Hallowed Circle (Persephone Alcmedi 02)

by Linda Robertson

  “Thanks, Nana.”

  “Of course. She’s the closest thing to a great-grandchild I’m ever going to get, apparently.”

  All consideration for blank expressions disregarded, my eyes about bugged out of my head. Where had that come from?

  She lifted her cigarette and lit it. “Now, Persephone, about this Eximium …”

  Damn. She got me. Hooked me deep, and now she was going to reel me in.

  “Tell me, honestly. Do you want to be the Lustrata?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “No.”

  “Then, yeah, I guess.”

  “You accept it, that easily?”

  “Not that easily, no. But kicking and screaming won’t change it, so …” I shrugged.

  “Just swear to me that your motive for being in this Eximium is not to have the council see you as a failure in some wacko attempt to get out of being the Lustrata.”

  “I swear. I told you the reason already.”

  Evidently she accepted what I said as she rose from the bench and said she was going to find the arrowhead and chain. Her fuzzy slippers flopping, she left the kitchen.

  I got up and poured fresh coffee in my Lady of Shalott mug. I’d teased Johnny about him not being allowed to drink out of this mug because it was my favorite. Returning to the dinette after squirting a sizeable dollop of chocolate syrup into the cup, I sat and stirred my coffee.

  I remembered Tennyson’s lines about the Lady of Shalott.

  There she weaves by night and day

  A magic web with colours gay.

  She has heard a whisper say,

  A curse is on her if she stay

  To look down to Camelot.

  She knows not what the curse may be,

  And so she weaveth steadily,

  And little other care hath she,

  The Lady of Shalott …

  My fingers traced over the image of the boat on the cup.

  Metaphorically, I was weaving night and day, trying to make the many threads of my life into a web of happiness. A curse is on her if she stay to look down to Camelot. “Stay” meaning “stop” and Camelot being a metaphor for grandeur, a place of rich culture, of enlightenment. It made me wonder. Happiness lost, in Camelot. In the classic stories, Guinevere tried to cling to honor, but could not fight her passion for Lancelot any more than he could fight his passion for her. And it had ruined a kingdom.

  My passion had ruled me but I was no Guinevere. And no matter who Menessos resembled, I had no Arthur to answer to, no king’s reputation to protect.

  Only the role of Lustrata to fulfill.

  Though I still wasn’t clear on exactly what bringing balance and walking between worlds entailed, Johnny seemed to be preparing me for hostile days ahead. I hoped I could grow into the Lustrata’s laudable shoes. And quickly.

  After dinner, when Nana and Beverley went upstairs to begin their evening routine, I finished nailing up horseshoes at the front door and the door to the garage. I had another pair to put up over the garage door and the garage’s “man” door, but decided to let them wait. I went to the landing and listened as Nana told her story.

  “There once was a pair of pretty sisters,” she said, “who heard the sweetest music as they strolled in a field collecting flowers. Following the sound, they discovered the music came from a fairy ring. This was not a ring for your finger, mind you, but a circle of toadstools where the grass inside the circle has been flattened by the feet of dancing fairies. To the sisters’ delight, the fairies were still there! Caught in their revels, they asked the girls to dance with them. One of the girls refused, but the other agreed to dance. After she skipped around the ring with the fairies three times, she slipped into the fairy world through a doorway that suddenly appeared in the middle of the ring. It was as if the ground had swallowed her and the fairies. The remaining girl wept bitter tears for her sister, but she was never seen again.”

  I climbed the steps to stand in the doorway of Beverley’s room.

  “Many years later,” Nana went on, “the sister who didn’t dance had a daughter of her own. This girl was pretty like her mother and loved to collect flowers from the field. Her mother always warned her to beware the fairy rings and gave her one of these.” Nana held up a silver necklace with a small flint arrowhead. A circle of iron shared the hole in the top of the flint through which the chain ran. Silver four-leaf clover charms dangled on either side of it.

  “For me?” Beverley asked.

