Vicious Circle

Chapter 29

We headed home.

Forcing my shoulders to loosen, a task made more difficult because I was driving, I was just finding a measure of success when Johnny said, “How’d it go with your friend?”

Those resistant muscles clenched back into their taut position. “It’s over.”

“Sounds like a couple thing. You two didn’t ever—”

“Stop it.”

“Well, some girlfriends do—”

“I said stop.” Damn it. How was I ever going to relax?

“Okay, okay. Just trying to lighten the mood.” Johnny turned on the radio and maneuvered the dial to the left for the classical station. He adjusted his seat to recline and went to sleep.

“Johnny, wake up. We’re…here.” I was not about to say, “We’re home.”

He stretched and said, “Okay.”

After hitting the trunk-opening button, I got out. The living room lights were off, which I thought was odd because I figured Nana and Beverley would be watching TV, but the upstairs and kitchen lights were on. Nana was probably still translating the copy of the book. I started to gather up the bags. The next thing I knew, Johnny was beside me taking the bags from my hands.

“I can get it,” I said, and closed my fingers around the plastic handles.

“I can help.” Ever so gently, he again tried to take the bags. His expression was playful as he watched my face while he touched my hands.

“Get your own bags,” I said, teasing, but soft and unsure. I’d snapped at him over the girlfriend remark, and he shouldn’t be acting like nothing had happened. Men let snippy words roll off of them more easily than women did.

“But I want those.”

“Why?”

“To lighten your load.”

“You’re not a servant.”

He stilled, searching my face slowly, making one big counterclockwise circuit, taking in everything. His hands, big and warm, touched either side of my neck. His thumbs rubbed along my jaw. It was nice, sensual, and if he had applied any pressure, it would have been dangerously close to strangling. But he just touched me and let me feel how warm and gentle he was. Cedar and sage filled the air.

Johnny put his lips against mine. Warm and soft and quivering deep down with adrenaline.

While the kiss was still chaste, he pulled away. “I will serve the Lustrata in all things.” He flashed a one-sided smile before walking away with the grocery bags that had been in my hands. I stood there beside the trunk for a minute, dumbfounded. I hadn’t registered when he had removed his hands from my neck or when he had taken the bags from me.

In all things echoed in my mind. Happy and thrilled and irritated all at once, I grabbed more bags from the trunk. In the garage, Ares was in his cage barking like mad. “Just a minute, boy,” I said. “I’ll let you out in a second.” I headed for the light falling from the open door. Johnny slipped past me to get the remaining bags, and I set the ones I’d brought in on the table beside the others. I put my coat on the back of a chair and began sorting through the bags. “Nana! Beverley! We’re back.”

Over my head, the floor creaked.

I found the milk and carried it to the refrigerator. But what I saw when I opened the door made the gallon jug slip from my grasp. Fear stilled me rigid, unable to move. A scream clawed at my throat like that of a caged animal desperate for freedom, but my throat had closed. My mind grappled for understanding.

As soon as I fully recognized what I was looking at, my throat opened. Air was sucked into my waiting lungs, and I screamed.

In an instant, Johnny was there, staring at the silver platter in my refrigerator where the head of Samson D. Kline sat, eyes open wide—as was his mouth, tongue thick and pushed to one side.

Johnny kicked the door shut, and I collapsed into his arms.

The squeak of a step brought me out of the shock. “Nana!” I pushed past Johnny, but he caught me again and restrained me. “No. I’ve got to go.” I pushed against him.

“No.” He sniffed. “It’s not Demeter.”

The footsteps came louder, nearing the bottom and no longer trying to hide anything. A shadow cast by light upstairs shone across my door, and I knew who it was before I saw him. I could feel it like heat inside my spine. “No,” I said.

Menessos came into view. “Yes.”

“Where are Nana and Beverley?”

He walked toward us, grinning wickedly.

“Bastard!” I tried to get around Johnny, and though I had nothing compared to wære strength, I had desperate strength and I was almost loose. “If you’ve done anything to them, anything at all, I’ll—”

Menessos laughed, cutting me off.

I wasn’t finished. “You made a blood oath on my porch! Does that kind of thing expire in twenty-four hours?”

“It expires when the one the oath was made to fails to keep her part of the deal!”

“I gave Samson the stake!”

Menessos stopped about six feet away. Far enough that a single lunge would avail me nothing. Even if I had a weapon, it’d take two steps to reach him and he only needed the advance notice of one—if that—to move out of the way. “Where is it?” His words were soft, but the intensity underneath added a tremulous note to them. If he wanted me to think he was about to lose control, he’d succeeded.

“Where’s what?”

Johnny jerked me back. “She doesn’t know.”

I went still. My stomach felt like I’d just gulped down a twenty-four-ounce Slurpee. Over my shoulder, I asked, “I don’t know what?”

Johnny maneuvered me behind him. “I did it,” he said.

Panic rising, I demanded, “Did what? What did you do?”

“I exchanged Vivian’s stake for a fake.”

“How?”

“You were busy, Red. I found a similar stick, carved it a little, rolled it in a layer of thick mud I made. I thought it would work. I thought you should have the real one to protect yourself with, since you’d ruined your protection by inviting him in.”

“Oh, Johnny!” He’d done this, and now Nana and Beverley—

“Samson was supposed to destroy it and report the deed done. Nobody would have known!”

