Wicked Circle (28 page)

I heard the phone being shifted around, then Hector said, “Hello?”

“Hi, Hector. I need to let you guys know that Johnny’s going to have a fit of pain tonight. He may writhe and howl and carry on, but there’s no need to worry. It shouldn’t last long, less than twenty minutes.”

“What’s all this about?” His suspicion was thick.

“I can’t tell you more than I have, Hector. Please understand.”

“It’s magic, isn’t it?” Softer, as if he didn’t want others nearby to hear, he asked, “Is it a side effect of the spell?”

“No. This is something only Johnny will experience. Whether he is in wolf-form or human-form. The others won’t feel it at all. Just don’t be alarmed. Like I said, it shouldn’t last long, and he’ll be fine when it’s over.”

“So he knows about this?”

If I said no, then the wærewolves could see it as a strike, just like the vampires saw my hexing Menessos as a strike.
Did I trust Johnny to have my back when his man-mind did return?
“Yes,” I lied. “He knows.”

M
ero and the shabbubitum gracefully emerged from the limousine. The people on the sidewalk were few. They held back and paused, curious. Some lingered across the street to watch. The limo drove away. Mero firmed his grip on the round leather case that contained the Excelsior’s formal document commanding Menessos to submit to being read by the shabbubitum.

With their arms linked, the women surveyed the scene of the Cleveland Public Square with awe, murmuring to each other. As Mero brought up the rear, he noted the May Company building that housed the haven. Prime real estate in the heart of the city; it was very Menessos.

He hoped the location and grandeur were indications that Menessos had not changed.

Inside, there was a cherrywood kiosk in the middle of the room, a ticket booth from ages past. To either side of this wooden structure, velvet ropes blocked passage. Just behind the ropes, two guards waited with their hands clasped before them.

Inside the booth stood a vampire with golden brown hair secured in a curly ponytail. He left the booth with the air of an undergraduate who’d rather be playing drinking games at a frat house than playing the part of the haven concierge. “Meroveus Franciscus, Advisor to the Excelsior, and party, welcome to the haven of the Northeastern Quarterlord. I’m Sever. We’ve been expecting you,” he said. “If you will follow
Sergei?” He gestured to one of the guards and unhooked the velvet rope to allow them through.

Mero detected the true life around Sergei; an Offerling. He led them to an area out of sight of the main doors and to some fine leather seating near the elevators. “Please make yourselves comfortable. Your escort will join you shortly.” The guard excused himself to a position politely far away, but kept them in sight.

Mero sat on one of the leather chairs with the case upon his lap while the women discussed Sergei’s and Sever’s merits. The modern world had them enthralled, as did nearly every male their eyes beheld, but Mero was wary. He could not allow himself to think he could anticipate their behavior, or expect their compliance.

Also weighing on his mind was Menessos. It had been a long time since they had last seen each other. The world was so different. From the recent reports to VEIN, he had reason to think Menessos was perhaps very different as well. Mero did not want to make an enemy of him, yet with the duty set before him, it seemed impossible to avoid.

The elevator gears hummed. The bell dinged to announce its arrival and the doors opened. A raven-haired woman with stunning blue eyes strolled out. A beaded teal dress clung to her every curve, and he could not fail to recognize Seven. She assessed the group as she neared. Mero stood. She bowed her head. “Greetings, Meroveus Franciscus and honored guests. Welcome to the Quarterlord’s haven. I am Seven and will accompany you to our Lord.”

He knew she knew him,
but she introduced herself just the same. Perhaps because he did not greet her by name on sight.
Better to play this cool and distant.
“Of course.”

Seven walked toward the stairwell and said, “If you will follow me.”

Following Seven, Mero led his group down the grand stairwell. Behind him he heard the light footfalls of the shabbubitum, the heavier tread of Sergei. When they arrived at the great doors, Seven brought them forward.

Directly around him was a railed reception area with a DJ station. Music was playing softly, but at a signal from Seven, the DJ lowered the volume even more.

