Wicked Circle c-5

by Linda Robertson

  He padded close and sat. The crescent moon above us silvered his back and darkened his muzzle, but his tail wagged happily—a good sign.

  “It’s good to see you.”

  “Likewise,” he replied. “How’s your mother?”

  The last time I’d chatted with him, it had been about her. I filled him in on the events since then.

  “So she does care and she has learned,” he said.

  “Yeah. I guess.” I hadn’t believed this was possible when he’d suggested it. “She’s trying to guilt me into reciprocating, but that’s not why I’m here.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “No.” I explained that Liyliy was holding me hostage, and that she expected me to unmake a magical necklace without allowing me to touch the necklace or to tap the ley line for power.

  “Hmmm . . .” he said.

  I remembered that Creepy’s visit might be important too, but before I could speak, Amenemhab said, “And yet the two are not so dissimilar.”

  “Huh?”

  “As Liyliy is keeping you from the freedom you want, you are similarly holding your mother hostage from your love, which she wants.”

  I frowned at him, but he was undeterred.

  “Liyliy wants you to unmake the necklace and will restrict your freedom until you do as she wants. You want your mother to change, and you restrict her access to your heart until she does as you want. Are you following me so far?”

  “Unhappily, yes.”

  “Liyliy refuses to give you access to the item of power, but this complication makes winning your freedom more difficult for you, and because Liyliy does not trust you, this undermines the success of her goal. Care to outline how this is reflected with your mother?”

  I crossed my arms, not that a physical show of being “blocked off” would have any effect on a totem animal. “I refuse to let her into my heart, but my standoffishness makes her more stubborn, and because I don’t trust her, all this undermines my chance of eliciting a change in her behavior.”

  “See? You do understand.” He flashed the jackal version of a grin. “As Liyliy denies you access to the ley line, she lowers her chances for a satisfying outcome. As you deny your mother your love, you do the same, and it is a shame, for that is the one thing that can change her.”

  “Okay, I get it. I see it. Life is wildly synchronous. But I can’t do anything about my mother if I don’t get away from Liyliy. So help me out here. How do I unmake this thing?”

  “Why would you?” Amenemhab stood and paced back and forth before me. It was unnerving, since that was exactly what Liyliy had done. Just as I was about to say something about it, his tail dropped down. “Unmaking a spell of this magnitude, which was never part of you in either the making or the receiving, is interference with karmic repercussions. If you do this, you will bear an iron chain. It will have to be abolished if ever you are to reach your destiny, and nullifying it in this lifetime would be very difficult indeed.” He bowed his head.

  “Then I have to get the necklace away from her, which will be next to impossible.”

  “Is she so fierce?”

  “She’s very capable and there, my right arm is injured.”

  His snout lifted. “You’ve been tested. Those tests were not given you simply to strengthen you. In passing them you earned power and were afforded privileges and opportunities . . . such as unmaking that which was unjustly wrought upon you. But to balance the success of an opportunity, there comes a challenge.”

  My shoulders squared. “So what do I do?”

  He cocked his head. “Have you evaluated where you are in your cycle?”

  “You want to talk about my period?”

  “No. Your life cycle,” Amenemhab laughed. “Birth. Life. Death.”

  I scratched my head. “I’m pretty sure I’m well past the birth part and into the life part, and hopefully none too close to the death part.”

  “Each facet of life can also be gauged upon its life cycle. Like a love affair. Some are born quickly, live briefly and die in flames.”

  Johnny. My stare dared the totem animal to make that connection.

  “It is the way of existence—and your existence as the Lustrata is no different. What is birth?”

  “Birth is creation, beginning, initiation.”

  “And life?”

  “Life is development, growth, progress.”

  “It is time to evolve, Persephone. Time to take what you know and all you have earned and unite it.” He held his head high. “Embracing the goddess whose torches light your path and whose grace protects you is easy. Embracing the goddess who would set you aflame, who would drown you and cast your body soaring wingless into the sky . . . is not easy, and yet you embrace Her still. Some would let fear immobilize them, yet you just accept what She asks of you and do it. That sets you apart, Persephone.”

