Hallowed Circle (36 page)

“You look fantastic!” I said.

“You think?”

“Absolutely!”

Suddenly, Nana stumbled on the last step.

Lunging forward, I caught her under the arm and kept her on her feet. I didn’t even drop the camera.

“Oh my,” she said, hand over her heart.

“Are you okay?”

“My knee. It just gave out.”

“To the couch,” I said, not fully releasing her as I helped her get there and sit.

Wide-eyed, Beverley asked, “Wow, Seph. That was fast.”

“And lucky for me,” Nana said.

I said, “It’s time to put the crystal away, Nana.”

She wouldn’t meet my eyes, so I knew she’d been peeking into it.

Not wanting to take a chance she might end up with a broken hip or worse, I left her and went up to her room. Taking her crystal from the dresser, stand and all, I placed it in a shoebox on the top shelf of my closet.

As I returned to Nana, I noticed movement in the dining room. Beverley’s hand was curled on the top of the chair-back, her head tipped as if she were laying her head on someone’s shoulder. “I miss you so much,” I heard her whisper.

“The contractors will be here to give me quotes over the next few days. Let’s keep your trips on the stairs to a minimum until we can get the addition done for you, okay?”

Not one to appreciate being made to feel old or feeble in any way, Nana simply nodded.

Beverley joined us. “Can you still take me to Lily’s party?”

“You bet I can,” Nana said and stood, resolve hardening her features.

It was six forty-five and as I watched them go, I noted that the sun had set, and that the sky was a beautiful shade of blue and growing ever darker. I heard rustling in the corn, but again, the stalks were too thick to see the deer.

Inside, I carried my box from Menessos up to the bed
room. Now I had to shower, get ready, and do something with my hair that would work with a tie-on mask.

With a soft towel wrapped around my now-clean body, and my blow-dried hair wrapped around hot rollers, I studied my costume. The clear shoe box, with pointy-toed black stilettos, made me frown. Cinderella’s shoes weren’t quite this high-heeled, and she’d run out of one on the steps. My feet wouldn’t know how to function in that position. I’d likely fall and break my neck before I ever made it near the stairs. Those shoes were going to miss the Ball and take up residence in the back of my closet.

The jewelry boxes, however, did not make me frown.

My fingers caressed the soft, soft velvet of the costume before I lifted it by the shoulders. The skirt slid away, and I discovered that the bell-sleeved bodice was a separate piece. The sleeves were an amazing vibrant copper color, the cuffs midnight black. The bodice portion was also black, except for the center front portion with a long diamond of copper there.

Holding it up revealed that the bodice was short enough to leave quite a bit of midriff exposed once it was laced up the back. Elaborate black and gold embroidery surrounded the brassy grommets that the silk cording zigzagged through. This was never going to get tied properly with me being alone. I’d have to do my best; maybe Lydia would adjust it for me at the Covenstead. Still, I loved the bell sleeves, though highly impractical, bearing a larger version of the elaborate hand-stitched embroidery all along the draping cuff.

I set it aside. The sleeves would get in the way of putting on the skirt.

Taking up the skirt, my examination of it revealed it was short in the front with two daring slits, and the back had flowing length. All of it was lined with a glossy silk.

I was
not
wearing that skirt.

Turning to my closet, eyes scouring everything, I came up with a pair of black velvet, narrow-leg pants. Paired with my low-heeled leather boots, the modified ensemble might work.

Putting the “bottom” items on first, I saved fighting with the bodice for last. I ended up with it knotted tight and my breasts accentuated more than I preferred, but it was knotted. I’d require help to undo it. I stood back and checked myself in the mirror.

A belt.

I needed a belt. Not that the pants were falling, they weren’t. But something shiny to break up the darkness of the velvet. Again to the closet. Nothing. Then I remembered something I’d come across in helping Nana unpack. Going across the hall, that unsettled feeling sent me back for the protrepticus from my jeans pocket. Able to move safely to Nana’s closet, I found her fancy copper scarf of sheer material with tassels on the ends was perfect.

