Fatal Circle by Linda Robertson

growl, he said, “Give me one good reason.”
    “I’m the master—”
    “Not of me!”
    With an irritated shove I released his arm.
    He didn’t move; my attempt to push him away must’ve struck a nerve. He didn’t leave.
    “Let me finish?” He didn’t object; perhaps he’d realized I was explaining, not commanding. “Being a master comes with certain responsibilities.”
    Johnny lurched away, giving me his back. He was breathing hard. “Fuck!” he shouted into the air.
    “You know how the protrepticus feeds on my aural energy?” An almost imperceptible nod indicated I had at least some of his attention. “It’s with me constantly, but I use it so seldom I don’t really notice the drain.” I drank the last of the juice and set the glass on the table. “This isn’t so different. Think about it. I’ve been drawing on his energy. I just didn’t realize it. Many times. When I ran in the field, when I sparred with you, when I confronted the fairies. Maybe more. I hexed him over three weeks ago, Johnny. He was due . . . a . . . a recharge. And aural energy alone wouldn’t satisfy him.”
    Johnny watched me. Seething. The fire glow behind him gave an orange edge to all the black he wore. He could have been a living ember. Even the dark blue of his eyes seemed to reflect some of the burning color. The breath he drew in made me think he was about to rage, but when he spoke, his voice was even. “How often will he get his due?”
    “I will keep it to a minimum. Believe me.”
    “I believe you. But I’m wondering why you don’t sound even a little distressed or pissed off about it.”
    He was right. I didn’t. I was indifferent because, on some level, I had to have known this was inevitable. Right? “Wouldn’t do me any good to be pissed off. Anger won’t change this. It is what it is.”
    After deliberating with himself, he came and sat beside me on the bed. He was still too rigid, but as he opened and closed his hands they were normal, not furred and clawed. “Red, do you want this?”
    It had to be difficult for him to accept, as Nana would say, “another tom slinking around the cathouse.” I had to give him kudos for not totally going Neanderthal on me.
    I remembered Sammi and Cammi Harding, the bank heiresses who’d been escorting him backstage after Lycanthropia’s Rock Hall showcase. One of them had kissed him. Seeing it had hurt me. Deeply. If our roles were reversed right now, I wasn’t sure my reaction wouldn’t be Neanderthalish. How very unfair for someone so concerned with justice and balance to be.
    I wondered if, when he officially ascended as Domn Lup, it would change him. Anyone would be permanently affected by such authority, the weight of unpleasant decisions and alliances. I guess we were both learning to accept these things that neither of us could change.
    I answered him with the truth. “I need you both.”
    Johnny tucked my hair behind my ear, and his finger ran gently over the exposed bandage. “Promise me that, analogywise, I get to be considered the twelve-cylinder sports car you drive too recklessly and too fast, say . . . a Ferrari 599 GTB Fiorano in Daytona Black.”
    “I’m even imagining black leather upholstery.”
    His lopsided grin was adorable. “Of course. And the vamp gets to be considered the detestable but law-required insurance policy with the irritating premium.”
    I laughed and moved into his lap, stretching my arms around him. Don’t ever change. “You are definitely my only ride.”
    “Oooooo. You’re revvin’ my engine.”
    “Your whole analogy deserves a few innuendo points.”
    His lips brushed mine like flower petals at first, then as he strayed to my cheek, it seemed he became aware that he was on the side Menessos had fed from and shifted roughly to the other side. I hoped it was because he was concerned for my covered wound, not an objection to putting his lips where Menessos’s had been.
    Guilt rippled over me. The