Fatal Circle c-3

by Linda Robertson

  “I can get you iron weapons,” Mark said.

  Seven asked thoughtfully, “What about buckshot?”

  Mark shook his head. “A shotgun has a range of fifty yards or less. For the waerewolves it would be risky. That’s close, energywise.”

  “But buckshot is smaller pieces,” she countered, “meant to spread out to hit small flying targets like birds. If we make them iron pieces it’ll stop the fey and at least interfere with spell casting.”

  “Good idea,” I said.

  Mark addressed Johnny. “Your people shoot?”

  “Yes. Most have experience hunting in the woods in human form. Deer and pheasant.”

  “Perfect. I will get some men to round up shotguns and make some iron buckshot.” Mark left.

  I stand with Menessos as if to deliver him to them, he calls them to him for a magic circle. The sniper kills one and Menessos kills the other. I’m to help him if, weakened by the death of the other, he cannot accomplish it. Then the Beholders and waerewolves come over the dune and, if necessary, fight off other fairies if they don’t retreat. If anything goes wrong, the waerewolf cavalry—wait, that’s light infantry—comes to our rescue immediately.

  I wondered if Xerxadrea’s plans would have inspired more confidence.

  Xerxadrea!

  “Menessos.” I rested my hand gently on his arm. “The Eldrenne told me to seal the gateway before she died.”

  “I’ll get the Codex.” He left us to enter his bedchambers.

  Around the table, only Seven, Johnny, and I remained. To the waerewolf I said, “Guess I’ll be making a rather late call to Doc Lincoln.”

  “Why do you need a doctor?” Seven asked, obviously puzzled.

  “I’ll need the spell translated. Menessos has other business to attend to and Latin isn’t my best subject,” I admitted. Not to mention doing a spell of this magnitude without days or weeks of preparation would be strenuous, let alone the possibility of performing it in the middle of a raging beach battle.

  “Well, you’re in luck.” Seven grinned, flashing fang. “Latin is one of my best subjects.”

  Menessos entered the room carrying the Codex. She approached him and put her hand on his forearm. “You need to address the Beholders. Mark will also have to discuss strategy with them. I assume the Domn Lup will need to brief his people, as well.”

  So she knows he’s more than just another old waerewolf. They must have discussed that before I awoke.

  Seven continued. “Perhaps the Lustrata and I should go to my chambers? It will be quieter there for what we must do.”

  Menessos approved with a single nod.

  But I was left warily wondering if “what we must do” included more than Latin lessons—like my predecessor giving me any more advice on love.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  I followed Seven across the backstage and down a spiral staircase not far from the service elevator. Silently, I began preparing a short homily in case she was still harboring her concern for the improvement of my emotional attachment to Menessos.

  The rooms she shared with Mark were as large as my own, with sheer white drapery separating the spaces. The main chamber had taupe walls, olive and gold accents. Pieces of a stone frieze were hung along the left wall over three shadowboxed pieces of carved stone artwork and a gilded display case, softly lit. I wandered near, saw little ruby scorpions and amethyst scarabs placed around a diadem with a lapis lazuli cobra head. To the other side was a hand mirror. The tarnished round of silver was attached to a base displaying the head of Hathor, and a handle of obsidian.

  Like Menessos’s office, this was reminiscent of a museum.

  As I perused the art, the centermost piece held my attention. It was of a ba, the body of a bird and head of a person. Not quite the ancient Egyptian equivalent of a soul, but at least one of the essential parts of what made a human human. In this carving, the ba sat in the branches of a distinctive tree. “Is that a willow tree?”

  “Yes,” Seven answered. “Do you like it?”

  Thinking of my meditation wand—which Menessos must have cleared away with all the other magical items after the ritual—I asked, “What is the significance of the ba sitting in this particular tree?”

  “That is Osiris.”

  “The Egyptian god of the Underworld,” I murmured.

