Wicked Circle

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The customized Gulfstream V-SP carrying Meroveus Franciscus had departed from Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport roughly twelve hours ago. He had retired to the windowless “black chamber” within the plane and rested as they’d flown east and into the rising sun, hours before its light would actually reach D.C. However, with the rotation of the world and the fact that Athens was seven hours ahead anyway, he had risen before they’d touched down.

A customs official awaited him when he disembarked from the plane. By the time his credentials were assessed, a limousine was idling nearby, and the chauffeur opened the door for him. According to his Rolex, it was just nearing noon in D.C. Here, it was 6:55 p.m. Darkness was settling in.

The ride was not long, and the limousine used the entrance at Dionysiou Areopagitou Street, a road running along the southern slopes of the Acropolis. With winter hours in effect, the museum would have closed a few hours ago. However, special arrangements had been made.

Arrangements like the black velvet bag waiting for him on the limo’s seat.

He stared at the pouch with antipathy. Not that he was averse to the contents within the soft fabric. It was just that he was truly against the magical action he was commanded to take. Such incongruity could make for a bad spell.

When the long car stopped, Meroveus didn’t wait for the driver to get the door for him. He exited the vehicle carrying the bag and strode toward the building, surveying the ruins spotlighted against the deep blue of the Greek sky. Ahead, a railing surrounded an opening that overlooked one of the archaeological digs going on beneath the museum. It, too, was illuminated, even after hours.

A man in a suit held the museum door open. “Mr. Franciscus, I am Zevon. I will lead you where you wish to go.” He locked the entry after Meroveus was inside. Zevon then guided him through the glass-floored gallery to a stairway. Once they had ascended, Zevon circled around. Here was where the new Acropolis Museum housed the artifacts from the Erechtheion. Zevon gestured toward the caryatids, then he bowed and promptly walked away.

Here were five of the six caryatids, marble figures of women, which had once served as columns supporting the roof of the southern porch of the Erechtheion. Replicas now stood in their place at the site; the sixth was in the British Museum.

Legend had it the statues once protected the tomb of the ancient King Cecrops, the founder of Athens. Making a full circuit around them, in awe of their beauty, Meroveus whispered, “Shabbubitum.” He remembered when Menessos had bound the sisters within. They had not gone willingly.

He also remembered telling Menessos the women would seek revenge someday. I am not here to drink that anger for you, old friend.

Meroveus took a moment to ground and center, to cast out his doubts and firmly set his mind to the task.

As per his request, there were three large, red apples—one placed at the base of the three most complete figures. He inspected each apple, twisting the stems to separate them from the fruit, and placed the stems in the pocket of his suit jacket.

“For centuries you have paid your mute tribute, honoring the glorious dead.” He drew a red-handled knife from the velvet bag. He unsheathed the short blade and inspected the tip and edge. “And now, one of the living dead will call you forth.”

Meroveus approached the first statue and sliced his index finger, letting his blood drip onto the apple’s indention as he said the ceremonious words. “Suscitatio vos ex vestry somnus diturnus. Advocare vestry phasmatis vestry somes quod vestry aeternus anima exorior universes.”

After repeating this for the remaining apples, he drew from the bag a golden necklace. The chain was made of large, irregular links, and Meroveus knew it could easily have been an artifact in this museum—it was that old. Except for the fastener, that is.

The necklace was decorated with three pieces of amber. These stones were a clear honey-gold, lightly flecked with brown. Each was as thick as a pencil, about two inches long, and bore a golden band, topped with a link that let it dangle from the necklace.

Meroveus unfastened the modern clasp and removed the gemstones. He dropped the necklace back into the bag and pulled out a square of wool. Tapping into the local ley line, under the true Acropolis, he felt the stinging, biting burn—it was as if he were shoving his fingers into a light socket. He gasped at the pain, fought the instinctive recoil, and gorged himself on the energy. As his body filled, power flowed through him to his aura, where each droplet rippled like a lover’s moan, reverent and erotic.

Enjoying the sensation for three daring seconds, he impelled the power into the stones. He rubbed the first piece of amber on the wool, electrically charging the stone, then pushed the pointed end into the top of the apple, inserting half an inch where his blood had dripped.