  “Yes. Be sure to wear it at all times and avoid any fairy rings you might find.”

  “Wow. I love this, it’s so cool!” Beverley slipped it over her head.

  I went in to hug her good night. “You will wear it everywhere, right? Even to school every day?”

  “Yes! Wait … is something bad going on?”

  “Not if you wear the necklace.”

  Her fingers curled around the flint. “I’ll wear it. I promise. And good luck tomorrow,” Beverley said. “I know you’ll do great.”

  “Thanks, kiddo.” She accepted my hug readily. Nana was mum.

  “Oh, and Seph,” Beverley called as she crawled into her bed.

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks for the joke in my lunch. Everyone at my lunch table wondered why I was laughing so hard, so I read it to them. They cracked up.”

  “What joke?” Nana asked.

  “What do you call a fairy that never takes a bath?” Beverley asked.

  “I don’t know,” Nana answered.

  “Stinkerbell!”

  Nana chuckled.

  I gave Beverley another hug and went back downstairs.

  Taking the ladder to the garage, I nailed up the last horseshoes. After putting my ladder and hammer away, I went upstairs to my bedroom, undressed, and took a shower. Clean and comfy in a nightshirt silkscreened with a maiden and a unicorn, I prepared for bed, my head still spinning with fairies and vampires, the Eximium and Lustrata-ing, Johnny and, well, Johnny.

  Because the contestants were expected to arrive and assemble before the opening ceremony at dawn, I set my alarm for six A.M. Thankfully, Daylight Saving Time wasn’t until November, so the sunrise wouldn’t happen until seven-fifty-two, according to my Witches Almanac.

  Thinking a good book would relax and distract me, I snuggled into bed with a new novel that promised to be a page-turner. Few pages had been turned, though, before my mind drifted from the story.

  I wished there was a study guide for witches’ competitions: a list of spells to know, moves to make, strategies to consider. Something, anything to help me mentally prepare. It’s not as if I wanted to win, but defeating the savvy and obnoxious Hunter Hopewell was, no doubt, not going to be easy.

  As for mental and physical preparation, I’d been hoping for a final training session with Johnny.

  Johnny.

  Thinking about him warmed more than the cockles of my heart, whatever those were. But past the physical pleasure, my brain buzzed on a new wavelength regarding him.

  I wanted to tell him I was sorry about being scared of so many things.

  I considered Amenemhab’s “permission” to not feel bad about feeling so good. He made it sound like I deserved fabulous intimacy. While I was wary of how that mind-set could be a catch-all excuse to authorize all kinds of bad choices, my heart trimmed it down to simply: “It’s okay to accept what good things come freely into your life.”

  Johnny had chosen to be part of my life, and if we shared something genuine and fabulous, I was a fool to oppose it. With that understanding came acceptance and recognition of how integral he’d become to my life. He wasn’t just my “beach,” he was becoming the firmament, the bedrock of my life. Our lives. Nana’s and Beverley’s too.

  And here I was, missing what might be the biggest performance of his life.

  It was obvious I wasn’t going to get to sleep anytime soon. Why not surprise him, catch the gig, and deliver a few kisses not subject to the countdown? There was time. Then
I could get some decent sleep before the morning.

  Out of bed and on my feet, I went to the mirror. This was not the face of a potential rock star’s girlfriend, and my hair needed help too. Just clipping it back was too harsh, so I switched to an elegant twist with some tendrils pulled out that softened the angles of my cheekbones. A little color on my cheeks, around my eyes, on my lips. Better. But my hair was still too “up” for rock’n’roll. I pulled more tendrils free in the back. A lot more; my hair has Greek-heritage thickness.

  After I chose a tight pair of black jeans, my eyes scrutinized the closet in search of a shirt. What shirt said, “Forgive me for being scared”? A black, low-cut, push-up bra under a black long-sleeved lace shirt was a good start. I added a suit jacket. No, still shows more than I want to reveal. My dressy velvet vest worked. A hint of bra showed where the vest’s V dipped, and the lace shirt stretched just right to accentuate my breasts. The long black leather blazer worked well as an overcoat. I grabbed my low-heeled black boots.

