Linda Robertson - Fatal Circle

The big man was still and silent long enough that I had time to wonder, Is he in the WWF? and move on to, How the hell does he get out of this building? It was hard to believe that he’d fit down the stairwell.

“Johnny Newman.”

That surprised me two ways: his voice was soft, and very few people seemed to know Johnny’s last name.

“Ig taking visitors today?”

“I’ll ask.”

The man ambled across the dark, high-ceilinged room; his size made his movements seem clumsy and overdone. He slid open a pair of pocket doors and passed through. To Johnny, I mouthed the question, “Ig?”

“Ignatius Tierney,” he whispered back. “The dirija, the local waere supervisor.”

At that odd word, I remembered Johnny telling me some of the secret side of how the waere world was structured. I also recalled that he’d not wanted to reveal his at-will changes to these people. That ability meant he would certainly be crowned as the Domn Lup—Wolf King—and he was in no hurry to be burdened with the responsibilities. Similarly, I hadn’t wanted to reveal to the Elders that I was the Lustrata. We were both smart enough to know that making claim to such a position held not only power, but myriad obligations, too.

Destinies are destinies because they are inevitable.

Is that why we’re here?

Johnny began to fidget. As for me, I was breathing deeply of the aromas around me, sorting through them. Woodsy, but not quite cedar. This was more juniper, maybe cypress. And something was mixed with it . . . either a heady wine—which wouldn’t have surprised me with the bar downstairs—or ambergris.

Hector returned to view, and motioned us on. I followed Johnny, shutting the door behind us. The floor planks gave the slightest bounce. The blinds were drawn, keeping it dark.

Johnny stopped abruptly just inside the doorway.

“Never show up on a good day, do you?” The words were slurred and thick.

I peeked around Johnny’s shoulder and saw a man sitting in a hospital bed. Ig’s cheeks plumped, well, one did. He’d had a stroke.

“When?” Johnny asked.

Ig gargled saliva. I think it was supposed to be a laugh. “Two days ago.” He waited then said, “Hector.” Pronouncing the name involved massive amounts of phlegm. “Tell them.”

“There’s a clotting issue with his blood.”

Johnny’s question came quickly. “But the full moon will heal it, right?”

Hector’s chin dropped to his chest.

“No,” Ig said.

The instant Johnny looked at me, I knew what he was thinking: a transformation would heal this. Though the natural full moon was twenty-five days away, we’d gotten around that before.

“Tell them all of it,” the dirija insisted.

“It keeps happening. He gets a TPA treatment and heals to this stage immediately. This stage, no better. And it happens earlier and earlier with each moon cycle.”

“We just had a full moon four days ago,” I said.

Ig nodded. “S’pposed to be dead.”

I’d have guessed Ig to be maybe forty-five. His face was speckled with freckles and his pale red-blond hair was just starting to thin. With lashes to match his Irish hair, his green eyes seemed big. Except for a drooping eyelid and the nonworking side of his mouth, he appeared to be a man in his prime. He patted the bed. “John, sit.”

Johnny crossed the room, and Ig spotted me for the first time. “Who’s the woman?”

“That’s Red.” Johnny sat on the edge of the bed.

Ig acknowledged me with a sniff of the air in my direction. That was when I saw that under his half-buttoned pajama shirt he wore a long silvery necklace, probably platinum or white gold. The thick links of herringbone chain held a large Y-shaped centerpiece, and while I didn’t clearly see it, I was certain it was a wolf’s head. “Beautiful. But not waere.”

“I’m a witch.” Get that tidbit out of the way this time. Beau’s reaction still had me puzzled.

Hector immediately eased away from me as if he were backing away from a wild animal. “Dangerous company to keep.” He outweighed me by at least two hundred pounds. He was a foot and a half taller than I. And he was backing away from me in fear. It seemed ridiculous, but it was actually the smart thing to do.

“She’s cool, Hector. A bunch of us kennel at her place.” To Ig, he added, “I didn’t know about this.” He gestured at the bed’s frame as if that would convey the words he didn’t want to say.

“What brings you?”

“Her.”

“Back to the woman.” Again, Ig considered me, but this time it made me feel that closing and buttoning my blazer would have been appropriate. “Why?”

“She’s going to need the help of some waeres.”

“What about those who kennel?”

“Just my band, a few friends. Not enough.”

Ig scowled just a little at the word “band.” “Who’d she piss off? WEC?”

“There’s a lot going on, Ig. More than I can say. I came to ask if you would help . . . but you’ve already got your own concerns to deal with.”

“Must be important. You’d not have come back otherwise.” Ignatius took Johnny’s arm. “There’s only one way now.” Gravely, he said, “Take my place.”

Johnny recoiled and stood. “No!”

Discouraged, Ig’s hand fell to the sheet, and was still for an instant, then it clenched and his features distorted defiantly. “I’m going to die anyway. Todd will be dirija by default. And he won’t help you.”

I didn’t know who this Todd was, but the vibe in the room indicated that nobody here thought that was a good thing.

“Should be yours, John. If you’re dirija, help is at your command.”

Johnny shook his head back and forth slowly. “I can’t,” he answered. “I won’t. I don’t want to be a dirija .”

“Ha!” Ig struggled forward, half of his body noncompliant. Hector moved to help him but the waere lord shouted wordlessly and the big man stopped. We were forced to watch long, awkward minutes of him using his right arm to jerk the useless left one into his lap, then drag his left leg across the bed to the edge so he could try to sit where Johnny had sat. The left arm fell out of place twice and Ig raged each time. It was sad and wretched and terrible. It hurt me to see him fight with himself for such a simple task.

When Ig finally had his body where he wanted it, he was breathing as if he’d just finished a marathon. Ferociously, he said, “Talk of what you want? I don’t want to live like this !”

Ig stabbed a finger at Johnny, pointing, and his fury continued. “Your past may hide from you, but you can’t hide from your future. Tear this agony from me! Take it now, I’m ready. Spare me this indignity!”

Stricken, Johnny rushed from the room. I could do nothing but follow.

Ig’s howl of anger followed us down the stairwell.

Johnny didn’t say a word as he passed Beau, he just flew by, threw open the door, and stormed up the sidewalk to the Night Train, straddled it, and turned the ignition. My feet were planted on the sidewalk. I didn’t know what to say to him, but I wasn’t getting on the bike with him yet.

He understood and shut it off.

His hands left the grips and rested on his thighs. His head fell back, as if the sunlight might burn away his misery and pain. The bright rays kissed his skin, gleamed in his hair, and glistened on the earrings and brow rings. He still hadn’t shaved, but the extra scruff suited him.

I waited.

“The first time I changed, Ig was there. He’d crossed my path at a deli, scented me. He didn’t recognize me, so he knew I was either a new waere in the area breaking the law by not registering with the pack, or I was flat-out a brand-new waere. He had me followed.” Johnny brought his skyward face down and his countenance was tight with emotion. “After the park, I was lost. I didn’t know who I was . . . but I knew who I wanted to be. I chose the name Newman because I was a new man. And then I found out I was infected. Whether or not I was a waere before the park, I may never know. But I had to deal with it like it was new. Ig was there for me. He’s been like a father to me.”