Linda Robertson - Fatal Circle

The light from a neon sign at the bar glossed the vampire’s walnut-colored hair with a reddish glow. His beard balanced his face, his square jaw, and afforded him a hint of history, as if he belonged in the armor-clad times of the past. But his times were much farther back. As he scanned the bar, the neon light cast its red sheen on his beard, too: it seemed soaked with blood. “Waerewolf bartender,” he whispered. “Another in the kitchen downstairs. Do you not smell them?”

I sniffed. “Now that you mention it . . .” I’d dismissed the scent as that of two-by-fours from the theater, but this was quite different. It lay low, underlying the smell of savory food. Something not of the restaurant, but in it. Something woodsy, like the cedar part of Johnny’s scent, but missing the sage.

“Ahhh. You need to take heed of these things, Persephone.”

“So I don’t say something they shouldn’t know.”

“Correct.”

“Do you really think they’d listen? That they’d tell anyone?”

“Are you willing to take the chance?”

The waitress set the diet cola in front of me. “Chile relleno’s coming right up.”

I waited until she had gone. “You’ve molded patience into an art, of course. There’s no sense of time running out for you, is there?”

“No.”

“Childhood seems timeless, but hours of play pass in minutes. Bedtimes sneak up on you. Is that how it is for you?”

“Moderately. I suppose that childhood is as good an analogy as another. Children live gloriously seeking the next challenge, hunger incessantly, and growing old isn’t a concern.”

I laughed quietly.

“Becoming an adult means becoming accustomed to the scheduling of events. Rising to a new challenge that could define one’s life becomes a wearying negative. Personal growth takes its place behind maintaining the money flow that feeds the schedule.” The fingers of one hand rippled a bored staccato on the table. “Being wealthy is a better analogy. Wealth alleviates the concern for basic survival and creates the environment for growth.”

The waitress returned with my plate. The deep green poblano chilies were stuffed with asparagus, zucchini, tomato, and strips of peppers. It smelled scrumptious.

“Why do you choose not to eat meat?”

I stabbed my fork into the food. “As any starving college student can tell you, meat’s expensive. Cans of protein-rich beans aren’t. Just kind of happened, I guess.”

“With your ties to Johnny, that will probably change.”

Over the last few weeks the meat Johnny had prepared in my home had smelled delicious and I had more than once almost given in and eaten some. “What ties?”

“You’ve bonded with him, too,” he said curtly.

I stopped with the fork halfway to my mouth.

“How to explain this without using your other titles here in public? What you are and what he is, imprint upon each other. It is not yet a formal bond like other bonds you’re experienced with, but similar.”

“Yet?” I put the fork down.

“Eat.”

“Explain.”

“In private, I will. We will have our privacy sooner if you do things my way.”

When we left the restaurant, it was not quite ten P.M. but it felt much later. Johnny wouldn’t get here for another hour or more, so I strolled slowly. “The days are getting so short,” I said. The sun had set today at six-twenty-three.

“This season permits a longer life for vampires.”

That made the cold somehow more fitting, forcing people safely inside, but I didn’t say that aloud.

We made our way into the theater using the same path as before, but this time we passed fewer cardboard boxes. Now there were nearly forty vampires and Beholders working about the room. The hammering ceased when Menessos and I entered. They stared at us as we crossed to the stage.

We’d been gone about an hour, enough time for them to have set in another quarter of that gleaming black floor. The underarea of the stage was blocked halfway across, too, and apparently Seven had had time to tell everyone the master was running around with the brave new Erus Veneficus. At least he hadn’t held my hand and led me through the theater. I’d walked by myself like a big girl. My hurrying was meant only to keep up with him. Not a rush to get through and away from all the fangs. Really.

Atop the stairs, Menessos tapped in numbers for the lock—hmm, I needed to know the code myself—and opened the heavy door for me. With the exception of the empty space on the wall for a painting, everything from the design board Seven had shown me was now set up and arranged. My suitcase and toiletries bag rested at the foot of the big black bed beside Johnny’s duffel. They’d even started a fire.

“They did all of that out there—and this—in an hour?” I dropped my blazer on a chair and went to warm myself near the flames.

“It was merely moving and placing furniture, Persephone. You must have somewhere to rest tonight.”

Even as he spoke, the work resumed in the theater beyond. The hammering echoed as if several dozen carpenters on meth were out there.

Menessos shut my door, and the noise was immediately silenced. I studied the three different locking mechanisms on it. Bolts at the top and bottom of the door, another at mid-level—in addition to the automatic electronic lock, of course. Very industrial. “Now, about my knowledge of the fey that could assist you . . .”

“How about we start with Johnny?” I wanted to know about the ties Menessos mentioned at the restaurant.

His voice lowered. “How about we start with out Johnny?”

Though my back was turned to the fire, warmth slithered across my aura; it was an invitation duplicated in his smoldering eyes.

I drew my shields around me. “Why do you bounce back and forth between humanizing yourself to the point of making me feel sorry for you, and then play Mr. Dangerous Sex-Starved Vampire?”

Amused, he said, “I am not sex starved.”

“It’s annoying and it’ll get old, fast, if you keep it up.”

The heat abated, but was still present. “My apologies, Persephone.” Standing at the end of the granite countertop, he reached into a decorative azure blue bowl and lifted one of the crackled glass orbs. Even as he inspected it, twisting his wrist, I could feel it as if his fingers were flicking over my aura. “Do you not like having your flesh kindled?”

I recognized and resisted this, strengthening my shields even more, but my body still responded to it. “Wasn’t that made clear with the word ‘annoying’?” The breathlessness of my voice pissed me off. So did he.

“The birth of a master is a sensitive time.” After replacing the glass orb gently, he moved casually nearer and the temperature in the room rose noticeably. The heat, the caress of my aura, his voice, it all triggered a yearning for him, I craved him, needed him. And if he was attuned to my body, he damn well knew it.

I retreated.

He stopped six feet from me. “Persephone, this is what it means to be the master of a vampire.”

“No wonder vampires struggle to rise through the ranks,” I muttered.

“It is quite pleasurable, isn’t it? Erotic.”

It reminded me of working with the ley line. At first touch, the power of the ley scalded, but as the touch lingered it became euphoric. Addictive. “What perks do you get from it?” No breathlessness in my voice. Only anger.

“Because you are mortal, I hear your heart begin to pound. I watch your cheeks flush with warm, fresh blood as desire overwhelms you.”

Suddenly he was right behind me, as close as he could be without touching me. My aura snapped tight around me, shielding me while his power rubbed against that intangible defense and created a metaphysical friction that stole my breath again.