  “Willow is believed to have sheltered Osiris’s body and his ba sat in its branches.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  Seven crossed her arms and threw her hip to one side as she said, “Actually, what’s interesting is your being named for both the Greek and Egyptian goddesses who were consorts to gods of the Underworld.” Her eyes narrowed just slightly as she scrutinized me, but they did not take on that stalking brightness. That made it easier to not flinch under her inspection.

  I was choosing my words carefully, trying to craft something acknowledging our discussion of Menessos prior to the Erus Veneficus ceremony, when she said, “Let us sit over here.” She pointed toward a small table with two padded red leather chairs. I placed the Trivium Codex on the marble-topped table and opened it to the pages that Menessos had marked this time.

  Just after midnight, the translation was complete and we had rehearsed it a few times. Seven had been nothing but charming, using friendly, lilting tones that put me at ease. She hadn’t brought up Johnny or pressed me about why we’d both needed steadying in the same instant. Trying to keep that going, I told her, “I’m completely impressed with your knowledge of Latin.”

  “When it became clear that I had an aptitude for language, I was taught many. In addition to English and Latin, I am fluent in Greek and several other ancient languages as well as the major Romance languages and Russian.”

  I almost said, “What? Not Chinese?” but resisted letting my inner smart-ass run my mouth. She could tell me off in a dozen languages. “Did this talent come before you were the Lustrata?”

  “Yes.” Her features were alight as she said, “I grew up with the best tutors available and an amazing library at my disposal. What about your childhood?”

  “Hmmm. What I had at my disposal growing up was a demanding grandmother.”

  Seven didn’t laugh, as I had expected she might. Instead, she relaxed into her seat. “She must have made quite an impact to be the one thing you compare to my library and tutors.”

  “She raised me.” I had an urge to check on Nana and find out if she and Beverley had stayed safely home and planned to continue staying at home until they heard from me tomorrow. But I had already asked her to; so she would. Right now seemed like an opportunity to find out more about the previous Lustrata. “Tell me about your library. What was your favorite book as a child?”

  Seven became wistful. “My library is gone. And there were scrolls then, not books. So much knowledge was lost.”

  “Lost?”

  “Yes, but despite what legend may say, it was not destroyed by Caesar in my day. Nor did Mark give me the plundered library of Pergamon as a wedding gift.”

  Wait. According to some accounts, Julius Caesar was responsible for burning the library at Alexandria. That was during the time of . . . that would mean that Seven was . . . No! She was the Lustrata? “You’re—you’re not—”

  “But I am.”

  “Cleopatra? And,” I pointed at the other section of the chamber though he was not here, “Mark is Mark Antony?” No wonder he was the one Menessos counted on for strategizing.

  She conveyed a mixture of sadness and determination in her nod.

  I was dumbfounded. My head was filled with so many questions and I could not speak one of them.

  Finally she said, “The bite of an asp is not so different from the bite of a vampire.”

  “An asp bite won’t transform you into an asp.”

  “Neither will the mere bite of a vampire remake you into the same, but to someone in those times, physically the bites look much the same.” She was silent for a heartbeat longer, then, “If the bards and h
istorians only knew how wrong they have been about so much.”

  “But Mark Antony died on his w—”

  She cut me off with an imperial—I realized now it came naturally—wave of her hand. “As I said: bards and historians are wrong about so much.” Seven stood. “They are also wrong about war. War is not romantic. It is brutal and ugly. Cities burn and the wind carries the stink of failure.” She closed the Codex and held it out to me. I was being dismissed. “Don’t fail.”

  I stood and accepted the book.

  As I left, she added, “Remember. You cannot shut the door until both fairies are dead. Only then will the bonds that are keeping the doorway open be severed. It cannot be shut until then, so make no attempt until you are certain they are both dead.”

  I quietly closed the door of the last queen of Egypt.

  Just before five A.M., I entered my chamber to get my coat. I had fifteen minutes until I was supposed to meet Menessos at the front entrance. We were going to take my car and leave for Headlands Beach. The rest of them had left an hour before.

