Shattered Circle

like his every molecule was quivering in anticipation. He grew hot. He had to have blood in his mouth, now. Right now.

Only when he could not wait another second did he drink.

Serenity in each swallow, he drained the bottle as he had drained victims in centuries past. As he longed to again. As he would when he ruled.

For his greedy intake, Liyliy stared coldly at him.

Lying bitch. He thought harshly of her duplicitous action, not telling him about the child within the haven.

He wiped his mouth and smiled at her.

He wanted her more than ever.

But he could not have her now.

He could not even dare to touch her. She might read his deception and know that he’d bugged the phones he gave her, and he would not risk that.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

What are you doing here?” Johnny asked Jacques Lippencot Plympton.

In the meager light from a slightly opened curtain, the diviza’s wrinkles deepened as he squinted. “Because I’ve heard me a rumor.”

“What rumor?”

“That our dear Aurelia has joined the ranks of the dead.”

Johnny didn’t answer. He didn’t even move.

Plympton sat forward and rubbed his hands together. “Betcha you’re a-wonderin’ who told me.”

The moment wore on in silence, then Plympton laughed.

“Well, c’mon in, m’boy. We have oodles to discuss . . . and besides, you’re a-lettin’ the draft in. I’m not fond of your northern November weather.”

Johnny reached for the light switch.

Plympton made a sound, one decidedly disapproving note, that stopped him. “Better to leave the lights off.”

“Why?”

“You’ll have been seen a-entering the hotel. If these lights come on, that’ll only confirm that you’ve a-come to her room while she’s out.”

Johnny let the door shut behind him but he stayed near it. “Who’s watching this room?” As he spoke he sensed around the room. No one else was here. His eyes had already adjusted to the darkness.

“Maybe several people.” Plympton shrugged. “Maybe no one.”

“Why would anyone watch her room?”

As the diviza sat back in his chair, he was again in the slightly brighter portion of the room. It made his hair seem like a ghostly halo about his head. “Some like to watch lovely women. Some keep an eye on their friends. Some monitor their enemies. Others enjoy a-studying the ways of shit-stirrers like her.”

Shifting his weight, Johnny repeated, “Shit-stirrer?”

“She has—had—a knack for trouble. A-finding it. A-making it. A-using it to her gain.”

“When I introduced you today I didn’t think you knew her.”

“I don’t—I mean, didn’t.” Before Johnny could ask he added, “I hear rumors.”

The gossip theme wasn’t to be missed. “What other hearsay has found its way to your ears?”

“Come on and sit down, John.” He gestured to one side, then the other. “Chair there. Couch there.”

One put Johnny’s back to the window. The other put him in line with other buildings beyond the slightly open curtain. Johnny’s most trusted pack mate, Kirk, was a former military sharpshooter. Johnny had learned a thing or three from him about what can and can’t be done with such rifles.

Johnny knew he should sack the room, get the locker key Aurelia had told him about, and leave, but Plympton’s presence here and his knowledge of her death was enough to make Johnny alter his plan. Though Demeter was on her way and he needed to attend to Red, he had to see what the old man might reveal.

Johnny wrapped his hand around the arm of the offered chair and dragged it to a more neutral position that suited him better. With his back to the wall and no structure to be seen through the gap in the window dressing, he sat.

“You’re a-going to do all right, John. That’s not flattery. I really believe that.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re cautious. You think about things. And it’s obvious you don’t really want it.” He cocked his head a little. “It’s the men who get all riled up and salivate ’cause they be a-wanting power and clout and influence . . . they’re the ones to watch with wary eyes. I have to wonder what it is that they’re a-wanting it for.”

“You and me both,” Johnny muttered. “You have quite a lot of authority. What’s in it for you?”

Plympton grinned and flicked the fingers of one hand as if he were dismissing Johnny. “I love me a big flea market, a peppy auction, or even a dingy garage sale. I love to haggle and negotiate. So much so that as a young man I broke into the business of mediation and arbitration. For countless legal situations, I was a neutral middleman a-helping both sides reach an agreement. Then folks found out I was a w?rewolf and my phone stopped a-ringing. My business went bankrupt. Apparently, a man cannot be a w?rewolf and be trusted to mediate fairly.”

There was a hint of old bitterness in his voice, but bitterness that had been dealt with.

“I’ve been a diviza for thirty years.” He sat forward again. “In that time, I’ve met thousands of w?rewolves. Let’s just say that the best have tried to fool me, and failed. I can always tell what kind of person I’m a-dealing with.”

Johnny waited. “What do you want me to say?”

“Nothing. I can guess what the three of you are a-planning.”

Three. Plympton knows about me and Red and Menessos. He almost claimed they weren’t planning anything, but that would be a lie. Menessos was always planning something. Overwhelmed with his new roles as the Domn Lup and as a father, Johnny had lost sight of that.

He’d nearly killed Meroveus—a powerful magic-using vamp. He’d thought earlier that with his tattoos unlocked and his full power at his disposal he could defeat Menessos if pushed into a confrontation with him again. Now, he was even more confident of that. Now, he could even tempt an encounter with Menessos to directly ask what the vamp’s endgame was.

Besides, he thought, getting back on track with this moment, Plympton would not believe me if I denied that we had a plan. So, instead, he asked a question back. “Earlier, at the bridge, their lies enraged me . . . and you did something. What did you do?”

Stretching his feet out before him, Plympton spoke. “Long, long years ago, when there was nary a wrinkle on this old face, I lived in a cabin on the bayou. I ate what I could catch. Fish. Fowl. Squirrel. The occasional ’gator. When you grow up in the bayou, you learn the ways of the swamp. When I was attacked there, I avoided the first pounce. Something chased me, but I used the bog. Had ropes in some of the trees. I made it to one and climbed up, a-wrapping the rope around my arm so it couldn’t follow or pull it and bring the branch, and me, down. But it nipped my heel.” Plympton paused there for a breath. “I’d heard the stories. I knew what it meant to be bitten. I knew what would be a-happening next. I didn’t want it. So . . . I paid a visit to a vodoun priestess.”

His voice lowered slightly as he recounted the story. He’d shown her his wounds, and told her his fear. She had examined his injury with distaste and, he thought, disbelief. Then she wiped the stems of some dried blue flowers on his heel. His skin sizzled and burned like fire, leaving the edges blackened. He’d screamed and thrashed in pain, but he’d seen how her eyes widened, he’d seen her backpedal in fear. “What kind of damned flower is that?” he’d asked.

She whispered, “Wolfsbane.”