Hallowed Circle (16 page)

I showered and dressed, towel dried my hair, and sat cross-legged on the floor at the end of my bed. With a silver candle for endurance before me, I took a moment to ground and center. Squeezing a tiger’s eye in my receptive left hand, I drew physical energy from the stone. I was going to need some help to get through this day without bottoming out from exhaustion. With tiger’s eye and enough coffee, I’d be good.

At six-thirty, I tiptoed from my room. That is, until the light from the kitchen clued me in that being quiet was pointless. Did I go deal with Nana or run out the door and avoid her?

Then I smelled it: she’d made a pot of coffee. My head hung. I’d barely slept; I
had
to have some.

Slowly, I walked to the kitchen. She sat at the dinette
wearing her robe over a flannel gown. The Codex lay open before her. A trio of stubbed-out cigarettes lay in the ashtray like bent and broken little people.

“You’re up early,” I said.

“Couldn’t sleep.” Her interest remained on the page as she wrote a line of translation.

I poured a cup of coffee for myself. “Refill?”

“Please.”

After filling hers and replacing the pot, I sat across from her with mine. Let her do her worst. I wasn’t changing my mind and I had java to back me up if my fatigue made me weak.

“You must have come across something good in there,” I said.

“No—well, yes, it’s all good, and since I’m up I thought I’d get this wrapped up. The doctor’s stopping by this afternoon to go over the translation. But, no,” she added, “it wasn’t something in here keeping me awake.”

I waited.

She was probably going to make me very mad momentarily, then pass the blame onto me with a “you asked” reply, but I walked into her trap regardless. “What is keeping you up, then?”

“My knee.”

I hadn’t expected that. “You take something for it?”

She nodded almost imperceptibly, still intent on the page before her. “Done me no good.”

She sounded frail. Was this a trick? Was she going to try to get me to ditch the Eximium to stay here and take care of her? I scrutinized her face.

Her jaw was set, her mouth a firm narrow line. It
wasn’t unlike her defiant angry expression, but neither was it the same. Her wrinkles had a new depth. Her bed-messed beehive hair told me she was in enough pain to not care about her appearance. That, and the angle of her shoulders, told me this was real pain.

My Nana was hurting and mere ibuprofen didn’t help.

She was old. Eighty-four.

I couldn’t make her young again. There was, however, something I could do—with Vivian’s money. “How about we remodel the dining room and make it your bedroom? We could put doors on it.”

She considered it briefly. “No bath. I’d still have to travel the stairs to bathe.”

“We’ll add a bath.”

She sat her pencil down. “Persephone—”

“It’s the right thing to do, Nana. I’ll take care of it.” Or we’d move. Other than my not wanting to, the downside of moving would include—in all likelihood—a higher mortgage and then dependence on the money Menessos arranged for me by getting my column nationally syndicated. If he decided to “un-arrange” it, we’d be hurting.

For the first time since I entered the kitchen, Nana truly focused on me. She inhaled deeply as she studied me, and when she exhaled, it seemed some of the weight of her pain went with it. “I know you will.” She paused. “I’ve been hard on you. Too hard, maybe. And you always do make things right. You don’t stop until they’re as they should be.” She pulled the cigarette case from her robe pocket. “I need to accept that. You’re not your mother.”

“What?” My resentment for my mother roused fast, deep and sharp.

“When a situation looks like it’s too much to handle, you go meet it head-on. Baseball bat in hand. When things get hard, Persephone, you don’t run away.” She reached out and took my hand. “You could’ve slipped out the door without coming in here, knowing I’ve disagreed with you about this Eximium. Still, you came to face me.”

She didn’t know that I
had
run away. I’d fled from Johnny and the Rock Hall like a cat fleeing a junkyard dog.

She said, “You’re going to do the right thing today. I know you are.”

“Thanks.”

