Wicked Circle (7 page)

She was right. “Drive the Slut home.”

Eris barked out a laugh. “I’m telling Nana what you called her.”

“Her knee’s sprained and I can still run. I’m not scared.” And besides, Nana knew the joke behind the truck’s name.

“I was scared.” Eris reached up and stroked my hair, pushing a wet tendril off my brow and under the hood. “I tried to get you. I swear I did.” Tears plunged down her cheeks again.

I wanted her to realize the magical impact of having lost her arm. I wanted her to get creative and figure out how to work around it. She had tried to save me, but Hecate had intervened,
and Eris had failed to get me. That failure had frightened her more than I could gauge. I worried the failure had emphasized what she couldn’t do in a way that would make her withdraw to an inward and needy place instead of standing up and fighting to retain independence.

Eris wiped her eyes and asked, “What about you?”

“I’ll gather up our stuff here. Fifteen minutes. I’m right behind you.”

She didn’t budge. She simply stared at me, as apologetic and guilty as was humanly possible.

“Go.” I spun her gently toward the truck. “You can do this.” I was mindful of her awkward climb into the cab, and how she settled into the driver’s seat. Securing the seat belt was tricky, but it was easier than turning the key and putting the truck into gear.

Neither the doctor nor the Pennsylvania Department of Motor Vehicles had cleared her to drive, but we had no options just now and I was sure she would manage the actual driving just fine. Driving herself and Nana home was something she could do.

I didn’t offer to help; Eris was going to have to learn she could do these right-handed things for her left-handed self.

I
want you to be the one to free the shabbubitum.” The Excelsior spoke in a language no living human had spoken in centuries.

In the antechamber of the Excelsior’s private rooms, Meroveus sat in a comfortable chair with a fire blazing in the wide hearth. The environment was a cozy—albeit aristocratic—setting of French antiques shrouded in shadows and subdued colors, but Mero was not at ease. Even as the advisor to the most politically powerful vampire in the world, he had only been in this room a few times before.

Those other occasions hadn’t been good, either.

“Mero.”

Refusing the Excelsior was unwise, so he said nothing.

Opposite him, the Excelsior vacated his seat and stood staring into the flames. The flickering illumination cast across his visage seemed to catch on his high cheekbones and smolder there.

The Excelsior’s mother in life, Chlo, had often said the mesmerizing dance of the fire called forth the best of her thoughts like moths, illuminating them in her mind. His features so favored hers. . . .

The Excelsior reached into a bucket on the hearth and tossed a fistful of some granular substance into the flames. The scent of hazelnuts filled the air. “I know this is not what you wanted,” the Excelsior said, reclaiming his seat. “But I need you to do this.”

Mero would not meet the gaze he knew was upon him. There were three adept-level vampire wizards capable of this spell. Menessos could certainly not assume the task, but there was still another option. “Send Konstance instead.”

“No.” The Excelsior’s answer was soft but firm. “You were there when they were sealed in stone. You know how to break the spell.”

“I can tell Konstance how.”

“You are my representative. It should be you.”

Mero finally looked up. “I beg you, Deric. Do not make me do this.” Speaking the Excelsior’s given name was a trump that he rarely dared to use.

“Konstance is tending to a matter in China that I cannot call her away from. There is no one else.”

“Then, do not do this at all. It is not right.”

The Excelsior played
his
trump. “Father.”

The word was a stake in Mero’s heart, pinning him to the chair. The man he had fathered was asking something of him. It did not happen often, but when it did, Mero could not help seeing Deric as the sad boy who’d lost his mother when he was nine, and as the boy who would be a king in dangerous times.
Some things never change.
“If they read me, they will know of Giovanni’s suggested course of action. Worse, they will see the absence of your disagreement with his sordid idea. I would not wish myself into such a predicament, but even more, I would not wish you into it. Konstance is unaware of these things, and it makes
her
the best choice.”

The Excelsior kneeled before his advisor’s chair. His hand rested on Meroveus’s knee. “I trust you will not let those unfortunate things happen.”

