Hallowed Circle

by Linda Robertson

  Thinking of habits, I allowed my gaze to drift toward the house. Beverley’s light remained on. Nana was still reading to her. I’d barely spoken to Nana since returning from the Covenstead, but a long discussion was inevitable. I would have to tell her what had happened, but it could wait a bit longer. I didn’t want to further interrupt our new evening customs.

  Our evening regimen started with Beverley going upstairs to shower with Ares on her heels so he could lie on the bathroom floor, waiting. Nana followed her up and, when Beverley finished, Nana helped her comb and dry her glossy, dark hair. They always played a board game, then ended the day with Nana reading aloud while Beverley settled in. They both seemed to enjoy the routine; I’d watched them, undetected, from my darkened room. Beverley was getting a better version of my Nana than I had known growing up, like Demeter 2.0 or something.

  I didn’t want to mess it up, not even for one evening. Getting Nana’s input about the Eximium was important to me but, at the same time, I didn’t want to tell her about it at all. She’d surely find a reason to be against my decision.

  The breeze increased, but didn’t flutter the corn. Only the treetops danced.

  Come.

  The ley line spoke!

  The grove’s branches swayed, beckoning me. Then all at once the field was inviting me, stalks undulating, tassels nodding, pennant-like leaves waving me in, encouraging me to step into the row, into the arms of the stalks.

  Intrigued, I laid down the sickle and succumbed to the summoning. Immediately the row stilled as the dried leaves reached high, making an aisle for me, opening as if this procession of one moving toward that seat of power in the grove was a most welcome guest.

  My steps, punctuated by the crunching of dead weeds underfoot, released aromas that combined the smell of harvest: the scents of soil and a field of vegetation left to deteriorate and rot, withering in the wind of ever-cooler days. In the embrace of the stalks, my fingers trailed outward, feeling their dry husks, the texture of the season.

  The ley line sent a pulse to acknowledge me. I expected a faint hiccup, like a little gust of wind, but this was much stronger, like the tremor of a small earthquake under my feet or the bass drum at a rock concert thudding out its rhythm against my chest.

  Something was different. Why?

  You are different.

  I walked on. Great. The ley line knows I’m stained. Just what I wanted, to feel more like a freak.

  As I reached the edge of the grove, rain began sprinkling down.

  If it began to pour like the weatherman predicted, I’d be drenched before I made it back to the house. Eyes on the sky to gauge the clouds, my toes struck an exposed tree root. For all the pomp of my journey here, my arrival was doomed to gracelessness. In my attempt to catch myself, my palm grazed the ridged bark of the ambushing oak. I stumbled into the grove and went down on my knees.

  In an instant, a blue-tinged field formed around the interior of the wood and the space surrounding me.

  The smell of saltwater filled my nostrils and the cry of gulls and the crash of waves filled my ears. Raindrops beaded and rolled on the lightly glowing exterior surface. Its spherical shape made it seem as if I was inside a bubble. What the hell was going on? A blue mist rose from the ground not far in front of me. It swirled rapidly together, twisting and pushing like some creature inside a balloon, stretching and growing.

  “I pray thee, forgive me this trespass.”

  The voice was female, soft and melodic. In a few seconds, a two-foot-long mermaid floated before me. Her lower half was layered in pearlescent blue scales. The skin of her upper half was a shade paler and gleamed like it was embedded with glitter. Her raven hair lifted as if she still floated in water. She wore only pearls, a dozen necklaces of various lengths, one strand rounding beneath each breast.

  “I am Aquula.”

  “You’re … you’re a mermaid? In my cornfield?”

  She giggled and it was the sound of pebbles clinking as the tide recedes. I glanced up; the rain was hitting heavier on the bubble.

  “I am a fairy.” Her childlike voice came in a whisper, as if sharing a secret. “A water fairy.”

  Historically, it was customary for witches to call upon the fey as quarter guards for their circles. In modern times, however, calling the fey could get a witch killed.