“Electrum. Sanguinis illorum damnoris intereo sulum diluculum at revertere sulum nox notis. Mālum, Eden pernicies pomun. Effrego Veneficus Carmen quod solvo shabbubitum.”

He could sense the power in the stones, ready to burst, ready to eject into the flesh of the fruit. The empowering fullness of energy was draining out of him, leaving weariness in its wake. Once all the apples were primed, he said, “Modo.”

The temperature of the room began dropping. When it had reached that of an icy freezer, he heard the crack and rumble of stone shattering—yet the statues before him remained complete. Black haze lifted from the surface of each, surrounding them like dust being shaken off a long-dormant soul. Slowly, it coalesced until the miasma, hovering over the faces of the statues, created fluid expressions upon the unyielding surface. They were not conveying a pleasant awakening.

Six dark eyes narrowed into slits, three mouths sneered or frowned.

The murky shadows stretched forward, reaching with dark, ominous claws for Meroveus.

He placed the apple stems under his tongue and gathered the last of the energy he’d drawn from the Acropolis ley line into his mouth. His incantation was power laden and flawlessly intoned as he informed them he was their master. “Ego imperare, vestri victor. Vos mos concedere vel intereo.” After commanding them to concede or die, he crushed the stems between his molars and waited.

The specters hovered, claws aimed, but hesitant. “Concedere!”

In midair, the ghostly forms snapped like whips before being jerked into the apples.

Meroveus spit the stems into his palm, collected the fruit and knelt. From the velvet bag he reclaimed the necklace and a small leather pouch, with a flap that could snap shut. He set both the bag and the pouch aside. Careful to touch only the golden bands atop the stones, he freed each piece of amber and replaced them on the necklace. He scrutinized the gems; they were no longer translucent.

This variation on the Bindspeaking spell trapped a piece of each soul he released inside one of the stones. He didn’t dare attach those pieces onto his own soul—that was tricky with a vampire at best—and he would not risk the tarnish of these wicked sisters tainting him. This gave him an access point to apply his punishment and kept him from having to physically touch the sisters. It was the best defense he could hope for. Though he would have shared this spell with Konstance if she could have saved him from having to perform it himself, it was not one he wanted others to know.

Preparing the small leather pouch, he felt the wool-lined interior, then slid the amber pendants within. He tucked the flap of the pouch over the chain and snapped it shut. The stones were now secure: hidden in the wool-lined leather, but still suspended from the necklace. He put the chain around his neck.

Holding the red-handled knife, he rolled each fruit to its side and cut it in half, then—without separating the top from the bottom—he set them aright with both pieces sitting as if uncut. This, if seen, would show that each apple’s core created a natural five-pointed star. That and the severed seeds were symbolic here.

He raised the top from the middle apple and let the centermost of the three selected statues fill his sight. “I call you forth, Liyliy, shabbubitu, cursed daughter of Neriglissar. Damned bride of Belsarra-usurah.”

Even as a dark vapor wafted up from the seeds, he lifted the top from the right-most apple. “I call you forth, Ailo, shabbubitu, cursed daughter of Neriglissar. Damned bride of Kurush.” He repeated the gesture for the left-most apple’s top. “I call you forth, Talto, shabbubitu, cursed daughter of Neriglissar. Damned bride of Ramesu.”

Meroveus stood and retreated, putting distance between him and the black breath filling the space. A hand formed in the air and slender fingers stretched for the necklace he now wore, but Meroveus backed further away and hid the necklace under his shirt.

For long minutes, the energy of the ley steamed up from the apples and fed the specters, solidifying them in phases. When three enormous, ethereal owls stretched their wings, their hideous hag-faces squinted at him. They screeched, and the sound shattered the glass of a pair of display cases nearby.

Alarms sounded.

Then their bodies shuddered and thinned, becoming nearly solid as they formed human shapes like the shabbubitum they had inhabited for centuries. But even as the flowing gowns of millennia past appeared, the fabric aged, growing tattered and gray, deteriorating like powder.

