who name paint colors might have called Urine-Stain Yellow. And that particular term might have been hel
pful in naming the odor of the place, too.

  Inside, the tight, galleylike hall had a series of booths to the right that had to be older than me. Each had a poster showcasing a different beer from the Great Lakes Brewery. To the left was a long bar and a silent Wurlitzer jukebox. An old man sat at the far end, hunched over a glass. His hair was thick and white, buzzed short, and he wore a predominantly red tartan plaid flannel shirt with sleeves cuffed to show the thermal underwear beneath. He was the only person here. At our approach, he cocked his head just slightly our way and arched a single white brow.

  “Johnny?” The long, stubble-covered face twisted with genuine glee. His smile was full of long, stained teeth. “Johnny! Haven’t seen you in years, m’boy.” He slid from his seat, a cane in hand.

  “Hey, Beau.”

  They clasped each other’s forearms in greeting. “Who’s the doll?”

  “Beauregard, this is Persephone. But that’s a lot of syllables, so I call her Red.”

  “Ahhh, Red’s easier on the tongue. As easy as she is on the eye.” He held his hand out to me.

  I took it firmly for a good shake, but he instantly jerked away.

  “Jesus!” he grumbled, shaking his appendage like it hurt. “She’s a witch!”

  “Yeah.” Johnny drew out the word as if confused.

  I hadn’t jolted him.

  Beau lifted his cane and poked Johnny in the thigh with the tip. “Could’ve warned an old man!” He hobbled around the bar. His one leg didn’t bend, and I wondered if Beau, like Nana, had bad knees. “What’ll ya drink, doll?”

  “We’re not here for a drink, Beau,” Johnny said.

  Beau stopped. “You wanna see him?”

  Johnny nodded.

  “They call you in?”

  “Nope.”

  Only Beau’s eyes moved then, as they angled toward me, then sank down to his opening and closing hand. To Johnny he said, “Upstairs. You remember the way? Better knock first.”

  Johnny left, but my attention lingered on Beau. “How’d you know I’m a witch?”

  He continued to tighten then loosen his fist. He snorted, then jutted his chin in Johnny’s direction. “Better catch up to him.”

  I left, fighting the urge to hurry to catch up. Johnny was waiting for me, holding open a tall, thin door. “Stay close,” he whispered, and went up ahead of me. The stairwell was narrow. The building was a physical representation of lean times. Every step creaked. It smelled of decaying wood, like a rotten cedar chest—cedar!

  Waeres. The Dirty Dog. Duh.

  Atop the landing, there was a short hall and a single door.

  Johnny knocked, practiced being patient, and knocked again, more forcefully.

  I felt the floor shake; someone was moving beyond. Someone big.

  The door opened. The person who came into view was a head taller than the door frame, and three times as broad as Johnny. His dark, curly hair was thick and short, like a wire brush. The Hawaiian shirt he wore was loose on his giant frame, but the blue and orange pineapple and surfboard print wasn’t doing him any favors. Tan pants were raggedly cut off below the knee. Apparently it had been a long, long time since his socks and sneakers were new. Whatever color they’d started out they were both a dismal gray now, and had been for a long time. “Hey, Hector.”

  The big man was still and silent long enough that I had time to wonder, Is he in the WWF? and move on to, How the hell does he get out of this building? It was hard to believe that he’d fit down the stairwell.

  “Johnny Newman.”

  That surprised me two ways: his voice was soft, and very few people seemed to know Johnny’s last name.

  “Ig taking visitors today?”

  “I’ll ask.”

  The man ambled across the dark, high-ceilinged room; his size made his movements seem clumsy and overdone. He slid open a pair of pocket doors and passed through. To Johnny, I mouthed the question, “Ig?”

  “Ignatius Tierney,” he whispered back. “The dirija, the local waere supervisor.”

  At that odd word, I remembered Johnny telling me some of the secret side of how the waere world was structured. I also recalled that he’d not wanted to reveal his at-will changes to these people. That ability meant he would certainly be crowned as the Domn Lup—Wolf King—and he was in no hurry to be burdened with the responsibilities. Similarly, I hadn’t wanted to reveal to the Elders that I was the Lustrata. We were both smart enough to know that making claim to such a position held not only power, but myriad obligations, too.

  Destinies are destinies because they are inevitable.

  Is that why we’re here?

  Johnny began to fidget. As for me, I was breathing deeply of the aromas around me, sorting through them. Woodsy, but not quite cedar. This was more juniper, maybe cypress. And something was mixed with it . . . either a heady wine—which wouldn’t have surprised me with the bar downstairs—or ambergris.

