"Fatal Circle" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robertson Linda)

CHAPTER TWO

It was nearly dawn. Freshly showered, wearing clean blue jeans and a long-sleeved creamy yellow T-shirt with some beaded embellishment around the scoop neck, I crossed to the edge of my porch, yawning. Even with the chill in the crisp air, the mist had held on, giving the morning a sense of magic.

The ground was wet with cold dew that soaked the hem of my jeans as I went to check the cellar door. Not to verify Menessos’s presence—the warmth caressing the underside of my sternum assured me he was still here. As expected, the door was secured from the inside as if people were huddling down there to escape a tornado. There were no people down there, however, only one insatiably obstinate vampire. There might be no storm to shelter from, but the cellar offered protection from the even more dangerous, for him, daylight.

Johnny’s footsteps shushed through the grass as he rounded the corner.

“He’s locked himself in down there,” I said.

“Wolves in your attic and corpses in your cellar.” Johnny’s hands rested on the black denim at his lean hips. “Just another glorious day in ‘Ohio: The Heart of It All.’ ”

I scanned over his long fingers, up the heather gray of his long-sleeved jersey to the black waves of tousled hair and the dark lines of his Wedjat-tattooed eyes.

My arm slid around his waist and directed him toward the front of the house. “I have a nagging feeling that this is going to get ugly before it’s over, and we’ll be appreciating any break we can get. Even if Menessos is the one giving it to us.”

He hung his arm across my shoulders.

When we rounded the house, I could see the east. There were thick clouds promising rain overhead, yet the first glimmer of true sunlight glistened on the less-cloudy horizon, and reflected off every damp particle floating in the air like a haze of glitter.

In that enchanting moment, six broom-riding witches in a V formation drifted down from the sky to land in my yard. It’s not every morning a girl sees Elders in street clothes. Xerxadrea, the eldest, was in the lead position and, apparently, a red, white, and navy blue velour jogging suit was the flying outfit of choice for ancient Eldrennes.

Every one of the witches wore some type of dark jogging suit and white sneakers. All wore goggles that any steampunk fan would love.

It made me want to race up to my closet and throw out the few jogging suits I was guilty of owning. Mine were solid pastel colors, though, stylish and cotton, and I’d never once considered wearing them with Red Baron goggles.

Johnny leaned close to my ear and whispered, “I never would have believed those old ladies could sit a broom. At least not without stirrups, handlebars, and broad bicycle seats attached.”

I elbowed him in the ribs. They could probably hear him.

“Merry Morning to you, Persephone.” Xerxadrea pushed her goggles to her forehead. Her raven landed on her shoulder. It had been perched in a nearby tree, watching.

“Merry Morning to you, Eldrenne.”

Xerxadrea had pallid skin, almost as white as the long braid draping over her shoulder. Only the splotches of pink above her sunken cheeks gave her any color. Most notable were her blind eyes, covered with a thin, bluish film. “You remember Ludovika, Jeanine, Celeste, Silvana, and Vilna-Daluca?” Though Vilna-Daluca was also an Elder, Xerxadrea was among the eldest, and she was afforded the name and title of Eldrenne. The rest were high-ranking high priestesses.

“Yes.” I silently repeated their names to myself again.

“I have news,” Xerxadrea said. Her voice was thin and a bit breathy. “The Witches Elder Council convened in emergency meeting last night after word of the fairies’ threat of war reached them. They recognized the Hallowe’en death of the air fairy as a sign of the Lustrata’s return.”

I nodded. It had to happen sometime.

“The Elders have begun trying to make contact with the fey to see if they can negotiate a peace. It may buy us some time. I will keep you advised as this progresses, but”—Xerxadrea extended her hand, receiving a satchel from Celeste—“on with the purpose of our visit.” From the canvas bag Xerxadrea removed four iron spikes, each topped with a huge black stone. My first thought went to onyx, but this was too shiny. Witches Armor. Better known as jet. She supplied one to each of the four priestesses. “Go,” she told them.