Mero’s son had kept from him the intelligence concerning the Lustrata, and now he was willing to risk the existence they both clung to in order to gain intelligence about Menessos. “Menessos Made me because I asked him to. When you made your request, he did not refuse you either. Do you hate him now?”

“No,” the Excelsior replied. “But there are things he did not tell me, things he did not tell you. For that, I question whether or not I trust him.” The Excelsior resumed his spot before the fire. “After this, I will know if I can, or if I can’t. Because of her ties to him, if she truly is the Lustrata, I need to know more than ever if he is worthy of my trust.”

What the Excelsior wanted from him was not unlike many instances that had occurred when Deric had yet lived and reigned as a mortal king. Mero had not refused him. Though he understood what the Supreme Vampire longed to know, he also understood that Giovanni had expertly planted that seed of doubt about Menessos and his intentions.

Mero could not refuse Deric now, either.

Mustering his resolve, Mero stood. He gripped Deric’s shoulder. When next he spoke, it was not to the Excelsior; it was to his son. “As always, I will do as you wish.”

A grateful smile rounded the Excelsior’s lips just slightly. “The plane leaves at eleven thirty tonight. Your arrival will coincide with the setting sun in Athens.”

Mero was at the door when his son added, “I will have the official order drawn up for Menessos. It will be delivered to you when the plane arrives in Dulles for refueling.”

“What of the woman? What if she is the Lustrata?”

“If she is, she must be subdued and brought here.”

“And if she is not?”

The Excelsior hesitated. “Eliminate her.”

Meroveus emerged from the limousine and crossed the tarmac. His dark curls were unbound, and the wind tossed them into his face as he scrutinized the jet. It was the big one, the Gulfstream V-SP. It seemed ostentatious to transport a single traveler on a plane that could comfortably seat fifteen. Athens, however, was a twelve-hour flight. Of VEIN’s fleet, only this larger jet had the fuel capacity to make the trip.

Halfway to the aircraft, he paused and dug a small cellular phone from his pocket. This was not his usual phone. For emergencies, he always carried a prepaid disposable—one not traceable by VEIN. The display gleamed brightly when he opened the phone to dial. He punched numbers from memory.

On the third ring, he heard Goliath Kline say, “Talk to me.”

“Heldridge Ellington gained audience with the Excelsior. In a little more than twenty-four hours, I will bring the shabbubitum to serve their libations to your master.” Mero then shut the device, squeezing it until the pieces popped and cracked, crushed in his palm. He reduced the phone to dust, letting it sift to the ground.

Let us see how you respond, Menessos. It will tell me much.

A
s Eris drove away, I jogged behind, heading for the fountain where our ritual supplies rested. The taillights weren’t out of view when my satellite phone rang from my back pocket. I jerked it free and a name flashed on the little screen to identify the caller.

Menessos.

Mr. Manipulator himself. Do you know what I did already?
I swallowed my anger and answered sweetly. “Hello?”

“Persephone,” Menessos said. “Are you well?” Something about his voice was different.

“Absolutely.” I arranged the glass hurricane globes into the cardboard box I’d placed beside the fountain. “And yourself?”

“I am fine.”

No, he wasn’t. He was hoarse. Ever since I’d staked him and applied a second hex to him, I’d been aware of his death every morning and his regained life every evening. While he tended to die gently, his sunset awakenings were violent. I’d felt him screaming his way back to life before the ritual started. Even so, the pity I’d felt earlier was in short supply now. “Liar.”

“You are correct in refuting my statement,” he said sullenly, “but mortals often downplay their replies to such questions. It is unnecessary for you to impugn my character over it.”

If I could have reached through the phone, I’d have smacked him.

“Persephone?”

“Hmmm?”

“Our fears have been realized.”

Unmoving, I felt like I’d been kicked in the gut. “Heldridge?”

“He gained an audience with the Excelsior. You need to come home. Immediately.”

With one box of supplies on the passenger-side floor and the other on the seat, I arrived at Eris’s apartment over the Arcane Ink Emporium. The Slut wasn’t here.

There were, however, lights on upstairs. So, retrieving my wet clothes from the narrow crevice that Corvette owners call a trunk and lifting the boxes stashed up front, I hefted it all up the metal steps.

