Linda Robertson - Fatal Circle

“Protection, too,” I said, holding up the prickly holly leaf. “Protection and luck.”

Johnny cocked his head a little. “Do we need that much protection, luck, and love?”

“For what we’re about to do, yes.”

He shot a glance at Menessos, then shifted back to me with brows raised, as if silently asking, Him too?

Making my expression entirely soft and full of compassion, I nodded.

He pointed to the paper on which I had drawn. “Those?”

“Sigils and symbols. The cross-number-two thing is the symbol of Saturn, and since it is Saturday we’ll tap the humility, authority, and respect associated with this day. However, we are at a crossroads here, so we’ll also call on the energy of Scorpio, the current zodiac house, and since the moon is waning we’ll concentrate on being rid of the dangers and doubts and . . .” I let it trail off. Johnny’s eyes had kind of glazed over, as if I’d started speaking Chinese or something.

Menessos replaced the red candle and took up the seashell filled with water.

Johnny studied the lines and curves of the next, a sigil, and gave me a polite nod.

“You’re thinking it’s just a scribble, right?”

“Actually, I was thinking it’s like fan blades that have had Silly String sprayed on them.”

Maybe he won’t change after all. “You’ve sprayed Silly String on a fan before?”

“Of course. Haven’t you?”

“No.” Inspecting the sigil again, I had to agree it was as good an interpretation of the lines as another. “Your ‘fan blades’”—I traced with my finger—“are two S ’s, see?” I’d drawn them with glue and silver glitter, one at a forty-five-degree angle, the second ninety degrees from the first so they crossed in the center. “They represent soul sharing, which is what we are doing. These are each of our initials, M, J, and P. ” These were centered among the glitter. Purple and red ink from standard office-supply Sharpies highlighted the drawing.

Menessos finished with the cleansing, opened the altar energies, and lit the illuminator candles. With a nod at me he said, “Your turn.”

Taking the pail of sea salt, I drew a large circle encompassing much of the room, chanting, “Where circles are cast in salt . . . there, magic is called.” Then I redrew it with my usual crystal-tipped wand. “Where cross the paths of fate . . . there, magic is made.” I drew it a third and final time with the new willow wand. “Where three pieces make one whole . . . there, magic is the soul.” A triple-cast circle always made me feel safer.

“Two wands?” Menessos asked.

“This one is new.” I laid the willow wand on the table.

“Oh?”

“A present.”

“From?”

Who? The Goddess? A tree? “My meditation.”

He thoughtfully studied where it lay on the altar.

When I spoke the quarter calls, north and the earth element came first. The coarse sea salt marking the circle shifted as if to acknowledge that presence. The second call stirred the air in the room like a sighing breath. With the third call, the candle flames flickered down low in unison, then shot up in a single blast of greeting. When I called water, the seashell on the table rocked, making ripples across the water’s surface. Most impressively, the fluid in the bottle Beau had given me swirled as if shaken, forming a tornado effect with bubbles and debris being pulled down in the center.

I nodded to Menessos. “Backatcha.”

He shook his head. “No. You will invoke deity.”

“But—”

“No buts. They like you better.”

I thought of Hecate at the Eximium. “She told you to be forgiven.”

His chin leveled. “Still, you are Her chosen.”

“And you are not?”

In one sharp, sideways glance, Menessos told me he didn’t feel comfortable discussing this around Johnny. His posture stiffened as emphasis to that point.

I took up the bottle and uncorked it. To Johnny I said, “Bare your chest, please.”

“You first.”

I smirked.

He unbuttoned his shirt. Taking a holly leaf from the altar, I allowed the mixture to drip onto the prickly leaf. It was neither water nor alcohol, but a thin oil. The fragrance was pleasant. After setting the bottle on the altar, I smeared my fingers through the oil from the leaf and I traced the pentacle tattoo on his sternum. Above it, I drew the sigil of our combined initials, MJP . I replaced the holly leaf on the table beside the onyx wolf.

Making certain I moved clockwise, deosil, around the circle, I went to Menessos and repeated the actions on him—minus the tattoo to use as a pattern. I opened his shirt a bit more to check the spot where Samson had tried to stake him. It was perfectly healed. No scar. I clasped his hand. “She forgave you. Can you not forgive yourself for whatever it was that caused the rift?”

His resolve was strong. “I want you to call Her.” He squeezed my hand for emphasis.

Having pushed as hard as my conscience would allow, I relented. We couldn’t risk negative energies tainting the sacred space we’d created. Releasing him, I shifted to the side, not resuming my former place.

“Who gets to mark you?” Johnny asked.

I removed my shirt, but remained modestly covered by my bra. They each gave a man-growl indicating their approval, then Johnny tried to outstare Menessos.

“Both,” I said. “Menessos draws the pentacle, you draw the sigil.” I moved Beau’s pendant so it hung down my back, leaving drawing room on my skin.

Menessos went first. He poured the liquid onto the holly leaf, and dipped his fingers in it. Solemnly meeting my eyes, he touched my skin.

When first he’d marked me with his own blood, he’d drawn an ankh on my sternum. It was against my will and he knew it, but I was engulfed in his power. Now, he drew not the symbol of his alchemy. He drew the symbol of my magic. Slowly.

He painted the pentacle with tenderness and burning certainty. It wasn’t innocent. It wasn’t chaste. Not because his fingers strayed—they stayed right where they were supposed to be—but because of his eyes. The gray was simmering like quicksilver.

Seven wanted me to love him. But this wasn’t the countenance of love. It was covetous. Lecherous. Hedonistic. It made my heart race. It summoned that warmth deep inside of me that only he could stir. And it beckoned to my darkest desires . . . the kind good girls never admit having.

Menessos stepped aside and held the leaf out to Johnny.

I had to take a pair of cleansing breaths.

Johnny wiped his fingers over the holly and extended his hand toward me. “Does it matter which order I draw the letters?”

“No.”

He drew the J first, and I could feel the trembling in his fingers. He covered the J with a P. I watched his face, so serious, intent on getting it right. For me. He added the M last, and nodded. His first magic circle; his first sigil.

With shoulders squared and voice strong and firm, I said, “I call upon She who is the Three and the One. The crone who has been the maiden and the mother. You have been the Past, You are the Present, and You will be the Future. Queen of Heaven, Earth, and Underworld. My Goddess.”

Taking a pause to consider that we three were, from a certain point of view, about to become one, I felt the hair on the nape of my neck rise.

A presence hovered on the periphery of reality. Observing. I had seen the darkness coalesce and become the night alive, sparkling like black diamonds. I had seen it become Her. I had felt Her touch before.

Hecate was here.

I did not call Her into me, as I would have when Drawing Down the Moon. After our last meeting, I wasn’t sure I’d have the nerve to do any such thing ever again. She’d said—