Fatal Circle (18 page)

“I know where I’m at now.”

“I’m to escort you, Ms. Witch. For safety’s sake.”

He’d showered since his shift ended and his long ponytail was still damp. The Cleveland Browns jersey had been replaced with a wine and gold Cavaliers jersey with a long-sleeved black T-shirt under it. I felt guilty at being the cause for him to miss his rest; he was undoubtedly tired. I intended to keep this outing as short as possible. “Okay. But when we’re not on vampire turf, call me Seph. All right?”

“Deal.”

Mountain opened the door, and, thinking he was being gentlemanly, I moved to go through. He held up a hand. “I go first. To make sure it’s safe.” He checked outside, then gestured for me to come through.

Mountain was ever watchful as we made our way down the street, but strolling in silence seemed rude. “So what’s your story, Mountain?”

“Grew up a farmer’s son. Wanted to do anything but work a farm. Got in at the steel plant. Twelve years later, my father was dead, the farm was chopped into a subdivision, and the steel plant shut down. All I could get was a job flippin’ burgers. Boss offered better benefits. I donate blood and work hard. In return, I’m fed, I have a roof over my head and a bed that fits me. And like he promised, I never get bored.”

“He works you hard.”

“I’d rather have something to do than nothing to do.” He paused. “What about you? What are you giving up to be at his side? If you don’t mind sharing, that is.”

“I don’t mind at all.” I told him about my land, thinking he’d find that interesting. “I have twenty rural acres. I just live in the farmhouse and rent the acreage to farmers who’ve planted corn on it. I’m hoping that taking this role will actually assure me the chance to go back there safely.”

The sun was hidden behind the rain clouds but the precipitation had stopped falling so my hood stayed down. Still, the breeze was stealing a few extra degrees from the day. Having added the hoodie was a stroke of genius on my part. “Do you ever feel afraid around all the vampires?”

“No. They taunt all the Beholders, especially the new ones. Called me Bloodmobile at first since I’m so big. Still, what the vampires dole out is less humiliating than being the fat man working the grill. They have harassment laws, but what’s a twenty-year-old shift manager supposed to do about the customers—spoiled teenagers—spouting cruel comments at the cook?”

There was something off about the notion that taking what human teens dished out was worse than what vampires might do. “So how’d you come to be called Mountain?”

“With my mark, my strength increased. I’m almost immovable.”

I didn’t doubt that. “Do you think he’ll turn you?”

“Don’t want to be a vampire.”

I was surprised. “Most of the Beholders want to be vampires, though, don’t they?”

He didn’t answer immediately. I saw a sign that identified this as Superior Avenue. “Hey, aren’t we supposed to be on Euclid? Menessos said the place I’m going to is just inside the Euclid entrance.”

“The Superior entrance is much prettier.”

I meant to keep it short to benefit him, and here he was choosing to go the long way to benefit me. He was a big sweetie. “As long as you know where you’re going.”

Farther down the sidewalk, he answered my prior question. “Some Beholders want to be timeless immortals, I guess. I don’t know why.”

“I thought that was standard. Why don’t you want it?”

“I know my place. I’ve seen the bottom, and seeing it, feeling that low, leaves scars. I’d rather die than go back there, and when I say die I mean real death. Not undeath. My place isn’t anywhere near the top. Why would I want that to go on forever?”

“You’re not afraid of dying.”

“No. But yeah, the Beholders who are desperate to become vampires, they are. You can see it in their eyes. That’s why he won’t make them.”

“Do they know he won’t?”

“Most of us know that won’t happen. We’re just strong men who’ve lost our place in society. Some were homeless and had nowhere else to go. Some were fed up with the unjust corporate bubble. Some couldn’t break in. Others couldn’t break out. A couple couldn’t handle a breakup. A few just broke down.” He flashed a wistful half-smile that disappeared as quickly as it came. “A lot of broken people in the Boss’s stable. But hard work, and the ability to perceive what the real goal is, garners rewards.”

My confoundedness was genuine. “Huh.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. To me, it seems that taking shelter with vampires would only be an alternative end to an already self-destructive cycle. I hadn’t considered that people could find a new beginning and a safe refuge with a vampire.”

