Shattered Circle c-6

by Linda Robertson

  “Meeting a friend here. How’ve you been?”

  She flashed her name badge at me.

  “Manager? You got promoted!”

  “Yeah. Just last week. Like a show, the business must go on.”

  The witch who formerly owned this shop had abruptly disappeared. I knew more about that situation than I ever wanted anyone to know, so I meekly nodded and said, “Congratulations.” Besides working here, Mandy was an apprentice witch who gave some of her free time to Venefica Covenstead as a volunteer secretary. She was a good kid, a college freshman, and she deserved the advancement.

  “So what can we get you?”

  “Spiced cider.” While she rang me up on the register another girl stepped away to make my drink.

  Mandy handed me my change.

  I leaned in closer. “Can you get astrological charts online on your computer?”

  “Of course!”

  “Could I possibly compare a couple dates?”

  “Sure.” She started typing. “I’ll log into the astrology subscription the Covenstead maintains. What date did you want to look at?”

  Goddess, she talked so fast it was easy to think she must have been drinking double shots of espresso. I told her the two dates in question.

  She typed and handed over the little netbook before the cider was finished. “You can take this to your seat and check it out. I have to fill out an inventory list anyway. The first tab is the first date, the second tab is the second date. Who are you meeting?” The last question was accompanied by a sly little smile.

  “Thanks. Oh, Johnny. He should be here in a bit.”

  Her eyes widened. “I thought it might be him. Wow! The Domn Lup in my shop? He’s sooo handsome, you’re so lucky, you know that? Oh hey, will he have an entourage? You know, like the president?”

  My head spun at the speed of her questions. “I hope not.” That hadn’t even crossed my mind. Were his closest people now his secret service, listening in on his conversations with me?

  “Don’t make a fuss over him, okay?”

  The other girl handed me the cider.

  Mandy said, “Oh. Sure. Wærewolf King of the World, local rock star, and boyfriend of the Lustrata. Of course I’ll treat him like he’s a regular guy.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  At three forty-six in the afternoon, Johnny pulled up to the parking garage of the Cleveland Cold Storage (CCS) building. Before losing cell phone reception he’d texted Red to let her know he’d be ten minutes late. Sunday traffic had been light and he’d made good time returning from upstate New York, but he still had a few things to do before he saw her. Getting a shower was on the top of that list.

  The huge old building, formerly an ice house, now served as the den of the Cleveland-area wærewolves. He had a parking spot near the elevator, but with the sense of urgency he currently felt, he steered the Maserati right in front of the lift and threw it into park.

  He retrieved his gym bag from the trunk and got on the elevator to the ninth floor, where an apartment for esteemed guests was located. He could clean up there before heading to the coffee shop.

  With a quiet ding, the lift halted and the doors rolled back. He stepped into the hallway, but the sound of footfalls in the stairwell made him hesitate. Someone was hurrying up the steps. Someone wearing heels.

  In seconds, Aurelia’s gorgeous and leggy self burst into view. Having managed the climb in inappropriate shoes, she was surprisingly not out of breath. However, her short skirt had ridden up and Johnny couldn’t help noting the muscular flex of her thighs. As he forced his gaze upward, over her low V-neck blouse and onto the perfection of her face, she flicked her long blond hair behind her shoulder and smiled, altering her walk to a more seductive gait. “That must have been some drive,” she said sweetly. “You couldn’t even answer your phone.” She’d been calling him every fifteen minutes for the last several hours.

  “You could have left a message.”

  She drew close. “You and I were supposed to celebrate.” The way she articulated the last word left no doubt that she meant a celebration of the naked and sweaty kind.

  He said nothing, but repeated silently, Remember, you’re on your way to talk to Red.

  “Were you even going to stop in your office, sire?”

  “No. I have to—”

  “Are you avoiding me?”

  “I have to get a shower and—”

  “Oh.” Her smile broadened. “Would you like someone to scrub your back?”

  You’re in a hurry to see Red. “I’ll manage.”