  I hadn’t thought to “blame” Hecate for the close calls during my tests. Though I hadn’t grasped it during the first test—I’d been naïve, but I’d come to understand that danger was to be expected when a deity assessed a mortal.

  “Your devotion and loyalty shine like bright beacons that declare you ready for the more treacherous journey along the deeper path.”

  I cast my eyes toward the island that resembled a spearhead jammed into the middle of the lake. I’d seen the giant steps to Tartarus inside there. I didn’t want to go back.

  “I cannot tell you the answer,” he said softly, “for these things of which I speak are uniquely yours, as will be the manner in which you combine them.”

  “If I have so much, why isn’t the course of action obvious to me?”

  “Being the Lustrata is no simple honor. It will only get harder.”

  Delightful.

  “You have a decision to make, Lustrata: Cor aut mors. I leave you to it.” He turned to leave, then stopped. “My time with you is growing short, Persephone; I feel another totem will soon replace me.”

  That made me sad.

  “Be at peace, Persephone. When things change here, it is evidence of evolution.” Amenemhab trotted away.

  I awakened inside the cargo hold. Not wanting Liyliy to find the wet circle of salt and become suspicious, I wiggled around and hoped it disguised my actions.

  “Cor aut mors,” Amenemhab had said. It was Latin for “heart or death.” It meant a choice between the morals and loyalty of the heart, or the insignificance and disgrace of death.

  Of course I would choose “heart.”

  C’mon, Snickers bar, and kick in. I have a karmic suicide to avoid.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  In her suite at the Cleveland Renaissance Hotel, Aurelia emerged from the bathroom carrying an empty goblet. She wore a thick terry robe, and her towel-dried hair was combed straight. As she crossed the living room to the table, where an uncorked bottle of wine rested on a bed of ice, she paused to dig a small portable radio from her pocket and place it on the damask-covered fainting couch. She poured herself a second glass of wine and watched the city below.

  Cleveland was nothing like her Bucuresti. Though the cities were nearly the same geographical size, there were far fewer people in Cleveland. Also, this city’s nickname, her research had revealed, was “Forest City”: A motto adopted in the 1830s, it made no sense in the present day. There was no forest here; not now, anyway. It irritated her that the phrase was utterly inaccurate. Continuing to pay homage to an outdated vision, she felt, highlighted the lack of forwardly mobile thinking that would be needed to make this city great and prestigious again.

  Her home was known as “Little Paris,” and with its beautiful architecture, its universities and theaters, cafés, and museums it was, indeed, an eastern version of that grand city. The Dâmbovita River was far more beautiful than the Cuyahoga.

  “What’s he like?” Johnny’s voice emitted from the little radio.

  Aurelia left the window. “Finally.” Since the Domn Lup had fled Cleveland, he and the woman had spoken little. The woman
he called Toni had said she needed a nap, and the silence had ensued. Hours of it.

  “He’s all boy,” Toni answered. “He can’t sit still. . . .”

  Setting her goblet on the table, Aurelia lifted the little radio, holding it tightly as she reclined on the fainting couch and listened via the bug she’d planted in the Maserati’s key fob.

  Detective Kurt Miller knew when the Maserati hit I-90 north that the Domn Lup was escorting Toni back to Saranac Lake. His Crown Victoria couldn’t hope to keep up with a car like that, but he didn’t have to now. When he arrived in his hometown just after 2:00 a.m., he drove slowly past Toni’s house. The lights were out. There was no fancy car parked in the driveway, either. He cruised by the area hotels and spotted the sleek vehicle at Gauthier’s Saranac Lake Inn.

  He called in a favor from his old friends at the village police department and had a cruiser sent to stake out the Maserati. The assigned officer was to call him if anyone used that car, then he was to nonchalantly tail it.

  Kurt stretched. He was ready to go home and sleep in his own bed.