“What are they doing?” I asked.

“We are setting you a perimeter.”

“I have wards.”

“Not,” Vilna-Daluca said, “like these.”

Reaching into the satchel again, Xerxadrea brought out a palm-sized iron candle holder, at least that’s what I thought it was when she thrust it at me. Accepting it, I saw it was round and had an ornate latticework rim with four little spikes. Next, she offered me an obelisk-shaped piece of jet that fit perfectly into the square indention in the base. After surrendering the satchel to Vilna-Daluca, she said to Johnny, “You should jog up the road about a hundred yards or so. And you,” she said to me, “need to come with us.”

Johnny prowled across the lawn, passing two witches headed for the front corners of the property. Witchcraft and sorcery both stirred energies that could cause a waerewolf to go into a partial change. Xerxadrea had courteously cautioned Johnny to stay clear until the spell work was done and posed no threat.

“Here,” Vilna-Daluca said, stopping us in line parallel to the front door, but about twenty feet out.

Shoulder to shoulder, we faced the street. Xerxadrea smelled like harvest spices and the scent of anise and nutmeg filled the air as she spoke.

Iron spikes, fire-forged

Empowered and engorged

With defensive protection

and offensive rejection

Of fairy strike.

She tapped the ley line, and its response caused the hair at the nape of my neck to prickle. The other two witches had gone to the rear corners of the yard. Behind the house, one of them called out, a wordless sound of defense. Before me, the witch in the northwest corner gave the same cry and stabbed the iron spike into the ground. Then the woman to the northeast, followed by the witch in back. Finally, the witch who had started it gave her cry again, and I knew the ley power had completed the circuit of my property, at least the part that wasn’t cornfield. I owned twenty acres in total.

The obelisk thrummed, a light but steady vibration, one I could readily detect. Both of the witches with me gave a cry and threw their hands up into the air. My skin crawled as the ward rose up like a wave, and crashed down on the other side, pushing through and under to make an invisible cylinder of protection.

The Eldrenne set it spinning, and her gestures seemed to indicate she was adding power from the line in small amounts. When she was satisfied, she drew an equal-armed cross in the air to seal her magic.

“It is done,” Xerxadrea said happily. “You can check its power level with this.” She patted the obelisk. “If it feels weak, refuel from the line.”

Tramping along, using their brooms like walking sticks with floppy bottoms, the group rejoined and headed for my porch. Gently grasping Xerxadrea’s age-spotted arm, I held her back. “I have to tell you something. And I want it to be a secret between us.”

“As you wish.”

Johnny was jogging toward us. I felt a little pang knowing I should have told him this before I revealed it to Xerxadrea. “Weeks ago, Menessos marked me. Afterward . . .” We’d be here all morning if I gave her details. I went with the short version. “Somehow, I flipped it.”

“You transformed a stain into a hex?” “Stain” was the slang term for a vampire’s mark, but a witch’s mark was also known as a “hex.”

I swallowed. “Yes.”

“She tested you, and you passed.” By “she” Xerxadrea meant the Goddess. “Nothing I wouldn’t expect of the Lustrata.” The corner of her mouth crooked upward. Evidently this came as no surprise to her.

“My question is this: he wasn’t held out by my wards. Will this one you just set be any different?”

“Yes and no.”

I wasn’t sure how to phrase what I wanted to ask next.

“Come, come, Persephone, I know you have questions,” she said.

“The fairies who are bound to him, can they use the binding they have to him and get through?”

“Through your former wards, yes. This”—she gestured all around—“no. We’ve specifically empowered it against fairies, using iron and Witches Armor. He cannot call them here. He was supposed to tell you that.”

“He did . . . sort of, but I wanted to confirm it.”

“What about the ley line?” Aquula had ridden the line and appeared to me in the grove. “What if the other fairies ride it and show up here?”

