Persephone Alcmedi 00 - Wicked Circle

politics that affected the haven Heldridge used to master.
    The fool has no idea how much he has increased the difficulty of my task. Or maybe he does.
    Liyliy laughed. Heldridge had lived a long, long time. The information she and her sisters had just gained from him was much more complete than poor nonstudious Zevon’s. A vampire’s longevity provided a depth of knowledge that a young mortal man could not fathom. The industry and mechanization of the world had changed radically under his watchful eyes, and now she understood this marvelous age more thoroughly.
    “Well?” Giovanni demanded, interrupting her amusement.
    Her mirth faded. “Yes. He believes that Menessos has been marked by his Erus Veneficus. A fairy told him as much, but events he has witnessed and conversations he has overheard support the claim.”
    And now I know why we were brought back. Now I know that the one who released us, this Meroveus, though he worked with the one who imprisoned us then, he is now reprimanding our jailer.
    Giovanni extended his hand to one of the vampires who had escorted Heldridge aboard. A leather case, much like a sealed quiver for arrows, passed into Giovanni’s grip. He tossed this to Mero, who caught it and set it aside.
    Wondering what was in it, Liyliy stood. She eased away from Heldridge and toward Meroveus. He’s giving me one of the two things I want most of all—the vampire who caused our tragic curse. Eventually I will get the necklace away from him too . . . maybe even right now. . . .
    Her black gloves faded to mist, which reappeared around her body as she crossed the small space inside the flying machine—the jet airplane. When she arrived before him, the mist had made a revealing gown of black lace that accentuated the size of her breasts and was translucent in all the right places. “You are taking us to Menessos. You want us to search his mind for the truth. Correct?”
    “Yes.”
    The corner of her mouth crooked up sweetly. “Allow me to show my gratitude.” She reached for him.
    He swatted her wrist away, then backhanded her across the jaw.
    “ Numquam tangent vester dominus! ” In English he repeated, “I am your lord. Never touch me. Dare you even try that again,” he spat, “and I’ll bind you into the stones of the nearest urinal.” He looked past her. “Giovanni, get Heldridge off the plane.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

    I stared at the plate of food. I was hungry, but my hands were gross with scabs matted with wolf hair. I turned on the faucet. When the water was warm, I started washing with the hand soap from the counter. It stung like hell.
    Menessos disappeared into the back of the apartment and returned with a small first aid kit. He set it aside and reached for my hands. “Allow me.”
    “I can do it.”
    “And I allowed you to tend my wound once. Please be so kind as to allow me to return the favor?”
    Long ago—well, it seemed like a long time ago—Samson D. Kline had nearly staked Menessos; I’d cleaned the gash, put antibiotics on it and bandaged him up. Of course, he’d promptly quoted poetry and come on to me, too. Sighing, I sidestepped to let him close.
    We were silent for a long minute as the warm water ran and ran. The static sound of its flowing became musical as he continuously rubbed my skin with gentle, diligent strokes. His every rhythmical movement was made with such tender purpose that I was spellbound by it all. His thumbs slid over the grooves in my flesh, and the sensation was exhilarating—it took my breath away but it wasn’t pain, no, it was rapturous and left me gasping. Though I detected a stinging ache, it seemed far away from my body and inconsequential . . . so long as he did not stop.
    “Do you remember when we met?” Menessos asked as he sat beside me.
    I blinked as if just waking from a dream. I recalled him patting my hands dry and wrapping gauze loosely around the backs of my hands, and I remembered eating three meat-and-cheese-topped crackers, but I did not have a recollection of planting myself in the very corner of the black leather sectional couch. Yet, here I was.
    “Do you?” he repeated.
    “Yeah. What does that have to do with your plan?” I drained the last of the wine from the glass.
    “Everything.”
    As the effects of the wine loosened the tension and soreness in my shoulders, I twisted and propped my feet on the end of the sectional away from Menessos. Candlelight and wine. I could guess what he wanted. But what I