Fatal Circle (30 page)

Johnny sat forward, creaking the leather. “Which of you was his mark?”

“I was.”

Relieved, and yet not, I asked, “Where is the performer now?”

“By law, I have the authority to detain him twenty-four hours for questioning, but if local law enforcement intervenes they have the right to remove him into their custody—which they always do if the prisoner is human. This one was no exception. We gave him over before dawn.”

“Who sent him?” I asked. “Or was he self-appointed to the task?”

He put off voicing that answer as long as he could. “Heldridge sent him.”

I was too stunned to comment, but my memory of how Menessos had subdued Heldridge at the Eximium remained fresh.

“Evidently he was opposed to my headquartering my court in his established area. He should have been honored to host my sector authority here. Quarter-lords always improve the local economy. Chicago’s lord begged me not to leave . . .”

He was rambling, and his voice was distant. It gave me the impression that he was holding this conversation while his thoughts were truly far, far away. “What else?”

“Hmmm?”

“Tell me.” I put a hand on his knee.

Those sharklike eyes lifted then, and locked on me. “Heldridge was at the Eximium. Perhaps he told the fairies of the hanky. If he wanted to be rid of me, that is logical. But he cannot call the fey or stir the energies. No witch in her right mind would do so for him. That means the fairies contacted him, probably after I confirmed moving the haven here. Riling him. They’ve been working against me with my own kind.”

“Where’s Heldridge now?”

“He’s fled. His haven is in distress. I must send his people to other lords. I dare not take them into my own haven, though it is customary. With you here . . . I cannot afford to risk it.”

We sat in silence, the brooding gloom of the room taking hold.

“I sent scouts to the beach. They will ascertain the lay of the land. Their report will be useful to Mark as he begins strategizing at dusk.”

“That is so little time,” I said.

“There will be some waeres who will aid,” Johnny offered. “I can’t say how many, but I should have an indication by dusk.”

Menessos bowed his head toward Johnny. “Congratulations on your ascension, Domn Lup.”

Johnny nodded back.

Menessos turned to me. “What did you think of Wolfsbane and Absinthe?”

“It was more than I expected.”

“Beauregard explained, then, the need for the soul-sharing?”

I nodded.

“And you, Domn Lup, you agree to its necessity?”

“Yeah, but . . . I have questions.”

Menessos inclined his head slightly, acknowledging that Johnny should continue.

“I’m a fan of the one-body one-spirit concept. So tell me—honestly”—he glared pointedly at the vampire— “how will it alter our conscious selves?”

“Are you conscious of your soul now?” Menessos asked back.

“I’m self-aware.”

“That is consciousness, yes, but do you feel your
soul
?”

Johnny considered it. “I don’t know. I don’t know what it would feel like to be alive and soulless.”

“If you were alive and soulless you’d be a zombie,” Menessos said plainly. “Many think vampires are soulless, but I say not. It is why we do not rot as zombies do. I say vampires’ souls leave them at dawn, yet are tethered to them still, and return at dusk bringing consciousness back.”

“Like astral travel?” I asked.

“Similar, but in astral travel the soul is aware like a dream. Vampire souls are simply dormant.”

“And while the soul is dormant and absent,” Johnny pressed, “what do your people claim the experience of that is like?”

Menessos’s head snapped toward me sharply.

Johnny’s words had implied that Menessos wouldn’t know himself. “Yes. I told him you’re alive.” I defended my actions, saying, “No one should go into this ritual without knowing the truth.”

Johnny snorted. “She did swear me to secrecy first.”

The vampire was nonplussed, but it was done. I hoped he could concede that my logic was valid.

“They claim it is a second of nothingness,” he said. “Vampires die, and they ‘instantly’ awaken knowing hours have passed but without a true sense of them. It renders the impression of near-constant life.”

“And sharing souls? How does it work?”

“I have not experienced it before,” Menessos said irritably as he rose and paced.

“If I had to guess”—Johnny came to his feet—“I’d say that psychic stuff like telepathy touches on what we’re attempting, but what we’re doing is more permanent.”

Menessos stroked his chin contemplatively.

“And,” Johnny continued, “I don’t want either of you in my head.”

