Then I focused on my column, which was due today. Maxine paced.
Despite the noise of Beholders working on Nana’s room addition, I polished up the column and emailed it to my editor, Jimmy Martin. Not long after I hit the send button, though, Mountain informed me that they were ready to break through the exterior wall and install Nana’s bedroom door. I opted to completely relocate my computer instead of merely covering it against the dust they were about to stir up.
By eleven o’clock, everything that could be moved was out of the dining room. Dust barriers were put up to minimize the effect throughout the house. Then the real noise began. Nana retreated to her room upstairs with Ares and cranked up a country music station on her clock radio.
Having someone tearing a giant hole in your house in November, I found, was cause for pacing. Which had me and Maxine at cross purposes.
Maxine suggested, “Aren’t there any errands you can run?”
By “you,” she obviously meant “we.” “Groceries.”
“Great idea. You’ll need help with bags?”
“Of course.”
We left Zhan in charge and fled, grateful to be away from the cacophony. The Audi was a smooth ride, even on the rolling country hills. Max drove as if the road was her personal course to test the vehicle’s maneuverability. On the upside, it took only twenty minutes to get to town. I’d been quiet during the ride, clenching the handle on the door, but she was now obeying the speed limit and I loosed my grip and found my voice. “So, Maxine, how did you come to be an Offerling to Menessos?”
“I’ve always been a risk taker, craving excitement, y’know?”
After that drive, yeah, I believe her.
“I never had the typical girl goals,” she said, a tinge of sadness in her voice.
“Do you feel differently now?”
“No … it’s just … my mom got a tomboy when she wanted a princess. Growing up in Connecticut, she wanted me to be in beauty pageants. She couldn’t understand why I wanted to rock climb, why I wanted to know how to pilot a helicopter or shoot guns.” Maxine drove into the grocery parking lot. “She didn’t understand how I could like getting dirty. She thought I was being defiant.”
“Were you?”
“Not of her. Of her illness. My mother had multiple sclerosis.”
“Oh,” I said.
“My teen years were spent watching her get weaker, get older, frailer. As the illness gripped her more and more, she wanted to think I’d have the happily-ever-after kind of life, even though she wouldn’t be around.” Maxine parked in a space at the back of the lot where there were few other cars. “In the end, she was bedridden. She couldn’t even move.” She plucked the keys from the ignition and got out.
I grabbed my purse.
Over the car’s roof Maxine continued. “I wanted to live. To feel my heart pound every day and never fear the risk so much that I missed out on a thrill. Before she died, she told me, ‘Run, Max. Climb and get dirty. Just don’t stop moving.’ I did. After she died, I did more. I pushed the limits. I pushed for her as much as I pushed for me.”
We started across the parking lot. I asked, “So she did understand.”
“Yeah.” Maxine nodded. “If I have to die, it’ll be quick. No long years of fading.”
The “if” in there made me understand why she was with a vampire. “So how’d you end up with Menessos?”
“There are services, not unlike eHarmony, that try to match people up with vampires. It’s a complicated process, secretive and labyrinthine to the point that many times I thought I was being fleeced. Four months later, I met Goliath. Six weeks after that, I met Menessos.”
“Were you scared?”
“Hell yes. But I loved it. Better than any roller coaster.”
“Oh.”
“Being an Offerling provides the excitement I crave, and the pair of marks Menessos placed on me means I won’t be fading anytime soon.”
“So you want to be a vampire?”
“To be ageless and never die? Absolutely. Where do I sign?”
We stopped at the end of the parking row as a white delivery van rushed by, apparently in a hurry. When it stopped nearly in front of us the driver opened his door and we angled our steps to go around the back of it toward the grocery entrance.
As we cleared the back, the rear doors swung wildly open, nearly hitting us. Maxine lurched around the door and snapped, “Hey, assho—”
I heard a thunk and Maxine dropped to the ground.
