Wicked Circle

and sweat, of beer and tobacco and liquor tickled his nostrils. Disturbed’s “Ten Thousand Fists” filled his ears. He pushed into the crowd.

His pack greeted him with howls.

Warm bodies danced against him. The scent of “female” overpowered everything else as the women converged on their unattended sovereign. He lifted his arms to avoid touching them, but they touched him. Hands ran over him. Hips pressed against him. His cock grew hard. For an ego-swelling moment he was immobile, fully aware of the curves they flaunted, of the heat they created, of the bare skin they displayed and how much he wanted sex again.

Clenching his jaw he maneuvered through them, touching a shoulder here and an arm there. His fingertips did more than tingle when he brushed the bare skin of a pack mate. It was like electricity crackling through him, a magnetic stirring of lust and territorial rights.

He could claim Ig’s apartment and make use of his bed. God, how his whole body might react, invigorated by the potent touch of one or two or three pack bitches with their bare skin against his. . . .

As he neared the end of the bar, someone unplugged the jukebox, and the instant silence cued the pack to howl again. With everyone’s attention locked on him, Johnny knew they expected a speech.

He wasn’t in the mood to conduct a pep rally. He wanted to fuck—and the disregard for who wasn’t like him. He felt dominant and invincible, but confused at the same time.

He met their expectant faces. Johnny remembered when Ig had wanted to make him second-in-command. The pack had seen favoritism and resisted the idea of one so young in a position of power. Several challenged him to fight for the position. Ig retracted his nomination, but his credibility had taken a dive. Johnny had learned that having power meant being enslaved to maintaining the trust of those under one’s authority.

He pretended he was onstage, fronting a band again. Arms uplifted, he shouted, “I have been confirmed! Celebrate with me! This isn’t just my time, this is your time! The pack of the Domn Lup!” The cheers and howls were deafening.

Johnny nodded at the man holding the cord of the jukebox. He promptly plugged it back in, hit a button, and the drums of Judas Priest’s “Painkiller” assaulted the bar.

Not seeing Kirk and Zhan anywhere, Johnny made his way toward the rear. He caught sight of Gregor’s bulk through the doorway. He mouthed Kirk’s name.

Gregor pointed up the stairwell.

Johnny remembered an unlit apartment, and could guess what they were doing. Kirk’s attraction to the Offerling was obvious, but Johnny thought Zhan had more resistance. Maybe Kirk’s charm had won her over. Maybe he’d gotten her drunk. He just hoped they finished up soon.

As he traveled from the front room to the rear, he saw Zhan sitting at the top of the narrow stairs. Her pose was bored irritation incarnate. Apparently Kirk’s charm had not won the night. Kirk sat halfway up with his back to her. Both seemed to perk up when they saw him.

“May I leave now?” Zhan asked.

Johnny noted Kirk’s bored eye-roll. Johnny told her, “Yes. The car’s two blocks east, on Whitethorn.”

“You left the E.V. there alone?” Zhan asked, starting down the steps.

Johnny shook his head. “She’s not alone.”

“Can I escort you to make sure you get there safely?” Kirk asked sweetly over his shoulder. He remained seated, blocking the stairs.

“All I need is for you to move your ass and get out of my way.”

Kirk stood and turned as far aside as the narrow stairs permitted, but even petite Zhan had to squeeze between the wære and the wall. “If you’d give me the chance to move my ass in another way for you, you might not frown so much.”

Zhan glowered; Kirk grinned. She said, “You move your mouth in an extremely undesirable way, wolf. You’ll never get the chance you’re hoping for.” Zhan elbowed past him and stalked toward the front.

Johnny proceeded to the back room. Even without sniffing, he could detect the oaky sweetness of Laphroaig. Gregor was pouring. He offered Johnny the glass. When he accepted it, Gregor raised his own. “To your confirmation.” His Romanian accent gave the words a happy cadence.

Drinking with Gregor was probably the best thing he could do. Being the head of the Omori, Gregor’s reputation for brute rigidity would keep the revelers at a distance. Johnny lifted his glass in salute.

“Noroc,” Gregor said.

Johnny repeated the word quizzically.

“It is the Romanian way of saying cheers.”

They drank. As the liquor warmth hit his stomach, Johnny felt the beast within stretch in languorous delight. He hoped it would sleep.

They sipped in awkward silence for a long minute, then Gregor opened the steel rear door. “Shall we?”

Johnny proceeded past the screen door and onto the brick stoop outside. The chilled air chased away the lusty thoughts. Gregor followed and shut the steel door with a little thud and said, “Well?”

While he trusted Gregor enough to accept a drink from him and let himself be herded into the dark alley, Johnny knew the Omori didn’t engage in idle chitchat either. Noting that the man had kept his voice low, he hesitated.

Gregor’s loyalty to the Zvonul was undisputed; Johnny’s misgivings stemmed from the fact that he’d had several recent disputes with Gregor. He wasn’t sure where they stood, man to man, though the offering of a toast seemed like a gesture of goodwill. Maybe even friendship.

“Well what?” Johnny asked.

“You have not smiled since you entered.”

“Oh. I’m supposed to put on a fake smile when I’m in public, right?”

“I am no advisor, but even if I were, I would not advise you to be fake, my king.”

Johnny wished he could toss that idea of friendship into the Dumpster at the end of the alley. The Omori were protectors of the wære hierarchy. Now that he was certain to wear the crown, Gregor was just doing his job. Johnny gulped a big swig of the single malt scotch.

“You tell them to celebrate with you, yet you do not convey a celebratory mood.”

“Shouldn’t a leader maintain his composure at all times?” It was something Ig had told him; he was surprised how readily those words crossed his tongue.

“He should.”

Johnny hoisted his glass again. “The old Rege didn’t.”

“No. He often let his beast rule him.”

Johnny drank again, consuming Gregor’s words as well. At least he wasn’t alone in this struggle, but . . . “He was not the Domn Lup.”

Gregor opened his mouth, shut it again.

They stood in silence until Johnny asked, “What did you bring me out here to say?”

Gregor snorted and drew a deep breath. “For what the opinion of an Omori is worth, I think you will make a good Domn Lup.”

Hearing praise when he was feeling so conflicted made Johnny doubt the words. He wheeled around. “You’ve observed the Zvonul for years. They’re politicians. They’re smooth. They’ve worked their way up through the ranks. I’ve been a dirija for two whole weeks. What makes you think I’ll be worth a damn as the Domn Lup?”

“You killed your dirija—”

Johnny’s spine stiffened. He was about to interrupt, but Gregor’s conciliatory gesture begged his indulgence a little longer.

“It was time for a decisive action, I understand that. I have been told what you did. You did not act out of hunger for power but as an act of mercy. With a single action you ended his suffering and gave him his greatest wish: your ascension. What father could ask for more?”

Gut twisting at the memory, Johnny turned away from Gregor.

“In the gardens you could have killed the Rege. If power were all you had wanted, you would have. Instead, you stood up to me, stood up to the Rege. You gave him an opportunity to make himself lauded. He hated you for that: for seeing it and pointing it out to him. He thought you were trying to gain leverage, and he swore he would