“They could. We cannot block them from using the line. You’re safe inside.” Blindness notwithstanding, Xerxadrea—who had never been here before—released my arm and once more headed for the porch. Her pet raven leaped from her shoulder and landed on the porch rail, cawing. Johnny had passed us and was now observing from the doorway.

“Okay. About this war then . . .” I wanted guidance and advice.

“All in good time.” She patted my hand.

Vilna-Daluca called out, “What’s for breakfast?”

Until she asked, I hadn’t equated their dawn services with my being their hostess. As a solitary, I hadn’t any cause to practice coven etiquette. “Well.” I shot a worried, pleading look at Johnny. Even if this Mother Hubbard’s kitchen cupboards were bare, that waerewolf could whip up a feast.

“I’m on it,” he said, winking at me. He opened the door as they advanced onto the porch. “I hope eggs and pancakes will do?”

At the steps, Xerxadrea did her witchy-mist thing that was fast becoming her trademark to me. The fog enveloped her lower half and she rose up gently and smoothly. If Nana could do that, I’d worry less about the wear and tear the stairs did to her knees.

“Ruya”—Xerxadrea said the name of her raven—“will remain out here.” She added her broom to the collection leaning just beside the door.

I reached for the door but, hearing the popping of gravel under tires, stopped. Lydia’s mud-splattered pickup rolled up the driveway. She’d been the interim high priestess for Venefica Coven, when their former leader went missing. It was because of Lydia that I’d participated in the Eximium: she had nominated me to take the priestess position. Thankfully, the competition ended with Hunter Hopewell gaining the title and not me. Lydia was also the previous owner of this house and land.

“Lydia’s arrived,” Xerxadrea said.

“How do you do that?” I asked.

“Do what?” She used to add “child” to the end of her sentences. I wondered if she had stopped saying it because I was now a part of her lucusi.

“See,” I blurted out.

“Sorcery, of course.” She smiled enigmatically.

I knew that, but had hoped to get more of an answer. Since she didn’t offer, I didn’t press.

Lydia slid from the big truck easily and approached us. Her hair was twisted into her usual bun, and she wore a corduroy dress and flat-heeled boots. She bid us a proper greeting and apologized for being late, citing her chickens had gotten loose. “Is Demeter awake?”

Her question reminded me that Lydia and Nana used to be friends—and that, according to Lydia, they had parted on not-so-good terms. “Probably. She claims the crack of dawn is her new alarm clock.”

Taking a deep breath, Lydia nodded. “If need be, I’ll go.”

“Let’s hope that isn’t the case,” I said, holding the door open for Xerxadrea. Her warm, soft hand rounded my arm, obliging me to stay with her as we entered, but I managed to keep the door politely ajar for Lydia.

The rattling of dishes met our ears as we proceeded down the hall. The witches had gathered in the dining room around the big table, which seated six easily. After seeing Xerxadrea to a padded chair, I added the middle leaves to the table. With enlisted help, we moved the bench and two chairs from the dinette in the kitchen to fill in. The table would now seat ten—assuming Nana would join us.

To spare Nana’s knees, I’d promised to have the dining room renovated into a downstairs bedroom and add a bath. However, if, as a member of the lucusi or as the Lustrata, I was going to have pow-wows around my table with any regularity, not having this space might be a problem. Maybe I’ll ask Xerxadrea to teach Nana that mist-magic thing.

About that time, Nana, Beverley, and Ares came down from the second floor. Herding the Great Dane puppy out the front door to do his morning business, I stopped them there in the hall and asked, “I thought you two were going to sleep in today?” Last evening Beverley had been kidnapped by fairies. They had tried to kill her, but Menessos’s quick action had saved her. To me, kidnapping and attempted murder were definitely grounds for a day off from school. “How about we call the office and say you have a tummy ache from eating too much candy? Then you can stay home.”

“But I want to go.” Beverley’s smile was bright.

Before I could even try to dissuade her, Nana assured me, “We talked about it upstairs.” She was trying to see into the dining room; the chatter was drawing her attention.

“I won’t say anything to anyone, Seph,” Beverley chimed in. “I promise.”

