Linda Robertson - Arcane Circle

Beauregard walked down the hallway, shutting each door, checking that it was locked. Johnny paced away from the door, turning to watch as the door swung shut, clanging like a dull death knell. Beau twisted the key in the lock, gave the door a tug. The pity on the man’s face made Johnny feel weak and cowardly. These men around him weren’t afraid. But I am, he thought. He could smell the reek of it clinging to him as if he’d pissed his pants. They all knew he was scared. He couldn’t hide it.

Beau secured the cell door next to Johnny’s. The last one in the row. Ig’s cell. After a nod at the dirija, Beau left the cell-block kennel area.

In moments, a wave of heat made Johnny’s skin ripple and nausea made him crouch in the corner of the cell. He put his back to the rough block wall. Its coolness chased the rising bile back down his throat. In the cage beside him, Ig had removed his clothes and folded them, stacked them in a neat pile. He moved to the bars near Johnny.

“You okay, son?”

Johnny didn’t answer; he didn’t want to be naked, didn’t want the others to gawk at the strange tattoos now embedded in his skin. After a moment he asked, “What will it be like?”

“I won’t lie, it hurts. Hurts more if you fight it.”

“What if you’re wrong? What if I’m not like you and I don’t change?”

Ig gave him a kind but cheerless smile. “I wish that were true, John. But you are one of us.”

Johnny knew it was true. He could smell and hear things others couldn’t. But he couldn’t remember it being any other way. He couldn’t even remember his name. They called him John Doe at the hospital. No one knew how old he was, either. They guessed seventeen. Maybe eighteen.

In the twenty-seven days since he woke naked in that park without any memory, no one had recognized him. No missing person’s report had been filed in any state for someone that fit his description, with or without the tattoos.

No one cares enough to search for me.

Ig reached through the bars and put a reassuring hand on Johnny’s shoulder.

Johnny put his head down, fighting back tears—a sign of weakness he would never let Ig see.

Then the moon blew her kisses into the cell block and her curse shivered into life. Gooseflesh prickled and erupted thick, dark hair. It felt like sandpaper had been shoved under his skin, scraping and scrubbing under his flesh.

He tore off his clothes just in time.

His face ruptured, and the inner beast was born snarling and fighting, forcing its way out into the world. Molten iron surged through his veins, burning him, dissolving him. He was stretched until his overheated bones felt brittle thin, and then the moonlight hammered him like forged steel, remaking him, pounding him into a new shape, stronger than the former.

For a time he stood on all fours, unmoving, waiting … but the pain was gone. He felt like a just-whelped pup, exhausted.

Ig had become a red wolf, growling at him. To the other side, a gray wolf snapped its muzzle through the bars. In cells beyond he saw wolves mounting she-wolves; he saw another wolf throw itself against the bars repeatedly. He watched it fight frantically for a freedom it would not find.

He stared down at his paws.

I’m a wolf. A wolf! I am … I am.

None of us, Johnny thought, will ever be free of this curse.

No one will want me now.

His muzzle lifted and the saddest wailing howl echoed through the cell block.

Holding on to that despairing sound, keeping it foremost in my mind, I begged, “Who made these tattoos? Who bound his power away from him?”

The fluorite tumbled to the left, rolled toward me, spun on blank slate and rolled toward Johnny. The stone stopped on a rune letter that was shaped like an F with the two bars angled down.

“Ansuz,” I whispered. The rune represented the spoken word and advice. But when the little fluorite spun halfway around, I knew this was a sign to reverse the rune and change the meaning to trickery and lies. The stone rolled to the right, onto the next rune, Raidho. Upon this angular-looking R, the stone again rotated half a turn. Since this symbol normally indicated travel, the reverse meant an upsetting change in plans. The stone rolled to the very next rune like a sideways V, called Kenaz, and did its little spin for a third time, meaning poor judgment or ignorance.

The stone seemed to be simply checking out each rune and twisting. I began to wonder if this was a waste of time.

When the fluorite rolled back to Ansuz, then tumbled across the slate as if it were running away and stopped abruptly on Nauthiz, however, my confidence returned; there was a purpose in this reading. Nauthiz looked like an X that someone had kicked: The line ending its upper right “arm” was shifted vertically rather than at an angle. The stone did not pirouette here, so the symbol indicated a need, but whether that was a spiritual, emotional, or material need had to be assessed by the surrounding runes. The fluorite rolled to Uruz next, then to Mannaz. The former symbol looked like two upright bars, one shorter than the other, a slanted bar connecting the tops. It was the sovereign of strength, determination, and healing: internal transition. The latter symbol resembled an X and an M combined. The stone spun halfway around—and having just relived Johnny’s memory I had to think it was indicative of silence, solitude, and perhaps introspection. It was definitely about personal obstacles and separation.

The stone rolled back to the pentacle and went still.

It had given me a kind of recap of Johnny’s story, as if I’d asked for a reading. I hadn’t. Though I prompted it a few more times, it did not respond. I counseled myself to keep a heavy sigh from escaping.

Johnny cracked one eye open a fraction. “Is it done?”

“Yeah.” I said quick thanks and left him holding the slate while I took up the circle.

I moved the candles to the dresser top, let the stones pile on the bedside table, and took the slate back to the closet, where I shifted the frames forward and bent to replace the slate.

“Well?” He sounded like he was ready for bad news.

From deep in the closet I asked, “Do you know anything about runes?” I twisted to see him as he answered. He was staring at the bed. He has a prime opportunity to ogle my ass and he’s missing it? “Johnny?”

“Runes? Um, that would be a—” He turned and realized this position and my undies left little to the imagination. He gaped, then shut his mouth and turned away. “No.”

Oh hell. This is worse than I thought.

I wanted to come out of this feeling like I was helpful. Instead, I’d disappointed him.

When the chore of putting everything away was done, I reclaimed my seat on the bed. “What’s wrong?”

“I can tell you didn’t get an answer.” There was no blame in his voice, but there was plenty of dismay in his blue eyes.

“Not really. It answered more like a rune reading. I’ll have to give it some thought.”

He was stepping into his role as Domn Lup and giving up so much … his band was on the top of that endangered list. Making it big in the music industry meant everything to the three band members of Lycanthropia, but Johnny’s new role as front man for wærewolves everywhere could destroy that rock ’n’ roll dream. The band mates weren’t sure they should book any more shows and if they weren’t playing and packing in the crowds they weren’t of any interest to the industry reps.