Mountain tipped his head toward me. “Do you know why we call him Boss?”

“No.”

“We aren’t slaves. We do honest work and are compensated fairly.”

I nodded.

“Here we are.” I followed his gesture and I stopped in my tracks. All the beautiful characteristics of stone were showcased in one elegant façade. Above and to either side of the arch were six smooth columns with ornate capitals, creating vertical lines. An elaborate frieze and layered, rough-hewn stones created horizontal lines. But it was the giant masonry arch, the flair of femininity, that tied it all together and commanded attention. Like a woman who knew how to adorn her curves, the stones of the arch were edged with fascinating and intricate details.

I’d lived near here most of my life and never realized that close by there were gorgeous reminders of how much care and talent people used to put into architecture. “Mountain, thank you.”

“For what?”

“For bringing me up Superior. I wouldn’t have wanted to miss this.”

His cheeks dimpled with a wide grin. “You’re welcome . . . Seph. C’mon.”

Mountain opened the doors and led me inside, where I halted again to take in the scene. The interior was as sophisticated and eye-pleasing as the exterior. “Wow.”

“The two buildings here are joined by this five-story Arcade. The glass skylight is over three hundred feet long. There are eighteen hundred panes of glass up there.”

After filling my sight with the long dome of the skylight, I took in the details before me. The four balconies all had wrought-iron rails that incorporated brassy street lamps. Along the walkway, broad-leafed plants thrived. Everything was marble or brass or gold, and the doors of the shops were glossy wood in keeping with that golden tone.

“It’s one of the first indoor shopping malls in the U.S. Opened in 1890,” he added. “And was funded by several people, but the most famous of them was John D. Rockefeller.”

“How do you know all this?”

“When the Boss first came to Cleveland scouting for places to install the haven, I came with him. Research was my day job for a few weeks. Good libraries here. Did you notice the griffons?” He pointed up at the heads jutting out from the top of the uppermost level like drainage spouts.

We crossed the Arcade, with one level below us—a food court—and two levels above. Many of the shops were vacant, but that couldn’t dampen my awe.

Finally, at the far end from where we’d entered, Mountain pointed toward a door. “I’ll wait for you here.” He settled into a spindly chair at a marble-topped table near the railing. I hoped the chair was cast-iron.

The first door this side of what had to be the Euclid entrance, just as Menessos had said, bore the words
WOLFSBANE & ABSINTHE
in gold and black letters that tried to glisten, but had seen too many days to have any gleam left.

The knob nearly twisted itself in my palm, and a brass bell clanged to announce my arrival. Inside, the aromas were all I’d come to expect from a witchery supply shop. Near me were racks with slogan-laden tees and a few flouncy shirts—clichéd witch garb. Thick columns held up a high ceiling, and the mosaic tile of the Arcade gave way to wooden flooring inside. It creaked softly under my feet.

It was the back wall, however, that hooked me and drew me in. A wall of tall old shelving with large glass jars, labeled and most cobwebbed, holding every kind of dried herb, flower, nut, seed, and root imaginable. To the right were various-sized scented candles, vials of essential oils, and a plethora of incenses and incense burners. All these scents mingled with the metallic tang of large iron cauldrons and the earthy smell of brooms made with various kinds of straw and wood. My nose didn’t know if it should sneeze or just relish the overloading odors.

I went farther in. There were bins with tumbled and raw gemstones, cases with wands, crystal balls, Tarot decks, and jewelry. There were Goddess statues, small animal statues, gauze bags, bells, and spools of ribbon in all colors. Laden bookshelves dipped in the middle like swaybacked horses, displaying a few dozen titles as well as stylish journals ready to be filled. Near the register was another clothing rack, taller, with a dozen empty hangers and a single rather gaudy orange velvet cape lined with a fabric showing owls and bats in flight. Something smelled like peaches.

A hand parted the pair of purple curtains behind the register, but whoever it was remained shadowed within. “May I help you?” A male voice, deep and commanding.

What was the line from
The Wizard of Oz
? “Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.”
“Are you the owner here?”

“You come to make a sales pitch?” he asked grouchily. “ ’Cause we don’t want no coffee machines, no free magazine displays, and no scouting cookies, either.”

