Linda Robertson - Wicked Circle

Ibecame aware.

I opened my eyes as if I’d been sleeping, and I think I had been, but there was nothing to see but blackness so all-consuming that not even an indication of shape pierced this dark.

My mouth was full of salt. Spitting, I reached up— pain .

It ricocheted around my body with more force than I’d put into the attempt.

A full minute later the pain had subsided enough that sense returned and I could contemplate the state of my own body. I was lying on my side, I was cold, and my wrists and ankles were tightly bound. A length of rope connected the two bindings, further limiting my ability to move and forcing me into an uncomfortably cramped position. Every breath made my shoulder prickle. It remained out of socket. My right fingers were numb and I continued to spit salt. On the plus side, I still wore the dress and shoes.

I blinked and blinked but couldn’t get used to this dark, couldn’t cut through it. As black as the inside of a cat, as Nana would say.

Unwilling to move my body, I used the only other thing I had: my head. Rubbing my cranium against the ground, a feat my neck complained mightily about, I burrowed my cheek into it. What I felt was like sand, but the overwhelming smell of salt in my nostrils made me believe I was lying on a mound of salt.

“Help!” My throat was dry. My call was little more than a whisper. I tried again, putting every effort into projecting my voice. “Help me!”

Not only did the vibration of my voice do terrible things in my shoulder but my words echoed back to me, metallic and dry. I was enclosed in a space that was very big and open and dark.

As long as it’s not Tartarus, I’ll be okay.

Concentrating, searching for a ley line, an intangible part of me reached forth—and instantly recoiled, as if shocked or burned. It made me physically jerk, and the pain made me whimper, but I determinedly tried again, more gently.

The result was no different.

A power barrier.

I couldn’t be Bindspoken. What had Liyliy done?

Hungry, in pain, and pissed off, I decided not to lie there and do nothing.

In movies, people put their out-of-socket shoulders back in by hitting them on something.

I tensed, pouring every effort into rolling onto my stomach.

Searing pain ripped a scream out of me and I threw myself onto my side, as I had been.

That was stupid. A mountain of salt isn’t a firm surface. Being tied up like this ruins the leverage.

My small efforts had won me a cold sweat and a constant throb in my shoulder. I couldn’t fail. Not here, not now, not like this. I didn’t want to be the one to blame if our tripled union collapsed.

I thought of the sorsanimus . Could I reach beyond this veil prohibiting magic by reaching inward to my soul? I thought of Johnny. I need you to find me. I need help.

Exhaustion overcame me, and I was lost again to sleep.

Johnny tried to get a sense of where Persephone was, but he couldn’t seem to incite the sorsanimus . After what he’d done, she must be blocking him. He couldn’t exactly blame her.

Presently, he sat in the back of a rented limousine, between Kirk and Gregor. He wore the suit Menessos had given him to wear at the haven. Five Omori and Aurelia sat inside the limousine with him. Two more limos accompanied them, one preceding, one following, bringing the rest of the security team.

“Why the Cleveland Trust Bank?” Johnny asked, scanning the world outside the darkened windows to keep from ogling the cleavage exposed by Aurelia’s low-cut blouse.

“It is ideal,” she answered.

He looked at her, expecting her to go on, and after his gaze dropped to her chest, she did. “Impressive, isn’t it?” Aurelia’s lips twisted in a happy little smirk.

Johnny faced the windows again, swearing to himself.

She added, “It’s a structure everyone can get to, but it’s not so easy for the media to park close. That keeps their equipment to a minimum, and since we search them upon entering, that’s kept short. As a perk, since it is presently vacant we won’t be disturbing any county offices like we would if we did this on, say, the courthouse steps.”

Their planned route had them travel Third to Carnegie to Ninth. As they drew close, Johnny told Kirk to switch with him so he could have the window.

The Cleveland Trust Bank was a big gray tribute to Italian Renaissance architecture on the V-shaped corner of Euclid and Ninth. As the limo sat waiting for the light that would allow them to use the Euclid entrance, Johnny let his eyes be captured by the structure, as they always were when he visited downtown. This spot was a strange mixture of ancient and modern times, and oddly enough the sleek towering skyscrapers, the streetlights, and even the asphalt street with the covered bus shelter right in the middle of the road all seemed out of place. Not the bank’s columns.

The building was constructed in a style so beautiful it had endured for millennia, with four sets of paired fluted columns supporting a very Greek pediment complete with grand figures. Just above and behind, the crowning dome could be seen. He’d always wanted to see the inside.

Today, announcing that he was Domn Lup to the world— the world! —he would.

Red should be here.

He retracted the thought as soon as it was formed. He couldn’t blame her.

But after what he’d done, not being out there looking for her right now tore his heart into pieces. He should have been looking for her, but he couldn’t get out of this, either. Afterward, he promised himself. Afterward I’ll find her.

A short, fat, balding man unlocked the doors of the bank as Johnny and his entourage approached. “You’re early.” His frown was deep.

“We specified that we would be,” Aurelia said.

“You didn’t specify when .”

“A matter of security. Can we get off the street, please? There are many tall buildings around. A sniper could be lurking in any window. . . .”

The fat man hurriedly opened the door. “Of course.”

In passing, Johnny assessed the man’s expensive suit and knew this wasn’t just a doorman. The interior drew his attention while he remained aware of what was going on around him.

“You are . . . ?” Aurelia asked.

“Leo. Leo MacPhearson.” He relocked the door. “I’m the building supervisor.”

Aurelia opened her file, flipped through pages. “Yes, here you are. Okay.” She pointed to a pair of the Omori. “You cover these doors, you the Ninth Street side.”

When she indicated, Mr. MacPhearson gestured into the bank. “This way.” He hurried to stay ahead of the group. “Much of what you see here is priceless,” he said. Leading them into the rotunda lobby, he pointed to a carved wooden embellishment that ran all the way around the circle that was open to the next level up. “Such as the craftsmanship shown here in the underside of the first mezzanine level.”

Johnny noticed two things: The place was as elegant as he expected, and it stank of stale air. It was a shame such a place was sitting idle. His gaze was drawn upward by the beige pillars that supported the second mezzanine level. They had gilded tops and even more elaborate ornamentation above them.

“On up, you’ll see murals that were painted by Francis Davis Millet, who subsequently died on the Titanic .” MacPhearson continued his tour-guide spiel. “Crowning the rotunda is the stained glass dome, sixty-one feet across and eighty-five feet up, which, contrary to popular belief, is not a Tiffany glass piece. It merely follows the style of Tiffany.”