Wicked Circle

He drank and lay down, sated.

I wouldn’t have tried to kill her if I’d thought there was a chance of claiming her and making her my witch. That would have galled my former master, had I bested his witch and forced her to free him. He would have had to concede her to my court then. Taking his queen for my own, making myself the commander of her power, he would have respected me for that. It would have elevated me in his mind, and in everyone else’s.

His lips formed a thin, hard line. But I am without magic.

No matter what might have been. What is, is, and surely the Excelsior has chosen a course of action. One more night, maybe two, and they will come to me and tell me that I was right, that my former master is under the thumb of a witch. They will be grateful that I saved them from the embarrassment of a Quarterlord being made an informant for WEC.

Unless releasing the shabbubitum requires a certain moon phase.

If that’s the case, I could be in here for weeks.

Or, to confirm my truthfulness, they may bring the shabbubitum to me first.

Neither of those were welcome thoughts. Heldridge wished he understood the implications of magic better, but he had been unable to master the magical arts. He hadn’t the talent for it.

He remembered when Menessos had found him after the Great Chicago Fire in 1871.

Orphaned, homeless, cold and starving, Heldridge had roamed the ashy streets seeking shelter, friends and food. He’d seen no one he knew. One day, he saw a man beat a baker unconscious and steal a bag full of bread. He secretly followed the man and discovered he’d been hiding in the basement of a burned-out house.

Heldridge had waited until dark, tiptoed down the partially charred staircase and stolen the bag of rolls. As he’d made his surreptitious departure, one of the boards broke and Heldridge fell. The noise awakened the man.

Heldridge raced away. The man gave chase, but the boy—slighter and more agile—scurried through the remains of buildings that the man dared not enter.

When he thought he’d escaped, Heldridge sat down to eat. The man appeared out of nowhere and hit Heldridge so hard the boy couldn’t think straight. Then the man unfastened his belt. He crouched over Heldridge and pulled off the boy’s pants.

The next thing Heldridge knew, the man was screaming . . . then he wasn’t.

Heldridge gathered his wits and picked himself up to see Menessos wiping his mouth as he stood.

“He bloodied your lip, mister,” Heldridge recalled having said. He hadn’t understood then what he’d been saved from or what Menessos had done to rescue him.

“Yes,” Menessos had replied. “I believe he did. But he won’t hurt you anymore, son. Why don’t you hurry on home.”

“Don’t have a home.”

“Then get back to your parents.”

Heldridge had dropped his chin down.

“That wasn’t your father, was it?” Menessos’s voice had sunk deeper.

“No. My pa’s dead.”

“I see. And your mother?”

Heldridge shook his head side to side.

“Why don’t you come with me, then?”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Menessos.”

“That’s a funny name. Is it Polish?” Heldridge recalled his pa always complaining about some Polish men in their neighborhood. They always seemed to have strange names.

“No, it isn’t Polish.” Menessos picked up the bag of rolls.

Heldridge thought this funny-named-man would claim them, but he surrendered the thin cloth bag back to him. “This way.”

“Where we going?”

“To my home. It isn’t burned.” He’d walked away.

Heldridge had followed. “What are you doing out here if you have a home that’s not burned?”

“I have a crew of men who can rebuild homes. In the evening, I inspect the work they did during the day, and see where else I can send them so they get paid. What’s your name, boy?”

“Heldridge.”

“That’s a funny name. Is it Polish?”

“No.” He tore greedily into the roll, chewed. “One of my grandpa’s last names is my first name. I’m Heldridge Ellington.”

After that, he’d stayed in a modest house with a polite woman, Miss Babette, who cared for him. She even started schooling him. Menessos visited every evening, and Miss Babette gave him a report of Heldridge’s day.

Eventually Menessos asked the then twelve-year-old Heldridge what he wanted to be when he grew up. Heldridge had thought hard about his answer. His father had been poor. He’d worked on the docks. But there were men in fine suits around town. Men who rode in carriages.

“I want to be a businessman,” Heldridge had answered.

“Then you shall be,” Menessos said.

Arrangements were made and Heldridge learned from the best tutors, but at various intervals—sometimes months, sometimes years—Menessos would show up and ask him strange questions and would require him to say odd phrases in Latin.

He knew now that these had been tests of his magical abilities.

He had failed them all, but he’d learned to be a savvy businessman. Eventually Menessos rewarded him and Made him. With his help, Menessos had built a strong and prosperous haven.

Then the day came when Menessos brought in another child. Goliath. This weak mortal’s intellect had captured his master’s interests.

His master fostered the child much the same as he had fostered Heldridge, but Menessos’s interests had been keener because the seed of a witch was sprouting within this child.

You were ready for me to leave, Menessos. Ready for me to be my own master so you could name Goliath your Alter Imperator. I could accept that my failure to manifest magical talent meant I was not what you wanted in a son. But you didn’t have to bring your haven to Cleveland. You could have relocated your Lustrata to Chicago. No one there would have been watching you in your city. But in my city, I was watching, and I recognized what she did to you.

Yes, I took action. Yes, I told. You’ve gone soft. It was no less than you deserved.

Now they’re waking the shabbubitum. I remember what you told me. “They are more dangerous than anyone could have realized.”

You should have left me alone. Now we’ll see how you manage—magic to magic.

The door of the holding cell opened, jarring him from his thoughts. A sentry gestured for him to come out.

“Where to?”

The vampire did not answer.

Having little choice, Heldridge walked from the cell and was escorted by twelve sentries to an elevator where another vampire waited. The vampire had a shaven head and wore a collarless shirt that had only the bottom half buttoned. It could have been a fashion statement but for the obvious scars on his neck. Once upon a time something had claimed chunks of his throat. His expression was one of disgust and contempt, and worse, the vampire had flat, lusterless eyes.

That was a bad sign.

During his century-plus of unnatural life, Heldridge had seen such before. Some of the younger undead had developed this phenomenon, recovering their life at sundown to bear the awful weight of their dead hours in their gaze. They were the vampires he knew would not long survive their new life. He had learned why the selection