Beverley was dressed and ready. Insisting she skip school would sound ludicrous, so I let it go. Ares came back to the door. I let him in and held his collar so he didn’t take off and knock little old witches from their chairs. “All right,” I conceded to Beverley. “Take Ares to the garage and feed him so he doesn’t bother our guests, please.”

Because Beverly kept saying “kibble,” the growing-into-a-behemoth animal allowed the child to guide him down the hall and past the strangers he unmistakably wanted to sniff.

Taking Nana to the dining room through the living room, I said, “Nana, perhaps you’ll remember Xerxadrea?”

“It has been a long time, Demeter.” They shared a polite word or two. Then, “If I may introduce the rest?”

“Please do.” I remembered their names, but allowed the Eldrenne to continue the introductions because I wanted to gauge Nana’s reaction to Lydia.

Xerxadrea indicated the high priestesses as members of her lucusi, then lastly said, “And this is Lydia Whitmore.”

Until then, Nana had been consummately playing the crotchety old crone with a bit of elderly befuddlement, busily digging her cigarette case from her robe pocket, giving the effect of barely listening, fostered by halfhearted nods as each name was spoken.

But at Lydia’s name, she stilled. Slowly, stiffly, Nana turned. She squinted as if her eyes were going bad, but they weren’t. This was her expression of contempt. It was usually reserved for the mention of nursing homes, bingo, and antismoking laws.

The painful silence wore on, as fragile as a soap bubble.

“Hello, Demeter.”

Nana lifted a cigarette to her lips and lit it without taking her stern stare from the last-arriving guest. She took a drag and, from the corner of her firm-lined mouth, blew smoke at the ceiling. I was convinced that just then she could have chewed up tin cans and spit out nails.

“Lydia Whitmore,” Nana whispered, not having removed the cigarette, “is speaking to me?” Her whisper was a lit fuse. A short one. “After fifty-six years?”

Lydia stood slowly. “I’ll go.”

Nana jerked the cigarette from her lips and gestured with it as she spoke. “Oh, no, Lydia, sit! Stay! Eat the food from my granddaughter’s table.” There was sarcasm and a threatening, seething rage in her gravelly voice. Nana shuffled into the kitchen, glaring at Lydia all the way.

A second later, I followed, speechless.

Because Beverley was standing at the counter eating, I didn’t ask Nana the obvious. The kitchen was filled with the smells of breakfast, and Johnny was moving pancakes onto a platter. To the kid’s delight, he flipped one through the air to land on her plate.

In minutes, all the food was ready and Johnny shoved a platter of scrambled eggs at me. He lifted the other serving dishes, piled with pancakes and sausage links, and headed to the table with a nod for me to follow. As he placed them before the wowed assemblage of witches, he swiped a hotcake from the top and rolled it around a link. “I’m going to run Beverley to school.” He bit into the food even as he left the room. “I’ll be right back,” he added from the hallway, just before the two of them went out.

“Thank you,” I called, glancing at the clock. It was eight-twenty-five already. The sunrise was so late in the fall!

He’d gotten me out of the kitchen and back to my guests, but I was a hopeless hostess. I didn’t know what to say or do. Apologize to Lydia? Apologize to Nana? Around me, the women were filling their plates and digging in. They weren’t waiting for me to fix something; I hadn’t done anything wrong. “Sit down, Persephone. Eat with us,” Vilna-Daluca said.

I sat. I heard the engine of Nana’s LeSabre cough and rev. I should be taking Beverley to school. Already, this was upsetting our routine. While I was sure Johnny had made Beverley a lunch, I doubted he had included one of the sticky-notes from the joke book in the cupboard. She’s my responsibility.

“Is it even safe?” My voice was soft, but it was enough that the movement and chatter around the table ceased.

“Is what safe?” Vilna-Daluca asked.

“For Beverley to go to school today? After all she’s been through, losing her mother and with what happened last night. Maybe she should stay home.”