Even as I thought to bend over her and help her up I realized there was a hole in her forehead. A circle of blood was spreading on the pavement like a wine-red nimbus around her head. She’s never getting up.
I heard another sound, like the whack of a baseball bat meeting a fastball. My world went black.
* * *
Consciousness returned in brief snippets, each a little longer than the last. I wanted to hold on to it—where am I?— but it kept escaping and that made me angry. Or maybe it was the dull ache that made me angry. Or the fact that I was nauseated and there was a soppy gag in my mouth and I wasn’t sure how to throw up around it.
I was also blindfolded. That part I was almost grateful for. It felt like the backs of my eyes had been stung by bees and I was certain that any light would have intensified my headache. The downside was having no idea where I was, except that there was cold cement under me. I’d been hog-tied—my hands and feet bound behind me—and now lay on my side. Every movement shot splinters of pain through my head so I didn’t try very hard to inspect further. I did try very hard to just breathe and listen. Then the shivering set in. Too bad the cold didn’t help the nausea.
Voices echoed to me as if from a tunnel, muffled enough that even with my amplified hearing I made out only a word here and there. Maybe I’m at the bottom of the well. Where’s Lassie when I need a big collie rescuer?
As the voices continued, I realized they were arguing. Something about that anger got through the punch-drunk fuzz inside my head. It swept away the confusion and reality hit home: I’ve been kidnapped and Maxine’s dead. They shot her in the head!
Menessos’s warning about Heldridge replayed in my memory.
The shouting continued and I strained to hear, needing yet fearing to have confirmation that Heldridge had me. The prospect of being tortured didn’t help my stomach settle. Was I so weak and scared that I would tell everything immediately to avoid Heldridge’s methods?
Then I caught the word “Bindspoken.”
That left me wondering if maybe it wasn’t Heldridge but the witches who had me. Xerxadrea had played up to the high priestesses of her lucusi the notion that Menessos was a serious threat when she officially ousted me from the group. Because I’d become his Erus Veneficus, WEC certainly wasn’t happy with me. Killing one of Menessos’s Offerlings wouldn’t have been their style, however, with “Harm none” being their motto and all.
Besides, Xerxadrea’s claims were all for show.
Not that Vilna-Daluca was aware of it. And now that Xerxadrea was dead, Vilna blamed me. Problem was, Vilna wasn’t exactly wrong. But who else would have cause to throw the word “Bindspoken” into an argument?
The shouting voices seemed to be male. Men could be witches, but there weren’t that many of them.
Maybe Heldridge was trying to use me to barter the witches into protecting him.
“She is a threat!” another voice said clearly.
Oh hell. Maybe it was some rogue parents who’d seen me on the news, though I didn’t think any of them were the type to commit or commission a murder.
My brain felt muddy inside.
Think! It didn’t matter who had me, I had to get away. I can’t fail. Beverley will be devastated.
Despite the pain of moving, I stretched my head so I could scrape the blindfold up, little by little. Once it was off, it was obvious how futile the effort had been. Wherever I was, it was completely dark except for a sliver of dim light about ten feet away
from me.
After long minutes of straining at the bindings, I had to admit my struggles were only giving me friction burns. Not very Lustrata-ish. Of course the protrepticus, my satellite phone, and my purse had all been taken from me. They’d even removed my necklace with Beau’s charm. So I pondered what magic could get me out of this. If I called to a ley line, anyone but mundane humans would sense it. Whoever had me could probably get in here quick and dole out another whack to the head before any sorcery could be completed.
Footsteps approached beyond the door. Panic seized me. I don’t have a plan yet!
The door opened and I learned who had kidnapped me.
By the shape of the shadow, I recognized Gregor. He had a long blade in his grip. He advanced and crouched over me. I held my breath. Poor Beverley. Will she ever understand how much—
He sliced through a rope behind me and the length uncoiled from my ankles. My wrists were apparently a separate binding and remained taut. He yanked me up to stand, not at all good for my aching head, and strong-armed me to the door. There, he jerked the gag from my mouth and let the drool-saturated fabric slap against my neck.