Going home had been my desire even before Menessos had called, and now I had a good excuse. Knocking on the door and hoping they heard me over the music playing inside, I had time to rehearse my announcement once more before the door opened.

Zhan relieved me of the boxes. I put the Corvette keys on top. She carried the supplies toward the black door of Eris’s “woogie room,” where she kept all her magical materials.

Nana and Eris sat in dining chairs near a table lamp missing a shade. My mother’s wet hair clued me in that she’d just showered, and she wore only sleep pants and a bra. Nana jabbed a needle into Eris’s shoulder joint, stitching the flap of skin where her arm used to be. Eris winced.

My horror must have been evident. After a shallow but derisive snort, Nana
explained, “Her stitches broke.” Eris squirmed as Nana sewed, tightened the thread, tied it off, and cut it.

The wound was ugly enough before. I shut the door behind me and approached.

“I felt them pop when I fell down the embankment trying to get you,” Eris said.

Crap. Here we go again.

Nana smeared Neosporin on a gauze pad and placed it over the wound, securing it with medical tape. “Bled all over the place, but her wet red outfit didn’t exactly show it.”

“Did you—”

“Sterilized the thread and the needles.” She passed Eris a T-shirt. “I’m not stupid, Persephone.”

Nana was more than her I-need-a-cigarette cranky. That meant she was in pain. “Did you—”

“Took Aleve. I’m icing my knee every fifteen minutes and am in the off-phase right now.” She tugged the back of the T-shirt down as Eris struggled into it.

Zhan returned. “How are you?”

“Knocked my head, but it isn’t bad.” Before anything else could be said, I blurted, “I have to go to Cleveland. Right now.”

“Why?” Nana demanded, going from cranky to pouty.

With both of them injured, I felt guilty about leaving them. “Bad stuff,” I said. Without a word, Zhan was in motion, gathering her things and mine, packing.

The Slut’s distinctive motor roared outside, pulling up. “What kind of bad stuff?” Nana pressed.

Pounding footfalls outside gave me reason to avoid answering. I opened the door. Lance lugged two large pizza boxes and a pair of two-liters inside.

He must resemble his father,
I thought. With sandy blond hair, he didn’t get his looks from our mother. Lance was also trying to grow a goatee without much success. He sort of resembled Shaggy from the Scooby-Doo cartoons.

The smell of the pizza instantly reminded me of how hungry I was.

Lance rounded the table and set the boxes down. “Does weird shit happen around you all the time?”

“Lately it does.”

He gave me a reproachful glare as he strode into the kitchen. I helped Nana and Eris twist their chairs back to the table. Lance brought cups, an ice bucket, paper plates, napkins, and two wet rags. “I put some soap on these,” he said. After he’d put the other items down, he gave one rag to Nana. Sitting down next to Eris, he washed her hand.

She protested, “I just got out of the shower.”

It would have been better to let her figure out how to do it herself, but he was reacting as any good son would, coddling her. He wasn’t thinking about the future, a few years from now, when he’d want to be on his own. If he made her dependent on him now, it would get ugly then.

Or maybe he was doting on her because Eris was so focused on me these days. He’d had her to himself all his life, and tending her was a way to maintain her attention.

At least I had one reason to
not
feel guilty about leaving.

Nana must have caught the accusation in his tone; she didn’t press me about the “bad stuff.” Eris, however, wasn’t aware of all the nuances where Menessos and I were concerned. “So what’s going on that you have to leave?” she asked.

Lance perked up. “You’re leaving?”

I nodded. “Zhan and I have to go to Cleveland as soon as possible.”

“What’s happened?” Eris asked.

“An already existing problem seems to have escalated.” The irony that those words could mean the situation in Cleveland
and
mean the situation here wasn’t lost on me.

Eris wrenched away from the washing Lance was providing to stand and curl her fingers around mine. “Don’t be so vague. Tell me.”

“I can’t.”

Sorrow dimmed her. “So you’re just going to leave me like this? You said you’d stay and help.”

Behind her, Lance stood, too. I could feel the anger he was trying to hide.
Damn it.
“This is important or I wouldn’t be going. Eris . . . you’ll be fine.”