Linda Robertson - Wicked Circle

“Them, too.”

I carried my coats toward the bar, intending to hang them across the seat. “Tell me.” Then I noticed how dirty and torn the back of my blazer was. “Shit.” The den rooftop had ruined it.

“I can get you a new jacket. Any kind you like.”

“That won’t gain you the favors you’re after.”

Menessos entered the kitchenette and opened the refrigerator. “It can’t hurt my chances.”

Admittedly, I examined his backside as he leaned down and rambled around a shelf. He had a very nice, round ass. When he stood straight, I inspected the rip on my blazer more studiously. “Tell me your plan.”

“It begins with these.” He held up a bottle of wine and a small plate bearing slices of marbled cheese, salami, and little crackers. Seeing my dubious expression, he added, “Fear not. You do not overindulge, and I am not a lecher, so getting you drunk and taking advantage of you is not part of my plan, though it is a wildly good idea that I have entertained. Tonight, however, your shaking hands belie a need that I am well acquainted with. A drink would help.” He retrieved a glass from the cupboard and set about uncorking the wine.

“Telling me what your plan is not is not telling me your plan.”

“True.” He poured. “You are not materialistic, so pretty things will not sway you, but I will woo you with time, Persephone.” He set the bottle aside and presented me with the glass. “It is the one thing I have that dear John does not.”

Johnny. I did not accept the slender stem. Could I ever trust Johnny again?

I relived the rooftop attack.

After scenting my blood, his beast had conquered his man-mind. But even in human form, he was losing control when we had sex at the den. He’d recovered, but. . . . Do I want to bear the scars—both the emotional and the physical ones—of him relearning his self-control? I had to believe that he could regain control.

“Persephone.” Menessos put power behind the whisper and warmth fluttered down my spine, down my legs, and echoed back up with a fine resonance that hinted at the kind of thrills this vampire could induce. “Drink the wine.”

I drank the wine.

Meroveus Franciscus sat separate from his guests aboard the plane, assessing them. Aware that he would need someone to give the sisters use of a modern language, he’d reviewed the files on their colleagues in Athens on the plane before the dawn had claimed him. He’d wanted someone who was generally naïve, who served with an excessive amount of adoration, and who had more than average debt. Zevon was part of the arrangements that had been made.

In addition to language, the sisters now knew what Zevon knew of the world.

He hadn’t wanted them to know too much. Zevon did not have much use for current events, international politics, or the names or locations of world leaders. It would not bode well for the shabbubitum to know such things. Their reputation indicated they could not resist powerful temptations . . . so, better to shield them from it.

But he could not shield them from the novelty and comfort of a limousine. He could not keep them from seeing the modern city of Athens or the ruins that made them cry. He could not keep them ignorant of the machine that carried them into the air, or the impressive nightscape of New York City as the Gulfstream landed.

He could, however, make them remain on the plane while it refueled.

Mero checked his messages. An assistant had left him a lengthy voice mail about the Zvonul having announced the confirmation of a Domn Lup, and followed it with the public details. Not good for Menessos if Giovanni has his way.

Minutes later, the shabbubitum grew excited as lights streaked toward the plane, and they chattered to themselves seeing that it was another limousine. It was no surprise when the cabin door was opened and Giovanni boarded.

He had to see. Like a child, he must poke at the dead things he has found.

The sisters remained in their seats, attentive but quiet as they considered Giovanni. Ailo and Talto reacted to his exposed scars and warped skin with unmistakable revulsion. Liyliy’s expression revealed only a wary curiosity.

Giovanni visually inspected them as well, obviously noting with predictable male appreciation the curves beneath the gray silk. His gaze lingered on the eldest. “What is your name, my beauty?”

At the sound of his voice, her curious expression fell into a repulsed sneer. She stood. “I am Liyliy.”

Giovanni’s admiration dissolved with her revulsion. “Has Mero told you the purpose of your freedom?”

“He speaks little.” She lifted her chin. “But he is more pleasant to hear.”

Features hardening into a scowl as rigid as the flesh of the disfigurement he flaunted, Giovanni spun to the doorway behind him and barked, “Bring him.”

Mero knew what was next. He wanted to deny Giovanni, but showing a discord between them would only give the shabbubitum something to work with. He held his tongue, but it was not easy.

Heldridge joined them.

The sisters had a completely different reaction to the broad-shouldered and handsome vampire. Ailo and Talto came to their feet beside Liyliy. Chests heaved and fell as adoring sighs were cast into the air. Mero could not deny the smirk that crawled over his mouth when he saw Giovanni’s jaw flex angrily while the females admired Heldridge.

Giovanni saw Mero’s sordid satisfaction and growled to Liyliy, “Read him. Tell me if he believes the Northeastern Quarterlord bears the mark of a witch.”

“Who are you that I should obey your order?”

Giovanni glowered.

“Liyliy,” Mero said, “tell us if Heldridge sincerely believes the Northeastern Quarterlord bears the mark of a witch.”

“Gladly.” Liyliy strode forward, circled Heldridge once as she appraised him. Before him, her silken gown faded into a puddle of mist at her feet. Her sisters joined her. “Give us your hands.”

Heldridge swallowed hard. He had feared the Excelsior would require that he prove the truth in his words. No matter how gorgeous these women were, he knew that what was going to happen to him would be terrible. He’d heard Menessos’s tale.

But my former master, my Maker, will get what he deserves.

He offered them his hands.

The most beautiful one touched him. “What is your name?” he whispered.

“Liyliy.” As soon as she had answered, she began whispering a chant.

Her clothes had dropped away and he was mesmerized by her voice, her pert breasts. Her sisters whispered, too, and in seconds the mist swirled like a tentacle around his neck. He had only a moment to worry about it, then that mist surrounded his head like a mask and thickened. As he smothered under what now seemed like cloth, instincts overpowered him. He shook his head as if that could loosen the fabric—but it couldn’t. Then he felt them, thousands of . . . somethings . . . like tiny mites marching across his face, crawling under his eyelids. They surged into his ears and up his nose. They tunneled into every pore. He screamed and they flooded into his mouth.

It was like being eaten alive.

Suddenly his lungs were full with them, each one now like an atom of oxygen racing into his bloodstream and being carried throughout his body. Worse, the tiny assailants burrowed through his skull. His head felt perforated, as if he would crumble in on himself at the slightest touch. If he’d had the breath to scream again, it would surely have killed him.

Then these tiny things slithered into his brain like electric eels, jolting him, sinking barbed teeth into his memories, then twisting without letting go, wringing every thought he’d ever had and drinking up whatever spilled.