Wicked Circle (17 page)

It wasn’t exactly ghosts, so I skipped that part and addressed the question. “Like I don’t have enough going on already?” She didn’t even know the half of it.

“Yeah, what am I thinking?
You never take on more than you can manage.”

“Just so you know, when I used the slate, I focused it through Johnny. I wasn’t after a personal goal. I was after
his
goal, so I had some distance.” I flipped the bologna over. “With my father, all I have are my feelings about who I’d like him to be. My lack of objectivity would muddy up the magic, maybe even seek someone who fit the bill of what I wanted him to be and not actually find him. I do have some more photos now.”

Celia was adding mayonnaise to the toast. “Wouldn’t an image be enough?”

“It would be stronger with at least one concrete fact to link it with.”

“Your mom has to remember his name.”

Under the Father section of my birth certificate was typed UNKNOWN in all capitals to make it glaringly evident I was an illegitimate child. That wasn’t a question I intended to ask Eris. She was already so possessive of me that if she thought she might have to share, she’d “forget” his name anyway.

From my dining room desk I retrieved the photo album Lance had so rudely provided. I opened it as I returned to the kitchen. In the first clear sleeve was a copy of the picture I already had of my father, only in this one, the side with my mother hadn’t been ripped off. She looked so young. . . .

My father’s Egyptian heritage was evident in his dark skin, black hair, and bright brown eyes. Sometimes I thought that was a happy gleam; other times I thought it was mysterious, dangerous. He had high cheekbones, and the elevated tilt of his chin suggested cultured sophistication. It was an
enigma, his expression—about to erupt in joyous laughter or tumble into fury. I rubbed my finger over the amulet of Anubis he wore.

“I don’t know if I’m ready to find him. Here.” I offered the little book to Celia. “Little brother gave me this.”

Celia put the knife down, dropped more bread in the toaster, then took the book.

I plucked the toast away from her and put the bologna onto it, cut it in half and delivered the sandwich to Beverley, who promptly put her schoolbook away.

After assembling the last sandwich, I poured us all some milk and moved everything—including a black marker—to the dinette. “May I?” I asked the kiddo.

She grinned and pushed the purple cast toward me. I signed
Seph
on it and drew a stick-figure unicorn.

“Awesome!” Beverley drank, intent on the barns. I knew she was hoping for a glimpse of Errol, a young unicorn she’d had the privilege of riding a few times.

It set me at ease to know that she was more concerned about seeing him than about the thick purple cast wrapped around her little arm.

My satellite phone rang. I jerked it from my pocket. The screen showed the call was from Nana. “Hello?”

“Johnny’s picture is plastered on every news channel.”

“Yeah. The new Rege confirmed him last night.”

“Is that why you left?”

“No, I didn’t know about that until I arrived.”

“They say there will be a press conference at three o’clock tomorrow at the Cleveland Trust Bank.”

“That’s news to me.”

“Well, that prissy reporter just announced it.”

“I believe you, Nana. I just didn’t know.”

Beverley spun from the window. “That’s Demeter? Lemme tell her about my arm!”

I passed the phone to the kiddo. While Beverley recounted her tale, I brushed bread crumbs from the counter into a paper towel, then threw it away. I put the mayo in the refrigerator and switched the bread to the other end of the counter.

Beverley shifted the satellite phone into the crook of her neck and examined her purple cast, running her fingers over my name as she told Nana that I’d drawn a little unicorn for her. Then Beverley’s words tapered off midsentence. She lowered her cast. “Hold on, Demeter.” She put the phone to her chest and twisted toward me. “Who’s that?” she asked, pointing out the window.

I checked, expecting to see one of the perimeter guards on patrol. What I saw was a thin figure that had just emerged from the cornfield. The person was wearing a long black robe and the hood was up, hiding his or her features.

“Zhan!”

Ivanka appeared in the doorway. “Zhan showering. How may I serve?”

“Are the perimeter guards wearing black cloaks?”

“No. Camouflage.”

“Then who’s that?” I pointed.

Inspecting, Ivanka checked outside the window. “Hide yourselves,” she said and then raced through the house, galloping up the staircase.

