Linda Robertson - Wicked Circle

Johnny proceeded past the screen door and onto the brick stoop outside. The chilled air chased away the lusty thoughts. Gregor followed and shut the steel door with a little thud and said, “Well?”

While he trusted Gregor enough to accept a drink from him and let himself be herded into the dark alley, Johnny knew the Omori didn’t engage in idle chitchat either. Noting that the man had kept his voice low, he hesitated.

Gregor’s loyalty to the Zvonul was undisputed; Johnny’s misgivings stemmed from the fact that he’d had several recent disputes with Gregor. He wasn’t sure where they stood, man to man, though the offering of a toast seemed like a gesture of goodwill. Maybe even friendship.

“Well what?” Johnny asked.

“You have not smiled since you entered.”

“Oh. I’m supposed to put on a fake smile when I’m in public, right?”

“I am no advisor, but even if I were, I would not advise you to be fake, my king.”

Johnny wished he could toss that idea of friendship into the Dumpster at the end of the alley. The Omori were protectors of the wære hierarchy. Now that he was certain to wear the crown, Gregor was just doing his job. Johnny gulped a big swig of the single malt scotch.

“You tell them to celebrate with you, yet you do not convey a celebratory mood.”

“Shouldn’t a leader maintain his composure at all times?” It was something Ig had told him; he was surprised how readily those words crossed his tongue.

“He should.”

Johnny hoisted his glass again. “The old Rege didn’t.”

“No. He often let his beast rule him.”

Johnny drank again, consuming Gregor’s words as well. At least he wasn’t alone in this struggle, but . . . “He was not the Domn Lup.”

Gregor opened his mouth, shut it again.

They stood in silence until Johnny asked, “What did you bring me out here to say?”

Gregor snorted and drew a deep breath. “For what the opinion of an Omori is worth, I think you will make a good Domn Lup.”

Hearing praise when he was feeling so conflicted made Johnny doubt the words. He wheeled around. “You’ve observed the Zvonul for years. They’re politicians. They’re smooth. They’ve worked their way up through the ranks. I’ve been a dirija for two whole weeks. What makes you think I’ll be worth a damn as the Domn Lup?”

“You killed your dirija —”

Johnny’s spine stiffened. He was about to interrupt, but Gregor’s conciliatory gesture begged his indulgence a little longer.

“It was time for a decisive action, I understand that. I have been told what you did. You did not act out of hunger for power but as an act of mercy. With a single action you ended his suffering and gave him his greatest wish: your ascension. What father could ask for more?”

Gut twisting at the memory, Johnny turned away from Gregor.

“In the gardens you could have killed the Rege. If power were all you had wanted, you would have. Instead, you stood up to me, stood up to the Rege. You gave him an opportunity to make himself lauded. He hated you for that: for seeing it and pointing it out to him. He thought you were trying to gain leverage, and he swore he would not be beholden to you for anything.” Gregor scuffed the bottom of his shoe on the stoop. “You scared him. He began plotting your death. It was the only reaction he was capable of having. That wasn’t a show of courage, but giving someone who’d made himself your enemy the chance to do the right thing was.” He held the glass to his lips, but before he drank he said, “I am ashamed I went with him to Pittsburgh.”

Johnny considered what it must have taken for Gregor to admit that, and was inspired.

“Though you lack experience, I believe you will be a good Domn Lup because your courage is unquestionable. And because you have not lost all compassion.” He paused. “The old Rege had no mercy. His power made him bold, and he mistook his boldness for courage. They are not one and the same. Perhaps having power for so long, he forgot. I was beginning to.”

“What do you mean?”

Gregor scanned the sky. “I’ve been Omori all of my adult life. I’ve been disposable—under the paw of my betters, their tool and their weapon. I’ve been very comfortable with that. Until now.” He met Johnny’s gaze squarely and said, “You’re not like them. You make me see what the wæres could be. I don’t want to be expendable anymore. I believe you’re going to change everything, and I want to live long enough to enjoy it.”

Menessos’s lips hovered over my wrist. His warm breath on my skin sent a heated caress down my legs.

The barest of kisses touched me, and with it, he invoked our master/servant bond and kindled my flesh. It felt like a ghost of him was kissing the nape of my neck. My body felt lithe and warm and supple. My hips undulated and a heavy sigh escaped from my mouth.

As his fangs pierced me, a heady arousal coursed through me. It tickled the backs of my knees. It stroked under my breasts. Deep inside, it set my spine afire. I moaned softly as the fuse on my desire burned down, wondering if Menessos was getting under my skin—with more than his fangs, that is.

For a long minute the wave of bliss enveloped me, held me aloft in idyllic, aching need. I writhed in my seat, shifting my hips and feeling that if he would just give me a single caress I’d explode in ecstasy. . . .

Menessos ended his feeding as he’d started it: with a kiss. My blood smeared under his lips. He held my hand tenderly as the bleeding slowed, and his tongue flicked over my skin gently, not wasting a drop.

Coming back to myself, I discovered that we’d steamed the windows of Johnny’s new car.

Then headlights shone from behind. A blue Corvette passed us and parked right in front of the Maserati.

Zhan spoke with us briefly, then returned to wait in the Corvette.

It was close to 4:00 a.m. when Johnny made it back. He was sniffing before his backside hit the seat. He shot me a quizzical look, so I said, “It was feeding time.”

I showed him my wrist. It had scabbed over nicely. Johnny put the car forcefully into gear. “Home or haven?”

“Home,” I said. With Menessos here there was no need to force a confrontation with Goliath. “Zhan will follow.”

On the main road, he said, “Give me the details.”

“We have approximately twenty hours,” Menessos said. “Maybe a little more, before the shabbubitum arrive.”

“Shabbubitum?” Johnny asked. Irritatingly enough, he pronounced it perfectly the first time.

Menessos set about explaining to Johnny everything he had told me before.

The information clearly irritated Johnny. We’d been on I-271 for miles and he’d been driving safely, but I could sense his tension ratcheting up.

“So because you two got busted over the mark, three vampire chicks are gonna stir up shit for me?”

“You needn’t worry unless the sorsanimus binding is discovered.”

“So what are you doing to ensure they don’t?”

“I’m trying to leave, but it seems there is no viable way to claim that option. If she simply bore my mark, this would be of no concern to VEIN. The fact that I wear two of hers is everything here.”

“Two?” The speedometer needle pitched to the right, and inertia snuggled me into the seat.

Shit. “Johnny.”

“Two?”

I crossed my arms as if that would defend me, but I was guilty as charged. “I did it when I staked him. It—”

“You mean when you kissed him?”

I felt his words like a slap. I twisted in my seat to glower at Johnny. “I was about to kill him. He was laying down his life to save our asses—”