Three women stood before him, shoulder to shoulder. They were naked except for the fine, dark dust that used to clothe them. These women exuded erotic formidability. It dripped from the damp ebony curls of their hair and, trailing down their bodies, gathered that dust and created dark, wet lines that drew an onlooker’s gaze away from the hatefulness stabbing outward from the depths of their black eyes.

In perfect unison, they took a slow, lissome step forward. Displaying feline agility, each shifted her weight to her forward foot and advanced again. Energy blew over Mero as the menace beneath the beauty sought a source of power and found it in the Acropolis ley line.

He touched his shirt where, beneath, lay the necklace. He was ready to jolt them, but what they drew from the line was minimal.

Sandals appeared on their feet, straps wrapping up their calves like adoring snakes. Dove gray silk materialized, rippling in a wind as it wrapped around their bodies to swathe them each in unique but elegant garments with teasingly placed patches of sheerness. Quicksilver poured impossibly up their arms, then hardened into jewelry adorning their wrists, necks. The likeness of owls formed repeatedly in the gleaming metal.

Meroveus stood imperiously as they arrived before him. “Liyliy.”

She squinted in a manner both guarded and suspicious. “Vos es incompertus?” Mistress of many ancient tongues, she questioned him in Latin, the language he had used in the spell to release the sisters.

“No,” he said. “You do not know me.” He kept his voice smooth, even. “Venire.” He pointed to his chest and said, “Meroveus.” He walked away from them then, gesturing so they would follow. He led them down the stairs. At the bottom, Zevon was nervously shifting his weight and punching buttons on a control panel. The alarms were silenced. Zevon sighed in relief—at least until he saw the group descending the stairs.

He jogged to remain ahead of Meroveus and the women as they followed him toward the entrance.

When Zevon tried to unlock the door, he dropped the key. Meroveus and the others caught up to him. “I need your assistance, my English-speaking friend.”

Zevon jumped. “Wh-what do you require? I was told I would give no blood.”

“No blood,” Meroveus assured him. “You need only allow these women to hold your hands.”

Their young guide’s attention bounced from Meroveus to the trio and back. “No harm to me? I have your word?”

Harm. Such a relative term. “You will suffer no physical injury. You will bear no visible marks. You will not be mentally damaged. Of this, you have my word.”

“So specific.” Zevon swallowed hard. “Tell me what I will suffer?”

“Pain,” Mero said bluntly. “And ten thousand euros for your trouble.”

Zevon stood straighter, adjusting his suit. After a difficult swallow, he held out his hands.

Meroveus motioned the trio closer to the guide. “Perceptum English lingua?” He then dialed the local VEIN embassy on his cell phone.

The women converged on Zevon. Two stroked his hair and fawned over him as Liyliy assumed her position. The sisters each wriggled a hand between his and Liyliy’s palms, then laced their fingers behind his neck. Liyliy’s dress slithered down her body to puddle at her feet. Zevon’s sight was locked on the tips of her breasts, and he did not notice the gown reverting to mist. His mouth was open and he was panting hard . . . then the shabbubitum whispered a chant. Their voices rose, and with them, a mistlike tentacle slithered up Zevon’s body and coiled around his neck.

The air crackled as their power thickened. Mero’s phone burped static and he paced away to tell the assistant on the line to arrange a payment to poor Zevon. When Mero strode back, they had lowered Zevon to lie flat on the floor. He had begun to convulse. His body seized, and foam oozed from his open mouth.

The shabbubitum hovered over him; Liyliy sat on his chest. The notes they were singing ascended through octave after octave. When their voices had reached a pitch only dogs could hear, it was done. They laughed like delighted little girls.

Their guide’s trembling eased. He blinked. He gasped.

Liyliy flicked the foamy drool from his chin. “Zevon,” she whispered. “You are a sweet boy, untried, but with such a dirty mind.” On all fours, her body assumed a position both sexual and predatory. “Oh, what I could do with you. To you.” She kissed him, lightly, then rougher. In an instant she had heaved him upright by his head, squeezing him tightly to her. Zevon tried to shove her away.

Mero felt them tap the line again. This time, however, it was not a minimal touch but a seizing grasp, dark and barbed, with ravenous hunger. He brought the necklace out from under his shirt and clutched the amber-filled pouch, pouring his own power into the stones. “Liyliy!”