Hijacking the phone from Beverley, I said quickly, “Call you back soon, Nana. Bye.” I ended the call and immediately hit the direct dial number for Mountain before grasping Beverley by her unbroken arm. “C’mon.”

Celia was peering out the window. “I thought you said the bad guys wouldn’t get here until tonight?”

“That’s what I was told.”

“What do we do?”

“You get to your car and get yourself and Beverley out of here.” I checked again and the figure had traveled only a few deliberate paces into my yard.
Slow is good.

Celia snatched her purse. I pulled Beverley from the seat; she dragged her book bag with her. “You gotta move fast, kiddo. Like in a fire drill.” I led her toward the front door, where I yanked her coat off the peg and carried it with us rather than pause to have her put it on.

“What about you?” Beverley cried.

Mountain finally answered his phone. “What’s up?”

“Someone’s in the backyard,” I said, hating the panic in my voice. “The perimeter guards don’t appear to be doing anything about it.”

“On my way.”

I hung up. “I can take care of this, but you need to go,” I said, wanting both Beverley and Celia to believe me. “You have to be safe.” I hugged Beverley quickly and shuffled out the door with her. I saw them to the CX-7, made sure no one was hiding inside and hurried back to the porch. Celia’s tires threw gravel as she backed out of the driveway.

A hand grabbed my shoulder and hauled me into the house. “Stay shielded,” Ivanka scolded. The engine roared as the CX-7 rocketed up the road. I twisted out of the sentinel’s viselike grip and ran for the kitchen, noting that Zhan was descending the stairs with wet hair.

The robed figure was about two-thirds of the way up my yard now. Bad thing was, whoever it was had decided
to go around the west side of the house—increasing the distance Mountain would have to travel to intercept.

Then it hit me: The doors to the cellar were on the west side. The only way to get to Menessos’s secret hiding spot was through the cellar.

Mine to protect.

Though Mountain was on his way, for all the brute size he possessed, running was not an option for him.

Because there was no window in the pantry, I had no view of the cellar entrance from inside the house. I scurried through Nana’s new bedroom to the bath we’d added and climbed onto her sink, peering out the transom window that capped her mirror. I still wasn’t able to see the metal door.

But I might be able to see someone standing there opening it.

I pressed my nose to the glass.

Don’t open the cellar doors. Don’t be after Menessos.

The robed trespasser stepped into sight. Closer, I could see by the way the robe lay flat against the figure’s chest that this person was male.

Not shabbubitum. Menessos specifically said they were sisters.

I scolded myself for having thought it might be one of the shabbubitum.

Menessos said they were vampires. They’d be dead now anyway.

The path the robed man chose led him around the house. Though relieved, I left the window and clambered into the tub. On tiptoe to see out the window, I hoped the guy wouldn’t see me. As he rounded the corner, keeping close to the house, he idly stroked the wall where I stood.

I shuddered, feeling about as violated as I would have felt if he’d touched me. My fear shrank away and anger swelled to fill the void.

Pushing past Ivanka, I hurried through the bedroom and into the living room, my gait faltering as the intruder made his unhurried way past my picture window.

Zhan, her hair wet and dressed in a short silk bathrobe, was positioned between me and the door. Ivanka was occupying a spot right at the door, but out of sight. I stood there stupefied at how my heart was racing.

Maybe it’s just some freak with a leftover Hallowe’en costume. No. Some simple freak with a costume wouldn’t get past the perimeter guards.

Additionally, I had wards. Wards that would keep most people away from the house. Wards I’d been warned to amp up—advice I’d foolishly put off for Johnny’s task and my impromptu lunch date.

A shadow fell across the glass of my door.

I held my breath.

And my doorbell rang.

T
he customized Gulfstream V-SP carrying Meroveus Franciscus had departed from Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport roughly twelve hours ago. He had retired to the windowless “black chamber” within the plane and rested as they’d flown east and into the rising sun, hours before its light would actually reach D.C. However, with the rotation of the world and the fact that Athens was seven hours ahead anyway, he had risen before they’d touched down.

