Linda Robertson - Arcane Circle

Johnny’s expression spoke for him; it wasn’t a painless process.

When the doctor finished, he rinsed Johnny’s chest again. “The damage to the pectoral muscle is going to be the worst of it. Any movement of your arm will pull on the wound. I suggest you use a sling for a few days at least, maybe a week. Maybe more, depending on whether or not your usual healing kicks in. No matter what, no activities of any kind that could strain those stitches.”

He wiped Johnny’s skin dry and applied a salve. “Use this. Although you’re averse to the numbing additives in it, this stuff will help minimize scarring.” He placed the container on the bedside table. “Three to four times a day. I’ll bring you more soon.”

The doc checked the temperature on the cauterizing device and, satisfied, put it away in his bag. The bleeding was stanched. Johnny had been effectively tended to. I breathed a relieved sigh. Then the doc stood, ready to leave. “Doc, wait.” My respite from stress was too short. This wasn’t over yet. “I have something to show you before you leave.”

“Red,” Johnny interrupted, “I want a minute with you first. Kirk, you and the doc step out.”

No one questioned him.

I sank down on the bed, grateful for a moment alone with him. My fingers pushed into the jet-black waves of his hair, scrubbing over sand still on his scalp. My mind flashed on the beam cutting a dragon in half, then incinerating a Beholder’s legs as the rest of him burst into flame. I could still hear his final scream.

That grit also reminded me of what Johnny had done. In wolf form, he’d attacked the fairy Fax Torris. She’d dragged him beneath the surface of Lake Erie. They’d been under a long time. Too long. In those moments when my fear was most intense, I regretted terribly not yet telling him that I loved him.

My heart compelled me to say those words now, but with him lying there injured, it seemed that telling him here, like this, would cheapen the words. I didn’t want to say them out of pity or as a reaction to fear.

I said nothing and kissed him. Not a sexy, passionate kind of kiss, but a so-alive-in-this-moment kind. I put to memory the feel of his soft lips pressed to mine because earlier today I’d thought I might not ever get to kiss him again.

Johnny, however, took it as a “Let’s get naked” kind of kiss. His hands rubbed up my arms—and he jerked in pain and said something very improper.

“Doc said no activities that would risk the stitches,” I whispered.

Undeterred, he put on a brave face. “I don’t care. Any chance you’ll do a little voodoo on me tonight?”

I sat up, rolling my eyes. “Your libido is insatiable. You’re not in any shape to be doing—”

“Wait, wait—not voodoo, I mean probing. Can we do a little probing tonight?” He grinned.

It was such a Johnny thing to say that the words filled me with relief. He’s going to be fine. “I’ll give you two innuendo points, but that’s all you’re getting.” I’d lost track of the score in our little game of who could use the most sexual innuendoes in normal conversation.

He carefully moved his arm and laid his palm across my thigh. “Seriously, Red. We’ve shared pieces of our souls. I need you to use our connection to find out what you can about who inked me up and stifled my powers.”

“I will.” I found a clean spot on the towel and blotted the blood that had seeped between the stitches when he moved. “Let’s get you past this first.”

“Does the process of digging in my memories involve hand-to-hand combat?” he asked sarcastically.

“It might.” The point he was making was clear, but so was mine. “I’ve never done this kind of thing before. It might involve mud wrestling for all I know.”

Expecting him to wiggle his brows and make a remark about bikini-clad females in shallow pits of mud, I was surprised when his mirth faded and he became very serious. “Red, the top dog is coming. I need this unlocked pronto. I don’t want anything holding me back when he arrives.”

“Johnny.” He’d lost blood and energy. Because his power was locked in his tattoos, transforming at will wasn’t ever easy. Right now doing so would have been harder still. “I get it that the Zvonul are the wærewolf equivalent of the Witch Elders Council, and that this won’t be as easy as a couple of neighborhood dogs getting introduced via mutual butt-sniffing. But what is this Rege going to do?”

“He has to see me change. The rest of the wæres won’t accept me until he confirms me as the Domn Lup.”

“Other than the Rege, Todd said something about an adevar ?”

“Titles up the chain of command. Let me start at the bottom so this makes sense. Dirija is a local pack lord, like a mayor or a priest. They account for a hundred to two hundred and fifty wæres, depending on area and city size. They answer to an adevar —think of them as IRS agents with governorships. Each adevar deals with ten to fifteen dirija. They aren’t well liked.”

“Why not?”

“The dirija see them as buttinskis and tattletales.”

“But ‘bean counter’ was the term Todd used.”

“They’re basically accountants who get furry once a month. They kennel with the packs they oversee on a rotating basis. Never a fun time. It’s like being audited.”

“Okay.”

“Between them and the Zvonul are the diviza, who are more like mafia dons crossed with U.S. senators.”

“I think the government official examples help me understand, but the priest and mafia descriptions create a bunch of blanks that I’m not sure I want filled in.”

Johnny snorted. “Yeah, but actual government officials are elected or appointed. These guys fight for position. The Zvonul are a pack of the most powerful wæres on the planet, each with a region under his direct influence. They keep control through loyalty they create with spiritual connection, intimidation, and strategy. So the idea of a group of priests, mafia dons, and generals—with a whole lot of Big Brother mixed in—is a more accurate analogy.”

“Yikes. Sounds like a cult.”

“See why I wanted to stay out of it?”

“Yeah. But you’re in it. Big time.”

He didn’t reply. He just picked at the sheet on the bed.

Though etymology made it pretty obvious, I asked, “And the Rege?”

“The Zvonul’s main man. Think of him as …” he considered it and said, “Pope-Czarzilla. If he called the packs to unite, it’d take the airlines weeks to handle the exodus of wæres to Romania. No one would dare refuse.”

“But the moving industry in America would crumble!” My flippant statement won me the lopsided grin I was hoping for, but it faded too quickly.

Johnny had taken the mantle of his fate in order to help me defeat the fairies: He’d killed Ignatius Tierney, the former dirija, who also happened to be his father figure, and in doing so he’d claimed the pack. The responsibilities of his destiny were changing him, siphoning off his lightheartedness, replacing it with new gravity. He’d risked everything for me; to deny him anything would have been selfish.

“Okay. We’ll do some probing tonight. But you’ve lost a lot of blood; you’re going to have to drink a gallon of orange juice.”

“You should know, Red. This household has the potential to single-handedly keep Florida orange growers in business.”

Johnny was referring to my own frequent need to consume OJ. The vampire Menessos was my servant, and part of being his master meant letting him feed from me.

But Johnny had been unconscious on the beach during part of the battle. He’d missed some very important events … such as me staking Menessos. If he’d known what I’d done, I don’t think he would have made that joke. I’d taken a terrible risk to defeat the fairies. Menessos may be well and truly dead, never to rise again. Just thinking those words caused tears to threaten, so I changed the subject. “Is Todd going to be a problem in all this?”