  Allergic to asphalt and iron, the fey had wanted to return to their own realm completely. They no longer wished to be bound to witches who could jerk them without warning from that world—where time ran differently—for the purpose of protecting a circle. Long before the other-than-merely-humans had come out of hiding, back in 1971, the Concordat Munus affirmed that the fey had, for lack of a better term, unionized. They were not to be summoned by witches ever again, or the witches would suffer the consequences. Elementals had agreed to stand—in spirit form—as our protectors in place of the fairies.

  While the fey remained free to visit our world, such sojourns were rare due to their allergies.

  I’d seen fairies on TV, but never in person. I was drawn to study her otherworldly face, so delicate and innocent. But I knew the fables. The fey only look frail. That misconception of frangibility had led humans to lose their fear of something very dangerous. “Why are you here?”

  “I am here because of Menessos.” She followed his name with a tremulous “Ahh …” sounding like a lovestruck teen.

  “Oh. Great.” There was no enthusiasm in my tone.

  “He is quite lovely, is he not?”

  Okay, so he was the walking, talking body double for Arthur Pendragon, my myth-based fantasy man who had romanced me in my dreams for as long as I could remember. He might be hot, but he was still a vampire. My fingers tapped on my thighs. “I suppose.”

  “Suppose?” She flipped her tail and seemed to swoon, falling slowly to the side, her hair gliding fluidly up. Outside the bubble, the rain fell harder still. “He is gorgeous to my eyes, but I forget myself.” She floated upright again. “Thou art Persephone and thou hast tempted him back into the circle.”

  That was what Samson D. Kline had told me, shortly before Menessos beheaded him. Later, Menessos confirmed it. “I didn’t know he’d been refraining at the time.”

  “Regardless, I thank thee.”

  “I’m glad you’re happy about it.” Maybe she would keep him busy and away from me.

  “I am his southern quarter guardian, and now I know I shall see him again.”

  Did she not know of the Concordat?

  “The guardians of the north, east, and south are fearful, now that he hath returned to the circle. But I yearn for his beckoning.” She paused, expression dreamy.

  I realized she and the other three “guardians” did indeed know of the agreement with the witches. I already knew Menessos was not just a vampire. He was a vampire-wizard, a sorcerer. I had no idea how or if the Concordat applied to him and it sounded as if the fairies were none too sure themselves.

  Her expression turned serious and she eased forward to slip a cold hand to my wrist. Her dark eyes, eerie with much larger irises than a human’s, searched my face. “Be warned, sweet Persephone: the others have taken to plotting. And while I would do naught that would earn my master’s wrath, the others seek only to dispense with their binding by any means. Thou art precious to him, else he would not have entered thy circle. This hath not occurred to my counterparts, sweet Persephone, but it will,” she said gravely. “I beseech thee to take precautions and protect thyself.”

  “I will now,” I said.

  “I cannot linger.” Even as she said the words, the rain slacked off.

  I wondered if my world was, to the fey, like my personal meditation world where a jackal named Amenemhab counseled me. “Go, Aquula. And thank you.”

  She faded back into a mist. With a low pop, the bubble burst. The smell and sound of the ocean faded. While the fleeting raindrops pressed the mist back into the earth, the branches overhead shielded me.

  I sat in the grove thin
king. Vivian’s stake had been destroyed by my hand. Menessos owed me. Acceptable repayment, as far as I was concerned, would simply be him staying the hell away from me. But if his enemies were going to think of me as a tool to be used for retaliating against him, maybe I needed to call in the favor he owed me.

  I started back into the rows of cornstalks to make my way back to the house; it was barely sprinkling now. A few steps in, I heard a twig snap elsewhere in the field.

  I stopped.

  Probably a deer … unless it was one of Menessos’s loyal beholders. If he commanded, any of those vampire-wannabe-muscleboys would keep an eye on me for him.

  This was my land, my twenty acres, damn it! I should feel safe taking a walk here, not paranoid.

  Of course, if it were the fey already making their move …

  Or … Menessos himself had told me of his enemies searching for ways to manipulate him via the connections he made …

  A breath caught in my throat.

  As I started moving slowly through the field toward the house, distant steps mimicked the rhythm of my own, attempting to disguise their presence. My hearing was definitely improved by the damnable stain I’d received, but I was far from grateful for that or any other “enhancements” it granted.

