Linda Robertson - Fatal Circle

“I am not your chauffeur. Get up front.”

“I’m sorry, Persephone. Habit.” He settled into the passenger seat.

At the end of the drive, I flashed my lights at the pair of silhouettes on the porch waving. “To I-71, right?” My voice was thick, still fighting tears. Damn it. Enough with the weepiness shit!

“Yes.” It soon became clear that Menessos only gave directions on an “as needed” basis—which also kept the car uncomfortably silent. His method, though not very satisfactory to my detail-seeking self, would still get us there.

I considered my present state. This can’t be hormones. My Depo-Provera shot isn’t due until Yule. The nurse, aware of the timing, had teased about it being my gift to myself. This is just an outlet for stress. Don’t think about it as leaving home. Talk about something, anything! Shoving that emotion away, I asked, “Is there an Internet connection at the haven that I can access to do my column?” I’d packed my laptop.

“Yes. High-speed Wi-Fi. You are welcome to use my desktop if you’d care to.”

About to insist that I didn’t want to impose, I stopped myself. Do masters worry over imposing upon a servant? I wondered if strong emotions made one a terrible master.

“Thanks. I’m used to the laptop.”

More silence.

“Tell me about your vampires,” I asked.

“All vampires . . . all of them, everywhere, are mine. My curse has become theirs. And I mourn for them as equally as I delight in them. They are my children’s children’s children.”

I took a breath in order to rephrase.

“Do not misunderstand,” he went on, “I never created life in the womb of a woman. But I brought forth my kind with a relentless and undeniable seed. It brings death and rebirth into a new kind of life. And yet as I watch them, my offspring, so many of them waste the gift they have been given.”

I felt like I should cue Bach’s “Toccata and Fugue in D Minor” after that little speech. I tried again: “I meant the vampires at your new haven. What’s it like?”

He sulked for a heartbeat or two. “Masters run their havens like mini-kingdoms. Their word is law. Not all observe the same laws, however. In my private haven, none are allowed to spoil the gift they have received. You will find evidence of my dominance, but . . .”

“But?”

“I care for them. Genuinely. I believe most of them truly care for me.”

It is like meeting his family. He didn’t elaborate further, so I asked, “What are your laws?”

“My laws are based on respect for and compliance with my supreme authority.” He twisted to face me. “I believe you are beginning to understand how the people around someone with power come to expect things of that someone. And not just trivial things . They expect protection, they seek their leader’s favor. My laws are simple and firm, my rewards are quick and generous.” With wry pleasure he added, “And I do enjoy being in charge.”

That didn’t surprise me at all. What did surprise me were his directions right to Public Square, the center of downtown Cleveland.

“I’m better acquainted with the history of Chicago and New York, but I am told that in the light of day you can still see the letters spelling out ‘May Company’ atop this building.”

“Your haven is in an old department store?”

“Technically yes, but specifically no.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“The department store was ground level and several stories up. This particular building, interestingly enough, goes deep into the ground, more than you might expect. Do you know the local history?”

“Not really.”

“Care to venture a guess at what is down there?”

“Subway tunnels?” I don’t want to live in tunnels and room with rats.

“No. Beneath is a long-neglected theater, barely more than a ruin. We are, of course, modifying it to accommodate our needs. It would have been a shame to destroy a beautiful structure, so the terrible state of disrepair was truthfully an advantage to us.”

“Aren’t you being a little Anne Rice Theatre-of-the-Vampires . . . minus Paris, of course.”

“Underground real estate is always hard to find. Especially in a big city on a lake. Our choices were limited.”

“Right.”

He directed me to pull over in front of the building, basically at the intersection of Euclid and Roadway, where a trio of men stood—men blatantly advertising they were the dangerous sort. My instinctive reaction was to drive the other way, fast, but Menessos got out and greeted them. They gave acquiescing nods, and I realized they were servants. More than that, they were vampires.

“You two, conduct the bags from the trunk to the appropriate rooms. You, park the car and return the keys to me.”

I popped the trunk and got out. Before either of the vampires could reach inside the Avalon’s back end, I removed my broom. “I’ll take this myself.” I quickly retreated.

Following Menessos, we approached what was basically a wall of particle board, with one rough-cut opening for a standard windowless steel door in ugly primer gray. keep out was spray-painted on the wall in bright colors and with graffiti artistic-style letters. Centered on the door was a circle of black, with the stylized fang symbol—six gleaming white teeth, the outer two were fangs. Like the universal symbols differentiating men’s and women’s bathrooms, this image indicated a vampire establishment. A governmental regulation meant to protect the innocent public, of course. It was a sign I knew to avoid, but I wasn’t avoiding it this time.

I’m about to enter a real vampire haven.

I had expected the gray door would be locked, but Menessos reached for the knob and opened it with a turn.

Before Goliath and Menessos crossed my path, I considered the undead anathema, and I avoided them. I wasn’t about to be converted by the new “Vampire Executives” campaign—which was trying to soften their image from demonic bloodsuckers to lawyer-type bloodsuckers.

What’s funny is they see that as an improvement.

Both Menessos and his next in command had shown evidence they were above-average violent offenders. Yet, I had seen both offer kindness and tenderness as if they were still people . It was hard to believe.

And here I was going into Menessos’s world, his haven. There would be a lot of vampires.

Like Krispy Kreme doughnuts at a Friday morning office meeting, I didn’t stand a chance.

“After you, Persephone.” He indicated for me to enter.

Had we been going into a normal public place, the “chivalry isn’t dead” gesture would have been more appreciated. Not knowing what to imagine on the other side of this under-construction vampire domain, my steps were hesitant.

A single light, the only illumination, beckoned me away from the empty, echoing department store entry toward a separate structure to my left. As I neared, the structure was revealed as an old ticket booth. Through the filthy glass, I saw a metal-caged bulb dangling from a now-exposed beam in its ceiling. The eerie glow was enough to make out that the booth was faced with deep cherrywood paneling and ornate molding. A thick coating of dust obscured the details.

It wouldn’t have surprised me to see a cobwebbed skeleton sitting inside that booth. The sound of distant pounding and power tools could easily have been mistaken for rattling chains and rapping spirits.

Menessos led me past the booth and through the dingy lobby behind it to a short hall where we passed a boarded-up elevator. We descended a wide stairway opposite the elevator. Occasional bare light bulbs screwed into once-elegant wall sconces provided minimal illumination. My fingers followed the wooden railing until I realized it was not only dirty but rotting and splintery, as well. Many of the iron spindles were missing.