Wicked Circle (25 page)

His lips formed a thin, hard line.
But I am without magic.

No matter what might have been. What is, is, and surely the Excelsior has chosen a course of action. One more night, maybe two, and they will come to me and tell me that I was right, that my former master is under the thumb of a witch. They will be grateful that I saved them from the embarrassment of a Quarterlord being made an informant for WEC.

Unless releasing the shabbubitum requires a certain moon phase.

If that’s the case, I could be in here for weeks.

Or, to confirm my truthfulness,
they may bring the shabbubitum to me first.

Neither of those were welcome thoughts. Heldridge wished he understood the implications of magic better, but he had been unable to master the magical arts. He hadn’t the talent for it.

He remembered when Menessos had found him after the Great Chicago Fire in 1871.

Orphaned, homeless, cold and starving, Heldridge had roamed the ashy streets seeking shelter, friends and food. He’d seen no one he knew. One day, he saw a man beat a baker unconscious and steal a bag full of bread. He secretly followed the man and discovered he’d been hiding in the basement of a burned-out house.

Heldridge had waited until dark, tiptoed down the partially charred staircase and stolen the bag of rolls. As he’d made his surreptitious departure, one of the boards broke and Heldridge fell. The noise awakened the man.

Heldridge raced away. The man gave chase, but the boy—slighter and more agile—scurried through the remains of buildings that the man dared not enter.

When he thought he’d escaped, Heldridge sat down to eat. The man appeared out of nowhere and hit Heldridge so hard the boy couldn’t think straight. Then the man unfastened his belt. He crouched over Heldridge and pulled off the boy’s pants.

The next thing Heldridge knew, the man was screaming . . . then he wasn’t.

Heldridge gathered his wits and picked himself up to see Menessos wiping his mouth as he stood.

“He bloodied your lip, mister,” Heldridge recalled having said. He hadn’t understood then what he’d been saved from or what
Menessos had done to rescue him.

“Yes,” Menessos had replied. “I believe he did. But he won’t hurt you anymore, son. Why don’t you hurry on home.”

“Don’t have a home.”

“Then get back to your parents.”

Heldridge had dropped his chin down.

“That wasn’t your father, was it?” Menessos’s voice had sunk deeper.

“No. My pa’s dead.”

“I see. And your mother?”

Heldridge shook his head side to side.

“Why don’t you come with me, then?”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Menessos.”

“That’s a funny name. Is it Polish?” Heldridge recalled his pa always complaining about some Polish men in their neighborhood. They always seemed to have strange names.

“No, it isn’t Polish.” Menessos picked up the bag of rolls.

Heldridge thought this funny-named-man would claim them, but he surrendered the thin cloth bag back to him. “This way.”

“Where we going?”

“To my home. It isn’t burned.” He’d walked away.

Heldridge had followed. “What are you doing out here if you have a home that’s not burned?”

“I have a crew of men who can rebuild homes. In the evening, I inspect the work they did during the day, and see where else I can send them so they get paid. What’s your name, boy?”

“Heldridge.”

“That’s a funny name. Is
it Polish?”

“No.” He tore greedily into the roll, chewed. “One of my grandpa’s last names is my first name. I’m Heldridge Ellington.”

After that, he’d stayed in a modest house with a polite woman, Miss Babette, who cared for him. She even started schooling him. Menessos visited every evening, and Miss Babette gave him a report of Heldridge’s day.

Eventually Menessos asked the then twelve-year-old Heldridge what he wanted to be when he grew up. Heldridge had thought hard about his answer. His father had been poor. He’d worked on the docks. But there were men in fine suits around town. Men who rode in carriages.

“I want to be a businessman,” Heldridge had answered.

“Then you shall be,” Menessos said.

Arrangements were made and Heldridge learned from the best tutors, but at various intervals—sometimes months, sometimes years—Menessos would show up and ask him strange questions and would require him to say odd phrases in Latin.

He knew now that these had been tests of his magical abilities.

He had failed them all, but he’d learned to be a savvy businessman. Eventually Menessos rewarded him and Made him. With his help, Menessos had built a strong and prosperous haven.