It matched the copper velvet, so I tied it around my waist, angled it on one hip. In my room, I took out a black pouch I used at Renaissance Faires when I read Tarot, tied it to the scarf, and slipped the protrepticus inside.

Standing again before the mirror, this time I was satisfied. It was like half of me was pirate and half of me was Guinevere.

Guinevere. To Menessos’s Arthur?
Not.

After arranging my hair much as I had for the Rock Hall showcase and applying a little makeup (I did line my eyes a little heavier because of the mask), I returned to the jewelry box. I lifted the heavy choker of triple-row onyx beads interspersed with nickel-sized rounds of bright topaz. The weight of it was mostly in the huge piece that hung from the front center of the choker and rested on my sternum. A large topaz set in gold, surrounded by onyx. A matching headpiece fit into my hair like a web of jewels glittering there. A topaz from it hung in the middle of my forehead.

After adding the rings and rubbing at the scrapes still on my right-hand knuckles, I slid the matching bracelets of burnished gold and flat, wide pieces of onyx onto my wrists, and was on my way, mask in hand.

My arrival was a little past fashionably late; the doors had opened at eight and it was now just before nine o’clock. The ritual wasn’t going to start until midnight. Still, the Covenstead parking lot was nearly full. The two media vans on the lot didn’t surprise me.

I flipped down the illuminated vanity mirror on the visor and put on the mask. It was the fabric tie-on kind, made of silk, and covered my face from nose to brow. The mask was adorned with small copper sequins and glitter across the brow, and thin lacework and a row of tiny black beads looped down on my cheeks. It was lightweight and not as uncomfortable as I had expected.

I added a stroke of coppery lipstick to my lips, replaced
the visor, and exited the car. Signs indicated that admittance was through the north doors only.

This was an annual affair, open to the public so the curious could observe what witches do in their rituals. As I understood it, Vivian had used her flair for the dramatic and people had come to expect a show. I wondered what Hunter had come up with—it was clear the sales were good, which meant expectations would be high. That was great, as ticket sales were the coven’s major fundraiser. Lydia had sent me a complimentary ticket in the mail. As I approached the north doors I slipped it from the Tarot pouch.

Inside, a tunnel of fabric and fake webbing had been erected, and eerie music was softly playing, an underlying reminder of the holiday’s inherent scariness. Mandy and another girl sat in witch costumes at the ticket-table, chatting. Mandy’s hair was smooth and healthier looking, a shade or three darker. She looked great.

I offered her my ticket. She accepted it, and stamped my hand with a black pumpkin. “When you pass this doorway,” she said mysteriously, “you are entering another world.”

The other girl added, “The world
between
.”

“Do you understand?” Mandy asked, seriously.

They were surely hinting at the décor, theme, and tone of the party. Along with the soft music, they set the mood. “I do. Thank you, Mandy.”

She squinted at me. “Who are you?”

“Persephone.”

“Oh! I wouldn’t have known! Wow, you look awesome!”

“Thanks. You too. You doing all right?”

“Yeah,” she said, smiling. “Hunter’s not been a bitch like I expected at all. She’s been … fantastic, actually.”

“I really like your hair; it looks great.”

“Hunter. She took me to a salon and had them do something, and it’s like hair again. Not straw.”

“It suits you.”

“Have a Ball.”

At the end of the tunnel, the doorway was covered with layers of dark gray cheesecloth. Fake fog curled underneath. I brushed the strips aside with my hand to enter. They felt like a mummy’s wrappings would feel, dry and brittle, despite the cold dankness the fog machines created.

Immediately past the entry, wrought-iron fencing had been erected. Glowing jack-o’-lanterns peered eerie faces through the fog. The din of voices seemed far away. The walkway ended in tall iron pillars adorned with fodder-shocks and more pumpkins.

