Persephone Alcmedi 00 - Wicked Circle

Menessos. The Lustrata? She wore a regal gown made with a sheer layer of red over white satin. The skirt was slit high, and her scarlet garter encircled her shapely leg. A broom was propped against her chair. Mero paused several paces away from Menessos and lowered himself to one knee as he offered up the scroll.
    Menessos motioned for his witch to retrieve the scroll.
    Mero was ready. He whispered, “ Aspicio .”
    As she advanced, the fluttering sheer fabric of her gown mimicked the flow of bloody water and interfered with his visual scrutiny. However, his aural assessment was unhindered, and the energy that surrounded him tasted of that energy surrounding her.
    Such a vibrant life force. Inherent power. Residue of the ley line . . . not just a witch but a sorceress. Glowing silver mantle . . . a warrior? A badge embossed with the symbol of balance, a pair of scales. Mero began to believe it. This is the Lustrata.
    Her slender arm swung gracefully forward to collect the scroll. He released it into her grasp, scanning up her body to her eyes. Brown and gray, they were not wanton, not waiflike or unsure.
    This woman was not material for a voluptuous centerfold on paper. Hers was a majestic beauty, the kind meant to be captured in more permanent media, like the canvas of centuries past. Or imbued with the ceaseless life of the vampire.
    She expressed no emotion in her other features and said nothing, but she did not have to. Her gaze conveyed wariness, protectiveness, and a silent warning: She promised him ruination, should she find it necessary.
    Taking her to the Excelsior will not be an easy task to accomplish.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

    I carried the scroll, a roll of thick parchment sealed in its coil by a fat daub of scarlet wax, which was embossed with a seal: an E with a single fang stabbing through the uppermost horizontal line. I offered it to Menessos.
    He accepted it without averting his attention from the advisor. He certainly had perfected every aspect of the mien of a haven master: command and carriage, the promise of power, and the threat of his wrath.
    Goliath, on Menessos’s right, sat silent and still but nonetheless exuded intimidation. I could feel the rage vibrating in his aura, and see the rigidity of muscles tense and ready to spring upon prey. It was Goliath being a perfect Alter Imperator, but it also had a quality that, just then, reminded me of Johnny.
    The predator within wants out.
    As I sat again, I heard the wax seal crack as Menessos broke it. He sniffed as the page unrolled. The writing, what I could see of it, was in a beautiful script, in a language unfamiliar to me, and the author had used a red-brown ink. I understood why the vampire had scented the page. It’s written in blood.
    Menessos handed the scroll to Goliath, who stood and read aloud, translating.
By order of the Excelsior, the vampire Menessos, Quarterlord of the Northeastern United States, is hereby required to submit to the shabbubitum for a truth-reading, that it may be determined if this Master Vampire has been bound not simply to his Erus Veneficus, but . . .
    There, Goliath faltered. He faced me with all the vehemence and hatred he could express.
    “Read on, Goliath,” Menessos said gently.
    “Master?”
    “Read on.”
. . . that it may be determined if this Master Vampire has been bound not simply to his Erus Veneficus but by her.
    Audible gasps were heard. A giggle emanated from one of the three women that had accompanied this Meroveus Franciscus. Introductions weren’t necessary; I could guess who they were.
    “Let the shabbubitum ascend the stage,” Menessos said.
    The three women strode up the ramp with all the pomp and circumstance they had, and they had a lot. Every eye in the room was on them as they strutted in perfect unison. Their similarly styled dresses of gray silk flowed like quicksilver as they moved. Either this trio was as well rehearsed as any Top-40 girl group, or they were just naturally ethereal.
    Halfway up the ramp, their gowns became mist. Pieces fluttered away to form globes around every light. What was bright grew dim; what was already dim lost all illumination. The formal court ambience of the room disintegrated.
    As the stage fell into murky shadows, the women’s clothes re-formed. Their chins lowered, warriors marching into battle, mouths opened to show threatening, bared teeth, and dark eyes glittering with the promise of bloodshed.
    By the time they reached the stage, the