Linda Robertson - Shattered Circle

His expression lit up when he saw me.

“I need some help with this.” I held the dress up in the front with my hands. “There are ribbons in the back that need to be tied.”

“I can manage that.”

I turned around.

“Forgive me. I should have sent a maid to see if you needed assistance.” His fingers were deft with the ribbon and barely touched me, but at the last, as he drew the ribbon into a bow, his fingertips slid across my shoulder blades and made me shiver. “One of them could make a prettier bow, but this will suffice.”

“I’m sure it will.” Finished, I turned so he could see me. The ends of the satin ribbon tickled.

“My beauty . . . I do adore you in that dress.”

I smiled for him, but lost it. “What happened to my neck?”

My question chased the happiness from his expression. Sadness diminished him and he reached out to me, caressing me near the injuries. Seeing the marks must have stirred his anger. His face hardened for an instant, then he covered it.

“It is done, and it will heal. Let us have something to eat, and then we will walk.” He offered me his arm.

After a moment’s hesitation, I slid my hand into the crook of his arm and began walking with him. “I’m not hungry. Can we just walk? Maybe that will stir up my appetite.”

“Whatever you wish, my love.”

As we strolled along, the grandeur of this place couldn’t be missed. It was merely a hallway, but the carpet was an elaborate wool weave. The curtains were more like tapestries. The walls were crimson and gilded frames held lovely paintings and the occasional mirror. There were sculptures in alabaster, in ebony, and in jade.

My grip slipped from his arm and I roamed closer to a window. Beyond the glass stretched a darkened world of rolling hillsides lit by silvered moonlight and twinkling stars. There was a gentle breeze out there, blowing over the fields and making the plants undulate like the sea.

That silvered light drained the colors, though. I found no recollection in the view.

This vulnerability made me sick inside. This was wrong. Knowing things, but knowing nothing of the people around me, not even knowing where the halls of “my” home would lead me . . . this could drive me mad.

My shoulders slumped and a sigh slipped from my lips.

His fingertips strayed across my skin at my spine, below the ribbon, and traveled downward. It was a gentle touch, affectionate and teasing. My shoulders straightened and my sigh turned from dispirited to desirous.

“Aidon . . . ”

“Yes, my love?”

“Show me something I am sure to remember. Something wonderful. Or something terrible. But I must remember!”

He searched my eyes as he considered my request. I waited.

Finally, he said, “This way.”

We walked through this incredible palace— a palace! —and arrived at a set of huge golden doors set with ivory carvings and iron handles shaped like stephanotis flowers. Twined stems created the handles that curved out in an arch and down to rejoin the iron.

Aidon gestured. “Open them.”

I put my hands on the cold iron and pushed the great doors. They swung more easily than I expected, and as they parted a grand hall was revealed. Thick white pillars held up a ceiling so high I grew dizzy looking up. The floor was black marble and, as torches flickered to life, lighting the expanse of the hall, that marble gleamed.

Aidon took my hand and guided me onward. Halfway across the hall, he eased in front of me and took my other hand, dancing me to the right, leading me to the left, then twirling me around. His movements were smooth; mine were awkward. The dancing was strange, and I wondered if this was all a nightmare.

We stopped before an ivory staircase. He coaxed me up the seven steps and knelt between two regal chairs of gold. With his hand palm up, he indicated the seat with more feminine curves and carvings to it.

“This is your throne, my beloved queen.”

While Demeter searched her address book and made a call, Johnny asked Mountain if he would watch Red for a while.

Mountain nodded, yawned, and leaned against the counter.

Johnny climbed the steps up to the farmhouse attic. The minute space before him had been his bedroom here. It felt smaller than it ever had before. Not that he was bigger for being the Domn Lup. More like his bright and wide-open world had deflated, constrained by the weight of his responsibilities.

He stared at the simple twin bed he’d slept in. He remembered lying on that bed bleeding after the phoenix had clawed him. Doc Lincoln couldn’t stop the blood loss, but Persephone had found a way.

She never let him down.

So much had changed since then. Life had gotten so complicated.

His gaze trailed over to the little amplifier in the corner and the guitar in the stand beside it. Almost without willing himself to move, he suddenly held the guitar in his hands, the strap was over his shoulder, and the amp was plugged in and turned on.

He played, quiet and slow, letting the sad melodies of a minor blues scale ripen and evolve on the fret board. He listened to the notes, but some piece of his mind was thinking about Red. Another piece was thinking of Plympton, and of Aurelia.

The longer his fingers worked at the song and modified it with each repeat of the progression, the more those out-of-control concerns changed from crushing white-water rapids to tranquil little waterfalls, each issue flowing individually over the edge to pool in one placid, peaceful lake. By the time he’d decided that the phrasing of the tune was perfect, his worries had each smoothed into place. He switched the amp off, unplugged the cord, and put the guitar back in the stand. When he turned, Demeter was in the doorway.

“Sounded good. Kind of took me back to my youth. I visited a dance hall or two.”

He smiled. “You?”

“It was mostly records on the jukebox, but some musicians would come in from time to time.”

“And you danced?”

“Oh yes. I could cut a rug. Jitterbug. All that shit. I was a slip of a girl then—and my knees weren’t bad. But that wasn’t dancing music you were playing. That was . . . melodious lamentations.” She crossed her arms. “There’s more going on than my granddaughter being stuck in a meditation.”

Johnny thought about denying it, but Demeter was . . . Demeter. He sat on the bed, patted the spot beside him. Her knees were probably killing her after climbing all the steps. She was a spunky old lady, not the type to give up or let things stand in her way. Not even pain. “A lot.”

She shuffled over and sat beside him.

“The damage to the house is my fault. There was a vamp here. I thought he might have something to do with her condition. He wanted to take her to the Excelsior.”

“Looks like your refusal didn’t suit him much.”

Johnny shook his head. The broken parts of the house were insignificant compared to the safety of the people he cared about, but he said, “I’ll have it all fixed.”

“I know. What else?”

He sighed and stared at the floor. “Demeter, something happened with Beverley earlier. She’s okay now as far as I know, but she slipped into a ley line. Apparently Menessos pulled her out. I haven’t had a chance to follow up on that yet.”

“She’s fey?”

Johnny looked up sharply. “Huh?”

“She’d have to have fey blood to survive a ride on the line.” As she thought that through she rubbed at her knees.

He thought of Toni—another spunky older lady who wasn’t letting pain stop her. “Demeter, there’s more. Um . . . I recently found out that before I was turned . . . I had a girlfriend and . . . ” He stood and paced toward the door. “She gave birth to my son.”