Menessos made a derisive sound. “A splendid plan…for a mongrel like you. Did you come up with that all by yourself?”

Johnny launched himself forward, ready to fight. In a blur, Menessos shot forward, hit Johnny once in the face, and pushed him so hard that Johnny backpedaled to keep from falling. He growled and snarled, and I heard the popping of bones. Looking down, I saw his hand darkening, changing. Claws sprouted from his fingertips.

My mouth fell open. Johnny could transform at will?

“I seriously suggest you quell the notion that your bestial form will fare any better.” Menessos laughed condescendingly. “And while you’re at it, perhaps you should consider the obvious: she carries my mark. For her to even be near the stake will cause her pain.”

It all suddenly made sense: the beholder on the motorcycle asking about the pain, and the ache I’d felt since waking after he’d stained me. “That was the ache I felt all morning?”

“Surely.”

“That’s why you marked me! To make sure I wouldn’t be able to keep it even if I wanted to!”

The vampire smiled in a refined, self-assured, and highly exasperating way. His face was made for that sort of expression. “In truth, that was not the reason, but merely a convenient side effect.”

“You bastard!”

“My parentage is no concern of yours, my dear. Now, mongrel”—he gestured toward the door—“go fetch the stake while I”—his focus shifted to me—“…entertain the lady.”

Of course, he made “entertainment” sound about as much fun as riding a splintered broom, naked, in a hurricane.

Resolutely, Johnny said, “No.”

“Then the old woman and the girl will die.”

“Johnny,” I said, teeth clenched.

Johnny turned to me; his eye was already swelling where Menessos had hit him. One of his eyebrow rings had been torn out, and blood ran down his face. “Red—”

“Just do it,” I said. If anything happened to Nana and Beverley because of him—I wouldn’t let myself think about that.

He studied me, then without another word backed toward the door. For each step he took away from me, Menessos took one closer to me. Johnny paused at the garage door; his hands had returned to normal. Ares was still out there, barking wildly from his cage.

Menessos slipped behind me, hands gripping my shoulders, and his lips came close to my ear. “I see from the glimmer in his mongrel glare that your doggie is contemplating something irresponsible. See, Persephone, the dog-like way his nose wrinkles and he bares his teeth and snarls? I wouldn’t be surprised if, next, excess saliva began dripping from his uncouth jowls. Of course this show of reverting to his baser instincts substantiates my theory. I will repeat myself, lest you forget, puppy: the lady is my hostage. Your actions will dictate how this unfolds. Do you understand me, whelp?”

“Yeah,” Johnny answered, looking at me.

With a gentle touch, Menessos turned my face toward him. “I will witness—at long last—the destruction of Vivian’s stake. And you, Persephone, will be with me, at my side, as I triumph.”

Johnny started forward. “If you hurt her—”

“You’ll find it much harder to finish the task with a broken leg, but I promise you, that’s what I’ll do to you next.” When Johnny didn’t move or speak, Menessos added, “Fetch the stake, boy.”

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’?”

Matter-of-factly, he replied, “My mark is the only means by which I could guarantee the safety you requested.”

“You didn’t tell me that.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “At the time, I did not know you were so ignorant of our ways.”

“Liar! You just said a minute ago that you were surprised at how much I know!”

“All your arguments are pointless. My blood now marks your home and you. It tells every vampire who might happen past that I have laid claim to this place and nothing can be done against you without my consent. To ignore this is to cross me, and all who cross me know great torment before they cease to exist.”

“I wanted protection from you!” I growled, irritated that my words still didn’t convey what I meant. “Protection from the threat that you personally are to me.” Miserably, I added, “Besides, I don’t think I need protection from any other vampires.”

“There are many eager for a place in the echelons of the vampire hierarchy. Many have been rejected. There are a few who appraise my every step in pursuit of some means to avenge their wounded pride. Had I come here and neither ruined your domicile nor laid claim to it, someone would have taken an interest in seeing what was here that had briefly held my interest, and then labored at discovering how it could be exploited. Would you care to know how many of my casual acquaintances have expired within a fortnight of a meeting with me?”

“No.” I sat before the fire, rubbing my arms. Turning my back to him may have been unwise, but I didn’t care—I wanted to feel warm. The quarter-logs were blazing earnestly, and the heat felt good, but it couldn’t reach the chill set into my bones. By association I knew wærewolves well enough to write a column about them. But vampires—the filthy, rotten things—the less I knew about them, the better. Yet it was my ignorance that had gotten me into this. I knew so very little. If I was supposed to walk between worlds, I needed to get a handbook or something.

“Are your thoughts always this troubled, Persephone?”

“You’re not giving me any cause to have happy thoughts.”

Softly he said, “You wouldn’t need them to fly in my Neverland.”

I hadn’t expected him to know literature. I mean, I know vampires are supposed to be knowledgeable. Their extended life spans give them every opportunity to become snotty, overeducated know-it-alls. I just hadn’t expected him to speak of it softly, to share those words as if sharing a secret.

I asked over my shoulder, “Can you read my mind?”

He smiled in a small and unassuming way. “No, Persephone. With the first mark, a master becomes empathetic to his servant. Exact subjects remain hidden, but with familiarity they may become more obvious. Admitting this to you is surely dangerous, but I want you to trust me. We could have a bountiful future. You could become everything your name implies—the Queen of the Underworld.”