Linda Robertson - Wicked Circle

He called in a favor from his old friends at the village police department and had a cruiser sent to stake out the Maserati. The assigned officer was to call him if anyone used that car, then he was to nonchalantly tail it.

Kurt stretched. He was ready to go home and sleep in his own bed.

Johnny walked into the lobby area of the hotel. A man with a bushy moustache emerged from the back room. “Hello. Welcome to Gauthier’s. Would you like a queen or a king? I have a suite available.”

Johnny dropped the keys on the counter and readied his wallet. “Nothing fancy,” he said. “Just a room to sleep in.”

The man swiped the credit card and gave it back, then asked him about the make and license of his car, which brought an impressed whistle to the man’s lips. “Are they really all they’re cracked up to be, the Maseratis?” the man asked. “I mean, you can get more horsepower for less money in a Corvette Z06.” He slid the room key across the counter.

“I drove a Z06,” Johnny said, retrieving his keys and the room key. “I opted for the Quattroporte. I just . . . liked it more.”

“Ahh,” the man smiled. “You must be a family man, going for the four-door.”

Johnny’s chest swelled. “Yeah.”

“Your room’s on the second level, all the way down on the right.”

After showering, Johnny crawled into bed with the diary in his hand. He read entries about Frankie missing her dad, about how her mom cried at night, and about her mom struggling to pay the bills . . . but it was the entry about her hating her father for leaving them that struck him hardest.

Will Evan hate me for not being there?

He read about a fight Frankie had with one of her friends, about a crush on a boy who never acknowledged she existed, and about trials with a monster math teacher. Then she documented his “loser” appearance. Toni had glossed the story over, but after an hour of reading, he had a grasp of who Frankie thought him to be, and how that evolved as she grew to know him, love him. She’d drawn a whole page of hearts and written “Francine Rosalee Brown + John Curtis Hampton” inside them.

She mentioned that he said nothing of his home life except to mumble that he hated his mom’s boyfriend and couldn’t understand what she saw in him. There was no other insight to his family. Frankie said she pitied him, and she had been perceptive enough to understand she was pinning on him all the love she could no longer give her father.

He had the feeling they could have made it work, high school sweethearts, together forever, because each would fit perfectly into the hole in the other’s heart.

But Frankie was gone. Soon, the kid would be alone.

No. No, he won’t be alone.

Sitting in the utter blackness of the cargo hold, I clenched my hands. I said, “Heart,” as if hearing my own voice would make everything comprehensible. When it didn’t, I whispered, “ Cor .”

Core.

Soul.

The sorsanimus .

I couldn’t tap Menessos or Johnny under this confinement, but I knew neither of them would give up if they were in my situation. I would not be the weak side of the triangle.

But how am I supposed to “evolve” when I’m tied up and imprisoned? Evolving sounded like it should be a very active process.

To the darkness, I said, “I asked once for the wisdom to keep my feet upon this path, to be what You had made me, Hecate, and to accomplish the goals You set before me, to be Your instrument, humble and just, and fulfill my purpose. Well, here I am. Show me Your bright torches.”

I waited.

And waited.

“Just a little illumination would be helpful.”

The glowing armor that was the mantle of the Lustrata began to shine around me.

Thank you, Hecate. She had bestowed this upon me when I’d accepted the name, rank and responsibility of being Lustrata. It had glowed around me when she’d given it to me, when Xerxadrea had outed me to her personal coven, and when I’d been in the darkness of the Hall of Tartarus.

Its light was reassuring, and I kicked myself for not thinking of this earlier.

This beautiful silvery armor had gleamed to identify me and light my way, and yet its brilliance had surrounded me on one other occasion, unbidden: when I’d forced the former Rege into a half-transformation. It had been a desperate action for me, but apparently a moment of judgment, as well. To be Your instrument.

Was that my evolution, to be more than a woman who stepped up whenever Chance lay at my feet, an occasion when some action of mine could make a difference? Was I to go from being defensive but proactive, to being offensive and aggressive?

Still bound, I couldn’t attack Liyliy. At least not physically.

That left magic, but I couldn’t tap the ley.

Creepy had said that I needed to know I could do this. This what? Amenemhab had said to combine what I have.

Feeling stupid and helpless and disliking every second of it, I consoled myself with the perks. I was bound to two powerful men. Hecate was on my side. I’d passed tests of fire, water, and air.

Wait. Creepy had also said, “I can feel the storm within you. The burning blaze and the flood, too.”

He’d pointed out that I had the fire and flood and storm within me. Three elements. Three tests. And here I sat on a mound of salt, which represented earth—the one element in which I had not yet earned anything. And yet, iron represented fire. Air was in abundance, and if this was a ship, then there was water nearby.

How could I combine fire, air and water? Fire and water canceled each other out—or fire caused water to transmute and combine with air . . . steam !

What could I do with steam?

I had to get off this salt.

Wriggling and dragging myself across this would take forever. Without my hands free to balance, hopping or crawling was out. I figured rolling would be the best way—and most painful. Gritting my teeth and tensing to restrict some of the movement my shoulder was about to endure, I made the first and second rotations. I had to catch my breath, then I made two more. Following this pattern, I neared the wall quickly.

Guided by the light of my mantle, I sat up and scooted into position by the ladder. I lifted my arms and, using only my left, levered my feet under me. I stood—too fast—and had to grapple for the higher half-moon rungs to keep from keeling over. Holding on, I shook off as much of the salt as I could, then slid my foot into one of the half-moon openings. They were too far apart for my bindings to reach both, so I had to settle for having only one foot bearing me. Like an inchworm moving one end, then the other, I eventually had myself three rungs from the level of the salt.

After securing my balance with my knee, I reached around the support bracket, placed both palms against the iron and focused my will.

Metal, iron, smelted ore

Element of fire in your core

That heat within, I bid it rise

Release it now, these ropes incise!

My thumbs tingled, and I felt a jolt like I had when under my mother’s truck trying to get the tire. What the—?

My thumbs! Mudras! Of course!

In yogic theories, the mudras were various hand gestures and positions that awakened the kundalini, or the corporeal energy. Each finger represented a different element. Thumbs represented fire, and metal represented fire, which explained the charge I got under the truck and here!

Bending my thumbs back to touch the rope as much as I could, I pressed the outermost loop against the edge of the bracket. I smelled smoke. Maintaining my single-mindedness, I rubbed the rope against it and snorted against the stink of burning fibers.