  She pouted. It was entirely, adorably sexual. “Are you sure?”

  Johnny turned on his heel. Cold shower. Cold, cold, cold shower.

  Behind him he heard a frustrated sigh. “So . . . where have you been?” Her tone was on the verge of demanding.

  Let her be pissed. What she wants she can’t have. He kept walking and gave her a flat-toned answer. “Away.”

  “Yes, we all noticed the newly announced Domn Lup drove an old woman home and didn’t come back.” Her scornful sarcasm was not hidden. When he didn’t respond she instructed, “Bathe fast. The diviza will be here in twenty minutes.”

  In pack hierarchy, the dirija was a pack leader, the adevar was an area bean counter who kept tabs on the dirijas, and a diviza was the region’s next step up, serving a function that was part outreach, part campaign manager, part lawyer, and part CEO. They had an incredible amount of authority where local packs and politics were concerned.

  Johnny spun back. “The diviza?”

  Aurelia nodded.

  After negotiations went south between the pack and the Ohio Department of Transportation, or ODOT, who wanted to buy and tear down the den building for their new I-90 project, a dossier had been sent to the diviza requesting intervention.

  Johnny had opted out of the recent meetings, leaving the dilemma to Todd, who would become the pack’s dirija after Johnny’s coronation. They had all believed the issue would be resolved after the new year. “I thought he wasn’t coming until January?”

  “ODOT and the mayor are very serious about their new compensation package.” She advanced on him again. “They demanded mediation to obtain an immediate decision, and demanded it directly of the diviza, leaving us out of the loop.”

  “Bastards. Did the diviza’s office contact us?”

  “I only learned of this a few hours ago.” She crossed her arms, enhancing the bulge of her cleavage. “Seems they didn’t want to overwhelm you prior to or during your official announcement. According to them, the mediation was scheduled for next week, but ODOT called them with the change at one thirty. The diviza immediately chartered a plane, which . . . ” Her words trailed off as she checked her watch. “ . . . should have landed by now.”

  Johnny turned back toward the apartment. “Get Todd in here. He has to handle it.”

  “You’re the Domn Lup.”

  Stopping, Johnny squared his shoulders before facing her again. “And I have another meeting scheduled—one I don’t intend to miss. Besides, this will be Todd’s pack in a few weeks, so let him handle it how he wants.”

  “The diviza expects you.”

  Of course he did. The Domn Lup was a power title. Johnny knew that his attendance at the meeting would give the wæres more credibility, more leverage.

  This was part of the reason why he didn’t want to be Domn Lup. It wasn’t solely about grown-up choices and people looking to him for answers he wasn’t sure he had. This song and dance was about politics and etiquette. Every meeting would be tainted with a false spotlight meant to illuminate the idea that those involved were important, and that important people made decisions that were good for all. However, the agreements politicians reached were never brought to bear by the politicians themselves. Not getting their hands dirty with the real work meant the ruling class was out of touch with the reality of the decrees they made. Johnny wanted to change that. He wanted to shake things up and bring some rock-and-roll irreve
rence into play.

  “Fuck him,” he said, and walked away. Talking about a problem didn’t fix it, work did. They would get his presence and full support when they were ready to work.

  He was three steps from the door when Aurelia’s voice sliced down the hall like a razor. “This is how you intend to lead? Ignoring one of the six U.S. divizas when he’s come to negotiate for your pack’s den?”

  Again, he stopped, but this time he didn’t turn. All he wanted to do was go and make things right with Red and tell her about Evan. But that was his heart talking. His mind knew he couldn’t abandon the pack like this. It was their den. If they lost it because he’d skipped out on them . . .

  Fuck.

  “Everyone is watching you, John.”

  He said nothing, but he hung his head and tried to figure out the perfect wording for the text he’d send Seph to cancel.

  Aurelia turned and retreated into the stairwell.

  Red will understand. I know she will.