  Johnny walked into the lobby area of the hotel. A man with a bushy moustache emerged from the back room. “Hello. Welcome to Gauthier’s. Would you like a queen or a king? I have a suite available.”

  Johnny dropped the keys on the counter and readied his wallet. “Nothing fancy,” he said. “Just a room to sleep in.”

  The man swiped the credit card and gave it back, then asked him about the make and license of his car, which brought an impressed whistle to the man’s lips. “Are they really all they’re cracked up to be, the Maseratis?” the man asked. “I mean, you can get more horsepower for less money in a Corvette Z06.” He slid the room key across the counter.

  “I drove a Z06,” Johnny said, retrieving his keys and the room key. “I opted for the Quattroporte. I just . . . liked it more.”

  “Ahh,” the man smiled. “You must be a family man, going for the four-door.”

  Johnny’s chest swelled. “Yeah.”

  “Your room’s on the second level, all the way down on the right.”

  After showering, Johnny crawled into bed with the diary in his hand. He read entries about Frankie missing her dad, about how her mom cried at night, and about her mom struggling to pay the bills . . . but it was the entry about her hating her father for leaving them that struck him hardest.

  Will Evan hate me for not being there?

  He read about a fight Frankie had with one of her friends, about a crush on a boy who never acknowledged she existed, and about trials with a monster math teacher. Then she documented his “loser” appearance. Toni had glossed the story over, but after an hour of reading, he had a grasp of who Frankie thought him to be, and how that evolved as she grew to know him, love him. She’d drawn a whole page of hearts and written “Francine Rosalee Brown + John Curtis Hampton” inside them.

  She mentioned that he said nothing of his home life except to mumble that he hated his mom’s boyfriend and couldn’t understand what she saw in him. There was no other insight to his family. Frankie said she pitied him, and she had been perceptive enough to understand she was pinning on him all the love she could no longer give her father.

  He had the feeling they could have made it work, high school sweethearts, together forever, because each would fit perfectly into the hole in the other’s heart.

  But Frankie was gone. Soon, the kid would be alone.

  No. No, he won’t be alone.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  Sitting in the utter blackness of the cargo hold, I clenched my hands. I said, “Heart,” as if hearing my own voice would make everything comprehensible. When it didn’t, I whispered, “Cor.”

  Core.

  Soul.

  The sorsanimus.

  I couldn’t tap Menessos or Johnny under this confinement, but I knew neither of them would give up if they were in my situation. I would not be the weak side of the triangle.

  But how am I supposed to “evolve” when I’m tied up and imprisoned? Evolving sounded like it should be a very active process.

  To the darkness, I said, “I asked once for the wisdom to keep my feet upon this path, to be what You had made me, Hecate, and to accomplish the goals You set before me, to be Your instrument, humble and just, and fulfill my purpose. Well, here I am. Show me Your bright torches.”

  I waited.

  And waited.

  “Just a little illumination would be helpful.”

  The glowing armor that was the mantle of the Lustrata began to shine around me.

  Thank you, Hecate. She had bestowed this upon me when I’d accepted the name, rank and responsibility of being Lustrata. It had glowed around me when she’d given it to me, when Xerxadrea had outed me to her personal coven, and when I’d been in the darkness of the Hall of Tartarus.

  Its light was reassuring, and I kicked myself for not thinking of this earlier.

  This beautiful silvery armor had gleamed to identify me and light my way, and yet its brilliance had surrounded me on one other occasion, unbidden: when I’d forced the former Rege into a half-transformation. It had been a desperate action for me, but apparently a moment of judgment, as well. To be Your instrument.

  Was that my evolution, to be more than a woman who stepped up whenever Chance lay at my feet, an occasion when some action of mine could make a difference? Was I to go from being defensive but proactive, to being offensive and aggressive?

  Still bound, I couldn’t attack Liyliy. At least not physically.

  That left magic, but I couldn’t tap the ley.

  Creepy had said that I needed to know I could do this. This what? Amenemhab had said to combine what I have.