  The fairies knew I would show up with Menessos. WEC had sanctioned it. Of course, the fey had to have a plan ready in the event that we didn’t just easily surrender. But what kind of plan?

  I had my coat in my hands and had started back to the door when I stopped short, captured somehow by the painting on the wall. I stared at The Charmer as if I’d never seen it before.

  The lute-playing woman in the picture was peering down at the fish that were drawn to her by the music she played. Or was she? Far more intent on the water, she didn’t seem to see the fish. I could imagine her using the water to examine her emotions, as I had, but from the safety of the shore. Perhaps she was using the surface of the water to scry into her future.

  I rushed to the closet and retrieved my suitcase. Throwing it open, I took out the shoe box with Nana’s scrying crystal. Shutting off all but the dome’s starlight, I drew a circle on the floor with my broom. I sat cross-legged within the circle, facing the closet to keep the light from reflecting on the surface of the crystal globe. While making my quarter calls, I used my T-shirt to wipe my fingerprints from the crystal.

  Cradling the heavy ball in my hands, I grounded and centered. Gazing softly on the clear surface, I let my mind hit alpha. In seconds the crystal grew cloudy. Keeping my breathing even and steady, my mind receptive, I waited for the images.

  Nana was more accomplished at this, but I was not entirely unskilled. I just preferred the stable symbolic images of Tarot. My interpretations seemed stronger with the cards than with the fluctuating fluidity of scrying.

  I quickly settled my intention on seeing something to help me know if we were prepared for what would come to pass.

  The murk within the crystal thickened and lathered into seafoam. It receded, showing me the wet sand. No, this was not the sea, it was a lakeshore. Another wave crashed, foam stretching . . . the splash of bodies falling into the water, screams.

  My breath caught and held.

  A flash of red. A lick of flames. The face of Fax Torris, the fire fairy, laughing. At her feet lay a man. Naked. His back . . . was that sand sticking to his skin, making patterns? She kicked him, rolling him over.

  Johnny!

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Menessos and I stood on the beach, shoulder to shoulder. With my hand up to block the wind, I watched for any sign of the fairies. Lake Erie was veiled in mist, yet the air was gusty onshore. Weather wasn’t supposed to work that way. “The fairies are creating this mist.”

  “Yes. They wouldn’t dare arrive without making it a spectacle,” Menessos said.

  Magic mist or not, it was chilly. I wore a tank and a tee under a hoodie and my blazer. A pair of thermal leggings under the jeans would’ve helped. Of course, I’d made sure Beau’s charm was on its long chain around my neck. I wished it would kick in and warm me up as it had when I’d first touched it.

  “It wouldn’t surprise me,” Menessos added, “if the fairies painted the mist different colors just before they appeared.”

  “I’m more worried that they’re hiding something in there, not just making a grand entrance.”

  “You may be right,” he said, “but it is too late now for us to alter our position, our strategy, or our numbers.”

  If the mist came ashore, the sniper in the lighthouse wouldn’t be able to see us. If everything we couldn’t see was going according to plan, then Johnny and the other waeres and Beholders were in the switchgrass, a disturbingly far distance behind us.

  “Is this wind going to be a problem?”

  “The conditions are not perfect for what our outlying friend does.”

  It had been explained to me that snipers don’t aim directly at their targets, but have to calculate a height above the target based on distance and how the bullet will drop, as well as calculate a distance to the side of the target based on wind direction and speed. So snipers basically shot at nothing and hoped the bullet landed where the math said it would.

  “So maybe once you call the fey we should prostrate ourselves like we’re worshipping them and let the guy get his shot off.”

  Menessos touched me. “Persephone.”

  My hand was visibly shaking. I let it fall to my side. I hadn’t told anyone that I’d gotten out the scrying crystal, or what I had seen. How could I? Uttering the words would make it more real. But I was ready. I had my own plan. I’ve never gotten a chance to tell Johnny that I love him. “What?”

  “Do you know what it meant to me, the night you destroyed the stake, to take that walk alone?”

  I shook my head no, not trusting my voice.

  “I was utterly alone.”