Before him, stairs led down to the expanse of a theater house that was no longer sloped and filled with rows of seats, but level and filled—like a nightclub or restaurant—with tables and gilt chairs. Mero noted that, modern clichés created by famous authors notwithstanding, Menessos had managed to find and convert an underground theater into an elegant new haven, one that brilliantly, dramatically, unquestionably reflected Menessos.

And there he was. Menessos sat enthroned onstage under flattering lights. Goliath Kline sat to his right, and the E.V. to his left. To either side, the fanged symbol of the haven floated across a series of large screens.

The house lighting lowered. A spotlight illuminated Seven where she stood just in front of them. “Meroveus Franciscus, Advisor to the Excelsior . . . and party,” she announced. She stepped out of the light, allowing Mero and the shabbubitum to replace her in the glow and on the screens placed to either side of the stage.

He felt the scrutiny of the haven members from the darkness below
them. Seven gestured for him to descend the steps. Mero preceded the women down into the midst of the haven members at their tables, crossing the floor and pausing before the stage. He admired the setup. Most havens he’d seen of late positioned the master on a dais of some kind, but this, this was tactically superior. One had to climb a ramp to get to the otherwise railed-off stage. Retreating would involve ascending the equivalent of three flights of stairs just to make the hallway.

And anything could be behind those stage curtains.

Knowing what he had been sent here to do, and how outnumbered he was, understanding the security and the location of exits was necessary. There weren’t any good, immediate options . . . but Menessos was in attendance.
He has to know why I’m here. Whether he fights this or not, he must know there is only one way for this to end.

Mero stopped a few yards away from the ramp that led to the stage. “Greetings, Quarterlord, and Hail to thee, Menessos, Magus Periti Nocte.” Mero bowed low, as did those with him, as the formal greeting between wizards was spoken. The wizard greeting was not required, but it would force Menessos to greet him in kind, and that would make everyone here know that Mero was a magical force equal to their esteemed master.

“Hail to thee, Meroveus, Magus Periti Nocte. I extend the greetings of this court to you, Advisor to the Excelsior, and to your companions.”

Mero tilted his head in acquiescence of the greeting.

“What brings you, Meroveus Franciscus and party?”

He noted that Menessos had also carefully avoided acknowledging him as a friend from centuries past. At least Mero had some
time to play diplomat and consider what that meant. “The Excelsior has noticed that your behavior has had a rebellious flavor of late.”

“Rebellious?” Menessos’s mouth crooked up on one side. “Have I . . . provoked . . . our Excelsior with such actions?”

The emphasis gave Mero a clue. They used to play such games in the courts of deviant masters. One of them would infiltrate the haven, suffer the rise to some authority. When the other would appear, the first engaged him in a fiery debate in court. They emphasized certain words to signal each other on how to respond or to conduct an underlying conversation that others were oblivious to. Sometimes their purpose was best served if the newcomer lost his temper, and sometimes the newcomer had to incite the mole. It was a ruse that required deep trust between the two of them.

But this was Menessos’s haven. The authority was his, so . . .
Do I trust him that much still? Would he use our past to play me? Is he this far under the thumb of his witch?
“You didn’t seek the Excelsior’s . . . consent . . . before relocating your haven.” His timed glance toward the witch meant his single word was a question about her. He hoped Menessos recognized it as,
“Do you consent to her?”

“It is
my
haven. To do with as I see fit.”

Mero understood that to mean that Menessos was still the master here, and that whatever show was to occur would be for the benefit of his haven. Or his witch.

Mero nodded once, shutting his eyes to indicate he understood the message.

In a monotone, Menessos added, “Chicago had become tedious.”

Speaking without inflection and using a plain verb like “had become” instead of something more telling meant the message was complete. Mero
continued, ready to provoke Menessos. “The Excelsior expects to be apprised when his Quarterlords make such changes.”

Menessos waved dismissively. “I sent him a change-of-address card.”

Quiet laughter swept through his court.

Mero waited until the crowd had quieted once more. “Indeed, but only after this property was purchased and renovations had begun.”

