Persephone Alcmedi 00 - Wicked Circle

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    Cover illustration by Don Sipley
    ISBN 978-1-4516-4695-5
ISBN 978-1-45164699-3 (ebook)
eISBN-13: 978-1-45164699-3

DEDICATION

    For my agent, Don, who recently
embarked on the path of fatherhood.

    May your journey be blessed.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

    Red-Caped Hero Thanks to:
    My nephew Evan for letting me use his name; and also to Doug Kusak and Matt Grabski at the Great Lakes Science Center for answering all my questions about the steamship William G. Mather .
    Java-and-Chocolate Thanks to:
    My writing groups, OWN & CNW, to the gals at word-whores.blogspot.com, and to my beta-readers Shannon, Beth, Missy, Jon, and Andrea.
    Margarita Thanks to:
    All the readers that blog and review who took the time to read and spread the word! I called you out by name last time, but you are far too many to list now. SQUEE! My appreciation is truly heartfelt. Cheers!
    Geek Hugs for:
    S. A. Swann—for an invaluable critique. Michelle “Swann”—for the most incredibly scrumptious brownies EVER.
    REVERENT GRATITUDE FOR:
    The Many-named Muse. Rock on!



CHAPTER ONE

    H eldridge Ellington opened the small crypt door from the inside of the musty hole that served as the Wirt family’s final resting place. Although not a unique place for a vampire to shelter for the day, it did not suit Heldridge’s particular taste. But as it had been raining and dawn fast approaching, the place had met his specific needs at the time.
    Cold rain spattered his blond hair as he emerged. The vampire swore under his breath.
    Making every effort to keep his clothes clean, he wriggled free. If his luck held, he’d soon be meeting with the Excelsior—the highest authority in all of the Vampire Executive International Network—to reveal the immense secret Menessos and his court witch were hiding. Heldridge didn’t want to be discredited by arriving covered in cobwebs and grime. It was bad enough that he would smell of moist earth and old death.
    He trudged toward the Congressional Cemetery gates. Washington, D.C.’s persistent rain had made a monstrous marsh of the ground—it sucked at his every muddy step.
    Heldridge soon traded the mucky path for a solid sidewalk. He couldn’t meet the Excelsior with filth on his shoes, so he stopped and kicked a homeless man curled in a storefront alcove. When the man groaned and sat up, Heldridge showed him a twenty-dollar bill. “Get the mud off my shoes.”
    The homeless man twisted onto his knees and shrugged out of his jacket. He tugged off his shirt and wiped the shoes with it, exposing his emaciated body to the rain and cold. When he’d finished, Heldridge inspected the job and walked away with the money still in his hand.
    “Hey,” the homeless man cried, scrambling to his feet.
    Heldridge wadded the cash and tossed it over his shoulder. He laughed as the man scampered into the rain to claim the paper before it was swept down the gutter and into the storm drain.
    Hunger gnawed at him, but he dared not try to feed at the local blood bar; that was exactly what the area vampires would expect him to do. Instead of risking recognition and capture, he would feed unlawfully.
    In an alley a few blocks away, Heldridge sated his hunger with a mesmerized donor in a dapper hat. It was illegal and dangerous, but this risk was necessary.
    As he thought of how easily he had fed for the last decade at his own bar—the Blood Culture, which catered to the vampires of Cleveland—his outrage swelled.
    Menessos had transferred his headquarters to Cleveland! Heldridge had barely gotten away from him, barely established himself as a legitimate vampire lord, and his night-father had followed him to measure his every move.
    He thinks he’s found his Lustrata. His witch queen. If I can’t have autonomy in my own haven, then he can’t have her. If I can’t part them, once I tell the Excelsior what I know . . . VEIN will.
    Heldridge wiped his mouth on his coat sleeve, immediately realizing the mistake. The scent of blood would linger. He shuffled his small packets of home earth from his coat to his pants pockets, then traded overcoats with the unwitting donor. This new coat reeked of cheap cologne, but that would be a benefit. Snatching the man’s fedora as well, he fled.
    He flipped the collar up and lowered the hat brim so it mostly hid his flaxen hair. Hopefully, this was enough to conceal his