Linda Robertson - Fatal Circle

For over an hour, next week’s column was my center of attention. No more being late. It was number four in the series on waere parents, and my thoughts kept drifting to Ig and Johnny. I’d already roughed out the basic article, but added a new slant: how the waere community can come together like a family to protect the newly—or unknowingly—infected, and thereby protect the community at large. I couldn’t send it to Jimmy Martin, my editor, yet, but I needed to take a break and then read it with fresh eyes, so I made notes for the following week’s column and checked email.

Out of habit I checked the local weather hoping Beverley had remembered her jacket this morning. The link was the Channel 43 page, which also gave me area headlines in bullet points. The line “Vampire Court Growing; Bad News for Local Family” caught my eye. In seconds the video loaded and I hit play.

After the channel’s news intro, the screen filled with footage of Nana standing on our front porch, leaning on the rail. Not surprisingly, a cigarette burned between her fingers. She was in need of a visit to the hair salon. The snow-white beehive had to go. It aged her in the worst way.

Back before Hallowe’en, Beverley had commented that if Nana would dye her hair black and put a buckle belt around her head, she wouldn’t even need a witch hat. That one comment had said more than I could have in weeks of pointing out older celebrities on TV and saying, “That style would be good on you.”

The camera zoomed in on Nana, but the reporter’s voice-over was talking about Menessos moving his haven to Cleveland, saying, “While that’s good news for the local economy, it is bad news for one family in particular.” The station’s logo and DEMETER ALCMEDI appeared underneath her and the reporter went on. “Today you learned that your granddaughter is set to become the Court Witch of the Regional Vampire Executive, Menessos. The Vampire Executive International Network public relations people tell me the position is one of prestige and power, an honor. Conversely, the Witch Elders Council PR department tells me it is a misuse of power and a position of shame. What is your reaction?” The reporter’s microphone shot into frame, in Nana’s face.

“Persephone has always been strong-willed, always made her own decisions. But this one . . . I can’t abide. She’s abandoned me, like her mother did.”

Like my mother? My chest tightened with actual pain.

“She’s gone to gallivant with bloodsuckers, to use her power in service to the undead . Witches should respect the life of their power more than that. She, most of all.”

“‘She most of all’? Why do you say that, Ms. Alcmedi?”

Nana put the cigarette to her lips, then blew smoke into the wind. Her hands were shaking.

“Ms. Alcmedi?” the reporter prompted.

She didn’t acknowledge him, but her voice came small and thin when she spoke. “That Hallowe’en Ball the other night, up at the Covenstead . . . that was her smashing that guitar on stage. That was my Persephone! I taught her better than to squander her gifts on the whims of a gods-be-damned vampire.” They beeped her words out, but I knew what she said. She stubbed out the cigarette on the porch rail and then fixed the reporter with grim resolve. “She better never come back here.” She measured him up and down with a sneer as deep as the Grand Canyon. “Same goes for you.” She shuffled inside and shut the door.

Oh, my Nana is sooo good!

“Like her mother” was probably the single most-convincing thing she could have said. And it was accurate, except that when my mother left me with her, I was a little younger than Beverley.

I indulgently watched it twice more—the report ended with a triple replay of the most important seconds of the fairy-smashing video—then I made myself stop. This was doing nothing but hurting my heart and there was no way I could work on the column now. Johnny’s idea of working off the emotional turmoil appealed to me. The place was spic and span. No need for cleaning and scrubbing yet. So, I shut off almost all the lights and went out the door. I may not have waere strength, but there had to be something I could do to help.

In the main hall, some were cleaning the floor, and others were arranging tables on the side already clean. As soon as I appeared, however, all working stopped in waves as they became aware of me. Even Johnny stopped. He glanced around, but remained quiet. Guess, like me, he was waiting to see what would happen next. The seconds ticked by. I couldn’t stand it. “Mountain,” I called.

Mountain had been single-handedly carrying a green futon couch onto the stage. He set it down gently, as if it weighed no more than a folding chair.

“I would speak with you.”

He bowed his head and came forward.

Not sure what I wanted to ask, I hesitated.

“Where they cannot hear, Ms. Witch?” he suggested.

“Yes.”

“This way.” He led me back into the green room and shut the door behind us. “They can’t hear us here.”

“Why do they stop working when I show up?”

“You’re going to be EV and that’s how they show respect. They face you so you can see their eyes.”

I liked the way he shortened the title and made it sound like a name. “And if I want them to continue?”

“You say ‘continue,’ ” Mountain answered.

“And if I want to help?”

He chuckled. “The EV doesn’t labor.”

“What if I want to—”

From behind me, near the stairs, Menessos laughed. “Do not tease him.”

I turned just as the lower door, the one beneath mine and Johnny’s door, clicked shut. Mountain turned for a quick retreat. “Mountain,” Menessos called.

“Boss?”

“My newest prize. Yes?”

“Of course, Boss.” Mountain left.

My anger stirred. “I was not teasing him.”

“I know.” Caught in a lie, the vampire seemed embarrassed.

“Is that my blood flushing your cheeks?”

“It is.” In a blur he climbed the stairs and stopped before the door to my room. He glanced over the railing, then started punching in the code. “Join me?”

“I prefer we not be alone in my room again.”

“Very well.” Menessos opened my door. “You can stay out here.” He proceeded inside.

Of course I followed, shoving the door open and marching quickly into my nearly dark chambers. Emerging from behind the door, Menessos slammed it shut and restrained me in a crushing embrace.

“Let go.”

“I just wanted to remind you that of the two of us, I am the stronger.”

“Duh. Let go.”

“Oh, Persephone! Do you so loathe my arms around you?” He danced me around the entryway. “Bliss still doesn’t have to be a difficult thing to find.”

Sparring with Johnny, I’d been restrained in a similar fashion, minus the dancing. It had made me feel like I’d failed. My new goal was to keep from being caught in this position ever again. I went rigid in his grip. “Take your bliss and shove it.”

“I refuse to believe you mean that.”

“And I refuse to put a lot of faith in your words.”

His confining embrace loosened a fraction. “Why?”

My mouth clamped shut. I wasn’t going to offer anything to him freely.

He leaned in—I flinched—and whispered, “It is most fun when you are difficult.”

I feigned a swoon. “Dear Diary, the top three least attractive qualities in a man are: patronizing me, the use of intimidation tactics, and conceitedness.”

“Tell me why your faith in my words is lacking.”

Like this, I couldn’t break free. He had control over my body, but not my mind. It seemed like a Freudian reversal. So, the chances of him letting go were less if I didn’t cooperate. “You said you’d explain how I’d bonded with Johnny. But you didn’t. What you did was lure me in to get me alone so you could feed.”