Vicious Circle

“I should teach you to meditate.”

“Meditate?”

“Yeah. It’s a great way to clear your mind or get your thoughts in order. If you’re feeling scattered or lost, it can help. It helps me, anyway.”

“Maybe.” She bit her lip. “I’ll try.”

The door from the garage opened, and Joh

“Yep,” he said with a quick smile. He tapped his nose. “Followed your tracks.” He put the wooden box against the wall just inside the door.

That he would be back to himself and not hold a grudge about having to give up the stake reassured me.

“I have a surprise for you,” he said.

Apprehensive, I asked, “What is it?”

“Let’s go see.” He took my arm and led me into the dining room and to my desk.

“What?” I said, fearing a joke of some kind coming.

He bent down and slid my binder marked Research from the shelf.

“My notebook?”

He held it out to me. “Open it.”

“I already know what’s in it.” Had he looked through it and corrected passages or added information? Had he found something he didn’t like?

“Do you?” he asked.

Now I was really curious, and concerned.

He wagged the notebook at me. I took it and opened it. It felt much heavier than I remembered, but the first page was just as it should be, a handwritten table of contents. Nothing new listed. I tilted it to the side. The index tabs were all marked as they should be: Historical, Medical, Social, Shelters, Laws Enacted, Laws Proposed, Local, and National. The last two had clippings of articles and lists of governmental and citizen sympathizers, support groups, and anti-wære groups.

There was a new tab at the back, blank. I put my finger on it; glanced at Joh

“Your sca

“And that is?” I had an idea of what he might say.

“That three-hole-punch thing. It is handy.”

I didn’t get to enjoy the surprise for long. When Nana found out, she took the notebook from me and started translating. “I’ll have Dr. Lincoln look these over, of course.”

I turned my attention to di

“Don’t tell me this poor dog’s go

Joh

“Slight? You’ve got pasta and tomato sauce. I can work with this.” He reached and turned the oven on.

“Seph?” Beverley called from atop the steps.

“Coming.” I started for the hall.

She added, “Someone’s coming up the drive real slow-like.”

I stopped in my tracks and shot a look at Joh

“Beverley, you stay up there. Nana—”

“I’m not moving!” The sound of her lighter flicking followed her shout.

Joh

“Samson D. Kline.”

“Miss Alcmedi.” He gri

“What have you heard?”

His grin turned sly. “Gossip on the front porch. How very white-trash. I expected better of the great Persephone Alcmedi, the witch who tempted Menessos back into a circle.”

“What do you mean ‘back’?”

He made a mock show of sympathy. “It’s girls like you who end up disappeared and on the alarmist, scandal-mongering media better known as the evening news. Girls like you who don’t find out enough about the boys they’re playing with.”

“Since background searching led to a near-fatal accident for a friend of mine, why don’t you save me the risk and fill me in yourself, so I can stay off the evening news? I mean, I’d hate to think of you watching those awful shows waiting to hear of my gory end and being infected by the lust-indulging breaks better known as commercials.”

Samson leered. “Fine.”

I opened the door and gestured for him to enter, but didn’t say the inviting words.

He made a show of wiping his boots on my welcome mat, then stepped in, came up beside Joh

He recovered himself enough to proceed hurriedly into the living room. “Waterhouse,” he grumbled. “Suits you.”

“I’m surprised you know the artist’s name. I had you pegged as one of those people who decorated with paintings of Jesus on black velvet and considered it high art.”

In the dining room, Nana sniggered but didn’t look up from the notebook.

Samson flopped down onto my couch without having been invited to take a seat. He spread his arms across the back as he put one ankle up on the opposite knee, trying for a pose of comfort and indifference. The position, however, made his pant legs rise up to show that he wore old-man short boots that zipped up the inside. He followed my gaze and slipped out of the position. “Got anything to drink? Like Scotch?”

Beside me, Joh

“I don’t keep liquor, Mr. Kline. How about some water?”

He waved the suggestion off with a sneer like he’d just tasted something very bad. “Well, then, let’s get on with this. Where’s the stake?”

“I thought you were going to tell me about Menessos getting back in the circle.”

“Oh,” he said. “Yes.” He sat forward. “A glass of Scotch would make this a lot easier, though.”

“I still have only water.”

“Not even beer?” He looked Joh

Enunciating slowly and loudly, Joh

“Right. Right.” Samson frowned. “It’s simple. Menessos gave up magic when Vivian bested him by creating the stake and keeping it secret from him. He vowed never to use magic again until the stake was destroyed.”

“He broke that oath.”

“Exactly.” Samson gri

“You sure have a way of making people uncomfortable, Mr. Kline.”

“My messages aren’t ever meant to put people at ease. I’m a fire-and-brimstone kind of preacher.”

“I’ve noticed.”

He seemed to take that as a compliment, though I hadn’t meant it that way.

“I’m curious,” I said. “How did you find out about this sensitive subject?”

“That thing that used to be my brother.”

I should have guessed. “Our last talk left me with the impression that you didn’t speak with him anymore.”

“It has its uses.” He glanced around. “Now…that stake?”

I turned for the kitchen and heard Joh

Samson must have paused to gauge the wærewolf before answering, because he was just starting to answer as I came back down the hall.

“Do you have any idea who I happen to be?”

Joh