“Stir the slightest energy, witch, and I’ll twist that pretty head of yours until it pops off.” He pushed me through the doorway into another nearly dark room.
I stumbled and, because each step equaled a thudding kick in the cranium, it was only by dumb luck that I managed to keep my feet under me. When steady enough to stand upright without fearing my balance was compromised, my smart-ass mouth opened. “Hey, asshole, I had nothing against you guys until someone killed Maxine and kidnapped me.”
Gregor crossed his Mr. Olympia–size arms and gave me a smugly satisfied expression. I was like a toothpick next to him, and with me being bound and having that goose egg trying to hatch on the back of my head, he did have the advantage … unless I wanted to call to a ley line and half-form every wære in the area, which I didn’t. But I am debating how far I’d have to be pushed to willingly cross that line.
“This is the witch?”
The voice came from behind me. Slowly, I turned. We were surrounded by tarnished steel walls. At the corners where the metal panels had been secured in place were circles of rust with trails of the corrosion leaking downward. Pipes snaked across the ceiling.
Then I saw the man wearing a crown and sitting on a throne of ebony.
The Rege.
The throne seemed to be made from cylinders of wood, tall ones forming the two rear posts, shorter ones supporting the arms of the seat. The dark wood was decorated with various skulls, horns, and tusks. It was like four phallic symbols with hunting trophies nailed together to create a royal, manly-man chair. If it had a voice, it would have bellowed, “Behold! Virility incarnate!”
The phallic symbolism was continued in the black waist-high pilasters of marble on either side of him, topped with green pillar candles. They were the only source of light in the tomblike room, creating an intimate dimness while casting an eerie glow upon the skulls.
All in all, this was where I’d have expected the leader of the wærewolves to lounge. Though I’d have thought he’d look different.
Thick silver-gray hair hung from under his emerald-studded crown and brushed his shoulders. It was utterly Ricardo Montalban from Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan and I almost laughed—but choked on it when I realized he was wearing a long black robe that resembled a cassock. And the crown on his head was more of a mitre than something a king would wear. This dude was not playing “Warrior King,” he was into “Insane Holy Man Ruler.”
Johnny had pegged it. Pope-Czarzilla.
Underneath the unbuttoned robe was a collarless black silk shirt with a slitted neck embellished with bright green embroidery. I couldn’t tell anything about his pants but he was wearing riding boots—one ankle was propped upon the other knee. The pose conveyed contentedness.
His eyes were chalkboard green and he stroked his square, shaven chin slowly as he assessed me. When his hand lowered to the armrest, he lovingly fondled the skull at its end. He wore wide rings on nearly every finger.
All the iconic imagery in his carefully chosen costume was unnecessary. One look in those callous eyes, pitiless enough to match the cruel, bent line of his mouth, and I knew this was a man who had seen extreme horrors, enjoyed the show, and bought the entire season on DVD.
It made me want to be invisible.
“Do you know who I am?” His accented tone was thick with inflections of authority and his deep voice scratched in a way that conveyed age as much as his silver hair did.
“The Rege,” I answered.
“The Omori think you are a threat, little witch.” He shifted his weight on the chair, leaning slightly forward. “Are you?”
The words I’d just spouted at Gregor in my aching and anger echoed through my mind. “You’re certainly giving me reasons to think I ought to be.” It wasn’t backing down; it wasn’t admitting anything directly, either.
He stood and advanced on me, each step both graceful and threatening. Not quite six feet tall, he had probably been handsome until something ugly inside reached maximum levels and seeped out, eroding him until only an expression of scorn remained. His powerful build matched the Omori leader’s, as if Gregor was the latest version, new and improved, now ten percent bigger. Romania must have gotten rid of all the grocery stores and replaced them with GNCs.
