Linda Robertson - Wicked Circle

In the antechamber of the Excelsior’s private rooms, Meroveus sat in a comfortable chair with a fire blazing in the wide hearth. The environment was a cozy—albeit aristocratic—setting of French antiques shrouded in shadows and subdued colors, but Mero was not at ease. Even as the advisor to the most politically powerful vampire in the world, he had only been in this room a few times before.

Those other occasions hadn’t been good, either.

“Mero.”

Refusing the Excelsior was unwise, so he said nothing.

Opposite him, the Excelsior vacated his seat and stood staring into the flames. The flickering illumination cast across his visage seemed to catch on his high cheekbones and smolder there.

The Excelsior’s mother in life, Chlo, had often said the mesmerizing dance of the fire called forth the best of her thoughts like moths, illuminating them in her mind. His features so favored hers. . . .

The Excelsior reached into a bucket on the hearth and tossed a fistful of some granular substance into the flames. The scent of hazelnuts filled the air. “I know this is not what you wanted,” the Excelsior said, reclaiming his seat. “But I need you to do this.”

Mero would not meet the gaze he knew was upon him. There were three adept-level vampire wizards capable of this spell. Menessos could certainly not assume the task, but there was still another option. “Send Konstance instead.”

“No.” The Excelsior’s answer was soft but firm. “You were there when they were sealed in stone. You know how to break the spell.”

“I can tell Konstance how.”

“You are my representative. It should be you.”

Mero finally looked up. “I beg you, Deric. Do not make me do this.” Speaking the Excelsior’s given name was a trump that he rarely dared to use.

“Konstance is tending to a matter in China that I cannot call her away from. There is no one else.”

“Then, do not do this at all. It is not right.”

The Excelsior played his trump. “Father.”

The word was a stake in Mero’s heart, pinning him to the chair. The man he had fathered was asking something of him. It did not happen often, but when it did, Mero could not help seeing Deric as the sad boy who’d lost his mother when he was nine, and as the boy who would be a king in dangerous times. Some things never change. “If they read me, they will know of Giovanni’s suggested course of action. Worse, they will see the absence of your disagreement with his sordid idea. I would not wish myself into such a predicament, but even more, I would not wish you into it. Konstance is unaware of these things, and it makes her the best choice.”

The Excelsior kneeled before his advisor’s chair. His hand rested on Meroveus’s knee. “I trust you will not let those unfortunate things happen.”

Mero’s son had kept from him the intelligence concerning the Lustrata, and now he was willing to risk the existence they both clung to in order to gain intelligence about Menessos. “Menessos Made me because I asked him to. When you made your request, he did not refuse you either. Do you hate him now?”

“No,” the Excelsior replied. “But there are things he did not tell me, things he did not tell you. For that, I question whether or not I trust him.” The Excelsior resumed his spot before the fire. “After this, I will know if I can, or if I can’t. Because of her ties to him, if she truly is the Lustrata, I need to know more than ever if he is worthy of my trust.”

What the Excelsior wanted from him was not unlike many instances that had occurred when Deric had yet lived and reigned as a mortal king. Mero had not refused him. Though he understood what the Supreme Vampire longed to know, he also understood that Giovanni had expertly planted that seed of doubt about Menessos and his intentions.

Mero could not refuse Deric now, either.

Mustering his resolve, Mero stood. He gripped Deric’s shoulder. When next he spoke, it was not to the Excelsior; it was to his son. “As always, I will do as you wish.”

A grateful smile rounded the Excelsior’s lips just slightly. “The plane leaves at eleven thirty tonight. Your arrival will coincide with the setting sun in Athens.”

Mero was at the door when his son added, “I will have the official order drawn up for Menessos. It will be delivered to you when the plane arrives in Dulles for refueling.”

“What of the woman? What if she is the Lustrata?”

“If she is, she must be subdued and brought here.”

“And if she is not?”

The Excelsior hesitated. “Eliminate her.”

Meroveus emerged from the limousine and crossed the tarmac. His dark curls were unbound, and the wind tossed them into his face as he scrutinized the jet. It was the big one, the Gulfstream V-SP. It seemed ostentatious to transport a single traveler on a plane that could comfortably seat fifteen. Athens, however, was a twelve-hour flight. Of VEIN’s fleet, only this larger jet had the fuel capacity to make the trip.

Halfway to the aircraft, he paused and dug a small cellular phone from his pocket. This was not his usual phone. For emergencies, he always carried a prepaid disposable—one not traceable by VEIN. The display gleamed brightly when he opened the phone to dial. He punched numbers from memory.

On the third ring, he heard Goliath Kline say, “Talk to me.”

“Heldridge Ellington gained audience with the Excelsior. In a little more than twenty-four hours, I will bring the shabbubitum to serve their libations to your master.” Mero then shut the device, squeezing it until the pieces popped and cracked, crushed in his palm. He reduced the phone to dust, letting it sift to the ground.

Let us see how you respond, Menessos. It will tell me much.

As Eris drove away, I jogged behind, heading for the fountain where our ritual supplies rested. The taillights weren’t out of view when my satellite phone rang from my back pocket. I jerked it free and a name flashed on the little screen to identify the caller.

Menessos.

Mr. Manipulator himself. Do you know what I did already? I swallowed my anger and answered sweetly. “Hello?”

“Persephone,” Menessos said. “Are you well?” Something about his voice was different.

“Absolutely.” I arranged the glass hurricane globes into the cardboard box I’d placed beside the fountain. “And yourself?”

“I am fine.”

No, he wasn’t. He was hoarse. Ever since I’d staked him and applied a second hex to him, I’d been aware of his death every morning and his regained life every evening. While he tended to die gently, his sunset awakenings were violent. I’d felt him screaming his way back to life before the ritual started. Even so, the pity I’d felt earlier was in short supply now. “Liar.”

“You are correct in refuting my statement,” he said sullenly, “but mortals often downplay their replies to such questions. It is unnecessary for you to impugn my character over it.”

If I could have reached through the phone, I’d have smacked him.

“Persephone?”

“Hmmm?”

“Our fears have been realized.”

Unmoving, I felt like I’d been kicked in the gut. “Heldridge?”

“He gained an audience with the Excelsior. You need to come home. Immediately.”

With one box of supplies on the passenger-side floor and the other on the seat, I arrived at Eris’s apartment over the Arcane Ink Emporium. The Slut wasn’t here.

There were, however, lights on upstairs. So, retrieving my wet clothes from the narrow crevice that Corvette owners call a trunk and lifting the boxes stashed up front, I hefted it all up the metal steps.

Going home had been my desire even before Menessos had called, and now I had a good excuse. Knocking on the door and hoping they heard me over the music playing inside, I had time to rehearse my announcement once more before the door opened.