Shattered Circle (16 page)

That meant I was alone.

That shouldn’t have bothered me. I’d lived by myself for years before all this Lustrata business crashed into my life and took over.

I’d been so worried about Johnny’s new title and responsibility changing him, but this destiny of mine was certainly changing me, too.

Not only had I been forced to expand my skills as a witch—skills that included sorcery and the manipulation of dangerous ley line energies—but I’d reconnected with Eris, the mother who had abandoned me. It hadn’t ended like a sappy and uplifting Lifetime movie, either. It turned out she was the artist who had tattooed Johnny—her magical artwork locked up all his power and subdued his beast. He’d also been left with no memories. We more or less bullied her into undoing the bindings. Certain complications in wære politics resulted in her losing her right arm.

Sure, it was the bullets the Rege fired that did the damage, but he was there because he was after Johnny, and Johnny was there because my witchery had discovered who’d inked him in the first place. Essentially, I brought danger and misfortune into Eris’s home.

I’d also learned I had a half-brother—Lance—who now hated me. Nana was with Eris and Lance now, cleaning up my mess and mending family ties.

I’m a magnet for destruction.

It was probably for the best that Nana stay far away from me.

Hell, everyone should avoid me.

Maybe Johnny
should
be with someone else
.

I grabbed the chair from the floor, righted it, and shoved it into its place at the dinette wishing it was that easy to put the pieces of my life in their proper places. I sank onto the bench seat at the table.

Torrid nights with Johnny had made me feel deeply attached and desired in a way that I had never felt before. As far as Menessos was concerned, after bonding magically with him and discovering I’d flipped his mark back onto him, I’d given him my own mark atop it, and now I felt him awaken every night.

In truth, I was anything but isolated.

With Johnny, the moments of seeing groupies fawning over him, of finding them kenneling with him, had hurt me badly, but I believed we could survive the rough patches. Then his beast got the best of him. I wasn’t sure I could ever forgive an attack like that, but here, earlier in my kitchen, for a fleeting moment, I’d believed I could.

Before Aurelia arrived.

Not now. Now I knew the Zvonul had given him Ms. Hot-Body McMistress as an assistant. It was an altogether new kind of hurt. Like all those who Johnny was destined to lead had conspired against me and left me no hope of “us” surmounting their will for him.

With Menessos, I’d felt twinges of jealousy knowing Eva was in his bed. I’d been more than angry with him for working the
in signum amoris
spell over Johnny and me without permission, and for being manipulative in
general. Even though he’d pulled Beverley from the ley line and surely saved her life, he’d also taken her away and basically forbidden my coming to the haven while telling me I had no choice but to run to the Witch Elders Council.

Wouldn’t it be best if I kept them both out of my heart and at arm’s length emotionally?

In spite of our triangle—no,
because
of the corollary effects of it—I didn’t just feel alone, I
was
alone.

Alone in this big empty house.

Alone in facing this big empty feeling.

Alone with my “what am I gonna do” decision.

My decision.

Mine
.

Who are all these other people, these wærewolves and vampires, to think they can make decisions for the Lustrata?
The thought came in the voice of Amenemhab, my totem animal.

What could I do to keep the Excelsior at bay while not needing Johnny to hide me or running to the Witch Elders?

Considering what I knew about vampires, I remembered something that could be useful.

It was dangerous. And I’d need Menessos to help. . . .

After punching the buttons to call him, a “this phone is shut off” message played.

I stared at the phone in my hand. That had to be wrong. I redialed. Same thing.

Menessos wouldn’t turn his phone
off
. It must have been damaged in the flooding water at the park. I glanced at the clock. Zhan might have been able to drive to the haven by now, but it would be close.

I stood.

I paced.

My gaze slid to the rag in my hand. There in the middle of my darkened kitchen, I held the rag out and squeezed drops of water from the melting ice cubes while turning slowly to create a circle of water around me.

I sat cross-legged and flipped that mental switch for my meditation state to “on.”