  I came to an abrupt stop to avoid walking face-first into the broad web of a corn spider, then heard a snap behind me. Silence.

  Stay calm. Think.

  Gauging the last sound, I guessed my pursuer was about fifty feet behind me.

  Adrenaline flooding my system, my flight instinct screaming, I bolted under the web and forward, using the biochemical boost to run for my backyard as fast as I could, swatting stalks out of my path. Though running blindly, I knew my steps were swifter than ever before.

  Another bonus from the stain.

  Air flowed more easily and deeply into my lungs, oxygen and adrenaline passed quicker into my muscles. My body was functioning like a new and improved machine, every component of the whole working more efficiently and smoothly, as if some residue that had always impeded the higher level of operation had finally been cleaned away. Like a long overdue oil change.

  Was that residue my humanity? My soul?

  I stopped dead in my tracks.

  Another huge corn spider, black and yellow, hovered in the center of a dazzling web less than an inch from my nose.

  Dropping to my knees, I fought to control and quiet my breathing and crawled underneath and beyond the web. I could hear steps approaching, following, but cautiously. Still, I’d be found. It was only a matter of time.

  It was close. I sensed it.

  I shot up and ran. Behind me I heard squealing, swearing, flailing. A big spider and its web across your face can elicit a startled reaction even from the toughest. But it wouldn’t stop whoever it was for long.

  I took off again, sprinting through the crackling stalks, feet sure under me even on the rain-slicked soil. I pushed for more speed, telling myself this was a race, not a chase. And I ran, ran for the clearing ahead, ran for home.

  My mind flashed on a different cornfield in my memory, reminding me of how as a child I’d fled like this on an equally dark night. Then, I was running away from all the fear and uncertainty in my life. My mother had gone, left me with Nana. I felt so unloved and everything was terrible. Instead of walking to Nana’s apartment after school, I left the little town behind, tromped through woods, crossed a wheat field, a dirt road, and pushed into a cornfield. I never considered going back. Not even when night set in. I grew cold and scared, but instead of stopping, I literally began to run.

  I collapsed that night, exhausted and sobbing, between the rows. The Goddess came to me there. The memory reminded me of Her comfort. That was something to hold on to, something to be inspired by.

  I’ll make it. I will!

  My pursuer was gaining ground behind me, panting breaths like a locomotive rhythm in my ears. I suddenly felt exposed, like playing “It” and I so hated that game. It is just behind me … if it catches me, I’ll be It! I could no longer trick myself into thinking this was just a race. Fear kicked in and a different chemical flooded into my bloodstream and seemed to soak up my energy. My breaths didn’t do enough. My legs felt like lead.

  Call on the ley! But I couldn’t think of a spell-rhyme.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Persephone!”

  “Johnny!” Expending the oxygen to call out cost me. I could feel my pace slow.

  My pursuer was right behind me. I felt fingers grasping at my back, reaching for my flannel shirt.

  “Persephone!”

  Johnny was closer now. Thank the Goddess!

  I burst from the cornfield and slammed right

  into Johnny. I think he tried to hold on to me, but I fell. Breathing hard, all I could smell was the grass in my face. My heart thudded against my rib cage like a Bumble Ball.

  “Someone’s out there.” I rolled onto my back.

  “I know, I can smell ’em. Erik.” He nodded at Erik—the drummer for Johnny’s band Lycanthropia—whom I hadn’t noticed until then. The stalks rustled as Erik stormed into the field.

  “Are you all right?” Johnny crouched beside me.

  “Yeah.”

  He grinned and said, “Yeah! The way you came across that field—holy shit! I didn’t know you were a speed-demon. I bet you could outrun a wære. Does the U.S. Olympic Committee know about you?”

  Fighting to catch my breath, I couldn’t laugh at Johnny’s wisecrack. Besides, all I could think was: the speed, the hearing, that extra sense—Goddess knew what else—were undeniably “gifts” of Menessos’s stain.

  “Hey, what’s with the frown? You sure you’re okay?”

  “Yeah, fine. Just catching my breath.”

