Linda Robertson - Wicked Circle

Toni reached into her purse and produced a small brown diary. The lock on it was broken, and a thick rubber band was keeping it shut. She plucked the stretchy plastic ring away and opened it, then handed him a school photo of a pimply teen, maybe fifteen.

Johnny’s breath caught, recognizing his own face, minus the tattoos.

His thoughts were racing, so many, jumbled and frantic. This was him. Toni really did know him! He checked the back of the photo. It was blank. “What was my name?”

“Ironically enough, your name was John. John Hampton.”

Elated, Johnny grinned as he repeated the name to himself many times. As he did, his gaze fell to the diary, and he wondered if that was his, if his own thoughts had been recorded there. “You’re not my mother, are you?”

She laughed. “No. But I suppose I fed you more than she did there for a while.”

“What’s her name? And my father’s? What were they like?”

Toni raised her hand as if to say slow down. “I don’t know.”

Johnny’s grin disappeared. Desperation roiled up. He snapped, “What do you mean you don’t know?”

Toni shook her head and muttered, “This isn’t going to work.” She also stood. “You’ve a temper, John. That’s something I never could abide.” She left from the opposite end of the pew.

Johnny nimbly leapt to the seat of the next pew and jumped into the aisle to block her. “Oh no, you’re not leaving now .”

“I’ve given you a name. That was more than you had before, and you don’t intimidate me, John.”

“I haven’t tried yet.” His beast snarled inside him.

Toni leaned against the pew and crossed her arms, still clasping the diary. “Well, go on then,” she challenged. “Do your worst.”

The beast slavered inside him. It wanted free, but Johnny fought. I am in control. Me. The man, not the wolf.

But the wolf was strong.

Johnny’s fingers itched. He threw off his jacket, tore the tie loose, and ripped the shirt, sending buttons flying. His fingers elongated and, even as dark hair sprouted from his skin, his nails darkened and sharpened into points. He lifted the black claw between them, and, when Toni did not react, he let the dull edge slide across her cheek—without pressing. “What do you mean you don’t know?” he asked again.

“You didn’t talk about them,” she said calmly, “and if you want to scare me, you’ll have to do much more than that.” She curiously perused the tattoo on his chest.

Johnny couldn’t smell any fear radiating off of her. It made his anger swell. He wrapped his hand around her throat, still without pressure. “I can do much more.”

Toni simply blinked at him, no trace of fear anywhere.

It reminded him of Ig . . . Ig hadn’t been afraid to be mauled either. He’d been dying anyway.

The thought of his father figure hit him like a jab in the gut. That emotion weighed upon the beast until its grip weakened. Johnny felt control become fully his once more. But a disturbing idea had occurred to him.

Concentrating, Johnny induced the transformation through his whole upper torso. His grasp on her neck was loose, even as his snout elongated and his nose grew infinitely more sensitive. She did not shrink away as he leaned in close, sniffed. Closer, he put his nose into her hair, against her neck . . . there. There it was, embedded in her scent. Disease .

He released her and reverted, feeling the defeated whine of his beast. He retrieved his shirt from the floor and punched his arms into the sleeves. “How long do you have to live?”

Toni’s eyes widened, then she set her jaw. “Maybe six months.” She bent to pick up his jacket and tie.

“What do you want?” he asked. “Treatment in exchange for your information?”

She transferred the garments to him. “You can’t buy me any time, John.”

“You can beat the disease if I infect you. Is that what you want?”

“Hell, no!” She sank onto the pew as if her knees were suddenly weak.

The buttons were gone, so he couldn’t keep his shirt closed, but he still donned the jacket. He folded the tie and leaned against the end of the pew. “Then what do you want from me?”

Toni opened the diary again and retrieved another picture. In this one he was younger.

Johnny studied the mixture of innocence and mischief in that youthful face. “What grade was I in here?”

“That isn’t a picture of you, John. That’s my grandson.”

Kurt Miller followed the three limos as they departed downtown. His GPS was still on, but he was very aware that if he needed to make a hasty exit, he didn’t know this city at all.

Based on the security the wærewolves had shown at the press conference, he made sure to keep back as much as he dared, yet, not knowing the city, he couldn’t lag behind too far or else he might lose them. Soon they were on West Fourteenth Street, and the limos gathered in the parking lot of the Pilgrim Congregational Church.

He drove on by, made the first right, circled the block, then parked his Crown Victoria up the street and kept his distance. The brawny guard was marching away from the middle limo, and the Domn Lup entered the church door alone. The guard opened the door on the first limo and Toni climbed out. The guard raised his arm to gesture her into the church.

Out of habit, Kurt reached for the old worn file stamped cold case on the passenger seat, opened it to a page for notes in the back, checked the time, and wrote:

3:40 p.m. I witnessed Antonia Brown entering the Pilgrim Congregational Church of her own accord seconds after the man just named Domn Lup of the wærewolves entered.

Using his BlackBerry, he accessed the internet and searched for images of the new Domn Lup. Flipping the page in the worn file to the picture of a very similar, youthful but untattooed face, he whispered, “Gotcha.”

He noted the men around the building, guards, like wærewolf secret service. “But how do I actually getcha?”

Sitting at the dining table in the combined living-dining room, Eris held seven cards. She laid them down, drew a card, and had to sort through them to put the right three together and make a spread.

Playing cards had been Demeter’s idea, and Eris had agreed before she realized she wasn’t able to shuffle. Demeter had to shuffle for her, but she made Eris deal when it was her turn.

Eris discarded, then maneuvered the four remaining cards into her grip again. Outside, the Slut’s rumble sounded. Lance was home from the college classes he attended at the Art Institute.

Nana drew a card, laughed, laid down a three card spread and discarded. “Rummy.”

“You win again.” Eris laid down her cards, glad it was over.

Lance charged up the stairs, rattling them so they could be heard inside. The door opened. As soon as he entered, he noted that the television had the news on, reporting on the Domn Lup and showing Johnny’s picture. “The press conference is over. Why are they still going on about him?”

Demeter answered, “A Domn Lup’s big news.”

“We’re not wæres. Why do we even care?”

Eris said, “Because he’s your sister’s boyfriend.”

“Half sister,” he corrected.

“Lance.”

He groaned exasperatedly and stomped away. A second later, music blasted from his room.

Embarrassed that he would act this way in front of his grandmother, Eris shoved the cards into a pile, disregarding that they weren’t all facing the same direction. “I pushed him hard. He’s way ahead of his peers, in college at only seventeen. Some days he doesn’t appreciate that.”

Demeter sat back and propped her leg on the chair adjacent to her. “You abandoned Persephone—”