When I opened my eyes, however, I was not on the shore I was accustomed to.

In fact, I’d never meditated myself into such a dirty place before.

It was a human-made structure around me, not natural, and this place was a wreck . . . crumbling and blackened as if it had burned long ago. Standing, the creak in the floorboards under me put me ill at ease. I brushed myself off and spun slowly. I slid one foot to shift my stance for better balance, and realized my socked feet were a mistake. I should have put shoes on before I meditated.

Somehow this place seemed familiar. If it had not been in such a tragic state, or if there were more light, maybe I could have placed it. As it was, I wanted to get away from the depressing atmosphere.

I took a cautious step. The floor creaked again under my weight and I retreated. Keeping one foot planted, I tested all around, and each place I tried, the boards threatened to shatter like glass.

I’d brought tangible items out of the meditation with me before, and I was certain that if I was injured in this world it would transfer to my physical body. Though danger was not typically an issue, it was part of the risk of coming here.

And it hit me: I hadn’t said the rhyme. I hadn’t asked for a sacred space. I’d slipped into meditation without the proper safeguards in place. A foolish mistake, and even the attack and attempted murder—perhaps a concussion—were not good excuses for me to be so careless.

I had arrived somewhere that was not
my
meditation space. I’d been pulled into someone else’s. I had to get out of here before they figured out I was trespassing.

My knees bent and I tried to sit, but something held me upright.

Oh no
.

“You are quite trapped.” The whisper was spoken from right behind me.

I felt his body materialize even as the last word formed.

Creepy.

A
head, the taillights gleamed like eyes glowing red in the night.

Johnny pressed the accelerator and felt the Quattroporte’s engine respond. He was gaining.

Aurelia accelerated, too. She had probably never been a shrinking violet in her life.

Johnny had admired her BMW 650i coupe in the garage at the den. In many ways her two-door was comparable to his four-door. She could go from zero to sixty in 4.3 seconds—a whole second faster than his Maserati—because her car weighed a little less. But that was only useful in straightaways. Here in the rural areas around Red’s house, roads ran straight along the farmed fields for considerable distance, but then abruptly ended or made ninety-degree turns.

He put his windows down halfway, listening as her engine churned. Even over the rushing air he could tell the 650i’s engine note was a low, sultry growl compared to the wildcat scream of the Maserati. The manual transmission was slowing her down. She was good but not adept enough at shifting; it was costing her seconds.

Out here, there was no traffic, no side streets for her to hide in. Not that a sleek red BMW would ever “hide” in this rural area. He kept up easily.

But keeping up wasn’t enough.

He had to stop her. Aurelia had tried to murder Red.
She had to be held accountable for that—but his stomach twisted at the thought. No matter how this played out, Evan would never be safe. If he let Aurelia go, she would hold this information over his head forever. If he took her in, the fail-safes she’d set up would reveal the secret. The only way to combat it was to stop being afraid of it and put it out there in the open—his way.

The brake lights ahead brightened, and the 650i squealed into a turn. The Quattroporte made the same turn with much more finesse. The BMW should have been able to corner better. Johnny chalked it up to Aurelia’s unfamiliarity with the area.

Worse, this particular road, he knew, dog-legged. Another sharp turn was coming up fast, and a farmer had knocked down the warning-arrow sign with his tractor.

Oh shit
.

Johnny took his foot off the pedal. If he backed off, maybe she’d slow down. Maybe she’d see the turn—

Aurelia was going too fast. She missed it.

There was no ditch—the farmer’s access to his field was right there. The 650i shot straight onto the dirt roadway of the field and bounced along the tractor path. Against his better judgment, Johnny took the Maserati after her.

According to the sound, she was pushing the BMW hard. It wasn’t meant for this kind of terrain, and more important, she needed to downshift. The peals of the engine voiced her desperation.

What if this tractor path merged onto another road?

He gripped the wheel and closed the distance between them. Suddenly the 650i lurched to the right, bobbing and dipping, throwing chunks of dirt as it wobbled
hastily onto a paved road. The entrance to the road on this end was fine for a tractor, but hell for luxury cars. Once on the road, the engine revved high and Johnny knew she’d double-clutched it for speed.