  Carrying them from my room, I expertly avoided the squeaky steps on my way down.

  I’d left the car in the drive, so, after making it quietly to the front door, I put my boots on while standing on the porch. Inside, the sound of the heels might have woken Nana.

  Movement and shuffling in the corn caught my attention as I walked to the car. I paused for a moment and peered toward the field. I didn’t often get to glimpse the deer, and tonight was no different. They had fled back into the woods.

  In the car, I cranked the heater and headed for I-71.

  I’d been to the Rock Hall enough times that finding it was no problem. Since this was a private event, there was ample and easily accessible parking. Even from outside I could hear the buzz of a band playing. However, they stopped before I could make it inside.

  While waiting at the coat check, I watched people and evaluated the scene. A cash bar was set up to my right, and people were approaching it from my left, so logic dictated that the bands must be playing somewhere to the left. After winding through the lobby and walking under four wild little cars suspended from the ceiling that U2 used in their Zootopia tour, I discovered a stage set in a kind of alcove, just to the left of a central escalator.

  It seemed the space was a perfect stage; the shape of the area would amplify the music and push it toward the crowd, a mixture of aging hipsters and younger rockophiles dressed in everything from designer duds to vintage tees and, of course, plenty of denim and black.

  I took the escalator up to get a view, and found that from the moving stairway I could see behind the stage. The members of the band that had just finished were loitering in front of a propped-open door marked Green Room. I wondered if Johnny, Erik, and Feral were all in there waiting, warming up.

  Checking the other direction, I glimpsed executive types, all chic in their dress-down business clothes at a gathering of tables perched at the edge of the loftlike overhang of the second story. Unlike the rest of us, they had wait service for their drinks. Most of them were making calls or texting on phones and BlackBerries. A few even had netbooks or laptops. They were separated from the mingling viewers by tall, curtained partitioning. Then the escalator plopped me onto the overhang and the recording-industry pros went out of sight. Two bouncer types stood before the curtained doorway. A silver-edged stand held a sign that read Special Guests Only. There was room, however, for people to watch the show or pass by as they wandered toward exhibits.

  Curious about the show and hoping to catch a peek at Johnny before he went onstage, I stood at the rail watching stagehands remove some pieces of equipment and bring other equipment on. They hooked up endless cables, switched out microphones, and started a sound check. Much more went into even a short showcase than I’d thought.

  There wasn’t much else to see, unless I wanted to start roaming the exhibits. I checked my watch. There was time. Aimlessly sauntering past a few of the glass cases, I took in the vintage guitars, old concert posters, tickets, authentic stage clothes of various artists, and other memorabilia.

  With my enhanced sense of smell, I caught a whiff of a scent I’d not noticed before. A combined odor, something like—

  “Rock’n’roll with a touch of elegance.” The voice came from behind me.

  I turned.

  Goliath.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I should have recognized the voice. It was as unmistakable as his luminous skin and eyes the color of summer forget-me-nots. His hair, so pale it was nearly white, was fastened back in a ponytail, and his scarecrow-thin body was adorned with a black suit, black shirt, and a tie that matched his eyes.

  The scent had nothing to do with the exhibits. It emanated from Goliath. Though mostly hidden under masculine cologne designed to mask the stink, my increased olfactory capacity amplified the mixed aromas. All vampires smelled like rotting leaves. Well, all but one. Goliath’s master, Menessos, had no scent.

  His eyes flicked up and down my body, lingering at the V of my vest where the edge of my bra showed through the lace. I refused to feel uncomfortable before his scrutiny, though; he’d seen me topless—not by my doing—during the ritual that saved Theo, so this was conservative in comparison.

  “Rock’n’roll with a touch of elegance?”

  “Your attire. The master would approve of this ensemble on you. Or off you.” The vampire leered.