  • • •

  Aurelia had seen to it that a dry-cleaned suit, tie, and dress shoes had been brought to the apartment while Johnny showered. All were black except for the gray shirt. Seeing the spiffy duds, he’d rolled his eyes but put them on, grumbling. Now his still-wet hair was dripping slightly on the tailored jacket shoulders as he stood in the parking garage with Gregor on one side and his self-appointed fashion director on the other.

  Todd had parked and was approaching them when a metallic-gray Cadillac Escalade limousine pulled in and rolled right up to them. When the driver hopped out and opened the door, the diviza slid out.

  He was an older man, his hair a rendition of Einstein’s, and his equally frizzy beard at least twelve inches long. His face was tanned dark, with deep lines across his forehead. Any wrinkles at the corners of his eyes were hidden by his dark sunglasses.

  He cocked his head as he surveyed them. He was so scrawny that, with all the bristling hair about his head, his skull seemed oversized for his body. Johnny felt like he was being sized up by a starving elderly caveman dressed for a hip cocktail party.

  The old man’s gaze settled on him.

  “Diviza, I’m John Newman,” he said. “This is Todd McCloud. He will soon replace me as dirija of this pack. This is Aurelia Romochka, my assistant, and Gregor Radulescu, Omori captain.”

  The older man pulled his sunglasses down an inch, revealing an azure-blue eye on the left, while the pupil of the right eye was bright, reflective silver. It had a startling effect, but then, in a crisp Cajun accent, the diviza said, “Delighted to meet you all. I am Jacques Lippencot Plympton and we are late. If you would join me . . . ” He disappeared into the limo.

  Once settled inside the luxurious interior, Johnny asked, “Where is this meeting?” It was early evening on a Sunday, after all. Government offices were closed.

  Jacques’s cheeks bulged round in a smirk. “Not far. Not far at all.” The last came out more like ah-tall. He then spent the entire five-minute ride facing Johnny with that crooked smile stuck in place.

  This must be what it feels like to be on display at a freak show.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  After school, Beverley rode the bus to her normal stop. When she climbed into Celia’s CX-7, as usual, Celia asked about her day. Beverley told her that her best friend, Lily, was absent because she’d gotten to fly on an airplane to Florida, about the experiment they did for science, and about the picture of a unicorn that Bobby drew for her. She still had a crush on Bobby even after he pushed the merry-go-round so fast she fell off and broke her arm.

  But Beverley didn’t tell Celia everything.

  She didn’t tell Celia that she had barely been able to pay attention all day because she couldn’t wait to get back to the farmhouse.

  She held on to the car’s door handle the entire distance of the driveway, her feet dancing on the floor mat, ready to jump out before the car even stopped.

  “You’re sure in a hurry to see Errol today,” Celia remarked as she put the car in park.

  Beverley usually ran from the car all the way to the barns, but today she wanted to go inside the house. “Can I have some milk first?” she asked as she scurried from the car.

  “Of course.” Celia cut the engine. “Check the date on the carton, though. Seph’s been gone.”

  “I’ll have a juice, then.” Beverley knew Celia would be doing paperwork for her house-selling job. It was what she always did after school to give Beverley time to go see the unicorn. So she rushed into the kitchen and selected a juice box from the refrigerator, then, as Celia situated herself at the table and began pulling folders from her briefcase, Beverley returned to the front door. She opened it, closed it, slipped off her shoes, and carried them as she tiptoed up the steps, being careful to avoid the ones that she knew squeaked.

  In Seph’s bedroom, she stood before the dresser and studied the black obelisk. She wondered why her mom had told her to lift it off its base, but she did as she had been instructed. The instant her fingers touched it, an electric jolt made her fingers squeeze around it. She gasped in pain, but the ache had already faded. She sat the obelisk on its side next to the base piece.

  Crossing the room, she dropped gently to her knees and slid the slate out from under the bed where she’d left it this morning. She smiled mischievously as she gathered the slate into her arms, placed her shoes on top, and snuck back down the steps. She peeked down the hall and noted that Celia was sitting with her back toward the barns.

