Linda Robertson - Fatal Circle

He reevaluated the scene in a glance that was well aware of her short-shorts, shapely legs, and, uh, ringlets. “Yeah, I’ve got an order,” he said, hungrily.

“Tell me.” Risqué shimmied her shoulders a little, resettling the blond curls so the tips of her pert breasts peeked through. Her nipples were too red, and I wasn’t sure if that was a sign of abuse or a trait related to her eye color. She moved away from the counter and toward him as if to greet him. “What’s your order?”

“Get out.” At the last moment, Johnny angled and graced her with that rude shoulder bump that punks do to people on sidewalks. With their varied heights, it was more of his elbow bumping her shoulder.

With a loud “hmpf” of protest, she spun on her heel and left.

As the door shut, Johnny zeroed in on the bacon.

Thankful she was gone, I said, “I’m glad you’re up.”

Lifting three slices, he stopped to check his jeans front, then shot me a grin. “Huh. It was there when I woke up. Guess she scared it away. Just let me refuel . . .” He bit into the bacon.

“I meant awake .”

“But that’s not what you said. You’re refueling, too, right?”

“Oh, yes.”

While he searched for a plate, I tied the sheet ends and sat at the bar with my oatmeal. The sausage smelled so good. “Menessos insinuated that I had bonded to you, and that because of it I’d probably want meat.”

He snickered. “I suppose you want two innuendo points now?”

“Of course. I can’t hope to win this little contest, but I don’t want to give the impression that I’ve given up, either.” I lifted my spoon. “Do you know what he’s talking about?”

“Nope.”

“Do you know the lore of the Domn Lup or any mystical bonding-type stories with waeres?”

“Oh, I’ve heard some stories about waere bondage but I don’t think that’s the same thing.” He served himself a hearty helping of everything but the oatmeal. “And I don’t know how you survive without meat.” On his fork, he held a curiously shaped sausage link. “Wanna bite?”

After studying it and seeing how much grease was on it, I said, “Not really.”

“One bite.” He held the fork at me insistently. “You get an innuendo point for it.”

“For biting it, not sucking it, right?”

“Right. Oh, and nice one, now I’ll give you two points.” He watched me with more interest than he should have, but after I’d “mmmmed” appropriately, he didn’t push for more. “So what’s on the agenda today?”

I shrugged. “Eat. Shower. Wait for Nana’s announcement, I guess. I’m hoping that sometime soon we’ll hear from Xerxadrea—if not, we may have to make a conference call on the protrepticus—and get our plans for dealing with the fairies in order.”

“Sam will coordinate that, right?”

“I intend to insist.”

“Well, all that sounds like stuff to do later. I’ve got a plan of my own in mind, and this one will keep you from pacing the floor here.”

I thought the “not pacing” idea was going to convert into a suggestion of shower sex followed by more sleep. Actually, I was hoping for that. But Johnny, oddly, had something else entirely on his mind, though it did involve wrapping my legs around him.

We rode around Cleveland astride his Harley. Before we took off, he explained it was a Night Train and that my seat was called a badlander and bragged on the motor in terms I couldn’t understand. He also proudly showed me the custom paint job—black and silver wolves—which he’d done himself. Guitars, he said, were painted with automotive paint.

We let the sun warm us at red traffic lights and then had the November air cool us down again when the signals turned green. We cruised University Circle and stopped for coffee at Arabica where I asked whether or not he needed to see Doc Lincoln, the vet he’d coerced into helping a fellow waere in need, about his apparent lack of libido. Johnny, of course, insisted his libido was fine and mentioned again I’d already been drained by “the fang-face.” He promised after the ceremony we’d celebrate.

It was nearly three o’clock when Johnny parked the bike outside a bar called The Dirty Dog.

I indelicately wrestled myself off the motorcycle and strolled up to the establishment that had unquestionably inspired the term “seedy beer joint.” Even from the outside it was conspicuously not a quaint tavern or an upscale martini bar. I barely made out the neon Corona sign in the front window—the glass was that grimy.

The inside wasn’t any better. The smoking laws may have been new, but cigarette smoke had had many years to permeate the wood and furniture, and to tarnish the ceiling into what those folks who name paint colors might have called Urine-Stain Yellow. And that particular term might have been helpful in naming the odor of the place, too.

Inside, the tight, galleylike hall had a series of booths to the right that had to be older than me. Each had a poster showcasing a different beer from the Great Lakes Brewery. To the left was a long bar and a silent Wurlitzer jukebox. An old man sat at the far end, hunched over a glass. His hair was thick and white, buzzed short, and he wore a predominantly red tartan plaid flannel shirt with sleeves cuffed to show the thermal underwear beneath. He was the only person here. At our approach, he cocked his head just slightly our way and arched a single white brow.

“Johnny?” The long, stubble-covered face twisted with genuine glee. His smile was full of long, stained teeth. “Johnny! Haven’t seen you in years, m’boy.” He slid from his seat, a cane in hand.

“Hey, Beau.”

They clasped each other’s forearms in greeting. “Who’s the doll?”

“Beauregard, this is Persephone. But that’s a lot of syllables, so I call her Red.”

“Ahhh, Red’s easier on the tongue. As easy as she is on the eye.” He held his hand out to me.

I took it firmly for a good shake, but he instantly jerked away.

“Jesus!” he grumbled, shaking his appendage like it hurt. “She’s a witch!”

“Yeah.” Johnny drew out the word as if confused.

I hadn’t jolted him.

Beau lifted his cane and poked Johnny in the thigh with the tip. “Could’ve warned an old man!” He hobbled around the bar. His one leg didn’t bend, and I wondered if Beau, like Nana, had bad knees. “What’ll ya drink, doll?”

“We’re not here for a drink, Beau,” Johnny said.

Beau stopped. “You wanna see him ?”

Johnny nodded.

“They call you in?”

“Nope.”

Only Beau’s eyes moved then, as they angled toward me, then sank down to his opening and closing hand. To Johnny he said, “Upstairs. You remember the way? Better knock first.”

Johnny left, but my attention lingered on Beau. “How’d you know I’m a witch?”

He continued to tighten then loosen his fist. He snorted, then jutted his chin in Johnny’s direction. “Better catch up to him.”

I left, fighting the urge to hurry to catch up. Johnny was waiting for me, holding open a tall, thin door. “Stay close,” he whispered, and went up ahead of me. The stairwell was narrow. The building was a physical representation of lean times. Every step creaked. It smelled of decaying wood, like a rotten cedar chest—cedar!

Waeres . The Dirty Dog. Duh.

Atop the landing, there was a short hall and a single door.

Johnny knocked, practiced being patient, and knocked again, more forcefully.

I felt the floor shake; someone was moving beyond. Someone big.

The door opened. The person who came into view was a head taller than the door frame, and three times as broad as Johnny. His dark, curly hair was thick and short, like a wire brush. The Hawaiian shirt he wore was loose on his giant frame, but the blue and orange pineapple and surfboard print wasn’t doing him any favors. Tan pants were raggedly cut off below the knee. Apparently it had been a long, long time since his socks and sneakers were new. Whatever color they’d started out they were both a dismal gray now, and had been for a long time. “Hey, Hector.”