  He sounded happy about it, so I waited to see where he was going with this before I cut in, asked anything, or interrupted.

  “I hadn’t felt so alone since I buried Una and . . . I revisited my greatest fear.”

  He put his hands on my arms; even through the layers, I could feel the warmth in his hands. It steadied me.

  “I knew what you had done. I knew the Goddess had touched you and lifted you up, declaring that She had chosen you over me. I was terrified. It meant I had been bested. I feared you would learn this and be compelled to destroy me . . . and my family.”

  I shook my head again. That had been Johnny’s first thought. Not mine.

  “In the nights since then, Persephone, I have struggled with what it means, struggled with how to proceed. I had been so accustomed to being the master of all around me . . .”

  Yeah, being top dog for a few thousand years tends to give a guy a definite attitude.

  “. . . that I could not see the truth. Everyone else looked up to me. It should have been easy to pass that reverence on to you, but it was not. It finally hit me. Last night during the ritual.”

  During?

  “The memory you gave me, Persephone.” He stood straighter and lifted his face to the sky, inhaling deeply as if relishing the lakeshore breeze that lifted his hair in a mesmerizing dance of curls. “I can see you in my mind, so clearly. A child. Innocent and afraid. Yet defiantly alone.” He brought his face down again. “And She chose you. She lifted you up with Her power, lifted you high above the stalks. She kissed you with stardust, bathed you with moonlight, and swaddled you with destiny. It was a revelation,” he whispered.

  My memory of that was gone, but as he shared it with me, it was restored. It came back to me completely, totally. I hadn’t remembered floating up in the air that night, hadn’t remembered the touch of Her grace upon me, but as he said it, I knew it was true.

  A chill ran through me. It seemed the only warmth in the whole world radiated from his hands on my arms.

  “When you burned the stake, you unshrouded the destiny that had always been right in front of you, hidden, waiting for you to be ready, waiting for you to claim it. Sparing me, you fastened your grip on the reins of your future. And”—his hands fell from my arms down to hold my hands—“you held in these fated hands
, my own life. My future.” He let his statement stand for a heartbeat, then added, “I detected something special in you from the very start. I feared it at first. Now . . . now I look up to you for it.”

  “Being the Lustrata?”

  “No. Heroism.”

  I swallowed hard enough to be heard.

  “What I have learned from all these long years is that everyone who knows what I am has expected great things from me. And it is the same with you.” He touched my cheek. “It will never end. The demands only grow. The stamina to provide . . . that is harder to maintain. To be successful, I have had to stay ahead of the demand, to anticipate it. And sometimes, to squelch the ungrateful and those whose demands are exorbitant.” His expression became the saddest smile I’d ever seen. It conveyed tiredness and inevitability and it made me want to cry.

  I looked toward the lake again. Must watch for the fairies.

  “The people you have surrounded yourself with, they are your family. You love them and you will never stop doing all you can to protect them. You sacrificed what you wanted in order to become what you must be, but not for yourself. You did it for them. There are rewards within that, but those are not the kind of goals you would set your sights on and make you seek this path. You wear the mantle of a heroine, Persephone, and not because you want it. You wear it because, like Cinderella’s slipper, it fits no other.”

  I twisted back to him. “Damn it, don’t make me cry right now. I have to be able to see when the fairies arrive!”

  Menessos’s arms—and his conviction—enveloped me and I let my tears fall, unashamed. There weren’t many, but I didn’t hold them in. That heat within me flared to life. Warmth and reassurance spread through me. He held me in silence, both of us staring out over the water as the night abated.

  As the sun rose, the mist became shadowed, as if the fairies neared the edge of it. For an instant the haze glittered silver and gold, then the prows of a line of ten boats appeared, elongated keels rising up like swan necks fore and aft. They were palest ivory and the golden hues of oak. Sails billowed with unearthly winds, banners snapping atop their masts. At first they seemed ghostly, unreal—but as they cleared the veil of mist, another row appeared like the first. And another. Solid and frightening.