Linda Robertson - Fatal Circle

Someday, he would have to reveal to the waere community that he was Domn Lup. But not today. Today he was reeling because his father figure was dying. “C’mon,” I said, swinging my leg over the bike to sit behind him. My arms circled his waist and I laid my head against his shoulder.

He gripped the handlebars. “Where to?”

Last night we’d just cuddled, I’d needed rest. Today, I thought I might know the answer he needed. “Let’s just ride.”

Surveying the theater, I had another awe-filled reaction. The large display screens were now wired into the upstage framework and a logo like the one on the gray-primer door floated around in each screen, spinning and flipping. The marble floor was now finished.

A large circular dais covered with thick black carpeting was now situated downstage center. A big chair was centered on the dais. Accented by ornately carved wood, it had a thronelike appearance, but the padded seat, back, and arms made it look comfortable, as well. An angled beam of amber light focused on the chair shifted slightly. I glanced up. Someone was adjusting the stage lights above us.

We moved farther into the room. When the workers observed us they stopped and stared at us. One of them, a giant of a man whose height and girth would top even Hector’s, was carrying a divan all by himself across the stage. He wore a Cleveland Browns football jersey and dark blue jeans. He became aware of the quiet, saw us, and set the long piece of furniture down and stood like the rest.

Johnny took one of the pair of steps situated at either side of the proscenium to stage level. As we crossed the stage, we neared the colossal-sized man who’d single-handedly carried the divan. When I glanced back, he was following us off stage.

If we continued on into the little alcove, we’d be vulnerable. And trapped. I tapped Johnny on the shoulder. “We’re being followed.”

Johnny turned. “You need something?” Johnny’s shoulders squared.

The big man had eyes as black as pitch, but his round face and thick arms were tanned to what Nana would call “brown as a biscuit.” He used one massive hand to lift his shirt a little to reach into his rear jeans pocket. Then, he offered me a cream-colored envelope, a little larger than four-by-six inches. My name was written in black with calligraphic flair on the front. The back flap was bordered with gold. Its elegance was somewhat lessened by squashed corners and a slight bend. “Boss said to give you this.” He spoke slowly and his inflections hinted at southern locales. It made his deep voice pleasant to hear.

I accepted the envelope. “Thank you. What’s your name?”

“Mountain.”

“Thank you, Mountain. You’re certainly getting the renovations done fast. It’s really amazing.”

He bowed his head and backed away. “Thank you, Ms. Witch.” Before he disappeared through the doorway to go back to work, I saw a straggly ponytail of black hair that fell past the ends of his long shirt.

Ms. Witch?

I opened the envelope and handed it to Johnny. A gold-bordered correspondence card bore the engraved letter M, also in gold, at the top. Below it, in the same beautiful penmanship, was written:

The access code for your chambers has been changed. 1109—your foster daughter’s birthday. Now only you and I know . . . unless you share this information.

— M

I handed the note to Johnny as we climbed up the stairs. He read it, smirking, until, at the upper landing, we discovered brown paper bags sitting atop a large cooler. “The groceries,” I said.

We put the food away. I was happy with the pasta and frozen vegetable selections, but Johnny mumbled about needing more than salt and pepper for spices.

There were still questions from earlier rolling around my brain. “Can I ask you something?”

“Just did.”

I hit his arm with the box of spaghetti. “Beau said he hadn’t seen you in years. Is he not normally around?”

“If things are still like they used to be, he has a shop, but keeps odd hours there. When he’s not at the shop, he’s at the bar.” Johnny headed for the door to get the cooler. “It’s me who hasn’t been around in years.”

Ig had used the words “come back,” hadn’t he? “Why? If Ig’s like a father to you . . .”

“Like most fathers and sons, Ig and I had our words. He’s wanted me to be his second since he met me. He wanted me to learn how it works, to be ready to, one day, take full authority. But I wanted to front a rock band. We butted heads.” He set the cooler down at the end of the bar and took a deep, deep breath. “He’s still adamant that I lead his pack. Only now, I can’t just assume the role through rank, I’d have to kill him for it.”

I was only a little stunned to have this bit of waere culture confirmed. “How does murder fit into the equation? Wolf packs in the wild don’t work that way, do they?”

“No. But people are people.” He transferred lunch meats and cheeses to the refrigerator. “Strength leads. If one will yield, the fight is over. But that doesn’t happen much.”

“And Ig won’t yield because he wants to die.”

Johnny nodded. We finished up the chore in silence.

Then I couldn’t help it anymore and had to ask. “Why hasn’t this Todd killed him for it?”

“Everyone loves Ig. Anyone who killed him for power would be hated by the rest of the pack. Who would want to rule where everyone hated him?”

I leaned on the counter. “But you can wait, then fight Todd?”

“I don’t want it.”

I showed him a soft and patient countenance. He’d have to take his place of power eventually. Just like I would, too.

“What I do want,” he purred, coming toward me, “is a kiss.”

I quickly jumped up to sit on the counter. “ Just a kiss? I still feel cheated from last night.”

He unashamedly assessed the height of the counter, put on a thoughtful expression, tapped his chin, and reevaluated the distance before nodding approval.

“Come here.” I put emphasis on the words so they wouldn’t sound like a dog command but like a lover’s suggestion. It won me the boyish smile I adored.

When he neared, I hooked my ankles behind him. “You’re trapped.”

“That’s what you think.” Johnny backed up, hauling me to the edge of the counter. I threw my arms around his neck to keep from falling. His hands cupped my bottom and he asked, “Who’s got who?”

“You win,” I said, punctuating it with a victory kiss. “You have me.”

He put me back on the countertop and changed the victory kiss into the passionate kind, beginning to—

His fingers brushed the bandage on my neck and, immediately, he broke away. “Yeah. Just a kiss.”

“Johnny.” My heels hit the cabinetry with a dull thud. He was heading for the door. “You’re just locking that, right?”

“Nope.” His voice had just a hint of tightness.

“Where are you going?”

“To see if the Beholders will award me any brownie points for helping out.” The door shut behind him.

Sigh.

It made sense to make friends with the vampire’s underlings, build camaraderie and all. But that subtle tension in his voice suggested Johnny had some emotional stuff he intended to sweat out. I still thought my idea was the better one, but that implied tender emotions. He wasn’t able to accept my affection until he had released the angry emotions roiling inside him, and for that, he needed to perform sweaty man work . There weren’t any trees to cut down and chop up for firewood here, but there were plenty of hammers to swing and nails to pound.

Bored and meandering around the room, I pulled my laptop out of my backpack and placed it on the desk. Columnist work.