Linda Robertson - Wicked Circle

“Persephone.”

Apprehension sucked. Anger felt much better, so I went with it. “Drop the difficult act and tell me who the creep you sent to my house was!”

“I cannot.”

“You mean will not.”

“No. I can not.”

“ Riiight .” I could justify my antagonism because it felt like it was accomplishing something, which I preferred to the sedentary and stagnant nature of worrying.

“I know in my heart who he is, and yet his name evades me. He’s bound me against it. My tongue cannot speak his name, my hand cannot write it, and I daresay even the shabbubitum will not be able to draw it out of me, as I cannot even think it. Though they would surely find great pleasure in the pain I would suffer as they tried.” He paused. “I cannot even describe him. I would doubt my sanity if not for my certainty that he bound me against this knowledge. Can you even imagine it, Persephone?”

That was a seriously intense kind of binding, but then Creepy had displayed great wizardry skill. He’d even teleported himself from one end of my house to the other. “Wait a minute. This guy put a binding upon you, my dear vampire? I don’t think I believe that. I’d have noticed something .”

“The binding was placed during my awakening this evening.”

“Oh.” I had almost put the car into a ditch. “Okay, I did feel that, but are you saying you don’t object to some weirdo binding you from telling me his name as he offers to help?”

“I thought the assistance of strangers equaled some assurance of their quality.”

“Maybe for a random stranger. Someone you send isn’t in the same category. And what about the spiel you preached at me over not binding ourselves to those with higher rank or not of our own kind? This creep is sooo not a vampire.”

“This is an exception to that rule.”

“Menessos.”

His eyes fluttered shut for a second or two. “Must you know the name of everyone who offers you aid?”

I considered it and groaned exasperatedly. “No. I understand he has some reason to hide his identity, but that doesn’t inspire my trust.”

“People trusted Superman without knowing his true identity.”

Stunned, I stared at him, then broke away only because I could tell the Avalon was drifting into the adjacent lane. “One, I can’t believe you just referenced a comic book superhero. Two, that was fiction. And three, Superman earned the trust of those who witnessed his actions. Creepy’s actions included trespassing, personal assault, and the poisoning of my pet.”

“Ivanka will heal, and the protection I sought for you and your property was granted in the conversion of the dragon. Besides, my note said I was getting help. Since I sent him and told you, the claim of trespassing is excessive.”

I ground my teeth. “Strangers on my property, crossing my wards without invoking them, can expect to be considered enemies. Even if they drop your name.”

“Under normal circumstances, a wise approach, but our circumstances are far from normal. And speaking of the unusual, you did bring your broom tonight?”

“It’s in the trunk.” My fingers tapped impatiently on the steering wheel, and more grinding of teeth ensued. He wasn’t able to give up answers, so he was opting for a subject change. But I wasn’t giving up. Maybe I could pry some clues out of him. “Maybe, as the Lustrata, I should be greatly offended by this binding upon my Offerling. I’ll work on severing it ASAP.”

“Unnecessary.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

He gently stroked my arm. “Persephone. Do not attempt to sever this binding.”

Thinking of what I’d done in my meditation world, I felt confident I could find a way to disengage the binding, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to visit either Menessos’s or Creepy’s meditation worlds. “Don’t worry. I’m experienced at removing binding spells.”

“I don’t doubt you. I just want you to leave it alone.”

“Oh, well, that’s different,” I said sarcastically. “He said he could help me more than I could imagine. With your endorsement, I guess next time I’ll just ask Mr. Exception-to-the-Rule to move in and set up shop.”

“Persephone!” he said exasperatedly.

His power tingled through me, but inside I gave a little cheer.

“In case you’ve forgotten, I presently have need of aid as well,” Menessos grumbled. His expression was that of a gambler suckered into a game of Russian roulette. “Assistance of his caliber comes with a price. That binding was part of the terms.”

My inner cheer turned into an aggravated scream. Anyone who was willing to help Menessos in exchange for keeping their real identity a secret from me was someone whose help I had to be wary of. I knew Menessos was desperate . . . but what had he done, and what would it cost us?

Heldridge Ellington had been confined to a holding cell. It was little more than a tiny room with a narrow bed, but it was dark and windowless, and when the day dawned he’d rested without fear. Upon arising this night, he was promptly given a pint of blood through a small receptacle on the door.

Though confined, this was preferable to the moist, earthy tombs he’d been hiding in lately. With Goliath Kline hunting him, his options had been few.

He drank and lay down, sated.

I wouldn’t have tried to kill her if I’d thought there was a chance of claiming her and making her my witch. That would have galled my former master, had I bested his witch and forced her to free him. He would have had to concede her to my court then. Taking his queen for my own, making myself the commander of her power, he would have respected me for that. It would have elevated me in his mind, and in everyone else’s.

His lips formed a thin, hard line. But I am without magic.

No matter what might have been. What is, is, and surely the Excelsior has chosen a course of action. One more night, maybe two, and they will come to me and tell me that I was right, that my former master is under the thumb of a witch. They will be grateful that I saved them from the embarrassment of a Quarterlord being made an informant for WEC.

Unless releasing the shabbubitum requires a certain moon phase.

If that’s the case, I could be in here for weeks.

Or, to confirm my truthfulness, they may bring the shabbubitum to me first.

Neither of those were welcome thoughts. Heldridge wished he understood the implications of magic better, but he had been unable to master the magical arts. He hadn’t the talent for it.

He remembered when Menessos had found him after the Great Chicago Fire in 1871.

Orphaned, homeless, cold and starving, Heldridge had roamed the ashy streets seeking shelter, friends and food. He’d seen no one he knew. One day, he saw a man beat a baker unconscious and steal a bag full of bread. He secretly followed the man and discovered he’d been hiding in the basement of a burned-out house.

Heldridge had waited until dark, tiptoed down the partially charred staircase and stolen the bag of rolls. As he’d made his surreptitious departure, one of the boards broke and Heldridge fell. The noise awakened the man.

Heldridge raced away. The man gave chase, but the boy—slighter and more agile—scurried through the remains of buildings that the man dared not enter.

When he thought he’d escaped, Heldridge sat down to eat. The man appeared out of nowhere and hit Heldridge so hard the boy couldn’t think straight. Then the man unfastened his belt. He crouched over Heldridge and pulled off the boy’s pants.

The next thing Heldridge knew, the man was screaming . . . then he wasn’t.