I blinked stupidly for a second. “No. None of that. I was told to talk to the owner.”

“By who?”

“I’m not about to reveal that to someone who won’t even show me his face.”

A small-statured man with a long gray beard and hardly a hair atop his head stepped from behind the curtains. His moustache was curled up on either end like the villain in cartoons. He wore a blue button-down-collar shirt, a bulky gray cardigan, and black pants. Thick glasses, oblong and wire-rimmed, sat on his round nose. The left lens had a crack running low across it. They made his eyes look blurry.

My mind was trying to figure out how such a short man could have such a deep voice. “Are you the owner?”

He laughed. “So you were sent to ask something of the owner of Wolfsbane and Absinthe, were you?” His voice and chin lowered. He pointed at me with a single long finger bearing a long ring of yellow zircon. “You’re after the
wyrd,
” he said slyly, as if his words affirmed him as a mystical guru.

I really hated it when salespeople of any kind stereotyped a customer. That kind of thing had no place in true witchery and yet too often I found playgans (my term for people “playing pagan” for all the wrong reasons) using the sagely soothsayer persona to make a sale. “Obviously, the person who sent me was wrong. You’re a fake.” I headed for the door.

Just as I neared the clothing rack next to the door, I heard, “He may be, but I’m not.”

I knew that voice. It stopped me. “Beau?”

He came into view, buzzed white hair seeming brighter for all the rich wood tones and dim lighting here. Not unlike the first time we’d met, he wore a plaid flannel shirt with rolled sleeves revealing thermal underwear beneath. This time, the flannel print was blue and green. He tapped the ashes off a little cigar and put it back to his lips. He punched a button on the register and the drawer popped open. “Maurice, go have a cup of coffee.” He provided the bearded man a five-dollar bill. “And drink slow.”

Maurice took the bill and seconds later passed me as he left the store.

“What do you want, doll?” Beau called as the bell on the door stopped clanging.

I slowly made my way toward the register again. “Do you remember me?”

“Yeah. Johnny calls you Red. What do you want?”

“Do you own this shop?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I was sent to ask you something.”

“Johnny send you?”

“No. Not him. And I had no idea I’d find you here.”

He brushed the ashes off the end of his cigar—I think it was the source of the peachy smell—and laid it beside the register. Taking his cane from somewhere just inside the purple curtains, he moved stiffly along the counter toward a stool. “You need some kind of . . .
herb
?”

Something about how he said that made me think he was asking if I was here to buy pot. “Um, no.” But I didn’t truly know what I was here for. “Or at least I doubt it.”

“What?” He squinted at me as if the sun were in his eyes, the way Clint Eastwood did in the spaghetti Westerns before he drew his gun. “Who sent you?”

“Menessos.”

“So you run with waerewolves and vamp-execs?” He dropped his head down and shook it. Then something seemed to occur to him that made him still. He looked at me, and from under the bushy white eyebrows, it wasn’t quite friendly. “What did he tell you?”

“That you were the only one who can instruct me in what I must do.”

Beauregard didn’t ask the obvious. He just kept staring at me.

“I need to protect myself against being Bindspoken.”

He laughed, the irritated, I-bet-you-do kind of laugh, and jabbed at something behind the display case with the tip of his cane. “I’ve seen the news, doll.” He continued poking his cane at whatever was on the floor. “And I’ve seen YouTube.”

I leveled my chin and said nothing.

“I know why WEC wants you Bindspoken. I know what you are, and what you’re here for. I even know what you’re trying to do.” Beau stared at me. “The Lustrata is a promise and a threat. The promise of justice and balance, but there’s also the threat of making things worse by failing in her task. Twice before the Lustrata has failed. They’d rather keep things as they are than risk them getting any worse.” Beau shifted on the stool. “Are you going to fail, doll?”

“If I’m Bindspoken, we’ll never know.” It wasn’t an answer, so it didn’t surprise me that he didn’t comment. “Help me, Beau. Tell me how to protect myself.”

For an interminable minute he sat unmoving, thinking, studying me. Then he laughed. He rose from the stool and returned to the curtain, pausing to glance at me before pushing through, still chuckling.

He wasn’t going to help. I started for the door. Again I made it as far as the clothing rack.