Linda Robertson - Wicked Circle

Mero had witnessed the method of information transference before, so instead of observing the shabbubitum at work, he watched Giovanni. He wanted his coadvisor, who had been so eager to unleash this trio, to be sickened by the scene, to be horrified by the screams and disgusted by the red foam that bubbled up from Heldridge’s throat onto his lips. But Giovanni seemed to notice only Liyliy’s writhing nakedness.

When it was done, Liyliy languished in her position atop Heldridge, arching her back and stretching her arms up high. The tentacle of mist that had coiled around Heldridge’s head retreated from the vampire and slithered up to form black satin gloves on Liyliy’s upraised arms.

It could have been a beautiful display, but the vampire’s screams of pain were still echoing about the cabin as she topped that sound with her own throaty, maniacal laughter.

Her sisters traded glances and joined her in the sinister mirth, wrapping their arms around her waist. Liyliy’s arms fell about her sisters, and the disturbing joy continued into awkwardness for those around them.

Mero understood what had spawned the sister’s reaction, though he doubted Giovanni did. Menessos had given these women power that led to their self-destruction, then Menessos had confined them in stone. Now, Heldridge had demanded they be set free to judge the very vampire who had imprisoned them.

Moreover, the treacherous sisters now had the not-so-naïve knowledge that Heldridge possessed. That data would contain inner workings of the vampire power structure as it existed today, as well as U.S. and international politics that affected the haven Heldridge used to master.

The fool has no idea how much he has increased the difficulty of my task. Or maybe he does.

Liyliy laughed. Heldridge had lived a long, long time. The information she and her sisters had just gained from him was much more complete than poor nonstudious Zevon’s. A vampire’s longevity provided a depth of knowledge that a young mortal man could not fathom. The industry and mechanization of the world had changed radically under his watchful eyes, and now she understood this marvelous age more thoroughly.

“Well?” Giovanni demanded, interrupting her amusement.

Her mirth faded. “Yes. He believes that Menessos has been marked by his Erus Veneficus. A fairy told him as much, but events he has witnessed and conversations he has overheard support the claim.”

And now I know why we were brought back. Now I know that the one who released us, this Meroveus, though he worked with the one who imprisoned us then, he is now reprimanding our jailer.

Giovanni extended his hand to one of the vampires who had escorted Heldridge aboard. A leather case, much like a sealed quiver for arrows, passed into Giovanni’s grip. He tossed this to Mero, who caught it and set it aside.

Wondering what was in it, Liyliy stood. She eased away from Heldridge and toward Meroveus. He’s giving me one of the two things I want most of all—the vampire who caused our tragic curse. Eventually I will get the necklace away from him too . . . maybe even right now. . . .

Her black gloves faded to mist, which reappeared around her body as she crossed the small space inside the flying machine—the jet airplane. When she arrived before him, the mist had made a revealing gown of black lace that accentuated the size of her breasts and was translucent in all the right places. “You are taking us to Menessos. You want us to search his mind for the truth. Correct?”

“Yes.”

The corner of her mouth crooked up sweetly. “Allow me to show my gratitude.” She reached for him.

He swatted her wrist away, then backhanded her across the jaw.

“ Numquam tangent vester dominus! ” In English he repeated, “I am your lord. Never touch me. Dare you even try that again,” he spat, “and I’ll bind you into the stones of the nearest urinal.” He looked past her. “Giovanni, get Heldridge off the plane.”

Istared at the plate of food. I was hungry, but my hands were gross with scabs matted with wolf hair. I turned on the faucet. When the water was warm, I started washing with the hand soap from the counter. It stung like hell.

Menessos disappeared into the back of the apartment and returned with a small first aid kit. He set it aside and reached for my hands. “Allow me.”

“I can do it.”

“And I allowed you to tend my wound once. Please be so kind as to allow me to return the favor?”

Long ago—well, it seemed like a long time ago—Samson D. Kline had nearly staked Menessos; I’d cleaned the gash, put antibiotics on it and bandaged him up. Of course, he’d promptly quoted poetry and come on to me, too. Sighing, I sidestepped to let him close.

We were silent for a long minute as the warm water ran and ran. The static sound of its flowing became musical as he continuously rubbed my skin with gentle, diligent strokes. His every rhythmical movement was made with such tender purpose that I was spellbound by it all. His thumbs slid over the grooves in my flesh, and the sensation was exhilarating—it took my breath away but it wasn’t pain, no, it was rapturous and left me gasping. Though I detected a stinging ache, it seemed far away from my body and inconsequential . . . so long as he did not stop.

“Do you remember when we met?” Menessos asked as he sat beside me.

I blinked as if just waking from a dream. I recalled him patting my hands dry and wrapping gauze loosely around the backs of my hands, and I remembered eating three meat-and-cheese-topped crackers, but I did not have a recollection of planting myself in the very corner of the black leather sectional couch. Yet, here I was.

“Do you?” he repeated.

“Yeah. What does that have to do with your plan?” I drained the last of the wine from the glass.

“Everything.”

As the effects of the wine loosened the tension and soreness in my shoulders, I twisted and propped my feet on the end of the sectional away from Menessos. Candlelight and wine. I could guess what he wanted. But what I wanted was a nice, hot bath with enough bubbles to make me forget what had just happened on the rooftop of the wærewolves’ den. However, I was betting that the bubbles the wine produced in my brain had a better shot at achieving that.

“Do you recall the stake that was on your property?” Menessos asked.

“I do.” His former and estranged E.V. had made and enchanted a stake to keep Menessos away from her. She’d used a little of the home earth in his dirt-bag mixed with her own blood—which was bound to him—and Blessed Water to create it. He had not even been able to be in the presence of the stake. I’d destroyed it.

“Once I’d marked you, it hurt you to be near it, though more subtly than it hurt me. And when I was near it, I could convey some of the pain it caused me onto you.”

“Yeah, so you could threaten Johnny.” He’d let me bear all the pain. Damn near killed me, but also enabled me—and Hecate—to flip the mark back onto him, though neither of us had known it at the time.

“Exactly. It was . . . self-preservation.”

“Something you lacked on the beach.” I leaned forward and put the empty wineglass on the floor. When I sat up, Menessos scooted closer.

“The beach was different.”

His whisper was imbued with such sweet resolve that I couldn’t argue. I could only stare and relive the moment I’d staked him, then rewind and relive kissing him.

Would I be better off in his arms instead of Johnny’s? Would I be safer?

I held my breath.

How can I even think this? Am I so tired I’ve gone fickle?