Linda Robertson - Fatal Circle

“And!” She flew from the chair and stood before me, panting with anger. The crystal glass trembled in her hand, but she did not spill a drop. “And Isis weeps for me, as I cannot cry out my mourning myself,” she whispered.

I stayed very still. “Why do you mourn?”

“He will not find what he is seeking.”

“What does he seek?” I was pretty sure we were talking about Menessos.

“I have seen him struggling to re-create what came before. It cannot be done.” She inhaled my scent again. Her look of disdain indicated that, in spite of the flowery perfumes, she’d found the fragrance of a fool upon me yet. “I have been the object you are about to become.”

“You were Erus Veneficus?”

“No!” She withdrew from me. “This was before VEIN or its earlier version, before any such hierarchy started trying to brand vampires, before there were peripheral titles or even a parliament!” Shaking her head, she spat the words at me. “Long ago, I was Isis for him. A goddess for him.” She turned away. “It was not enough. And neither will you be.”

Isis? “I’m not trying to be anything but myself. If you did . . .”

“What?” She turned back. “If I did, what?”

“Maybe that was your mistake.”

She hmpf ed. “He’s altering and amending you already.” She gestured at the garment bags. “And you cannot resist it.”

“Should I? Shouldn’t I?”

“You cannot be Una!”

Oh, hell. “I’m not trying to be Una!” I’d even told Menessos as much.

“Don’t you understand? That is what he wants! He wants you and the waerewolf to complete the trio he once had!”

Beau’s ritual might bring us close.

Seven sank into the salon chair. “I could not love him as he needed to be loved. I tried. I care for him deeply, but I do not love him as I love Mark . . . never have I loved anyone as I love Mark.”

“Seven, you say that like it means you failed. Loving someone isn’t a failure.”

“And what of not loving someone who deserves it? Of not being able to be what they need you to be?” She stood and tore the fastener from her braid, ripping her fingers through her long, black hair. It fanned out behind her, full and loose, crimped from the twisting. “Do you know who I am?”

I nodded and my voice came soft, “You’re Seven.”

“I was once the Lustrata.”

I gaped at her. She was my predecessor?

“Long ago,” she added.

“You’re a vampire.”

“I am now .” Her tone was rueful. “He could not bear to lose us.”

“Us?”

“Mark and I.” She delayed before continuing. “I failed. Horribly. We both failed him.”

“How?”

Her gaze went downcast. “I grew blinded by my love. My heart wanted to do the right thing.”

For the right reason?

“I was proud. And I was selfish. I could not give up what I had and follow his course. Love blinded me to what must be done.”

“Whatever I have become, I am yet a Greek, Persephone. Like you. I used my position, my power, to achieve what was best for my people. When all I had fought for was lost, my heart was broken and my will shattered. When Mark stood before these eyes again, restored and immortal, my judgment grew clouded. Love led me to make choices for him . . . choices that failed Menessos and the balance of the world.” She fixed those bright irises on me. “You must not fail. Not even for your waerewolf.”

“Then tell me what to do.”

“Love him, Persephone. Love Menessos as he loves you.”

My throat clenched up and nothing would come out, neither would any air go down. Love? She said love ? “He doesn’t love me.”

Seven crossed to the door. “Risqué will be here soon to do your hair and makeup.” She left.

I stood there for a full minute, staring at the closed door, hearing “Love Menessos as he loves you” echo over and over in my rattled brain.

Her final words eventually silenced the echo: Risqué was going to do my hair?

I was thinking on what Nana had once told me about there being two previous Lustratas when Risqué came in wearing a slip dress of shiny orange fabric and clear high-heeled shoes. The skirt was so short there was a potential peep show in her every move, and the zippers over her breasts promised one. She should have been at the Playboy Mansion, but it was common knowledge they had something against the not-quite-human. Still, her attire hadn’t surprised me, though the suitcase she carried did.

“Let’s get your hair done first.” She set the case on the counter.

“You know, I can do this myself. You don’t have to go to the trouble.”

She ignored my resistance. “Boss said to make you elegant. Goliath suggested an updo with hanging tendrils. Said he’d seen your hair up at some concert thing and that it suited you.”

“That’s what I’ll do, then.”

“Honey, Boss gave me orders. Not even you can alter them. Now sit down.” She patted the chair and actually smiled. Sort of.

I sat.

The suitcase held all the tools and supplies she needed to make me into a red-carpet statement. She even had a pair of lights; she set them up on the counter first. The next twenty minutes passed blow-drying and hot-rollering my hair. I couldn’t see what she was doing, but she seemed to be an expert hairdresser. “Let’s get your dress taped on now.”

Taped?

“We’ll do your makeup and then I’ll take those rollers out and pin your hair up.”

Although Risqué was on her best behavior—no rudeness or apparent animosity—I still had the distinct impression that she was imagining shoving actual pins into my head like a voodoo doll.

Risqué unzipped the first garment bag and I knew this was going to be bad. She took out a pair of boots, set them to the side, and reached for the next garment bag.

“Wait,” I said.

The glossy red boots were thigh high, laced up the front and had multiple buckles. Santa might wear them—if he were a drag queen. The five-inch heels—as in two inches of platform and an additional three inches of heel—made me wince. I’d be nearly as tall as Johnny in those. “I can’t wear those.”

“You must.”

“Not.”

Risqué scowled. “This is what the Boss has provided you. It’s all there is.”

She needed to think I was motivated by his orders, so I reconsidered the boots. They were stripper sexy, but I wasn’t sure I could walk anywhere in them without breaking my neck. At least the chunky heel was not a stiletto. “Show me the clothes.”

She unzipped the second bag and brought out a red dress.

The skirt was at least longer than hers, but slitted over both thighs. The top draped to enhance, and the back was nonexistent except for a few strings that would keep the front from revealing too much. I gulped. Audibly. Thank the Goddess there were matching dance briefs, high cut on the thigh, but still offering coverage if I did take a tumble in the boots.

“Off with the towel, Miss Modesty.”

Nearly an hour and several strips of double-sided tape later, Risqué had proved that, in spite of her lack of people skills, she did have cosmetology talent. She wanted me to remove Beau’s charm, but I insisted it stayed on. When my clothes, hair, and makeup were done, she presented me with a wrapped and beribboned box from the bottom of the last garment bag. “Boss said to give you this, and to leave you alone with it. I will wait in the bath chamber, and escort you to your place in time for your cue.”

Upon opening the box, I found another gold-bordered note.