  Feeling stupid and helpless and disliking every second of it, I consoled myself with the perks. I was bound to two powerful men. Hecate was on my side. I’d passed tests of fire, water, and air.

  Wait. Creepy had also said, “I can feel the storm within you. The burning blaze and the flood, too.”

  He’d pointed out that I had the fire and flood and storm within me. Three elements. Three tests. And here I sat on a mound of salt, which represented earth—the one element in which I had not yet earned anything. And yet, iron represented fire. Air was in abundance, and if this was a ship, then there was water nearby.

  How could I combine fire, air and water? Fire and water canceled each other out—or fire caused water to transmute and combine with air . . . steam!

  What could I do with steam?

  I had to get off this salt.

  Wriggling and dragging myself across this would take forever. Without my hands free to balance, hopping or crawling was out. I figured rolling would be the best way—and most painful. Gritting my teeth and tensing to restrict some of the movement my shoulder was about to endure, I made the first and second rotations. I had to catch my breath, then I made two more. Following this pattern, I neared the wall quickly.

  Guided by the light of my mantle, I sat up and scooted into position by the ladder. I lifted my arms and, using only my left, levered my feet under me. I stood—too fast—and had to grapple for the higher half-moon rungs to keep from keeling over. Holding on, I shook off as much of the salt as I could, then slid my foot into one of the half-moon openings. They were too far apart for my bindings to reach both, so I had to settle for having only one foot bearing me. Like an inchworm moving one end, then the other, I eventually had myself three rungs from the level of the salt.

  After securing my balance with my knee, I reached around the support bracket, placed both palms against the iron and focused my will.

  Metal, iron, smelted ore

  Element of fire in your core

  That heat within, I bid it rise

  Release it now, these ropes incise!

  My thumbs tingled, and I felt a jolt like I had when under my mother’s truck trying to get the tire. What the—?

  My thumbs! Mudras! Of course!

  In yogic theories, the mudras were various hand gestures
and positions that awakened the kundalini, or the corporeal energy. Each finger represented a different element. Thumbs represented fire, and metal represented fire, which explained the charge I got under the truck and here!

  Bending my thumbs back to touch the rope as much as I could, I pressed the outermost loop against the edge of the bracket. I smelled smoke. Maintaining my single-mindedness, I rubbed the rope against it and snorted against the stink of burning fibers.

  Incredibly, the silvery threads I’d noticed in the rope before were some type of metal—and the metal was part of Liyliy. It liquefied and re-formed as barbed wire, cutting into me as I applied pressure to the rope.

  I had to work fast—surely Liyliy knew I was doing something now.

  Increasing the pressure of the rope on the heated bracket, the sharp barbs of the wire broke my skin, and the wire heated. As the rope burned, so did I.

  Grinding my teeth, groaning through the searing pain, I kept pushing.

  The rope severed. I jerked from the bracket, steadying myself with my knee, and flapped my hands so the rope would unwind itself—but the wire did not fall away. In fact, the weight of the rope seemed to push the barbs deeper.

  I used my thumbs to touch the bracket and thrust the wire against the edge directly. The wire fought, tightened, and tore my skin before the heat melted it through. I pulled free of it so fast I probably did more and unnecessary damage, but I didn’t want to risk the stuff re-forming.

  I leapt down to the salt. I had to get my feet free now; Liyliy was surely connected to this stuff and knew what I was doing.

  The knot in the rope around my ankles was in the back, so I couldn’t see it well. Additionally, my thumbs were numb from directing so much of the fire element through them, so I dug at it with my fingers. Messing with it caused the wire in it to grow barbs as well. These seemed to spring up everywhere I reached—until I dug my thumbs under the wire. “Fire!”

  The wire melted around my touch and fell into the salt.

  I rolled away from it and worked at the rope. Where my thumbs touched, the fibers burned. Knowing what to do now, I touched my thumbs onto the rope—on a spot not in contact with my skin—and burned through.