  “Frowns always happen for a reason,” he said. Straightening up from his crouching position, he stared down at me and crossed his arms. “Fess up.”

  “Just winded and scared.” I sat up, in the damp grass, still breathing hard. “It’s nothing.”

  That wasn’t true. There was plenty to frown about. Johnny didn’t realize I still carried Menessos’s stain. He thought the stain had been burned away by the pain and consequent empowerment the stake had brought me. Johnny was partially right: I could have been unstained, but the vampire’s bonding had fused itself to pieces of me I didn’t want to part with.

  Johnny didn’t know the stain was now integral to my being. I could not be free of it without losing too much of my self.

  I hadn’t told him because he was still licking his wounds over his fight with Menessos. While I knew Johnny genuinely cared for me, he wasn’t fond of the flowers and art and not-so-small fortune’s worth of other gifts that the master vampire sent me after I destroyed the stake rather than use it to end Menessos’s existence.

  How could I say to him, “By the way, Johnny, I can still feel Menessos in the marrow of my bones”?

  Maybe if I understood more about this Lustrata thing … but all I had were questions and no answers. Nana said the Lustrata was supposed to have a stain in order to have a reason to be a part of the vampire’s world. Maybe Johnny thought I’d just pick one up from a more agreeable vampire later.

  “C’mon, tell me what’s causing that furrow in your brow or I won’t help you up.” Johnny stood over me, somehow combining his teasing smile with stubborn concern as only he could. His eyes, tattooed with the markings of the ancient Egyptian god Horus—the Wedjat—twinkled in the light that came from the house. He wore tight black jeans and an unbuttoned black-on-black shirt, flat black with stripes that were just a bit shinier. Under it, a white tank clung to his lean body, revealing the curve of pectorals, the dip under the sternum, the wave of abs. In the near-dark, it was all just levels of shadow, but those contours made me yearn to touch him, to rip off the shirt and reveal the myriad tattoos underneath so I could trace them with my fingers, with my tongue. The tight jeans with their pocket accent chains and scarlet wolf’s-head patches paired with the le
ather biker boots completed Johnny’s bad-boy rocker style. Oh. Yeah.

  “I can’t tell you. If I do it’ll just embarrass me and you’ll rub it in.”

  “Oh, I’ve got something I want to rub in all right.” His pose faded and he reached down to give me a hand up, but somewhere in the stalks Erik gave a loud yelp. Johnny twisted away, ready to charge to the rescue of his drummer.

  “Fucking spider bit me!” Erik shouted from somewhere in the field.

  Johnny turned back and offered me his hand up again. “Anyway, Red, that run was impressive.” He had started calling me Red—as in Red Riding Hood—a few weeks ago, when Nana moved in. He joked that visiting me “at Grandma’s house” made him feel like the big, bad wolf. Except it was my house and Nana hated to be called “Grandma.”

  I slipped my hand into his and he easily had me back up on my feet.

  With a devious smile, Johnny said, “Oh, look! You’re covered in grass.” He began brushing the little green blades off the arms of my flannel shirt, then stepped behind me and fluffed my dark hair gently. It made a shiver flow through me. Wiping debris from the back of the shirt, his hands swept lightly all over me. “It doesn’t want to get off,” he said. I could practically feel him thinking, But I do. He returned to my front and crouched, one hand brushing down the outer leg of my jeans while the other rested—surely only for the sake of balance—high on my inner thigh.

  As he worked, I watched his face, remembering how swollen his eye had gotten after the encounter with Menessos. He’d earned it, lying to me by omission. But I couldn’t forget his earnestness, his sincerity. Johnny believed in me more than I believed in myself.

  And he wanted me. For all these months, he’d kenneled alone. And according to Celia and Erik, he hadn’t even responded to the advances of any females—and there were plenty who advanced—at the band’s live gigs.

  So.

  It seemed he’d been waiting for me. Hopelessly heart-challenged, relationship-disabled me.

  Me.

  Now we’d lived under the same roof for two weeks and although he made his desires clear every chance he got, he’d never forced the issue, never been overbearing or less than a gentleman, albeit a seductive gentleman with an unending talent for innuendo-laden conversation.