Linda Robertson - Wicked Circle

The predator within wants out.

As I sat again, I heard the wax seal crack as Menessos broke it. He sniffed as the page unrolled. The writing, what I could see of it, was in a beautiful script, in a language unfamiliar to me, and the author had used a red-brown ink. I understood why the vampire had scented the page. It’s written in blood.

Menessos handed the scroll to Goliath, who stood and read aloud, translating.

By order of the Excelsior, the vampire Menessos, Quarterlord of the Northeastern United States, is hereby required to submit to the shabbubitum for a truth-reading, that it may be determined if this Master Vampire has been bound not simply to his Erus Veneficus, but . . .

There, Goliath faltered. He faced me with all the vehemence and hatred he could express.

“Read on, Goliath,” Menessos said gently.

“Master?”

“Read on.”

. . . that it may be determined if this Master Vampire has been bound not simply to his Erus Veneficus but by her.

Audible gasps were heard. A giggle emanated from one of the three women that had accompanied this Meroveus Franciscus. Introductions weren’t necessary; I could guess who they were.

“Let the shabbubitum ascend the stage,” Menessos said.

The three women strode up the ramp with all the pomp and circumstance they had, and they had a lot. Every eye in the room was on them as they strutted in perfect unison. Their similarly styled dresses of gray silk flowed like quicksilver as they moved. Either this trio was as well rehearsed as any Top-40 girl group, or they were just naturally ethereal.

Halfway up the ramp, their gowns became mist. Pieces fluttered away to form globes around every light. What was bright grew dim; what was already dim lost all illumination. The formal court ambience of the room disintegrated.

As the stage fell into murky shadows, the women’s clothes re-formed. Their chins lowered, warriors marching into battle, mouths opened to show threatening, bared teeth, and dark eyes glittering with the promise of bloodshed.

By the time they reached the stage, the front-most of them was dressed to kill—if she’d been going to the Dragonslayer’s Ball, that is. Her tight leather jacket was darkest gray and had spikes protruding from the outer forearms. Her pants were poured-on leather, and her heeled boots had silver embellishments on the shins, like owl heads with their wings wrapping around the back of the boot. It was beautiful, except for the fact that the owls’ hooked beaks protruded as spikes. Chains draped the top of her foot and ankles, securing spurs shaped to mimic very pointy owl talons.

The pair behind were attired much the same.

Mero asked Menessos, “Do you willingly submit to this as your Excelsior commands you, Quarterlord?”

For a tense moment, Menessos said nothing.

The air in the haven was too thick to breathe. His people were here, on edge with the dramatics, and ready to act should he give the word. I had no doubt that they would all fight for him and attack a vampire wizard without showing any fear.

He would never ask that of them.

I wanted him to run. But I knew he wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

This had to be done.

“That is,” Menessos finally said, “exactly how I wanted it to be.” He stood and stepped off the dais, setting his feet upon the newly inlaid circle, a pattern of yellow sphene, bright green emerald and the blue-purple tones of fluorite. It was lit from beneath, and the glow brightened as he spread his arms wide. I was sure Creepy’s advice had something to do with this newly added embellishment.

“I am ashamed of nothing,” he said. “Come, Liyliy, cursed daughter of a foolish father. Bring your sisters and your vengeance, and let this be done.”

A voice lifted from the back of the hall and cried, “Wait!”

Liyliy’s sisters spun toward the back of the hall. She heard the assembly shuffle around. She saw Menessos, his Alter Imperator and his Erus Veneficus all rush to identify the interrupter. She, however, did not turn. She remained intent on Menessos. The speaker’s voice was unmistakable.

“Giovanni,” Mero whispered. He cleared his throat and announced, “Giovanni Guistini, Advisor to the Excelsior.”

Giovanni spread his arms, widening the gap of his shirt to display his scars. “I trust I am welcome here, Quarterlord? Your doorman wasn’t so sure.”

Menessos glanced toward Mero, but Mero did not acknowledge it. Liyliy wondered what Menessos was hoping to read on the other advisor. Since it was apparent that Menessos did not intend to try to escape as this interruption weighed on, she spun in time to see the concierge limp and stumble into view behind Giovanni. His nose was a bloody mess. Had he not been all the way across the room, she would have been tempted to taste him.

“Join us, Giovanni. Share the stage with me.” Menessos made it sound like a threat.

The scarred man swaggered his way to the stage. Liyliy thought him an ugly creature, parading as if the world saw majesty in him, but arrogantly unaware that he was not only atrocious but pitiful as well.

“Just in time,” he rasped as he ascended onto the stage. He claimed a position beside Mero and clapped the man on the arm. “I decided I couldn’t miss the show,” he said. With a gesture at Liyliy he added, “Proceed.”

Disliking him, Liyliy asked Mero, “Do you give the word, lord?”

“Proceed,” Mero said.

She smiled at Giovanni’s sneer.

She and her sisters approached Menessos. At the same instant, both his Alter Imperator and his Erus Veneficus stood. Liyliy halted and assessed both of them, concerned there might be a threat. She had good reason to be suspicious. No one on the stage was powerless—except Giovanni. In the information she’d gained from Heldridge, she knew Goliath was powerful and that Persephone was something special called the Lustrata.

Believing that neither of them would make the first strike, Liyliy proceeded. “When last we met, Menessos, I promised that I would drink of you . . . that I would bleed you dry.”

“Rash promises from a woman should never be taken seriously.”

She slapped him, but instead of following through, she jerked her arm back and sliced the side of his chin with the spike on her sleeve.

Another round of gasps claimed the audience at her insult, but Menessos, damn him, did not react. Liyliy snickered. “You bleed before me. Tasting will come next.”

“Liyliy,” Meroveus said warningly.

Menessos ran two fingers over his wound, then reached out slowly to wipe it on Liyliy’s lips. “Taste,” he said. “I do not fear you.”

She sucked on her bottom lip, then let it slide back into its pouting place as she mmmm ed seductively and batted her lashes. “Delicious . . . I can’t wait for more.”

Unmoved, he offered her his hands.

Irritated that he showed no fear, Liyliy snatched them viciously. In position on either side of her, the sisters placed their fingers between the other’s joined hands, then grasped behind Menessos’s neck. Liyliy’s leather jacket disappeared, forming a tentacle that wrapped around his neck, and she whispered a chant. Her sisters murmured along.

The tentacle flattened and thinned until it covered Menessos’s face. Though her pleasure in this moment was obvious, she seemed irked when he did not fight her veil. Menessos simply inhaled. Almost all of her mist disappeared inside him in one inhalation; his chest rose with the depth of that single, fearless breath. It angered her, but she knew she was infesting him. She had only to wait for it. . . .

“You know what I learned from Heldridge?” she whispered. “I learned how you shattered him, rejecting him when it became clear he had no magic. I learned how it broke him. He wanted nothing more than your love . . . because he loved you more than his mortal father.”