Then the day came when Menessos brought in another child.
Goliath
. This weak mortal’s intellect had captured his master’s interests.

His master fostered the child much the same as he had fostered Heldridge,
but Menessos’s interests had been keener because the seed of a witch was sprouting within this child.

You were ready for me to leave, Menessos. Ready for me to be my own master so you could name Goliath your Alter Imperator. I could accept that my failure to manifest magical talent meant I was not what you wanted in a son. But you didn’t have to bring your haven to Cleveland. You could have relocated your Lustrata to Chicago. No one there would have been watching you in your city. But in my city, I was watching, and I recognized what she did to you.

Yes, I took action. Yes, I told. You’ve gone soft. It was no less than you deserved.

Now they’re waking the shabbubitum. I remember what you told me. “They are more dangerous than anyone could have realized.”

You should have left me alone. Now we’ll see how you manage—magic to magic.

The door of the holding cell opened, jarring him from his thoughts. A sentry gestured for him to come out.

“Where to?”

The vampire did not answer.

Having little choice, Heldridge walked from the cell and was escorted by twelve sentries to an elevator where another vampire waited. The vampire had a shaven head and wore a collarless shirt that had only the bottom half buttoned. It could have been a fashion statement but for the obvious scars on his neck. Once upon a time something had claimed chunks of his throat. His expression was one of disgust and contempt, and worse, the vampire had flat, lusterless eyes.

That was a bad sign.

During his century-plus
of unnatural life, Heldridge had seen such before. Some of the younger undead had developed this phenomenon, recovering their life at sundown to bear the awful weight of their dead hours in their gaze. They were the vampires he knew would not long survive their new life. He had learned why the selection process for Offerlings was so intense and why their service was required for various lengths of time before being Made. It was not so much exclusive as it was merciful.

“Who are you?”

“I am Giovanni Guistini, advisor to the Excelsior.”

Heldridge was stunned. Listening to Giovanni speak was like hearing the hiss of an old steam locomotive, adding in a scratchiness so one could make words of it. With such a voice, his words would have to possess serious insight for anyone—much less the Excelsior—to suffer employing him for his
spoken
opinions.

Four sentries stood in the elevator. Giovanni stepped in with them. The sentry behind Heldridge poked him in the back; he joined the group. More sentries piled in behind him.

They rode downward in silence and Heldridge considered Giovanni.

An advisor to the Excelsior would not be a young vampire. It was different when the suspiciously cruel eyes were on an older vampire. Heldridge had learned that when seen on a haven master, this symptom meant the vampire was
not
likely to expire, but those around him or her definitely were.

He decided to regard Giovanni as extremely dangerous and unforgiving. It meant Heldridge wouldn’t dare to give these vampires any resistance or trouble.

The elevator doors opened
on an underground parking garage. More sentries waited there and led the group to an idling black limousine. “Get in,” Giovanni said as a sentry opened the door. Eagerly, Heldridge did. Four sentries were waiting inside. Heldridge sat in the center of the rear and was relieved to be out of the presence of the scarred and raspy advisor. Then Giovanni joined him. Heldridge scooted to the far door. “Any chance you’ll tell me where we’re going?”

“None.”

B
y the time Menessos and I arrived at Public Square, I had accepted his assertion that he couldn’t tell me about Creepy, and my thoughts circled around the impending threat. My hands were shaking. In front of the haven I hit the hazard lights. “What can I expect of this shabbubitum reading of you?”

“It will be nearly as painful to view as it will be to bear, but you must not interfere.” Menessos couldn’t have exited the car any faster. A doorman from the haven hustled to the driver’s side so he could park it for me. I popped the trunk lever. After grabbing my overnight bag and broom from inside, I said, “What if—”

“Not under
any
circumstances, Persephone.” Menessos straightened to his full height as he spoke so that he might look slightly down his nose at me.

“But—”

“No buts. Do not interfere.”

I kicked at the sidewalk. I hated not getting my thoughts out, but I hated the implied helplessness ten times more. I blurted, “As the Lustrata I should do something.”