I had a thought. “This ritual is in the Codex, right? Didn’t you perform it with Una and Ninurta?”

“Una would not.”

“Why?”

“She feared the repercussions. She thought that souls are the handiwork of the gods and that, should we play at separating and dividing our essences, we would all die.”

Guardedly, I asked, “What do you think?”

My question lingered, unanswered. Then Menessos disappeared into the black chasm doorway. A minute later, he came back with the Trivium Codex and placed it into my hands. “A silver ribbon marks the proper page. If, after studying the ritual, you still wish to perform it, return here an hour before dusk.”

Wordlessly, I pleaded with him to answer.

He stroked my cheek. “I think the goddess favors you above all others.” Then he departed into that blackness again.

I followed Johnny out.

•  •  •

I couldn’t call Nana to decipher this for me. So, I called Dr. Geoffrey Lincoln. It being Saturday afternoon, the veterinarian was out of the office. The recorded response supplied an “emergency number” which I promptly dialed and left a message. After answering Johnny’s “where’d you get that phone?” questions, I worked translating things via the Internet, doubting the accuracy of every syllable. A half hour later, as Johnny served up lunch, I’d succumbed to the idea that the doc wasn’t going to call back. I commenced an internal dialogue of how to broach the subject with Nana.

Then the phone rang.

For the next two hours, I read passages to Dr. Lincoln, Johnny snapped phone photos and e-mailed them to him, and slowly we interpreted and deciphered the ritual. Dr. Lincoln promised to bill me.

I sat down to study the actual spell. Though I knew how Beau’s ingredients would work, I didn’t see how the willow wand fit in.

An hour before dusk, we gathered in Menessos’s chambers around the altar table where Aquula’s dead body had lain.

It was just after four in the afternoon. The sun would set at the startlingly early time of five-nineteen. Tomorrow would be the first Sunday in November, and daylight saving time would officially kick in at two
A.M.
tonight.
All things considered, we have about fifteen hours.

The altar held the Trivium Codex—open to the proper page—the supplies Beau had provided, and the standard supplies, too. My wands, old and new, marked my place at the table. Menessos’s was marked by his black-handled athame. For Johnny, Menessos had placed an onyx carved in the shape of a howling wolf. Though he would not call or shape the magic, Johnny would be a participant in this spell, and it was a nice gesture on the vampire’s part. I was pleased that Menessos had respected him enough to consider it.

We were all here.
Ready or not
. I reached for the salt to get this ritual under way. Menessos beat me to it, taking the salt neatly before I could. He walked around casting about this representation of the element of earth and cleansing the space.

I picked up the paper with the sigils for the spell, studied it once more, then set it to one side. Johnny picked up the corked bottle I’d been given at Wolfsbane and Absinthe. “What is this?” he whispered.

“Something Beau gave me.”

Johnny lifted the bottle, tilting and examining it. “Is this made with water or whiskey?”

“Water.”
I hope. I hadn’t opened it.

“Is that a peach pit?”

“Yes. For love and wishes.”

“And the other stuff floating in there?”

I thought back.

Menessos replaced the salt on the altar, then smoothly took the incense and a feather and cleansed the space with the element of air.

“Moss, willow, and orchid petals,” I said to Johnny, fingers trailing along the secondary wand, the willow branch with moss. “Moss is for luck, and is protective. Willow is for love and protection.”

“And the orchid petals?”

“Love.”

“And?”

“Just love.”

“There’s a lot of love in that bottle.”

My cheeks warmed.

Menessos put back the incense, then made a trek around the circle with a red candle, cleansing the space with fire.

“Protection, too,” I said, holding up the prickly holly leaf. “Protection and luck.”

Johnny cocked his head a little. “Do we need that much protection, luck, and love?”

“For what we’re about to do, yes.”

He shot a glance at Menessos, then shifted back to me with brows raised, as if silently asking,
Him too?

Making my expression entirely soft and full of compassion, I nodded.

He pointed to the paper on which I had drawn. “Those?”

