Fatal Circle (21 page)

“Should I? Shouldn’t I?”

“You cannot be Una!”

Oh, hell.
“I’m not trying to be Una!” I’d even told Menessos as much.

“Don’t you understand?
That
is what he wants! He wants you and the waerewolf to complete the trio he once had!”

Beau’s ritual might bring us close.

Seven sank into the salon chair. “I could not love him as he needed to be loved. I tried. I care for him deeply, but I do not love him as I love Mark . . . never have I loved anyone as I love Mark.”

“Seven, you say that like it means you failed. Loving someone isn’t a failure.”

“And what of
not
loving someone who deserves it? Of not being able to be what they need you to be?” She stood and tore the fastener from her braid, ripping her fingers through her long, black hair. It fanned out behind her, full and loose, crimped from the twisting. “Do you know who I am?”

I nodded and my voice came soft, “You’re Seven.”

“I was once the Lustrata.”

I gaped at her.
She
was my predecessor?

“Long ago,” she added.

“You’re a vampire.”

“I am
now
.” Her tone was rueful. “He could not bear to lose us.”

“Us?”

“Mark and I.” She delayed before continuing. “I failed. Horribly. We both failed him.”

“How?”

Her gaze went downcast. “I grew blinded by my love. My heart wanted to do the right thing.”

For the right reason?

“I was proud. And I was selfish. I could not give up what I had and follow his course. Love blinded me to what must be done.”

“Whatever I have become, I am yet a Greek, Persephone. Like you. I used my position, my power, to achieve what was best for my people. When all I had fought for was lost, my heart was broken and my will shattered. When Mark stood before these eyes again, restored and immortal, my judgment grew clouded.
Love
led me to make choices for
him
 . . . choices that failed Menessos and the balance of the world.” She fixed those bright irises on me. “You must not fail. Not even for your waerewolf.”

“Then tell me what to do.”

“Love him, Persephone. Love Menessos as he loves you.”

My throat clenched up and nothing would come out, neither would any air go down.
Love? She said
love
?
“He doesn’t love me.”

Seven crossed to the door. “Risqué will be here soon to do your hair and makeup.” She left.

I stood there for a full minute, staring at the closed door, hearing “Love Menessos as he loves you” echo over and over in my rattled brain.

Her final words eventually silenced the echo:
Risqué
was going to do my hair?

CHAPTER TWENTY

I was thinking on what Nana had once told me about there being two previous Lustratas when Risqué came in wearing a slip dress of shiny orange fabric and clear high-heeled shoes. The skirt was so short there was a potential peep show in her every move, and the zippers over her breasts promised one. She should have been at the Playboy Mansion, but it was common knowledge they had something against the not-quite-human. Still, her attire hadn’t surprised me, though the suitcase she carried did.

“Let’s get your hair done first.” She set the case on the counter.

“You know, I can do this myself. You don’t have to go to the trouble.”

She ignored my resistance. “Boss said to make you elegant. Goliath suggested an updo with hanging tendrils. Said he’d seen your hair up at some concert thing and that it suited you.”

“That’s what I’ll do, then.”

“Honey, Boss gave me orders. Not even you can alter them. Now sit down.” She patted the chair and actually smiled. Sort of.

I sat.

The suitcase held all the tools and supplies she needed to make me into a red-carpet statement. She even had a pair of lights; she set them up on the counter first. The next twenty minutes passed blow-drying and hot-rollering my hair. I couldn’t see what she was doing, but she seemed to be an expert hairdresser. “Let’s get your dress taped on now.”

Taped?

“We’ll do your makeup and then I’ll take those rollers out and pin your hair up.”

Although Risqué was on her best behavior—no rudeness or apparent animosity—I still had the distinct impression that she was imagining shoving actual pins into my head like a voodoo doll.

Risqué unzipped the first garment bag and I knew this was going to be bad. She took out a pair of boots, set them to the side, and reached for the next garment bag.

“Wait,” I said.

The glossy red boots were thigh high, laced up the front and had multiple buckles. Santa might wear them—if he were a drag queen. The five-inch heels—as in two inches of platform and an additional three inches of heel—made me wince. I’d be nearly as tall as Johnny in those. “I can’t wear those.”

