Linda Robertson - Fatal Circle

“Or?” I squared my shoulders.

“Or they will question you, and then me. Already they sense a change. I have told them it is the new city and the unfinished haven. They think I am weakening.”

I jerked, wrenching free only because he allowed it. “Are you?”

He scowled at me.

“Is that why you stole my blood?”

Menessos walked past me, leaving my way to the door unhindered. From where I stood, the kitchen lights cast him in silhouette, a luminous glow around the dark figure; he could have been a statue of stone, except for that bright edge glinting with life. “I must drink of you. The court must see the evidence.”

“That’s not the only reason.”

“No.” He didn’t face me. “The death of the fairy had consequences.”

“I’m not stupid, Menessos. Stop dancing around the truth! I know every binding has a price. But you took from me without my consent—”

His bark of laughter cut me off. “You would never have given it freely!”

My face hardened; I was truly hurt that he thought so. “You don’t know that! Before we saved Theo that night, you said I was an uncommon woman.” I snorted. “You should have been honest. You should have given me the chance. Now you’ll never know for sure, will you? But you have your neat excuse and that’s good enough for you. Isn’t it?” I shouted at his back. “That’s not good enough for me!”

“The death of the fairy, through his binding to me, did weaken me.” He finally looked me in the eye. “I have desired to know the taste of you since I first saw you. Since you burned the stake, however, I have needed to taste you.”

“Is that why you insisted I rest at the farmhouse? So you could feed from me in my sleep? As if I wouldn’t notice the marks?” My anger was growing hot. Fast.

“You have drawn on me and I have given according to your need. Alone with you last night, the first time since just before you altered the mark I placed on you, I could not resist.” As further excuse he added, “I saw to it you were well fed first. I took only what I had to have.”

The pitiful justification infuriated me. “Do you not hear yourself? You planned it!” I wished I could take that moment back and make him ask, make him do it the right way. If I could, I’d draw that power back to me and see if he could take it again.

I could feel the buzzing power he had drawn from me like the vibrating energy of a stone thrumming in my palm. Though I wasn’t touching him, I recognized the magnitude and character of it as my own. That electricity was there inside of him, as was my hex.

“When have I not accepted the responsibility thrust upon me?” I demanded. “When have I drawn the line and said ‘no, this is too much’? I am your master! I accept what that means, Menesssos! The good and the bad.” I called that energy to surge to the surface. “And it’s time you did, too.”

Wind swirled around us. Power crawled over his body—my power, manifest in scribbles of white-blue light. Discharge, escape back to me! My hands cupped before me, ready to catch it. Reaching his sternum, the energy leaped like lightning. An arc of electricity zapped into my palms. I gasped, holding the power like a water hose, feeling it fill my aura as if I were a glass filling with icy water.

It put Menessos on his knees, panting and swaying.

“Enough!” Menessos cried.

I twisted and squeezed the power, stopping it—as if making a kink in a garden hose that stopped the flow of water—but I could easily reopen the flow between us in the same manner. I commanded, “You will ask, when you are in need.”

He nodded, panting. “I will ask.”

“You will not threaten Johnny again.”

“I will not.”

“And you will not harm him.”

His lips pressed together.

“You will not harm him!” I unkinked the cord.

Menessos shouted, “I will not!”

I shut down the power flow between us.

Menessos caught the couch with his arm and managed to keep from falling over.

I stomped closer. “Did you feel that, Menessos? Did you see and believe that?”

“You are a marvelous quick study,” he said between breaths.

Someone knocked on the door.

Feeling absolutely invigorated, I went to answer it and pressed the intercom button. “Yes?”

Mountain’s voice replied, “I’ve brought the prize.”

Menessos climbed onto the couch and whispered, “Stall, if you will.”

“Just a minute,” I said into the speaker, but did not move. When Menessos nodded at me I opened the door.

Mountain entered with a paper-covered painting. “Shall I hang it, Boss?”

“Please do.” Menessos sounded normal.

Striding to the wall, Mountain placed the wrapped frame against the end of the couch, and reached up to the steel framework on the wall and turned it. The metal screeched intolerably for an instant, then the security frame was vertical.

It’s not Ariadne then .

He unwrapped the package but the face of the frame was covered with white gauze. Mountain hung the picture, adjusted it straight, then set about connecting wires under the lip of the security frame. “Five . . . four . . . three . . .” he whispered, then jerked the gauze down, just as a field of blue static buzzed in front of the painting and dissolved.

“ The Charmer? ” I asked, gaping at Menessos.

“You do like Waterhouse, correct?”

Mountain flipped the switch for the accent lighting and left us. Portrayed in oil, a woman sat on the edge of a pond with a harp. At her feet, fish were swimming near to hear her play and sing. Her hair was dark, her skin pale, and her dress was a blue that matched the accent colors Seven had chosen to trim the room.

I couldn’t look away from it, but my mind was racing.

Menessos—with his infinite wisdom—had been trying to weave this juncture to highlight his authority, then punctuate it with this extravagant gift. His ability to provide a valuable work of art as a decorating accent was supposed to make me feel indebted.

Johnny insisted the vampire gained his greatest advantage with his expert use of manipulation; Xerxadrea claimed Menessos’s ability to weave events to meet his desired eventual outcome was his best—and most dangerous—talent.

My arms crossed over my chest. He hadn’t exploited me this time. I had risen— grown up? —and somehow proved myself the stronger. He was probably regretting having hung the “prize” here. I turned away from the painting to see if there was a sign he was conceding this point.

Damn him.

Xerxadrea was right. He was nothing but smug—as if he had just lavishly rewarded my forced growth.

Menessos left shortly after Mountain, saying his people were rising. That was fine by me.

I figured the Beholders would work Johnny hard while they had him, so I decided to fix some dinner. No one would see my little rebellious act of self-sufficiency, but it made me feel better. With a pot of water on to boil for pasta, I rinsed the green peppers.

The protrepticus rang. Gounod’s “Funeral March of a Marionette”—the Alfred Hitchcock Presents theme song.

“Hello?”

“Got a call from Xerxadrea coming in,” Samson said.

“No insult, tonight?”

“Of course not, my lady,” he said sweetly.

My lady? Not “little girl”? That piqued all my intuitive warnings.

“Hello?” Xerxadrea said.

“Hello. Can I speak freely?”

“As freely as you dare.”

We’re not the only two listening . . . Crap. I need to set up a time and place to strategize.