Linda Robertson - Shattered Circle

Even before I really recovered, my feet were under me and I stumbled forward, gasping and choking for breath.

As I cleared the field, Errol was cantering toward me. He turned and trotted away, then spun and trotted back, only to hurry away again. His terribly nervous behavior struck a cold nerve within me. Then I saw Celia backpedaling from the tree branches, staring downward with her hands covering the lower half of her face.

No.

I sprinted forward. “Celia!”

“I can’t go in!” Her voice cracked. “I can’t!”

Of course not. She was a wærewolf and the grove was a small ley line hub. The power there was a no-no for her kind. I should have thought of that.

“There.” She pointed.

I plowed into the branches. They scratched at me and pulled my hair as if they would hold me back. But my urgency would not be denied. I struggled forward, thrashing and flailing, snapping the thin wooden arms around me.

As I emerged in the inner circle, part of my brain wanted me not to look, but my rebellious eyes followed the direction Celia indicated anyway.

There, at the base of the biggest tree in the grove, sat Great El’s slate, like a teeter-totter perfectly balanced over a high root. Beverley’s shoes lay to the side, one upright, the other on its side.

Beyond the grove, Celia’s hands fell to her sides. “What does it mean?”

The slate hadn’t come out here on its own.

Beverley had brought it—but where was she now?

Easing forward, I crouched and studied the base of the tree. The way some of the fallen leaves were scrunched, I could assume a kid had sat there, but I was no tracker. Even the part of me that could discern differences in energy was rather useless here. The whole place was power laden, and trying to get a feel for Beverley was like looking for footprints in sand after the tide has come in and washed everything away.

I reached out, my fingers rubbing along the edge of the slate—and instantly recoiled.

“Damn!” It was searing hot. I jerked so hard my crouching balance was lost. I fell onto my backside.

“What?” Celia demanded.

“Yes, what?” Zhan asked as she burst from the field and approached the grove.

“You could fry an egg on that slate,” I said.

“What is that?” Zhan asked as she bent down and crawled under the branches and through the foliage to get to the inner section of the grove.

“It’s my Great El’s slate.”

Zhan stood and brushed off her hands and knees. Studying the board, she asked, “Is it some kind of Ouija board?”

“Yeah. A spirit board.”

“What is it doing out here?” Zhan asked.

I had barely kept that question from forming in my own mind. But there it was. It had been spoken. My stomach suddenly had more knots than a Persian rug.

My gaze lifted and met Celia’s through the branches. “She heard us talking about it,” I said.

Beverley had been in the kitchen when Celia asked me how I’d found my mother. I remembered Celia saying something about talking to ghosts on it, and though that wasn’t exactly accurate, I hadn’t corrected her.

Oh, Beverley, were you looking for your mother?

“What does it mean that it’s so hot to the touch?” Celia asked.

I didn’t want to answer that question. I felt sick. My hand moved to my stomach as I rose to my feet.

“Where is this thing supposed to be?” Zhan asked.

That one was much easier to speak the answer to. “Hidden in the back of my closet.”

“Oh my God. Seph, I didn’t know she was even in your room.”

I looked at Celia again. I didn’t want to make her feel guilty. But I didn’t have to. She was doing that all by herself.

“What’s it mean that it’s hot?” she asked again.

Staring down at the slate, my stomach cramped with grief and anger and helplessness. “The heat means it’s been used. In a very bad way.”

I pulled out my satellite phone. If there was any hope of fixing this, I knew I couldn’t do it alone.

Zhan stepped closer and gripped my arm. “Where is she?”

“She could be anywhere, or nowhere. She went into the ley line.”

Naked in the dark, Goliath awakened to life with a scream.

He wasn’t alone; he could detect the heat of a fully alive body in the room with him. His own body was cold, having lain dead and uncovered for hours. As his heart shuddered into rhythm the thick blood pumped through his veins, thinning more with each beat.

“Light,” he groaned.

A lighter clicked and the flame flickered over candlewick. An amber glow filled the modest chamber.

The Offerling waiting to feed him was a transplant from the previous Cleveland haven that had belonged to Heldridge. She was beautiful, with perfectly proportioned features and skin so black she was nearly lost to the dark. Her eyes were a bright, pale brown and her lips had a hint of pink.

“Sil,” he said. Heldridge had called her Silhouette, but she’d said she liked the shortened name better.

Sil had caught his eye during the reclaiming ceremony with Menessos. He would have to perform that same ritual on every member of the haven. Marking them and bonding with them would make him stronger, but it would be exhausting initially.

Hunger clenched his stomach and he put aside all other thoughts. Rising from his bed, he reached out and put his hand to her cheek, marveling at the contrast of his ghostly pale skin against the inky darkness of hers. He indicated with his touch that he wanted her to come to him.

She rose. She was unclothed and he pulled her close, breathing the smell of juniper deep into his lungs.

It was a familiar scent.

Lorrie .

At the thought of her name, memories flooded back. The wærewolf had been timid but eager in his bed. She’d feared the strength her beast afforded her, but he’d reassured her and won her over. He’d even been good to her daughter, Beverley. Lorrie had once said she found in him a man she couldn’t hurt. He’d found a woman who understood pain and loss, who carried doubt and fear, but kept going regardless. He’d found a woman who saw his flaws and loved him in spite of them.

He’d bought her perfumes, lotions, and soaps made with juniper.

Hunger mixed with desire. He knew he could not have again what they had, but he wanted to mingle blood and feeding and sex again.

Taking Sil by the arms, he practically threw her onto the bed, following her down. Atop her, he kissed her neck and ran his hands all over her body. Her ebony skin was smooth under his hands, under his lips, and when he pierced the vein, she whispered, “Yes.”

Her flavor was rich and fine. She tasted like strength.

With a firm grip, he opened her legs. She did not resist. He continued sucking at her neck, flicking his tongue over the openings his teeth had made, and letting his fingers explore other openings. She arched her back as he touched her inside, and she moaned wantonly, welcomingly.

Goliath pushed his torso up and pressed his erection against her. A drop of her blood ran down his chin. Sil reached up and caught it with her finger, then wiped it across her lips. He bent down and licked her lips as he pushed his cock into her.

Remembering Lorrie, grieving for her, and letting her go, Goliath made love to Sil furiously. She had to put her hands against the headboard to keep his thrusts from shoving her across the mattress.

When he was spent and she was thrice satisfied, Goliath lay wrapped in and around Silhouette as if they were yin and yang.

• • •

Ailo awoke gently, sweetly, from her daytime death.

Then she sat up with a start, clutching at her chest while the sheet fell away.