“She has the necklace on,” Nana answered from the kitchen. “The fey cannot touch her.”

I twisted in my chair to see her. “But should she go? Did she sleep? Is she—”

“I spoke with her,” Nana reassured me again.

I left the table. My stomach couldn’t tolerate food right now anyway. Drawn to the kitchen where I could be almost alone, I opened up the joke book. The sticky-notes had joke questions on the front, answers on the back. I should have remembered before they’d gone out the door. Such a small detail, but it had become clear these meant something to Beverley. She read the joke to the other kids at the lunch table. It was winning her friends.

“My life is getting in the way of her life being normal.” It was never my intention to see how much this child could be expected to tolerate, but damn, she seemed to be taking it in stride better than I was. Maybe I’m not good enough to be a parent.

“Persephone.” Nana’s voice was soft.

Stuffing my despondency deep down and plastering on an “I’m okay” expression, I grabbed the carafe because it was the only thing within reach. “Coffee?”

She snorted and said, “Sure,” then came and leaned on the counter beside me. I poured two cups, and neither of them was my favorite Lady of Shalott mug. We drank in silence, side by side, listening to the chatter that had picked up again in the next room.

Before I’d finished the coffee, Johnny returned. He entered by the front door, passed through the living room and dining room, checking on the gathered witches and inquiring if they’d had enough to eat. They claimed they had and complimented him on his culinary skills. Someone remarked, “Your pancakes are as fluffy as a cloud.”

“Well, you would know,” he replied, “flying around on brooms like you do.”

He came into the kitchen and, seeing Nana and me, wagged the empty platters and whispered, “They didn’t leave a crumb,” before stacking them in the sink. “I thought only waeres and teenage boys had claim to the appetite crown, but damn, those seven little old ladies can chow down!”

“There’s still coffee.” I lifted the carafe again.

He took it and poured himself a cup. Derisively, he asked, “So what are we going to do about the corpse in your cellar?”

“Corpse?” Nana echoed, voice hollow.

“He means Menessos.”

“He’s here?”

“Yes.” The chatter in the other room had stopped.

Xerxadrea appeared in the doorway. “You must make Menessos tell you the truth.”

“Finally!” Johnny exclaimed.

“Huh?” I asked.

“I’m not the only one who thinks Menessos is a liar.” Johnny grinned over the edge of his mug.

“Do not add implications to my words, young man,” Xerxadrea snapped. “I insinuated nothing of the sort.” Though her patriotic velour jog suit was quirky, her formidability was undeniable. “Menessos is many things,” she went on, her voice firm but without the condemnation. “He embodies things you fear, things you envy, and things you cannot comprehend, but he is not a liar.” Before Johnny could protest, she raised a hand and added, “Oh, you can argue he twists facts to suit himself, but what he truly does is so much more than that. He can instantly take all the information he’s acquired and accurately discern which words—and what order—will produce the best advantage for his purposes.”

“My bad,” Johnny muttered. “He’s not a liar, he’s a manipulating ass.”

Again, I couldn’t intervene because Xerxadrea was quicker.

“Omitting the unaccommodating words doesn’t make him a liar or an ass. It makes him a master.” She pointed at Johnny. “Perhaps you would learn a few things if you would but try to see beyond your own conflict, and see his.”

Johnny’s silence couldn’t disguise the fact that he resented her scolding. It was conveyed in his raised chin and rigid spine.

Xerxadrea continued. “His perception has been transformed by eons of blood. He has worn the fabric of this world for so long it’s threadbare and holds no mysteries for him now. He has mastered the patterns. Whatever moment in time you’re bitterly clinging to and trying to alter . . . it’s merely a thread to him. He can sever it as easily as he can fray it into a hellish and frantic existence for you. Or he can reweave that thread, making those seconds produce an outcome to fit the necessary and inevitable truth he uniquely sees, and it is that truth of which I spoke.”

She gestured to me, and held out her arm.

“Take me to him, Persephone. We must speak with him privately, you and I.”