Linda Robertson - Wicked Circle

Mine to protect.

Though Mountain was on his way, for all the brute size he possessed, running was not an option for him.

Because there was no window in the pantry, I had no view of the cellar entrance from inside the house. I scurried through Nana’s new bedroom to the bath we’d added and climbed onto her sink, peering out the transom window that capped her mirror. I still wasn’t able to see the metal door.

But I might be able to see someone standing there opening it.

I pressed my nose to the glass.

Don’t open the cellar doors. Don’t be after Menessos.

The robed trespasser stepped into sight. Closer, I could see by the way the robe lay flat against the figure’s chest that this person was male.

Not shabbubitum. Menessos specifically said they were sisters.

I scolded myself for having thought it might be one of the shabbubitum.

Menessos said they were vampires. They’d be dead now anyway.

The path the robed man chose led him around the house. Though relieved, I left the window and clambered into the tub. On tiptoe to see out the window, I hoped the guy wouldn’t see me. As he rounded the corner, keeping close to the house, he idly stroked the wall where I stood.

I shuddered, feeling about as violated as I would have felt if he’d touched me. My fear shrank away and anger swelled to fill the void.

Pushing past Ivanka, I hurried through the bedroom and into the living room, my gait faltering as the intruder made his unhurried way past my picture window.

Zhan, her hair wet and dressed in a short silk bathrobe, was positioned between me and the door. Ivanka was occupying a spot right at the door, but out of sight. I stood there stupefied at how my heart was racing.

Maybe it’s just some freak with a leftover Hallowe’en costume. No. Some simple freak with a costume wouldn’t get past the perimeter guards.

Additionally, I had wards. Wards that would keep most people away from the house. Wards I’d been warned to amp up—advice I’d foolishly put off for Johnny’s task and my impromptu lunch date.

A shadow fell across the glass of my door.

I held my breath.

And my doorbell rang.

The customized Gulfstream V-SP carrying Meroveus Franciscus had departed from Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport roughly twelve hours ago. He had retired to the windowless “black chamber” within the plane and rested as they’d flown east and into the rising sun, hours before its light would actually reach D.C. However, with the rotation of the world and the fact that Athens was seven hours ahead anyway, he had risen before they’d touched down.

A customs official awaited him when he disembarked from the plane. By the time his credentials were assessed, a limousine was idling nearby, and the chauffeur opened the door for him. According to his Rolex, it was just nearing noon in D.C. Here, it was 6:55 p.m. Darkness was settling in.

The ride was not long, and the limousine used the entrance at Dionysiou Areopagitou Street, a road running along the southern slopes of the Acropolis. With winter hours in effect, the museum would have closed a few hours ago. However, special arrangements had been made.

Arrangements like the black velvet bag waiting for him on the limo’s seat.

He stared at the pouch with antipathy. Not that he was averse to the contents within the soft fabric. It was just that he was truly against the magical action he was commanded to take. Such incongruity could make for a bad spell.

When the long car stopped, Meroveus didn’t wait for the driver to get the door for him. He exited the vehicle carrying the bag and strode toward the building, surveying the ruins spotlighted against the deep blue of the Greek sky. Ahead, a railing surrounded an opening that overlooked one of the archaeological digs going on beneath the museum. It, too, was illuminated, even after hours.

A man in a suit held the museum door open. “Mr. Franciscus, I am Zevon. I will lead you where you wish to go.” He locked the entry after Meroveus was inside. Zevon then guided him through the glass-floored gallery to a stairway. Once they had ascended, Zevon circled around. Here was where the new Acropolis Museum housed the artifacts from the Erechtheion. Zevon gestured toward the caryatids, then he bowed and promptly walked away.

Here were five of the six caryatids, marble figures of women, which had once served as columns supporting the roof of the southern porch of the Erechtheion. Replicas now stood in their place at the site; the sixth was in the British Museum.

Legend had it the statues once protected the tomb of the ancient King Cecrops, the founder of Athens. Making a full circuit around them, in awe of their beauty, Meroveus whispered, “Shabbubitum.” He remembered when Menessos had bound the sisters within. They had not gone willingly.

He also remembered telling Menessos the women would seek revenge someday. I am not here to drink that anger for you, old friend.

Meroveus took a moment to ground and center, to cast out his doubts and firmly set his mind to the task.

As per his request, there were three large, red apples—one placed at the base of the three most complete figures. He inspected each apple, twisting the stems to separate them from the fruit, and placed the stems in the pocket of his suit jacket.

“For centuries you have paid your mute tribute, honoring the glorious dead.” He drew a red-handled knife from the velvet bag. He unsheathed the short blade and inspected the tip and edge. “And now, one of the living dead will call you forth.”

Meroveus approached the first statue and sliced his index finger, letting his blood drip onto the apple’s indention as he said the ceremonious words. “ Suscitatio vos ex vestry somnus diturnus. Advocare vestry phasmatis vestry somes quod vestry aeternus anima exorior universes.”

After repeating this for the remaining apples, he drew from the bag a golden necklace. The chain was made of large, irregular links, and Meroveus knew it could easily have been an artifact in this museum—it was that old. Except for the fastener, that is.

The necklace was decorated with three pieces of amber. These stones were a clear honey-gold, lightly flecked with brown. Each was as thick as a pencil, about two inches long, and bore a golden band, topped with a link that let it dangle from the necklace.

Meroveus unfastened the modern clasp and removed the gemstones. He dropped the necklace back into the bag and pulled out a square of wool. Tapping into the local ley line, under the true Acropolis, he felt the stinging, biting burn—it was as if he were shoving his fingers into a light socket. He gasped at the pain, fought the instinctive recoil, and gorged himself on the energy. As his body filled, power flowed through him to his aura, where each droplet rippled like a lover’s moan, reverent and erotic.

Enjoying the sensation for three daring seconds, he impelled the power into the stones. He rubbed the first piece of amber on the wool, electrically charging the stone, then pushed the pointed end into the top of the apple, inserting half an inch where his blood had dripped.

“ Electrum. Sanguinis illorum damnoris intereo sulum diluculum at revertere sulum nox notis. M ā lum, Eden pernicies pomun. Effrego Veneficus Carmen quod solvo shabbubitum. ”

He could sense the power in the stones, ready to burst, ready to eject into the flesh of the fruit. The empowering fullness of energy was draining out of him, leaving weariness in its wake. Once all the apples were primed, he said, “ Modo .”

The temperature of the room began dropping. When it had reached that of an icy freezer, he heard the crack and rumble of stone shattering—yet the statues before him remained complete. Black haze lifted from the surface of each, surrounding them like dust being shaken off a long-dormant soul. Slowly, it coalesced until the miasma, hovering over the faces of the statues, created fluid expressions upon the unyielding surface. They were not conveying a pleasant awakening.