Glowering down at me coldly, the Rege let the moment linger, as if waiting for me to lose the stare down and collapse at his feet in fear and submission. But his furrows and lines were not daunting. Johnny’s Wedjat tattoos had once scared me more than this guy’s best glare. Of course, I’d never been tied up back then.
His arm swung up, ready to backhand me.
Resolved not to reward him with evidence of how frightened I truly was, I didn’t react—not to hold my breath, not to tense against the strike, and certainly not to cower before this man. If he hit me, though, I was going to try my best to throw up on him.
“You are brave,” he whispered. His breath smelled like burnt earth. His arm lowered slowly. “Brave enough to try defiance.” He didn’t strike me, but instead put his thumb under my chin and applied pressure to the soft triangle of flesh where there was no bone.
I jerked away; it forced me to take a step back.
With a sardonic smile and a down-his-nose glare, he turned back to his macho throne, satisfied I had given ground.
He’d received the indication of submission he wanted from me, but my mouth didn’t always know when to stay shut. “I’d prefer to be known as brave enough not to back down when I’ve been wronged.”
He spun back. “It was the Omori that wronged you, killed your friend.” He flicked his fingers dismissively at me as if that would wipe the blame from my eyes. “They are within their rights to act preemptively, though I gave no such order.”
Leaders shouldn’t pass the buck. “You fear me.”
He laughed. “You flatter yourself.”
“Then why are my hands still bound?”
In a flash he gripped my arm so hard it seemed he meant to break it. With a jerk he compromised my balance and put me on my knees. Aftershocks of pain rippled through my head. My vision blurred for a moment.
That’s worrisome.
The Rege bent and gripped the lower half of my face, lifting my head roughly. “You are bound, little witch, because,” his tone dropped to a gravelly lower register as he finished, “I like it that way.”
I tried unsuccessfully to jerk away again but I had no leverage. He continued laughing at me. On my third attempt, he got fed up and shoved me hard enough to throw me onto my side.
Keeping my head from cracking on the floor was a small victory. It cost me a strain in a neck muscle and a new wave of nausea. “I get it now,” I snapped, struggling to tell up from down. “You bind what you fear in order to control it. And your true weakness is your inability to admit it.”
With the toe of his boot, he rolled m
e onto my back and straddled me, glowering down at me for a long moment. I considered shoving my foot in his groin, but wasn’t certain my blurry aim would be true. He lowered himself to his knees and sat on my stomach. Aside from recognizing this as similar to the dominance tactics I read about in Ares’s puppy book, I could barely breathe and my arms felt as if they were being smashed. One of my wrists would break if he didn’t get up soon. C’mon stomach. Help me go all Linda Blair on him.
“I have heard you possess the skill to perform a spell that can render a wære the keeper of his man-mind, even when in wolf form. And that, if true, could make you valuable. But tempt me, and you will discover what happens when I decide someone is worthless.” His fingers slithered forward to seize my neck and give a little squeeze as if to hint at how easy it would be to kill me. Then his nails scratched over my collarbone and jerked the neck of my shirt, snapping threads in the seams at the back. He licked his lips lecherously.
I sneered.
He stood, shrugged out of his long coat, and took a step away. He placed it, his mitre, and shirt on the seat of his throne. The Rege may have been old enough to have lost all the color from his hair, but he had maintained his muscle tone. He was actually ripped.
With a wicked smile, he said to Gregor, “Leave us.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I rolled, kicked, twisted, and had my feet under me in a flash, backing away.
The Rege chuckled; it was punctuated by the dull sound of Gregor shutting the door.
“I will teach you to be docile, witch.”
I put my back to the steel of the insulated wall. Earlier I hadn’t wanted him to know how truly frightened I was, but now I needed him to think I was helpless, so my brave mask fell away and panic crept into my features.
He bought it gleefully.
Arcane Circle c-4 Page 15