“Sigils and symbols. The cross-number-two thing is the symbol of Saturn, and since it is Saturday we’ll tap the humility, authority, and respect associated with this day. However, we are at a crossroads here, so we’ll also call on the energy of Scorpio, the current zodiac house, and since the moon is waning we’ll concentrate on being rid of the dangers and doubts and . . .” I let it trail off. Johnny’s eyes had kind of glazed over, as if I’d started speaking Chinese or something.

Menessos replaced the red candle and took up the seashell filled with water.

Johnny studied the lines and curves of the next, a sigil, and gave me a polite nod.

“You’re thinking it’s just a scribble, right?”

“Actually, I was thinking it’s like fan blades that have had Silly String sprayed on them.”

Maybe he won’t change after all.
“You’ve sprayed Silly String on a fan before?”

“Of course. Haven’t you?”

“No.” Inspecting the sigil again, I had to agree it was as good an interpretation of the lines as another. “Your ‘fan blades’”—I traced with my finger—“are two
S
’s, see?” I’d drawn them with glue and silver glitter, one at a forty-five-degree angle, the second ninety degrees from the first so they crossed in the center. “They represent soul sharing, which is what we are doing. These are each of our initials,
M, J,
and
P.
” These were centered among the glitter. Purple and red ink from standard office-supply Sharpies highlighted the drawing.

Menessos finished with the cleansing, opened the altar energies, and lit the illuminator candles. With a nod at me he said, “Your turn.”

Taking the pail of sea salt, I drew a large circle encompassing much of the room, chanting, “Where circles are cast in salt . . . there, magic is called.” Then I redrew it with my usual crystal-tipped wand. “Where cross the paths of fate . . . there, magic is made.” I drew it a third and final time with the new willow wand. “Where three pieces make one whole . . . there, magic is the soul.” A triple-cast circle always made me feel safer.

“Two wands?” Menessos asked.

“This one is new.” I laid the willow wand on the table.

“Oh?”

“A present.”

“From?”

Who? The Goddess? A tree?
“My meditation.”

He thoughtfully studied where it lay on the altar.

When I spoke the quarter calls, north and the earth element came first. The coarse sea salt marking the circle shifted as if to acknowledge that presence. The second call stirred the air in the room like a sighing breath. With the third call, the candle flames flickered down low in unison, then shot up in a single blast of greeting. When I called water, the seashell on the table rocked, making ripples across the water’s surface. Most impressively, the fluid in the bottle Beau had given me swirled as if shaken, forming a tornado effect with bubbles and debris being pulled down in the center.

I nodded to Menessos. “Backatcha.”

He shook his head. “No. You will invoke deity.”

“But—”

“No buts. They like you better.”

I thought of Hecate at the Eximium. “She told you to be forgiven.”

His chin leveled. “Still, you are Her chosen.”

“And you are not?”

In one sharp, sideways glance, Menessos told me he didn’t feel comfortable discussing this around Johnny. His posture stiffened as emphasis to that point.

I took up the bottle and uncorked it. To Johnny I said, “Bare your chest, please.”

“You first.”

I smirked.

He unbuttoned his shirt. Taking a holly leaf from the altar, I allowed the mixture to drip onto the prickly leaf. It was neither water nor alcohol, but a thin oil. The fragrance was pleasant. After setting the bottle on the altar, I smeared my fingers through the oil from the leaf and I traced the pentacle tattoo on his sternum. Above it, I drew the sigil of our combined initials,
MJP
. I replaced the holly leaf on the table beside the onyx wolf.

Making certain I moved clockwise, deosil, around the circle, I went to Menessos and repeated the actions on him—minus the tattoo to use as a pattern. I opened his shirt a bit more to check the spot where Samson had tried to stake him. It was perfectly healed. No scar. I clasped his hand. “She forgave you. Can you not forgive yourself for whatever it was that caused the rift?”

His resolve was strong. “I want you to call Her.” He squeezed my hand for emphasis.

Having pushed as hard as my conscience would allow, I relented. We couldn’t risk negative energies tainting the sacred space we’d created. Releasing him, I shifted to the side, not resuming my former place.

“Who gets to mark you?” Johnny asked.

I removed my shirt, but remained modestly covered by my bra. They each gave a man-growl indicating their approval, then Johnny tried to outstare Menessos.