“Ah . . . had I asked the Excelsior to bankroll the move, then I would have needed his permission. As I require no financial sponsor, I personally paid the expense of all aspects of the relocation. Therefore, I am at liberty to do as I please.”

“To do as you please?” It was a striking statement; repeating it made the crowd stir uncomfortably. Mero knew when talking with Menessos it was he who did all the conversational navigation. Mero just had to keep up and do his part.

“Within my jurisdiction, of course. Cleveland is well within the borders of my quarter of the United States.”

“That is true, but a decision such as this forces the Excelsior to ask what other broad decisions you might see fit to—”

“Do you mean to imply that a Quarterlord has not earned the right to make such broad decisions? Does the Excelsior plan to micromanage the Quarterlords now?”

“No, my lord. I mean to imply only that the Excelsior finds the relocation of a Quarterlord’s entire haven to be noteworthy
prior
to the move.”

Menessos was quiet for a heartbeat. “Have you come to censure me, Meroveus Franciscus?”

“I have.” He opened the case
and produced a scroll.

Menessos gestured for him to ascend the ramp.

Mero obeyed, but he could not resist the temptation of assessing the Erus Veneficus seated beside Menessos.
The witch who hexed the great Menessos. The Lustrata?
She wore a regal gown made with a sheer layer of red over white satin. The skirt was slit high, and her scarlet garter encircled her shapely leg. A broom was propped against her chair. Mero paused several paces away from Menessos and lowered himself to one knee as he offered up the scroll.

Menessos motioned for his witch to retrieve the scroll.

Mero was ready. He whispered, “
Aspicio
.”

As she advanced, the fluttering sheer fabric of her gown mimicked the flow of bloody water and interfered with his visual scrutiny. However, his aural assessment was unhindered, and the energy that surrounded him tasted of that energy surrounding her.

Such a vibrant life force. Inherent power. Residue of the ley line . . . not just a witch but a sorceress. Glowing silver mantle . . . a warrior? A badge embossed with the symbol of balance, a pair of scales.
Mero began to believe it.
This is the Lustrata.

Her slender arm swung gracefully forward to collect the scroll. He released it into her grasp, scanning up her body to her eyes. Brown and gray, they were not wanton, not waiflike or unsure.

This woman was not material for a voluptuous centerfold on paper. Hers was a majestic beauty, the kind meant to be captured in more permanent media, like the canvas of centuries past.
Or imbued with the ceaseless life of the vampire.

She expressed no
emotion in her other features and said nothing, but she did not have to. Her gaze conveyed wariness, protectiveness, and a silent warning: She promised him ruination, should she find it necessary.

Taking her to the Excelsior will not be an easy task to accomplish.

I
carried the scroll, a roll of thick parchment sealed in its coil by a fat daub of scarlet wax, which was embossed with a seal: an
E
with a single fang stabbing through the uppermost horizontal line. I offered it to Menessos.

He accepted it without averting his attention from the advisor. He certainly had perfected every aspect of the mien of a haven master: command and carriage, the promise of power, and the threat of his wrath.

Goliath, on Menessos’s right, sat silent and still but nonetheless exuded intimidation. I could feel the rage vibrating in his aura, and see the rigidity of muscles tense and ready to spring upon prey. It was Goliath being a perfect Alter Imperator, but it also had a quality that, just then, reminded me of Johnny.

The predator within wants out.

As I sat again, I heard the wax seal crack as Menessos broke it. He sniffed as the page unrolled. The writing, what I could see of it, was in a beautiful script, in a language unfamiliar to me, and the author had used a red-brown ink. I understood why the vampire had scented the page.
It’s written in blood.

Menessos handed the scroll to Goliath, who stood and read aloud, translating.

By order of the Excelsior, the vampire Menessos, Quarterlord of the Northeastern United States, is hereby required to submit to
the shabbubitum for a truth-reading, that it may be determined if this Master Vampire has been bound not simply
to
his Erus Veneficus, but . . .

There, Goliath faltered. He faced me with all the vehemence and hatred he could express.