She released Zevon and spun on Mero. In an instant her smooth skin grew wrinkled, like crumpled paper, and—screeching—she attacked.

Pain stabbed through her body, but Liyliy leapt unfalteringly. Wings appeared behind her, lifted her into the air, then angled so she could descend and swing a foot—now a clenched talon—at this man’s head. Meroveus. She recognized the liar. He’d been here when she and her sisters had been tricked, bound into stone. He had not been the one who’d performed the spell, but he had been part of the ruse. For that, he deserved her wrath.

Her strike connected with enough force to cast him into the air. As he was thrown backward, her head swelled to twice its size and her body transformed.

In landing, the man’s ponytail was trapped beneath him. In skidding across the floor, his head was drawn back, thrusting his chin up and exposing his neck. The man’s elbow smacked the floor hard enough that he released the pouch.

Liyliy pinned him with her talons around each of his biceps.

“We are hungry!” she snarled, thrusting her new owl-like beak toward his throat just as her skin prickled over with gooseflesh. On either side of her hooked nose, quill tips burst forth in large circles around her eyes, and from the deepest of her wrinkles black and gray feathers sprouted. The hair atop her head retracted into her scalp at the same time as a thick mass of feathers tore through her skin.

She felt torn apart, but his confounded expression was worth it. “We will sate our stomachs! On you if not him!”

Meroveus buried his fingers into the feathers upon her legs, and a surge of energy surrounded them as he channeled power to his hands and discharged it into her aching flesh.

Screeching pitifully, Liyliy beat her wings, wrenching away from him.

He grabbed the pouch around his neck once more, and as he stood, the sting of his wrath bit her again though he no longer touched her. Worse, her sisters cried out as well and fell, writhing on the floor.

Liyliy fought.

She flopped this way and that, talons skidding, wings flailing, trying to reach through the pain, to reach him and flay him with her claws, but with each attempt the pain redoubled, and her sisters’ cries were like daggers in her ears.

“Release us!” they cried piteously.

Meroveus let go of the pouch and all the torment disappeared.

Liyliy thought to rip him limb from limb, but her exhausted body collapsed in a heap, and she screeched as her body reverted to its naked, human form. She didn’t have the strength to even lift her head from the cold floor. She hated any weakness—and doubly so when it was her own flaw. Her sisters crawled to her and wrapped her in their arms, cooing to her.

“I did release you,” Meroveus scolded them. He went to Zevon, who was still shaking. “He aided me! He gave you language! Is this the thanks we are to receive? Physical attacks?” With a steadying grip on Zevon’s shoulder, he said, “They are not worthy of their freedom. Remain here. I will put them back.”

“No!” Liyliy’s sisters cried.

The man ignored them and reached to the pouch necklace. Turning, he walked toward the stairway.

“No, no,” Ailo and Talto pleaded.

The words were foul to Liyliy’s ears, and the tears on their cheeks were pollution. She would not cry. She would not beg. But she would not go back to the numb stone, either. She was smarter than that. She understood what men of power wanted. Her sisters needed her.

In a voice barely above a whisper, a voice brittle like cracked glass, Liyliy said, “You . . . you are our lord.”

The haste of Meroveus’s departure lapsed. He turned back, and the full measure of his suspicion was scrawled across the lines of his face. Liyliy’s sisters had cradled her on the floor, but now she lifted her head. The pouch on his necklace is the source of his dominance. “We obey you,” she said. “Just feed us.”

His chin lifted. “Do you think I have not planned for your hungers?”

“You did not say as much!”

“I had to give you language first. You gave me no chance. Reckless impulsiveness is not a quality I will tolerate. I believe it is that kind of behavior that led to your confinement.” He cursed quietly in the old language she would understand. “Now I cannot trust you.”

“What oath will satisfy you, lord?”

Mero considered it. “Swear upon your sisters’ heads that you will be obedient, Liyliy.”

She hesitated for a second, knowing that responding too quickly or too slowly would send a message she did not wish to convey. “I swear upon my sisters’ heads I will obey you, lord.”

Seemingly satisfied, he nodded. “Clothe yourself, Liyliy.”

From nothing, the gray silk writhed up and around her once more. And her scheming commenced.