Trying to make up precious seconds, he slowed as he neared the dangerous spot and made his reentry to the road as smooth as possible.

He could see her taillights in the distance and gave the Maserati all he could. Surely she was thinking this was her shot at escaping and he needed to catch up pronto.

That was when he saw the eyeshine.

Their reckless driving through the field had stirred up the deer. A group of five—at least—were on the move. He saw them closing in on the road and held his breath.

When they bounded into Aurelia’s path, her brake lights flashed. The car lurched to the left, then right. One deer rolled up the hood and, legs flailing at broken angles, flew over the roof to skid along the road, while a second deer broke through the now-cracked windshield. The car slid from the road, hit the ditch, and began to roll.

Johnny left his vehicle on the road, hazard lights flashing, and raced toward the 650i. It must have rolled eight or nine times; it was deep in the darkened field—the car’s headlamps had shattered. He passed the dead deer; it had been tossed off the windshield as the car spun. He hurried onward, scenting the air, searching for the tang of human blood. All he picked up was damp foliage, metal, and motor oil.

Luckily the car had come to rest right side up, but it was crushed and crumpled. Even as he neared, the motor sputtered and died. His last few steps stalled.

What if she’s dead?

What if she isn’t?

She lay very still inside, her head drooped forward. He could not tell if she was breathing.

His fingers tried to curl around the door handle. It had compressed almost flat from the impact. He hurried to the other side. Smashed, but not as much.

Concentrating, he stretched his index finger into a thin claw. This fit under the handle. He lifted and pulled. The door didn’t want to open. Using both hands on the now-raised handle, he yanked with all his might.

When finally the metal screeched and the door scraped open, the dome light flickered on. The scent of blood was suddenly strong. Instantly his beast roared within him and his mouth began to water.

No.

“Aurelia.” He sank into the passenger seat. He looked her over and she seemed to be in one piece, nothing obviously broken. Her purse had fallen to cover her feet. Tentatively he touched her arm. “Aurelia.”

Nothing. He knew better than to move her, but he reached up and pushed her hair from her face. Her nose was bloodied. More of the red fluid trickled down the left side of her neck and he could not tell if it was from her scalp or her ear. He touched her cheek, letting the heel of his hand rest under her nose lightly. He could feel the warmth of a shallow breath on his skin.

She was alive. For now.

Implications bounced around his mind. She was alive, but if injured as badly as she apparently was, would she be able to check in and keep the information about Evan from leaking out? He wondered how much time he had to reveal this news the way he wanted to.

He jerked his phone from his pocket, opened it, and searched through the numbers for Doc Lincoln, the veterinarian who treated wæres. Before he could queue it up, Aurelia moaned. The sound grew into a cry of agony as she tried to lift her head.

“Aurelia, don’t move. Stay very still. I’m calling for help.”

“For help? You . . . you . . . bastard.” Her voice grew louder with each new word.

“What?”

Her head had shaken with her earlier effort but now she was still. “Look what you’ve done!”

“Stay calm. Help will be coming.”
I can’t call 911. If they recognized me they’d know immediately she’s wære. They’d let her die.

He pushed the button for Doc Lincoln’s private number.

“Calm? Calm! You want me to be calm?”

“Yes.”

“You’re calling for help. I don’t trust you or your help.”

The phone began ringing. “You’re delirious.”

“You wish. Why don’t you just kill me now and be done with it.”

“I’m not calling for help as a ruse, Aurelia. He’s a real . . . doctor.”
Of sorts.

She growled. “Spare me the games. No one would suspect a broken neck wasn’t part of the crash, John. You better do it before they get here.”

Doc Lincoln’s message system picked up. At this hour, he wasn’t surprised. “Doc, it’s John Newman. There’s been an accident.” He left the details as to where. “Please come ASAP.” He shut his phone. “Aurelia, he can help you.”