“You must.”

“Not.”

Risqué scowled. “This is what the Boss has provided you. It’s all there is.”

She needed to think I was motivated by his orders, so I reconsidered the boots. They were stripper sexy, but I wasn’t sure I could walk anywhere in them without breaking my neck. At least the chunky heel was not a stiletto. “Show me the clothes.”

She unzipped the second bag and brought out a red dress.

The skirt was at least longer than hers, but slitted over both thighs. The top draped to enhance, and the back was nonexistent except for a few strings that would keep the front from revealing too much. I gulped. Audibly. Thank the Goddess there were matching dance briefs, high cut on the thigh, but still offering coverage if I did take a tumble in the boots.

“Off with the towel, Miss Modesty.”

Nearly an hour and several strips of double-sided tape later, Risqué had proved that, in spite of her lack of people skills, she did have cosmetology talent. She wanted me to remove Beau’s charm, but I insisted it stayed on. When my clothes, hair, and makeup were done, she presented me with a wrapped and beribboned box from the bottom of the last garment bag. “Boss said to give you this, and to leave you alone with it. I will wait in the bath chamber, and escort you to your place in time for your cue.”

Upon opening the box, I found another gold-bordered note.

Xerxadrea sent these.—M

Pushing back the tissue paper, I saw a row of seven red jaspers—a stone known for its protection against night hazards, for promoting the courage to speak out, and for physical energy. The number of stones and the fact that each one had a means for securing it—gold chains or hairpins, some affixed to scatter pins with clutch backs—I knew these were meant to coincide with my chakra points.

Taking the first from the box, I immediately felt its empowerment. I slid it into my hair at the very top of my head. The updo hid it, but a tremor pulsed over my aura. The second hung centered on my forehead from a chain secured in my hair with pins. The third was the centerpiece of a choker on a thin golden chain. The fourth, fifth, and sixth fastened at my heart, my solar plexus, and at the upper edge of the skirt in the back.

The seventh was trickier. I pinned it to the front of my dancers’ panties.

The stones did not warm to the same degree as the charm, but each jasper worked with the others to create an extra shield for my aura and amplified the strength of it. My body felt energized.

Risqué had declared me ready—a word I was heavily weighing the definition of as I stood alone in the lobby outside the auditorium doors. I guessed they’d cleared it of malingerers before Risqué escorted me to my place. I wondered if latecomers were to be held up somewhere to be allowed in later.

For their purposes, I was: ready (adj.) “completely prepared.” Meaning: I was dressed and able to proceed with this ceremony. Taped into a revealing dress—
which would be on the news!
—and coached in how to
not
stomp or march. Risqué had made me practice walking in the damned platform boots until I could move with some measure of confidence and grace.

However, for my own reasons, I was not: ready (adj.) “inclined to start.” At least not yet. Johnny still hadn’t arrived.
Where is he? Menessos better not have anything to do with his being absent.

Inside, voices chattered quietly, and music began to play. The voices began to hush. Risqué had told me the doors would open and I’d enter. At the sound and light cue, I was to walk the red carpet to the stage steps. I would take the steps up to center stage where Menessos would await me. She’d not said what I could expect from there.

Damn, damn, damn. I’m about to become a master vampire’s court witch, I’m wearing next to nothing and about to be on TV, Johnny’s not here, and whoever the WEC traitor is—not to mention other assorted unknown enemies—might try to use this event as a means of attack. Deep breath.

Beyond the doors, the music waned and Menessos’s voice called out to address those assembled. My hand strayed to my neck, to the bite.
Love him as he loves you.

“Vampires mine, honored Offerlings, beloved Beholders, members of the media, guests—welcome, all of you, to our ceremony. In an effort to be open and allow the public to see us . . .” He went on with his prepared opening speech.

Very exposed, I was an image of vulnerability. Bait. But thanks to Beau and Xerxadrea, I was not defenseless.

If only I was calm. For that, I realized, I needed Johnny.

I heard Menessos’s voice whisper as if next to me, “Come.”

The doors before me swung open.