“Watch the others, Persephone, the ones around you when you go to the Eximium—and not just the other competitors. Watch the Elders. You are the Lustrata and, like it or not, they will eventually look to you for your service. So watch them, and see who is worthy to have the Lustrata call upon them.”

After I arrived at the Covenstead, Mandy directed me from the office to a back hall. I had the feeling I was going back in time.

The walls were stone, the floor slate, and every fifty feet we went down three steps. The hall was curved, so we were probably following the perimeter of the Covenstead. Every six feet, half of a giant amethyst geode was set into the stone wall. A candle burning in the cavity of each geode illuminated the lavender spikes and lit the way. We ended up in a sub-basement level where all the doors were oversized and made of oak, with iron workings reminiscent of a castle or old church.

“There
is
plumbing and electricity down here, right?”

Mandy flashed me a smile. “Yeah. It is deceiving, though. Vivian—” She stopped. Mastering herself, she went on, “She wanted it to feel ancient, like it had been here forever.”

“It does.”

A few steps later, she paused before a door similar to all the others. “Here’s the holding room. The restroom is across the hall, there,” she said and pointed behind her
toward an alcove farther down the hall. “Modern flushes, running water, heated-air hand dryers, and everything.”

“Thanks.” Lifting the door’s handle, I pushed hard and entered a space about the size of an average school’s classroom. Other contestants were already waiting. Everyone looked at me, evaluating me as they surely did everyone who walked through the door. It made me uncomfortable. We weren’t here as friends, we were here as competitors all vying for the same prize. Well, they were, anyway.

The room was also stone-walled, and—being twenty-plus feet underground—it was cool, like walking into a cave where the temperature was maintained naturally. The scene made me think of a candle party at Goth boot camp. Black military-style cots sat in rows to either side, with a wide central walkway in the middle. Each bore a folded black name placard with silver calligraphy, atop a small pillow resting on a folded gray blanket with black-tasseled corners. Candelabra provided enough light to be functional, but didn’t do much to relieve the overall gloom of the place.

I found my name and sat on the cot. The women returned to whispered chatting, cross-armed pacing, or fidgeting. I counted cots. Twenty-one. More than I’d expected. About fifteen were here already; Hunter was not among them.

They were an eclectic group; all shapes, sizes, colors. They all seemed a little older than me, early thirties or forties. Three of the women I’d have guessed were in their fifties. The attire was mostly jeans and sneakers, though a few went for dressy office style with pantsuits and low heels and a few others wore jog suits. One of the fifty-ish
women wore a loose broomstick skirt and long-sleeve tee. Her skin was tan and the rust-colored shirt suited her well. Her long hair, some brown but mostly gray, was braided. The name card at the foot of her cot read:
Maria Morrison
.

At least my jeans and sneakers weren’t a faux pas. I’d considered wearing a flannel overshirt again just to rankle Hunter, but ended up in a plain black tank under a copper Henley, and a zippered, dark-green sweatshirt with a wide collar. Layers, practical.

The door opened and another woman came in. She immediately struck me as Welsh: thick, shoulder-length blond hair in a bob style; pale skin; and brown eyes. A little over five feet tall, she wore camel corduroy pants, a yellow V-neck tee, and a khaki-brown hoodie. She was all the colors of a wheat field.

Like me, she glanced around, realized there were names on the cards, and began searching for hers. It was beside mine. She whispered quietly, “Hi.”

“Good morning,” I answered. She was young; barely twenty. It surprised me that anyone so young would be ambitious enough to compete for high priestess.

She picked up the placard. “I’m Holly.” She flapped the paper once, peered at mine. Her brows puckered and I knew she was stuck on the pronunciation.

“I’m Persephone,” I said.

“Oh, right.” She smiled. “Apt name for a high priestess.”

I shrugged. “Guess so.”

Holly sat. Her knees bounced. She repositioned her feet. Her hands ran over her hair.

I yawned.

