Linda Robertson - Vicious Circle

Johnny hurried across the yard in the pale light of the waning moon. Watching through the kitchen window, I ached for him. Menessos had released me, confident that I wasn’t stupid enough to try anything, well, stupid. “You’re cruel,” I said.

He sauntered closer, looking as if I were a silly child he was about to admonish. “He is a dog, and you cannot ever expect him to be anything but a dog.”

Defiant, I said, “He is a wolf.”

In answer, Menessos faked a yawn.

“Add ‘rude’ to the list.”

“Were we making a list, dear Persephone?”

“I am. Cruel. Rude. And an oath breaker.”

“I am not an oath breaker.”

“Yes, you are.” Johnny disappeared into the night. I was partially afraid that beholders could be waiting for him, but they would feel the pain of the stake too, wouldn’t they? I looked away from the window. Menessos accepted my glare without offense. In fact, I think it pleased him to see it. Maybe that was because I felt defeated and it showed. Seeing me beaten would be something that would surely make him happy. “You swore to never step into a circle again until the stake was destroyed. But you entered my circle.”

His expression sharpened as he tried to figure out who could have told me. I think he wanted to ask, but he restrained himself. “I thought you were referring to the blood oath again.” He whispered, “So many troubled thoughts.”

I wasn’t sure if the stain would allow him to read my mind or not, but that comment made me wonder. I didn’t want him to read the answer in my thoughts, so I guarded them.

“Come, witch. Build me a fire in your hearth.”

He gestured for me to precede him. My feet moved before I had a chance to think about whether or not I wanted to comply. There on the table was the notebook with the printouts from the ancient book. Thank goodness Nana had shut it. The label on it read Research so it looked like nothing Menessos would be interested in. I didn’t touch it.

After checking the flue, I knelt before the hearth. From the basket that held old newspapers, I grabbed a piece and crumpled it, dropping it on the grate. I took a few other sheets and did the same. Before I crumpled the last piece I intended to use, I realized I was holding the front page with the picture of Beverley crying and the headline about her mother. Her grief was so fresh. Only five days ago—it seemed like so much longer than that.

Would Beverley want a copy of this or not? It was hard to say. It was gruesome, but maybe later it would be important to her. I folded it nicely and set it aside, took another sheet of newspaper to crumple, then started placing the smaller pieces of kindling in the iron grate and, finally, topped the kindling with two quarter-logs. I struck the match and held it to the newspaper.

Menessos made himself comfortable on my couch, striking the same pose that Samson had tried and failed at. Thinking of Samson made my mind flash on the image of his head in my refrigerator; a wave of nausea hit me. I scooted back from the heat of the fire but continued watching the flames lick and dance. “Will you…” I had to swallow down bitter bile. “Will you remove Samson’s head from my house?”

Menessos waited before saying, “Perhaps. If I am…satisfied…when I leave.” The predator in him observed me for a long time; I could feel his gaze on me as surely as I felt the high temperature of the fire before me. “You know, if the whelp hadn’t confessed to betraying you, I would have killed you once the stake was destroyed.”

“Are you saying that now you won’t?” I twisted to look at him. I caught a glimpse of my bat and the 40 Winks bottle still in the corner.

He checked his fingers as if inspecting the state of his manicure. “Yes. You thought all was as it should be.”

Though he said words I wanted to hear, I couldn’t trust him and be relieved. I turned back to the hearth. Would the water make him sleep? He was very powerful; probably not. “What about Johnny? And Nana and Beverley?”

“Your spirited grandmother and the girl will be returned to you. They are as yet unharmed, though their individual fear limits may have been exposed.”

“What does that mean?”

“They are not physically harmed, Persephone, but I cannot account for their ability to mentally deal with being held hostage.”

I waited until it was clear that he did not intend to say more. “What about Johnny?” I pressed, letting him know with my tone that I was irritated that he kept avoiding this answer.

“As for the whelp—”

“Cool it with the dog references already. His name is Johnny.”

Menessos laughed out loud. I didn’t see anything funny about the comment. He sat forward, rubbing his slender fingers together. “Persephone, you’re an interesting woman, and because of that I will allow you a measure of patience. I believe laypeople would call it a ‘learning curve.’ But that measure will evaporate swiftly if you do not address me with more respect.”

He was a liar and a murderer. He’d probably kill every one of us. I had nothing to lose. “You’re not a guest here. You can deal with the sarcasm.”

“I don’t believe you fully comprehend the situation.”

That sounded like a threat, so I stood up and faced him. “Sure I do. My house, my rules.” My arms crossed, and I threw my hip out in a perfect attitude-alert pose. “Anybody who commits breaking and entering, puts a dead man’s head in my refrigerator, and kidnaps my family can kiss my ass if they don’t like the words I use.”

“I would be ever so delighted to do exactly that.”

My face flushed crimson, but I mimicked him as I said, “I don’t believe you fully comprehend the point of flirting, because this is no time for it.” I considered going for the bat and bottle and finding out whether they would work, but—

He stood in a lithe, liquid motion and sauntered forward. “I assure you, Persephone, I understand perfectly the art of seduction.” He spoke my name like it was a cherry atop a hot fudge sundae, a single bite with sweet and potent flavor. “You are eligible to receive the benefit of my experience, now that you have become my servant.”

“Eligible” made me uneasy in an awkward, high-school kind of way. But “servant” was one of those “stand-up-and-take-notice” words. Preceded by “my,” it demanded attention. I sidestepped out of reach. “What did you just say?”

He sighed. “Do you not know?”

“I am not your servant.”

“My mark is upon you…within you. Your words of denial can change nothing.” He eased a step closer.

“What am I, then? Just a servant to use? A one-mark beholder?” I put my hand up, palm out. “And don’t take that as a request for a second stain. I don’t want the ‘honor’ of being an offerling.”

“Interesting. You seem to know nothing about vampires, and then you show that you understand unexpected things. Beholders are not so lovely as you.” He eased another step closer.

I retreated a step. “Stay away from me!”

In a flash, his vise-like hands held me. “Yet offerlings are not so difficult!” I struggled, though I knew escape was hopeless. When I realized he was not squeezing tighter, not fighting back, not moving at all, simply restraining—no, he was just holding me—I stopped. In my ear he whispered, “Bliss does not have to be a difficult thing to find, Persephone.”

“I don’t want your damned stain upon me. I never wanted it.”

He thrust me back, incredulous. “You asked for it!”

“The hell I did!”

“You asked for a guarantee!”

My mind raced, trying to fathom what that meant. “What part of ‘I want a guarantee’ means ‘I want to bear your everlasting stain’?”