  Being as quiet as possible, she opened the door again, slipped out, and shut it silently behind her. On the front porch she paused long enough to put on her shoes, then she walked the long way around the house so Celia couldn’t see her through the window. She jogged across the backyard to the cornfield and toward the barns . . . then she slipped into the rows of stalks.

  Following the other directions that had been given to her that morning, she walked until she arrived at the trees. She pushed through the bare branches and into the leaf-strewn open center of the grove. She turned in a complete circle, deciding which of the inner trees was the best.

  One in particular caught her eye. It was a thick tree, tall and strong-looking. Its roots were bumpy, but spread out wide and high almost like the arms of a chair. Beverley sat, leaning against this tree, her legs stretched before her, slightly bent. She propped the slate on her angled lap.

  With her hands poised over the letters, she whispered, “Are you still there, Mommy?” and touched the surface.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Johnny was surprised when the limousine slowed and stopped at a small parking area at the corner of Detroit Avenue and West 25th Street. Jacques exited the vehicle and walked directly toward the big brown door beside the old plaque declaring it the subway entrance. They were going to the underside of the Detroit-Superior Bridge.

  Of course they were meeting on a bridge. They were dealing with ODOT. People from the Department of Transportation would know this structure inside and out. The lower level was only opened on special occasions, and apparently a negotiation with wærewolves qualified as special.

  The dry scent of cold concrete mingled with the dank stench of the Cuyahoga River, which snaked under them. This bridge connects the West Side with the East Side, and today the stink of both are collecting here.

  Inside, the transportation department reps had taken a position with their backs to the route that the subway cars once traveled. Anything could be hidden in the depths of that darkness behind them.

  Breathing deep to sort through all the scents as nonchalantly as possible, Johnny detected more humans than were visible, and a lot of gunpowder and gun oil. Johnny glanced around. This would have to be a position ODOT felt they could defend, one that gave them an advantage. Question was, what advantage did it give them and how could the wæres overcome it if necessary? He shot a glance at Gregor, who nodded.

  “Diviza Plympton . . . ” Gregor whispered.

  “I smell them, all right, boy,�
�� he whispered back.

  “Mediation usually doesn’t include bullying tactics like coming in with an arsenal,” Aurelia said softly.

  Plympton chittered a laugh. “We a-walked in with more strength and power in our veins than they will ever know. They have merely made an attempt to even the odds, Mizz Romochka.”

  That made Johnny think back to being a new wære, when he first joined this pack. He’d been taught many things, including how to respond when mundane humans became aggressive.

  “The general population thinks guns will protect them from us. When they make a show of force, it is because they fear us and are trying to keep us at bay. We should be flattered that they go to such effort,” he recalled the former pack leader Ignatius telling him. A father figure to Johnny, Ig had bestowed him with wisdom he hadn’t had much use for until recently. “It makes them feel powerful to have that steel in their hands. But you, John, you have something far more potent inside of you.”

  Ahead, there were five men, front and center. They stood like mob bosses in a police lineup: shoulder to shoulder, hands clasped before them, wearing nice black suits. Scattered around in flanking positions were over a dozen men in fatigues, grouped in threes. Posed for intimidation, these men wore their guns unhidden and their hands were poised, ready to draw.

  “These are not the same guys that have been at the other meetings,” Todd said quietly.

  Something had changed drastically for ODOT to be taking it this far. They didn’t intend to lose this negotiation.

  The diviza continued. “Let’s walk, people. Walk like we own the place. Don’t hold back. Let their human senses feel what we are, what we can do. Domn Lup, now would be a good time to let some of your sovereignty shine through.” He started forward.

  The wærewolves crossed the distance, letting that “other” about them radiate forth like the cool breeze before a bad storm.

  Being outnumbered four to one against a mostly hidden, well-armed enemy, Johnny’s initial reaction was to get angry and offended, but he knew that was surely part of what they wanted. He let that emotion flow into his aura and dared to reach inward and stroke his beast, just one brief, light touch. . . .