Linda Robertson - Wicked Circle

I blinked. “Okay. Henceforth you shall be known as Creepy.”

His only response to my sarcasm was the corner of his mouth crooking up.

Mountain arrived and assumed an intimidating pose one step from the porch.

“Why are you here?” I asked Creepy.

“A friend told me you might be in danger. I am here to provide protection.”

Peripherally, I noticed Zoltan, a young dragon, slithering silently along Mountain’s path. “What friend?”

“Menessos.”

It surprised me so much that I winced.

Mountain crossed his arms over his broad chest as he spoke. “He’s not someone most people want to claim to know, let alone be friends with lately.” Zoltan slithered to Mountain’s side and hissed. So much for “surprising” strangers with our pet dragon. We need to work on our offensive tactics.

Creepy perused the dragon without any of the astonishment I expected. In fact, he sounded convincingly bored as he answered, “I care little what people choose to think.”

“Why were you in my cornfield?”

“The vortex was the easiest way to arrive.”

He rode a ley line. Fairies rode ley lines, and if any fey remained here on earth, they couldn’t get home because of my actions. Probably not something anyone left behind would be happy about. “Get off my porch.”

At my words, the tension radiating from Zhan, Ivanka, and Mountain ratcheted up a notch.

He made no effort to vacate the porch. “Have I offended you, Persephone?” His voice was husky, but sounded sincere.

My perimeter wards were specifically set to keep fey out. If he was fey—even in part—he should have at least set the wards off. Pondering this, I had to admit that fairies didn’t get as tall as this guy. Also, none of his features had the distinctive curves and points of fairies. He was all straight lines.

“If I have interrupted something, I assure you it was not my intention.”

“What is your intention, then?” Going forward, I pushed on the screen door, confident it would force him backward, toward the edge of the porch.

He still didn’t budge.

Just as I thought the door would smack into him, his crooked smile grew and the door slipped through him.

I gasped.

Before I could even form a thought about the possibilities of him being a ghost, the door swung back, but this time it did not pass through him.

“My intention . . .” He reached toward my cheek.

His hand hovered above my skin. Though the temperature outside wasn’t much above freezing, I could feel the warmth radiating from this man and a fine trembling all around him. Then he touched me with the gentlest of caresses.

His countenance blossomed with wonder. “I can feel the storm within you. The burning blaze and the flood, too. You are so close . . . so very close.”

Ivanka’s big, silver gun slid into my view, business end about two inches from Creepy’s nose. “Retreat,” she snarled. “I ask only one time!”

Without looking at her, he said, “No.”

Even as she fired, the screen door moved through him again. I backed away and sidestepped, nearly tripping over my own feet. I covered my ears too late, but I kept Creepy in my sight. The bullet zinged through his incorporeal form. He reached for Ivanka, ripping a giant hole in my screen as he solidified and grasped her wrist.

My ears were ringing from the gunshot, but I heard him growl, “I have stated that your master sent me, Offerling.” He squeezed and jerked.

In my whole life I had not been so close to someone as their bones broke. The sound was as sickening as seeing her forearm bend in the middle.

Ivanka screamed and her knees buckled. She cracked her head on the lower portion of the door, which was still partially open. He released her as she collapsed, smoothly stripping her of the gun. “The effrontery of your actions is unacceptable.”

For all the horror of the last eight seconds, the sound of his calm, sad and melodic voice soothed my aching eardrums.

Creepy’s gaze fell to the weapon in his hand.

Zhan and Mountain closed in.

He did not grip the gun as if he might threaten us with it, let alone fire it. His finger was nowhere near the trigger. I signaled the others to quell any rash actions.

Ivanka whimpered at my feet and spewed several angry phrases in Russian.

Holding the gun by the barrel, Creepy thrust it through the torn screen and offered it to me. “I have no need of this device. Since you carry no weapon, I assume you will show more discretion with this.”

I didn’t need to be told twice. Keeping my eyes on Creepy, I fumbled the weapon into my grip. It was heavier than I expected, and I clicked the safety on and aimed it at the floor. “Did Menessos mention who I might be in danger from?”

“Strangers,” he whispered. “I will not let any harm come to you.”

The stalker possessiveness in his tone sent a twinge of fear through me. My fingers yearned to tighten around the handle of the gun, but I’d just seen how ineffective it was. “And what if it’s my opinion that you are harming me?”

His expression became one of wounded disappointment. “I would never.” It was a whisper, but it sounded like a vow to my stalker-cautious ears.

Since he was going for heavy, I kept my tone light instead of accusatory. “You just broke my sentinel’s arm. That damages my security, and I consider that personal harm. And you busted up my door.”

“She provoked me by firing. As for the door . . .” He scanned the screen up and down, and the wires began knitting together.

My jaw dropped. I poked at the mesh. This wasn’t an illusion. It was tangibly repaired.

I hadn’t even felt a tug on the ley line.

Clues clicked into place. Not a ghost. If not fey, he had to be a witch . . . a sorcerer.

“Say you forgive me,” he whispered.

Instead, I said, “Anyone who bothers with the news knows I’m connected to Menessos, so dropping his name around here isn’t going to earn you any trust, respect, or anything else, for that matter. Injuring my people actually puts you on my shit-list. So, Mr. Creepy-Who’s-Supposed-to-Be-Providing-Protection-Not-Diminishing-It, you’ve got my attention. Now what are you going to do with it?”

He scanned around, gestured toward Mountain and Zoltan. “Your dragon’s horns have not sprouted.”

My fingers impatiently tapped my thigh, but I held my tongue, waiting for him to go on.

“Can you predict when they will?” Mountain asked with a chuckle. “Just name the day and the hour, then you can go home and we’ll call after that to let you know how much credibility you’ve earned.”

“There is no predicting to it,” Creepy replied. “His transformation will begin the moment you take the action that causes it.”

Transformation? I recalled that Hecate’s dragons had had four limbs and wings. I asked, “What action?”

“The dragon must be poisoned.” The hint of a curve strayed to his lips. “She Who Walks Between Worlds should know that.”

I don’t like being scolded. I like it less when a stranger is doing it. But I learned something new about myself: When a creepy stranger who definitely knows I’m the Lustrata scolds me and also suggests I poison a pet, I loathe it.

Despite the narrowed eyes and crossed arms that signaled my annoyance, Creepy came right up to the screen. “Do you have any seeds of the Strychnos nux-vomica tree?”

I’d not heard of the vomit-tree, but the other part was obvious enough. “You mean strychnine? No. I don’t keep poisons around the house.”

“No matter.” He lifted his empty hand toward the edge of the porch, palm up, closed it and reopened it. It was full of dark coins.