Everyone came to their feet. In the seconds before the cameras flashing burned out my retinas, I saw a DJ booth (Jaded Jason, according to the logo), and a news crew area (Channels 3, 6, and 43 all seemed to be tolerating each other well). Between the cameras and the stage lighting, I was unable to see anything else.

Fighting to not squint, I found that directly ahead I could see the equally-lit stage where Menessos sat on his throne, across the long hall, and Goliath sat to his right. Behind them, the bank of screens displayed the stylized fang symbol I’d seen on the plywood by the theater’s front doors. No sign of Johnny anywhere.

Where is he?

Goliath Kline caught my eye from the stage. Despite Menessos’s obvious possession of the stage, Goliath still had considerable stage presence. Tall and Nordic in a supermodel way, with eyes the color of summer forget-me-nots, he was nothing like his younger brother, Samson, whose spirit was now housed in my protrepticus—which rested in a black velvet pouch draped from a belt at my waist. Risqué had fretted over this addition to the Boss’s selected ensemble as well, and grouched about my being afraid I might miss a call. I let her grouch. She didn’t need to know what it really did.

I heard the music swell slightly. The houselights dimmed a bit, leaving the scarlet aisle more highly illuminated. That was my cue.

Chin level, shoulders squared, I moved forward amid an orchestrated melody of pomp and spectacle. My steps were as confident as any I’d ever taken.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

There were several rows of chairs at the back of the house for less exalted guests and Beholders. I moved past them, concentrating on walking and the stage before me. My eyes were adjusting to the lights and I could make out that the tables seemed to be occupied mostly by vampires and Offerlings. My best guess numbered them at about a hundred. It seemed that, with the exception of Risqué, basic black was a requirement for the ceremony, or they dressed dark all the time, in love with the stereotype. I imagined some mundane humans were there, too: local celebrities, movers-and-shakers, politicos.

But Johnny was still nowhere to be seen. Had he seen his “dog bed” and refused to have any more to do with this event? I couldn’t blame him if he had.

Another mental signal from Menessos instructed me to stop several paces from the end of the ramp and turn to face the crowd.
Smile regally.
A follow spot “hit” me—as if I weren’t already noticeable. Around me, vampires were breathing me in, murmuring of roses and warmth.

I saw Seven—
my predecessor!—
standing to my left at a table in the row closest to the stage. A ruggedly handsome man, who had to be Mark, stood next to her. He was broad-shouldered and built like a lumberjack, as if muscle and brawn were part of whatever his trade had been in life. At the table to my right, I spotted Heldridge, the local vampire lord and owner of the Blood Culture. With the spotlight in my eyes, I couldn’t see any further.

Menessos stood on stage and extended his hand. “I present to you Persephone Isis Alcmedi!”

At my name, Seven zoomed in on me.

“Henceforth,” Menessos continued, “she is Erus Veneficus of this haven.”

I turned toward the stage and carefully made my way up the steps. Reaching the stage I took the vampire’s hand. Menessos twirled me around in a pirouette. That was a move Risqué had not prepared me for; I barely stayed on my feet.

From stage left, Mountain came forward with a large wooden chest. While he held it, Menessos opened the lid. Drawing a blood-red velvet cape from within, he placed it upon my shoulders and adjusted the hood before once again reaching into the chest. This time he held up a much smaller item. Mountain backed away.

“Shall I, Master?” Goliath asked. The others called him Boss, but Goliath always used “Master.”

“No. I will display to her, and to you all, the honor I feel at having her here. I will place it upon her myself.” With that he crouched before me, carefully
not
going down on one knee. Still, a few gasps were heard. He held the elaborate red garter open and ready. I lifted my foot, somehow retaining my balance on one leg, and he deftly maneuvered the symbol over the boot and up my leg to mid-thigh.

The garter was a symbol of power among witches, and in some traditions it marked the high priestess in a coven. I was certain the symbolism was not lost on the vampires, or at least not on Menessos.

He came to his feet and took me into his arms, dancing me merrily around in a circle. I caught a glimpse of a close-up of our faces in the big television screens. Grinning splendidly, he called out, “Let us celebrate!”