Linda Robertson - Shattered Circle

Mountain met him at the door. “There’s been no change in Persephone,” he said.

“Demeter arrive?”

“Not yet.”

Johnny strode into the kitchen and stood with his arms crossed. He frowned and he paced. He circled Red. Then he sat before her and mimicked her pose. He couldn’t imagine staying positioned like this for hours.

What went wrong?

He wondered if the goose egg on her head had anything to do with it. What if she had a concussion? Doctors tended to want people to stay awake for a while after taking a knock to the head. Did meditation count as sleeping?

The urge to reach out and touch her arm, to shake her gently as if to rouse her from a deep sleep, was overwhelming. But he couldn’t do that.

If I hadn’t gone after Aurelia, she’d still be alive, I wouldn’t have made a deal with Plympton, and Red wouldn’t be like this .

From the living room, Mountain said, “There’s a car coming up the drive. I don’t recognize it.”

“Check the plates,” Johnny called out.

“Pennsylvania.”

“It’s someone from the Pittsburgh den bringing Demeter.”

He heard Mountain’s heavy steps heading for the door.

Johnny stood up, intending to go and greet her, but he stopped when Mountain said, “Look out. The granny looks distressed and she’s got a serious move on.” He opened the door. “Hello, Demeter.”

“Out of the way,” she said, pushing through the doorway. She gasped and stopped dead as her gaze took in the hole in the floor near the stairs, the broken handrail, and the splintered spindles. Finally, her eyes locked onto Johnny. “Where is she?” she demanded.

He put his back to the wall and pointed down the hall.

Her bad knees, worry, and the late hour combined to make her wobbly; she barreled past like a wild bowling ball, weaving side to side. Johnny fell into step, albeit on a straighter path, behind her. In the kitchen doorway she stopped again.

He was sure that the broken dinette table and chair, the tabletop against the wall, the bench lying on its back, the pieces of the old phone scattered around, and the set of claw marks torn into the linoleum stunned her. And there sat Red, posed peacefully in the midst of the wreckage that her kitchen now was.

Neither of them spoke.

Breathing heavily, Demeter studied Red. The moment grew interminable for Johnny. When he was about to say something, she finally shuffled one slow step forward. Then another. With her head cocked, she approached Red. She made two circuits around her granddaughter, and Johnny watched her face for a clue.

“What caused the lump on her head?”

Johnny told her about Red being hit with the chair, but didn’t mention that the attacker was a woman or, more specifically, his own wærewolf assistant. “That was after the attack. From the mark on her neck I have to guess her assailant tried to strangle her first.”

Demeter looked up from her granddaughter and held his gaze. There was no blame in her eyes, no anger, but the grave trepidation was unmistakable. “This shit isn’t going to stop.”

He blinked.

“None of you three are safe anymore.” Her focus dropped onto Red again and her expression turned infinitely sad. Her hands rose as if to touch the mound of her beehive hairdo—but she’d cut her hair short. She altered the gesture to place her palms on her cheeks. “When we get her out of this . . . things have to change.”

Johnny nodded. Demeter didn’t even know about Beverley yet. He figured he’d save that for later. The elderly woman had enough on her mind right now. “But you can bring her out, right?”

“Not alone I can’t.”

“What do you need me to do?”

Demeter sized him up, then glanced at Mountain, who’d come to stand in the doorway from the other room. “Nothing. I need witches.”

Ailo ran through the haven to the theater, across the stage and into the backstage area. No guard had come to replace Vinny. Good . She climbed the metal stairs silently, keyed the code on the door, and opened it.

“What the fuck?” Risqué stood up from the sofa. Seeing Ailo, her red eyes flashed and she added, “You can get your conniving ass right the hell out of here.”

“Menessos said he needs you to come to the accounting office.”

One thin blond brow arched. “Why?”

“Something’s gone wrong.”

“And that has got what to do with me?”

“He did not elaborate.” Ailo was irritated that Risqué wasn’t simply complying. “You are an Offerling. He sent for you, and you must go.”

Risqué crossed her arms. “I don’t know anything about accounting.”

“So? Your master sent for you.”

“So?” Risqué mimicked her.

Ailo stomped across the room and right up to the one person standing between her and the child. She was taller than Risqué, who must have slipped out of her usual clear high heels to stretch out on the sofa. Looking down her nose at the red-eyed woman, Ailo said, “When he says jump, you ask how high. That is how a haven works. Offerlings obey. Period.”

Risqué was not to be easily intimidated. Her hands dropped onto her hips. She thrust her nose against Ailo’s. “Clearly, you don’t know me very well.”

“Your master said—”

“Honey, Menessos and I have an understanding .” She pulled away from Ailo and tilted her head. “Besides, he isn’t the boss anymore. Goliath rules the haven now, or have you forgotten?” The sweet smile she ended with was as fake as the lie Ailo was trying to use.

Ailo didn’t have time for the banter. She had to get the child and get out of there. Balling up her fist, she hit Risqué in the jaw.

The blow knocked Risqué to the sofa with a squeal of surprise and pain. Ailo leapt upon her. Sitting on Risqué’s chest, she held her down while repeatedly punching her in the head.

Pinned against the cushion, Risqué’s arms were stuck at her sides. She clawed at Ailo’s dress, but that was insignificant. Ailo kept punching, right then left, until the Offerling gave up trying to fight back. Surely she would lose consciousness soon.

Then the heel of a clear stiletto pump bit into Ailo’s side. She looked down as Risqué drew back for another awkward strike. She hadn’t given up trying to fight back; she’d managed to pick up one of her shoes to use as a weapon. This time when it slammed against Ailo’s body, it pierced the flesh and sank deep.

Screaming in pain, Ailo instinctively leaned away from the weapon.

Risqué used that moment to flip Ailo onto the floor. She kicked the shabbubitu repeatedly, then clambered onto Ailo’s chest and began throttling her about the head. “How do you like it, bitch? How do you like it?”

Now Ailo’s arms were restrained, but she put her hands against Risqué’s thighs and called on her power to read people, urgently probing deep into the other woman’s mind. She hissed at the Offerling, ready to give her much agony.

Risqué laughed and punched Ailo in the mouth, splitting her lip on a fang.

Ailo dug her nails in, desperate to force a reading.

Risqué slid her fingers through Ailo’s hair, gripped tightly at the sides of her head, and slammed her skull against the floor three times. “You dumbass, I’m the one person in this haven immune to your touchy-feely shit.” She twisted to slam her fist against the shoe embedded in Ailo’s side.

Screaming, Ailo spat blood from her mouth. She willed a change, wanting to become an owl, but the chains around her neck prevented her from transforming fully. Still, she pushed the change into her legs and feet, feeling talons stretch out from her toes.