I emerged into the Covenstead’s Great Hall and was awestruck. Before me was the pentagram on the floor, with the five pinpoints of light shining down from the ceiling to highlight each point on the star. Beyond it was more iron fencing, shorter, maybe two feet high, with eight-foot-tall candelabra spaced along it. Each held three pillar candles: one white, one red, one black. There were more carved pumpkins glowing along the fence, bright-colored leaves scattered around, and baskets of red and yellow mums. The center section had a double gate thoroughly covered in creepy webbing, but there were arches along the way to allow people to wander through.

Beyond the fencing was a stage, set for a band. Cauldrons sat to the far right and far left, and each had rows of large pumpkins encircling its base, cut to look like licking flames. Smaller pumpkins, also cut to resemble fire, sat inside the larger shells, completing the look of brewing cauldrons. Fog billowed up and over the cauldron edges, rolling across the stage and spilling down on the floor. To either side of the drum riser, someone had stacked pumpkins with wolf faces carved into them.

“Persephone! I’m so glad to see you!” I turned to see Hunter approaching dressed as Isis, but without the enormous horned-disc headdress the Egyptian goddess was usually portrayed wearing. Her gold-accented white gown was flowing and feminine. In the darkened room—which I realized then had some black lights added in the domed ceiling—the white gown glowed slightly, ethereal and ghostly. A golden mask was tucked into a jeweled belt.

“How’d you know it was me?” I asked. “Mandy didn’t recognize me.”

“Mandy doesn’t know about your scraped knuckles.”

I glanced down. The bell sleeves stopped just above the scrapes. Under the strange lights, the scabs seemed more prominent. “True. You did an incredible job decorating the Covenstead.”

“I love that choker.”

“Thanks.” Glancing around, I asked, “Who carved all the pumpkins?”

“We had a community-welcome pumpkin carving last night. One of the coven members bought hundreds of pumpkins. Another donated carving kits. We had people come in with their kids. They carved two pumpkins each,
took one, left one, and
poof,
we have décor. Plus we had a fun event for families. Tonight’s for the grownups only, of course. Come with me to the photo op?”

“The what?”

“I want a picture.” She took my arm and led me toward the east-side doors where a backdrop was set with hay bales and more pumpkins and corn and fake crows, more flowers, webs, and glistening lights under more fog. There were people waiting in line for the photographer to take their photos.

“Wow, you’ve had some great ideas here. A band, even.”

“Yeah. I’m so excited. I’ve been lucking out. One of the coven members donated two hundred caramel apples. Even the liquor in the cash bar was donated. I came up with the idea for the table arrangements, but volunteers just kept showing up to put them together. I know these wealthier members making donations aren’t sure where they stand with Vivian missing, but, hey, it’s still help. I appreciate it. Some of the locals who drifted away to be solitaries have offered up some interesting details about my predecessor.”

“Where’d you get the band?”

“Even that was a lucky fluke. When I called the radio station to tell them about the Ball and ask them to mention it, I asked if they knew of a good band that might be available. The DJ told me about this local group who were just showcased at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum in Cleveland. I called the contact number he gave me and they didn’t have a Hallowe’en gig.”

I stared at her open mouthed. “Lycanthropia?”

“How’d you know?”

I pulled Hunter aside. “The name’s not just a gimmick, you know. They’re wærewolves. The ritual—”

“Relax. I know. They’re playing a set at ten, and another, shorter set at eleven. They’ll be gone before the ritual even begins. We planned time for them to vacate the premises.” She stepped back into line. “You’ve seen them?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I went to the Rock Hall showcase.” Johnny must have settled things with Erik. Or maybe not. Weren’t bands notorious for playing gigs while hating each other?

“I never would have guessed you’d be into that kind of thing.”

We moved up as the line progressed. I shrugged. Opening my mouth would have revealed more than was necessary.