  “I couldn’t care less.”

  He eased closer. Goliath embodied intensity, a vibrant aura of energy and violence that shimmered all around him like a neon sign flashing Danger: Stay Back 100 Feet. “You should care,” he said. “His approbation is quite valuable.”

  I stood my ground, despite his six-foot-four intimidation. “You would know.”

  “That I do.” The right hand of his master, Goliath had been selected and stolen from his home as a child because he had extraordinarily high intelligence. Menessos had him trained as an assassin and Goliath had become a very effective tool in the vampire’s arsenal.

  “How is Beverley?” he asked. Despite his murderous servitude to his master, I’d also seen Goliath be very tender toward Beverley. Goliath had been dating Lorrie before she was murdered and seemed to be genuinely fond of her child.

  “Good,” I said. “She likes the new school. Nobody there seems to know about her mother, so she can just be a kid. She’s made some friends, does her homework without much fuss, and I expect her grades will be very good. We made jack-o’-lanterns yesterday.”

  “Is she dealing with her grief or bandaging it?”

  “A little of both, I think.” That he bothered to ask any of this further confirmed his affection for Beverley. “Some days are better than others, but we work through it.” I paused. “She does all the kid stuff she’s supposed to do, then something will remind her of Lorrie and she cries. I let her and we talk.”

  Goliath appraised me for a long moment. I wondered if meeting his gaze was still a bad thing. He’d mesmerized me once … but now I was considered property of his master. He put his hands behind his back and stepped past me to look at a poster mounted on the wall. I turned to watch him.

  “Your home will be good for her, Persephone.”

  I was flattered he would think so.

  “I tried to tell Lorrie that Vivian should not be named the child’s guardian,” he continued. “Vivian comprehensively deceived her.” His jaw clenched so tight I heard molars grind. “She is suffering for her crime. And she will continue suffering for it.”

  His hands, I saw, were fisted tight.

  Aware of my notice, he loosened his fingers and adjusted his tie even though it needed no adjustment. “I believe in retributivism,” he said. “Strong and cruel retributivism.”

  “You mean vengeance.”

  “Vengeful justice,” he said, “is the only amnesty those who have been wronged can receive. Nothing can undo Vivian’s crime, bring Lorrie back, or remove the impact on the rest of us who will miss her. But when I hear Vivian screaming, my pain diminis
hes.”

  The calm visage and mellifluous voice should have been commenting on something poetic and beautiful, not insinuating terrible torture. Unnerved, I asked, “So, what brings you to the Rock Hall?”

  “We have associates with a record label in California. I am their escort for the evening. And you?”

  “I imagine you already know.”

  “I do, of course. I knew that waere band was appearing.”

  For a moment, my heart stuttered. I hoped it was not their associate who was extending a web of power ties onto the band. Menessos had extended such ties to my little newspaper column. My circulation had been a good nine papers, then fell to six just before Lorrie died. After burning Vivian’s stake and sparing the vampire, my column was suddenly picked up by every major newspaper in North America.

  Newspapers. Record labels. Menessos’s connections were vast and interwoven. I considered the Lady of Shalott again, weaving her web.

  I thought it best to change the subject. “May I ask you something?”

  With caustic grace, he said, “You just did.”

  Vampires were so damned condescending and irritating. “I mean something personal.”

  His eyes became slits. “You may ask.”

  “Did it bother you when your master killed your brother?”

  Goliath did not react. Absolutely nothing changed about him. It was the kind of reaction Johnny wanted me to learn to fake. “Anyone foolish enough to dare an attempt at harming the master will only receive wrath and terrible death.”

  “But Samson tried to harm Menessos thinking he might avenge you and save you from your master.”

  His mouth formed a firm line. “And the guitarist whelp, down there.” He gestured toward the area where the stage would be. “Does it bother you that he deceived you? That he betrayed your trust and endangered both your obstreperous grandmother and Beverley, trying to save you from my master?”