Linda Robertson - Wicked Circle

Renaldo lifted the dirty control panel, revealing a pristine and high-tech one underneath. He pressed his thumb to the button. A light flashed under his print. The gears shuddered, and we were heaved upward. Good thing I hadn’t tried the elevator. I would have fiddled with the fake cover forever.

I glimpsed the dark open expanse of the third floor as we rose past it. Only dim bulbs in steel fixtures at each corner of the elevator illuminated us. On the eighth floor the main doors parted. Renaldo led us out.

The halls in the upper floors of the CCS were off-center, leaving smaller rooms on one side and larger ones on the other. In the days when this place was the cold storage center of Cleveland, there was probably a reason for it. Now, however, it meant I didn’t have a clear view down the hall from the elevator. It made me nervous.

I relaxed when Johnny’s voice wafted down the hall. He was talking to someone in slightly loud but formal tones, then he fell silent. He was here and these two were truly escorting me to him.

As we entered the head of the hall, however, a wave of energy hit me like an explosion. I staggered. Shock waves rolled through the walls. Johnny’s yell of pain followed.

I bolted.

Renaldo grabbed my arm as I passed him and he jerked me back. “He’s just transforming.” He released me.

I’d never felt such a surge of energy when any wære changed near me. “Didn’t you feel that?”

“Feel what?”

Guess that was as good an answer as any.

I knew things might be different for Johnny since we’d unlocked the power bound in his tattoos. That, and the fact Renaldo did let me go, made me more inclined to keep on believing him, but wære strength is not to be underestimated. My skin stung under my sleeves and a bruise was forming.

“There’s cameras in there,” Renaldo said. “Running live via satellite to the Zvonul. Allow me to lead so you don’t disrupt the confirmation meeting?”

“Of course.” Johnny had to prove to the Zvonul that he was the Domn Lup, and though they’d sent the Rege to confirm him, the Rege was now dead. It appeared that the Zvonul were moving forward in spite of the loss of their head honcho.

“Remain quiet when we enter,” he added.

George and I followed.

Inside, a throng of bodies stood between us and the corner, where bright lights were illuminating the dingy block wall. Some of the rooms, I’d learned, still had the old steel panels with the piping underneath that had once contained coolant. In this room, all of that had been discarded. Mobile work lights were the only light source in the room, but they had wattage to spare.

Three cameras were also aimed at the corner, and the red lights atop them meant that they were broadcasting.

A howl erupted from the corner and resonated off the block walls so loudly that I covered my ears. Renaldo clasped me by the arm, more gently this time, and led me through the throng to the front. Gregor, the head of the Omori—the Zvonul’s version of the Secret Service—adjusted his bulk to give me a spot.

In front of me a large, familiar black wolf paced. The animal sniffed in my direction, blinking as if the bright lights made it hard to see the crowd.

But this was not the wolf I’d seen before. The fur was still jet-black, and the size and conformation were the same visually, but he felt different. Power continuously radiated from the beast to the point that I wouldn’t have been surprised if sparks shot off of him.

When Eris had released him from the bonds she’d placed upon him long ago, I’d been aware he was different. He’d returned to Cleveland before I’d been able to get a real sense of the “new” him. Now, all the power that had been locked away blazed around him like a nimbus only my core could feel, completing him in a way I hadn’t previously realized had been lacking.

Sideways to the camera, the wolf stilled and the transformation reversed. In under a minute Johnny crouched, naked, before us all.

He was on his fingertips and toes, his knees an inch from the floor. His body, lean and muscular, was beautiful. In that position he rolled one shoulder, then the other. He twisted his neck side to side and arched his back. I could see every muscle ripple, and then he stood, his thighs flexing as he assumed a square-shouldered stance and faced the camera.

I felt more in awe of him than I’d ever felt before.

Power radiated from him still. It was heady and invigorating, with a touch of recklessness. It was unreservedly masculine.

He was unquestionably a power-equal to Menessos, in his own unique way.

He said, “I am your Domn Lup.”

Something flickered beneath the camera lens, and Johnny’s focus dropped a few inches to see it. On the far side of the room, a larger screen also flickered. I hadn’t noticed it before because of all the bodies in the way. The whir of a motor sounded as the screen mechanically lifted so those in the back could see it as well.

The screen was a field of black with a crowned wolf rampant in two shades of red: one the bright color of fresh blood, the other darker. The two shades of red meant not only energy, but vigor; not only strength, power, and determination, but leadership and courage. The wolf had his claws out, holding a shield divided into eight triangles of either dark blue or gold. Emblazoned on the shield was a silver and black helmet with spikes rising from its crown.

The crowned rampant wolf was the symbol of the Zvonul; the shield was indicative of the local den. Each pack had its own coat of arms.

The screen faded, showing an array of seating. One grand throne was elevated; other thrones were arranged to either side of it in three rows of five. A short pillar loomed in the foreground; atop it sat a wooden box that appeared to have a small opening in the top.

Within seconds, men started strolling past the container and dropping something inside before finding their seats.

I tried to text Zhan. It wouldn’t go through. Renaldo leaned over. “You can’t get a signal in here.”

“Then you’re going to have another woman coming up your stairs.” I put the phone away and thought apologies to Zhan.

After long minutes of men walking by the box, the studious group assembled in the seats on the screen. Two seats were empty, one of which was the elevated throne. Lastly, a man in a long black cassock strode past, ignoring the wooden box. He placed three stones upon the empty throne: white, red, and black. Then he ceremoniously took his place on the remaining seat.

“They’ve replaced the Rege already?” I whispered.

“Taine Vega,” Gregor whispered back.

The new Rege had dark hair in a style that would have satisfied any drill sergeant. The tribal tattoos on his square face began between his dark eyes to mimic the arch of his brows. Lines defined the bridge of his nose and pointed to his high cheekbones. Accentuating his thin lips, a pair of swirls graced his chin.

A shirtless young boy scurried into view on the screen. He set three small plates before the pillar where the camera and those assembled could see them. He opened the box and retrieved a small white stone from within. Over the next minute he sorted twenty-nine stones. “Eight black. Six red. Fifteen white,” he said.

The new Rege stared into the camera. “Eight of my brethren oppose you, Mr. Newman.”

“Fifteen do not,” Johnny said.

“And yet six are indifferent. My old seat is unfilled.” He gestured toward the seat he’d placed the stones upon and I noticed his hands had tattoos as well. “Should those six be swayed to oppose you and should my successor choose to oppose you, the vote is split.”

“It is your vote that decides, Rege, regardless of the democratic process you’ve asked your respected peers to engage in.”