“You will. You will observe without acting.”

“That’s not helpful.” Neither was the chill in the Lake Erie breeze that was blowing my hair around and hiding my frown.

“Actually, it is. However, if you
mean it’s not ‘heroic,’ that is true, but trying to be heroic tonight would be . . . unwise.”

I glowered. “How is it
helpful
,” I snarled, “to stand by while someone is tortured?” I stamped the bushy end of the broom stubbornly. “What am I here for, if not to aid you? You did say they might try to kill me.”

Menessos was very still. “You must be seen here at my side in court. Until the instant that they say you are my master, everyone in this haven must believe you are not.”

I swallowed hard.
He wants me to flee, but only after it’s confirmed that I’m the bad guy, once every member of his haven knows what I’ve done and then hates and resents me like some of the pack hate and resent me being with Johnny, and like some of the witches hate and resent me.
I didn’t like being put in danger, especially when it seemed like danger for the sake of being in danger. This witch wasn’t an adrenaline junkie.
If he just wants me to see him suffer for more of my pity—
“What’s the payoff for you in that?”

“If you are absent, your guilt appears evident. If you are present, it appears you are innocent. I mean, if you
were
my master, logically, why would you wait around knowing they would be obligated to seize you?”

“Exactly,” I said insipidly. The need to “sell” the notion of being innocent, I could understand, but that seemed thin considering just how guilty I was.

Menessos gently smoothed my hair into place as the wind died down. “The additional benefit is that VEIN will be assured my people were unaware of it. All of my people. Even Goliath. They will not be read or censured for their silence.”

Crestfallen, I let my shoulders
slump. “Oh.” Accepting a personal risk to ensure others didn’t have to suffer what the shabbubitum did to read them . . . that was danger that had a noble purpose.

He had me where he wanted me and he knew it.

“You’re betting my life,” I said, “on your ability to twist things.”

He tilted his head and peered at me softly. “You can’t deny I’m good at it.”

Seduction. Now?
Suspicious, my chin levered up as I considered that. “What are you up to?”

He tweaked my chin and grinned mischievously. “Trust me?” It was a breathtaking smile. The smile of the fantasy King Arthur of my girlish dreams. “Yes.”

He leaned in and put a quick peck of a kiss on my cheek. The brush of his short beard was soft and warm. “Perfect.” He walked away. “You will keep that broom Xerxadrea gave you handy, won’t you? I suggest you keep it right beside your stage seat.”

Inside the haven, Beholders were setting up brass posts linked with velvet ropes as if preparing for an exclusive evening. Seven met us in the lobby carrying a roll of blueprints and a flat carpenter pencil. Her blue-black hair was gathered up in a high ponytail. It made her beauty sharper and her turquoise eyes brighter.

She was just leaving the work-in-progress dance club that was set to become a source of haven income, so the construction boots and jeans she wore didn’t surprise me, but the low-slung leather belt laden with dirty, well-worn tools did. Seeing us, she advanced. “Boss. Erus Veneficus.”

“How is it coming in there?” Menessos asked.

She offered him the blueprints.
“Ahead of schedule.”

He
tsk-tsk
ed her teasingly. “And you thought they would lose a whole day without you.” He unrolled the paper.

“I never said they’d be a whole day behind, and for the record, your secondary request ate up my first two hours of the night. I just got back.” She pointed to a few places that had markings in red. They had a brief discussion concerning changes to the original plans.

Menessos approved of her solutions and rerolled the paper for her. “Did those two hours pay off?”

“VEIN’s biggest jet is scheduled to arrive at Dulles in D.C. for refueling, then is heading for Hopkins. Arrival is set for twelve twenty.” She checked the display on her satellite phone. “About five hours from now.” She paused. “Ivanka?”

“Mountain messaged me that she was in recovery. He will let me know when she’s able to be released.”

“They won’t keep her overnight?”

“They might, but I want her brought here.”

“Her quarters are ready. As are the rooms of the Erus Veneficus, per your request.” She gave me a look that was happy, but with an undertone of sneakiness.