  Hector returned to view, and motioned us on. I followed Johnny, shutting the door behind us. The floor planks gave the slightest bounce. The blinds were drawn, keeping it dark.

  Johnny stopped abruptly just inside the doorway.

  “Never show up on a good day, do you?” The words were slurred and thick.

  I peeked around Johnny’s shoulder and saw a man sitting in a hospital bed. Ig’s cheeks plumped, well, one did. He’d had a stroke.

  “When?” Johnny asked.

  Ig gargled saliva. I think it was supposed to be a laugh. “Two days ago.” He waited then said, “Hector.” Pronouncing the name involved massive amounts of phlegm. “Tell them.”

  “There’s a clotting issue with his blood.”

  Johnny’s question came quickly. “But the full moon will heal it, right?”

  Hector’s chin dropped to his chest.

  “No,” Ig said.

  The instant Johnny looked at me, I knew what he was thinking: a transformation would heal this. Though the natural full moon was twenty-five days away, we’d gotten around that before.

  “Tell them all of it,” the dirija insisted.

  “It keeps happening. He gets a TPA treatment and heals to this stage immediately. This stage, no better. And it happens earlier and earlier with each moon cycle.”

  “We just had a full moon four days ago,” I said.

  Ig nodded. “S’pposed to be dead.”

  I’d have guessed Ig to be maybe forty-five. His face was speckled with freckles and his pale red-blond hair was just starting to thin. With lashes to match his Irish hair, his green eyes seemed big. Except for a drooping eyelid and the nonworking side of his mouth, he appeared to be a man in his prime. He patted the bed. “John, sit.”

  Johnny crossed the room, and Ig spotted me for the first time. “Who’s the woman?”

  “That’s Red.” Johnny sat on the edge of the bed.

  Ig acknowledged me with a sniff of the air in my direction. That was when I saw that under his half-buttoned pajama shirt he wore a long silvery necklace, probably platinum or white gold. The thick links of herringbone chain held a large Y-shaped centerpiece, and while I didn’t clearly see it, I was certain it was a wolf’s head. “Beautiful. But not waere.”

  “I’m a witch.” Get that tidbit out of the way this time. Beau’s reaction still had me puzzled.

  Hector immediately eased away from me as if he were backing away from a wild animal. “Dangerous company to keep.” He outweighed me by at least two hundred pounds. He was a foot and a half taller than I. And he was backing away from me in fear. It seemed ridiculous, but it was actually the smart thing to do.

  “She’s cool, Hector. A bunch of us kennel at her place.” To Ig, he added, “I didn’t know about this.” He gestured at the bed’s frame as if that would convey the words he didn’t want to say.

  “What brings you?”

  “Her.”

  “Back to the woman.” Again, Ig considered me, but this time it made me feel that closing and buttoning my blazer would have been appropriate. �
��Why?”

  “She’s going to need the help of some waeres.”

  “What about those who kennel?”

  “Just my band, a few friends. Not enough.”

  Ig scowled just a little at the word “band.” “Who’d she piss off? WEC?”

  “There’s a lot going on, Ig. More than I can say. I came to ask if you would help . . . but you’ve already got your own concerns to deal with.”

  “Must be important. You’d not have come back otherwise.” Ignatius took Johnny’s arm. “There’s only one way now.” Gravely, he said, “Take my place.”

  Johnny recoiled and stood. “No!”

  Discouraged, Ig’s hand fell to the sheet, and was still for an instant, then it clenched and his features distorted defiantly. “I’m going to die anyway. Todd will be dirija by default. And he won’t help you.”

  I didn’t know who this Todd was, but the vibe in the room indicated that nobody here thought that was a good thing.

  “Should be yours, John. If you’re dirija, help is at your command.”

  Johnny shook his head back and forth slowly. “I can’t,” he answered. “I won’t. I don’t want to be a dirija.”

  “Ha!” Ig struggled forward, half of his body noncompliant. Hector moved to help him but the waere lord shouted wordlessly and the big man stopped. We were forced to watch long, awkward minutes of him using his right arm to jerk the useless left one into his lap, then drag his left leg across the bed to the edge so he could try to sit where Johnny had sat. The left arm fell out of place twice and Ig raged each time. It was sad and wretched and terrible. It hurt me to see him fight with himself for such a simple task.

  When Ig finally had his body where he wanted it, he was breathing as if he’d just finished a marathon. Ferociously, he said, “Talk of what you want? I don’t want to live like this!”

  Ig stabbed a finger at Johnny, pointing, and his fury continued. “Your past may hide from you, but you can’t hide from your future. Tear this agony from me! Take it now, I’m ready. Spare me this indignity!”