Wicked Circle

maintain his anonymity, or that losing it now would render his sacrifice pointless in hindsight.

“You did the right thing, for the right reason,” I said. That mantra had bitten me in the ass a few times, but it was still, overall, a good policy.

Menessos plucked at his pant leg. “If the world learns it has someone to blame, I will become the target of every extremist group with a grudge against vampires and every vengeful person who has ever suffered because of my children’s thirst.”

“You’re not alone in the I-Dislike-My-Exposed-Destiny Category,” I snapped. “Everyone either knows or suspects I’m the Lustrata. They also seem to know more about it than I do, and have heavy expectations of me. Johnny’s not in such a different position either.”

He stilled, but said nothing more.

“How can that possibly scare you so much?” I asked.

He laughed, but there was an offended note to it. “If VEIN learned my secret, they would seize me and demand explanations. It could derail everything. My attention must remain fixed upon this purpose. The only thing I fear is not being able to finish this, Persephone, with you and John. I fear the repercussions that would befall any two of us, should the other one falter or . . . be slain.”

I couldn’t deny his devotion to this destiny of ours. “We must endure risks, but we all know the consequences of not following through get higher every day.”

“Exactly,” he whispered. “I can’t risk not following through on what we must do because I’m distracted by the other.”

“But you can’t leave!” I swallowed as if I could reclaim those revealing words. Hurriedly I added, “We’re all dealing with things happening that we didn’t want to happen. That’s part of the price we have to pay.” I stared at the steering wheel because I couldn’t meet his gaze after what I’d blurted. “I didn’t want Xerxadrea, Aquula, Ross, or Maxine to die. Not even Samson D. Kline. But they all did.”

After the slightest hesitation, Menessos asked, “Do I not make your list of noble dead? I died for you, too.”

He was right. And he repeated his dying every sunrise. It was my turn to shamefully examine the dark world beyond the car.

“Does the fact that I sit here talking to you now diminish my sacrifice?”

We were all surrendering things we didn’t want to forfeit, but I still felt like an ass. “It shouldn’t.”

“But it does.”

I whispered, “I didn’t have to grieve for you, Menessos.”

He shivered when his name was spoken, and I wondered if he was experiencing something similar to what I felt when he said my name. “Menessos.” I said it slower, tasting the syllables on my tongue, on my lips.

He arched his back, took a deep breath, held it for a second, then sighed it away. Panting, openmouthed, he looked directly at me, displaying a sexual hunger my body reacted to—places low in my abdomen tightened.

Between the seats, I offered him my hand. “You came back. You come back every night.”

“If I didn’t, would you have wept for me?”

“I did weep.”

Menessos wrapped both of his hands around mine. He rubbed little circles with his thumbs. “You’ve been away for so long.”

I twisted my wrist upward. Menessos bore two of my hexes, making him the equivalent of my Offerling. He needed to partake of my blood occasionally, and it had been over a week. “Go on,” I said. “Drink.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

As Johnny strode from his car, fall air gusted behind him. Stray leaves scuttled across the asphalt as if daring him to try to catch them.

Part of him wished the wind could carry him away from everything and everyone he’d ever known, to hide from this enormous destiny, burying it in lyrics and melodies like he had before. But the bigger part of him knew that wasn’t an option anymore.

It wasn’t an option for Menessos, either. Seeing the vamp hiding from his troubles made Johnny’s blood boil. It wasn’t like Menessos was the Excelsior or anything. If Johnny had to accept being the Domn Lup, the vamp could damn well accept the responsibilities and consequences of being a Quarterlord.

Johnny wasn’t going to feel guilty over lashing out either. The vamp was being a wuss and he deserved it.

Presently, that vamp was alone with his girlfriend.

Johnny thrust the thought away. He trusted Persephone. She was Menessos’s master. She’d even eliminated the in signum amoris he had put on them.

He had to admit he was disappointed by the loss of the connection to Seph the spell had given him. And she’d undone it without asking if he’d wanted it gone.

He understood her reasons, but both she and the vamp had acted on something that affected him just as much as them, and neither had asked his permission. With the vamp it was inexcusable but expected; Persephone, however, should have known better.

When was he going to get a say in all this magic shit? Or was Persephone thinking she was his master, too?

Stop it.

His fingers raked through his hair. He was just being a dick.

She embodied the grounding sense of the future for him. The sense of family he’d yearned for, he felt with her. Living at the farmhouse with her, Nana, and the kiddo, he’d felt more complete than he ever had before.

And you called the vamp a wuss.

Johnny shoved his fists into his jeans pockets. As he neared he could see the upper floor of the bar. The windows of the apartment were darkened. Ig had lived there.

He’d killed Ig there.

At the thought, unwanted images of the scene flashed into his mind, and he could remember the taste of Ig’s blood. His mouth watered.

Damn it.

You didn’t tell me it would be like this, old man.

For over eight years, all he’d wanted was to know his past. Where had he lived? Who had he been before? But Ig, after learning that Johnny could transform his hands at will, had ended his search into Johnny’s past and focused intensely on Johnny’s future. He’d justified it by explaining that this ability was rare, and a full transformation would mean Johnny was the Domn Lup.

Ig had insisted on privately tutoring him in the responsibilities of a leader. Having so much attention from the dirija meant Johnny became known as Ig’s “pet.” Some picked on him; others toadied to him to gain the dirija’s favor.

Johnny understood now that Ig had been trying to do the right thing, but at the time the exposure to politics and phony friendships had left him disaffected. He’d distanced himself from the pack, and Ig’s efforts to bring him back had been drowned under the music from his band’s cranked amplifiers.

He’d tried so damn hard to forget the destiny Ig had said was before him. He’d been worse than a prodigal son to Ig. He’d captured the man’s kindness and hope and run away, returning only when his desire to protect Persephone had offered him no other options. He’d taken Ig’s life and claimed command of the pack only to help her, not because Ig had wanted him to.

For Persephone, he’d willingly accepted his fate, but the one thing he really, truly, desperately wanted—the truth of his past—she’d failed to give him. Not even her magic had been able to retrieve his memories after the phoenix had clawed him . . . a phoenix he’d attacked to protect her.

Approaching the bar, Johnny could hear the thump of the bass and drums from the jukebox. The wæres on door duty bowed their heads as he passed. Inside, the smoky bar was a feast for the senses. The smell of wolf