A customs official awaited him when he disembarked from the plane. By the time his credentials were assessed, a limousine was idling nearby, and the chauffeur opened the door for him. According to his Rolex, it was just nearing noon in D.C. Here, it was 6:55 p.m. Darkness was settling in.

The ride was not long, and the limousine used the entrance at Dionysiou Areopagitou Street, a road running along the southern slopes of the Acropolis. With winter hours in effect, the museum would have closed a few hours ago. However, special arrangements had been made.

Arrangements like the black velvet bag waiting for him on the limo’s seat.

He stared at the pouch with antipathy. Not that he was averse to the contents within the soft fabric. It was just that he was truly against the magical action he was commanded to take. Such
incongruity could make for a bad spell.

When the long car stopped, Meroveus didn’t wait for the driver to get the door for him. He exited the vehicle carrying the bag and strode toward the building, surveying the ruins spotlighted against the deep blue of the Greek sky. Ahead, a railing surrounded an opening that overlooked one of the archaeological digs going on beneath the museum. It, too, was illuminated, even after hours.

A man in a suit held the museum door open. “Mr. Franciscus, I am Zevon. I will lead you where you wish to go.” He locked the entry after Meroveus was inside. Zevon then guided him through the glass-floored gallery to a stairway. Once they had ascended, Zevon circled around. Here was where the new Acropolis Museum housed the artifacts from the Erechtheion. Zevon gestured toward the caryatids, then he bowed and promptly walked away.

Here were five of the six caryatids, marble figures of women, which had once served as columns supporting the roof of the southern porch of the Erechtheion. Replicas now stood in their place at the site; the sixth was in the British Museum.

Legend had it the statues once protected the tomb of the ancient King Cecrops, the founder of Athens. Making a full circuit around them, in awe of their beauty, Meroveus whispered, “Shabbubitum.” He remembered when Menessos had bound the sisters within. They had not gone willingly.

He also remembered telling Menessos the women would seek revenge someday.
I am not here to drink that anger for you, old friend.

Meroveus took a moment
to ground and center, to cast out his doubts and firmly set his mind to the task.

As per his request, there were three large, red apples—one placed at the base of the three most complete figures. He inspected each apple, twisting the stems to separate them from the fruit, and placed the stems in the pocket of his suit jacket.

“For centuries you have paid your mute tribute, honoring the glorious dead.” He drew a red-handled knife from the velvet bag. He unsheathed the short blade and inspected the tip and edge. “And now, one of the living dead will call you forth.”

Meroveus approached the first statue and sliced his index finger, letting his blood drip onto the apple’s indention as he said the ceremonious words. “
Suscitatio vos ex vestry somnus diturnus. Advocare vestry phasmatis vestry somes quod vestry aeternus anima exorior universes
.”

After repeating this for the remaining apples, he drew from the bag a golden necklace. The chain was made of large, irregular links, and Meroveus knew it could easily have been an artifact in this museum—it was that old. Except for the fastener, that is.

The necklace was decorated with three pieces of amber. These stones were a clear honey-gold, lightly flecked with brown. Each was as thick as a pencil, about two inches long, and bore a golden band, topped with a link that let it dangle from the necklace.

Meroveus unfastened the modern clasp and removed the gemstones. He dropped the necklace back into the bag and pulled out a square of wool. Tapping into the local ley line, under the true Acropolis, he felt the stinging, biting burn—it was as if he were shoving his fingers into a light socket. He gasped at the
pain, fought the instinctive recoil, and gorged himself on the energy. As his body filled, power flowed through him to his aura, where each droplet rippled like a lover’s moan, reverent and erotic.

Enjoying the sensation for three daring seconds, he impelled the power into the stones. He rubbed the first piece of amber on the wool, electrically charging the stone, then pushed the pointed end into the top of the apple, inserting half an inch where his blood had dripped.

“
Electrum. Sanguinis illorum damnoris intereo sulum diluculum at revertere sulum nox notis. M
ā
lum, Eden pernicies pomun. Effrego Veneficus Carmen quod solvo shabbubitum.
”

He could sense the power in the stones, ready to burst, ready to eject into the flesh of the fruit. The empowering fullness of energy was draining out of him, leaving weariness in its wake. Once all the apples were primed, he said, “
Modo
.”