Everyone else here was excited and nervous. They wanted to be here. They wanted the title and position and believed they had a good chance of winning it. My preference would have had me in bed sleeping. My mind was reeling and my eyes didn’t want to stay open. If Hunter didn’t show up, maybe I could just go home.

Of course, as soon as I thought of her, the door opened and speak-of-the-devil walked in. No, actually, she strutted in. Her hair was fluffed and bound up in a stylish way, and her expert makeup enhanced the striking beauty nature had blessed her with. It was impossible to ignore her and, even dressed conservatively in sky-blue yoga pants and spandex shirt under a matching jacket, her arrival held the spellbinding quality that a high priestess’s entrance should never lack.

It took longer for the others to resume their chatter than it had after Holly and I had entered. Hunter had likely hand-jolted everyone here, or tried, so we all took a moment to think something begrudging toward her.

“She zap you too?” Holly whispered.

I shook my head. “She tried. Nothing happened.”

Her brows shot up. “Really? Wow. You’re probably the best bet to win against her, then.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m sure this test isn’t going to come down to the best hand jolt.” I glanced around. “And so is everyone else, or they wouldn’t have shown up.” I examined Hunter for a moment. “If all is right and fair it won’t come down to that.”

Holly leaned closer. “I’ve heard the Elders at the
Mother Covenstead are fighting among themselves. WEC is supposedly in danger of falling apart and they are vying to create alliances with the Covensteads, hoping to create power bases for themselves. Someone who can tap into power like that could be helped into position and then, of course, their loyalty to the Elder who put them there would be expected.”

I faced Holly again, my expression darkening in irritation. Political maneuvering pissed me off and witches should know better. Our history was laden with being on the tortured end of such idealized endeavors. “I have no interest in what the rumor mill says and it won’t sway my opinions.”

Holly gaped at me. Despite the warm light from the candles, her Welsh features turned icy. “That’s noble of you, Persephone, but I hope you’re not noble
and
blind. You do see how they hate us out there, don’t you?”

I certainly did, but the meek, small woman transforming into a crouching tiger surprised me. I utilized my newfound blank expression. “Us?”

“Witches, wæres, vamps, the fey. All of us. After twenty years, the novelty of having real monsters among the populace is wearing thin.”

That notion wasn’t unfamiliar to me but, from her, it was unsettling. Unless she retained lucid memories of being an infant, this was how the world had been her whole life. It wasn’t a novelty to her.

“The media’s once-positive spin has become ambiguous. Intolerance is on the rise,” she continued. “If we don’t combat it now, if we don’t choose strong leaders they can’t criticize—leaders who can see what’s coming and
act to head it off, who are savvy enough to use the media, who can be positive role models and live up to the expectations of their positions—then this ‘going public’ nonsense will blow up in all of our faces.”

Her vehemently whispered tirade had taken me aback, but I tried not to show it.

Holly abruptly got up and headed for the door, probably for the bathroom.

The entry door opened before she got to it, however, and she slipped around the group of women who strode in and searched for their places. They completed the ranks of contestants. This much interest in the position, with women willing to relocate to a new city, was encouraging. After they’d found their cots the whispering slowly resumed. I glanced over the group. They were a restless, nervous bunch. It seemed I was the only one unmoving; fatigue was creeping over me.

Hunter was motionless as well. She watched me steadily, seeming to take my calm for confidence. She gave me an up-nod, like men do to acknowledge each other without nodding their heads in what might be taken as a submissive gesture. I offered her one back.

When Holly returned, Hunter stood. “Ladies.” With that one word, she charmed the group into silence. “There are twenty-one of us here to compete for one position. One.” She strode to the end of her cot and made eye contact with each of us in turn. “We are sisters in a common goal and one among us will be victorious. I’m sure you all want it as badly as I do, that you’ve all tried to prepare as hard as I have. Maybe harder! May the Goddess be at our sides, may we all reach our highest potential as we
compete and, when it is done, may we all be friends.” She reached to her left, then her right, and took the hands of the women nearest her. “What say you?”