So much for Nana taking hints. "She displayed it to everyone."

"That wasn't my question, Persephone."

I didn't back down. "I know what's right and what's wrong, Nana. Proceeding in this competition is the right thing to do and I'm doing it for the right reason."

"And what reason is that?"

"That coven was manipulated by Vivian. It's time that a real leader takes the reins and guides a sincere group forward, instead of someone who's power hungry and looking only to build a resume. The true practitioners will come back if a suitable leader, someone strong and smart and experienced, is in place."

"This woman you're bullying, is she not smart or experienced?"

I shrugged. "She probably is."

"Aren't bullies strong?"

"I see what you're saying, Nana, but a dictatorship isn't the way to go. Power like that corrupts. We don't need any more of that."

"So you're suggesting that to avoid forceful leadership you will subvert that leadership by force? Do you hear yourself? Leading by force works for the vampires. It works for the waeres. It worked for Vivian for a long time. Look at the Covenstead she built. Look how she used the local media to create positive hype. Look how—"

"Nana. Maybe you should compete instead of me."

She thumped her fist on the table. "I had a coven once. I'll never do that again."

Into the silence that followed I offered a humbled, "I didn't know that." Another tidbit to file away.

"If this woman wants the job and can win it, let her have it! The contest will prove whether she is worthy and will dismiss her if she isn't. Who are you to interfere, solitary?"

Around a mouthful of roast, Johnny said, "As Lustrata, she is supposed to make judgment calls."

Nana glared at him.

"Thank you," I said to him. It earned me a share in her glare.

"I'm proud of her, Demeter. Worst-case scenario," he said, "this bully beats her and becomes the high priestess anyway."

"Right. That's the worst-case scenario… a bad high priestess." Nana stood, lifted her arms, and turned her face heavenward. "Crone, open their eyes!" When her arms dramatically fell limp at her sides, she faced Johnny. "The Lustrata cannot be beaten in an Eximium! When she decides to finally share that she is the Lustrata with the Council, they'll scoff. And when she goes before the Elders as part of that competition—it's standard, they always do that—what if they realize she's marked?"

"Stained," I corrected.

"Goddess, why are you so pigheaded?" Nana almost snarled.

I was pretty sure I knew: if pigheadedness was an inherited trait then I'd inherited it from her, but pointing this out would only make this argument last longer and get us further off-subject. My mouth stayed shut.

"It's a mark, Persephone, a mark," Nana insisted. "You know as well as I do that it would compromise you. Having that authority will only entice the vampire back to your door."

I realized Johnny's spine had stiffened.

Oh, shit. I'd been outed.

"You'll be Bindspoken," Nana went on, "and they'll put your name under the Faded Shroud! That, of course, will be really good for you."

Nana using sarcasm was unsettling. Add in the fear that Johnny knew I was still stained… I was ready to vomit.

She shuffled toward the hall, then turned back to me. "You're going to need the Council on your side, Persephone. Setting yourself up to fail one of their major tests won't win their trust. And that's something you're going to need."

I sat there in the waeres' dumbfounded silence. They both quickly returned full attention to their food. Erik had wisely stayed away from the dinette, opting to hold his plate and eat leaning against the counter. This meant they were on either side of me and it seemed their forks scraped on the plates in stereo, loud in my ears. Was this the stain too? I could hardly bear it.

By then, Nana had made it to the stairway. Her groaning as she climbed the steps joined with the scraping forks. No wonder stained people are so idiosyncratic. All these amped senses were giving me OCD.

"What's Bindspoken?" Erik asked. "And that shroud thing?"

Glad for something else to concentrate on, I said, "If your name is put under the Faded Shroud, WEC will no longer recognize you as a witch. No membership, no benefits, no voting on witch issues, no attending rituals. You're not 'recognized' by them ever again, and you're denied the right to perform magic for others. Not even to read their cards. It forces you to be a solitary, but ignores you while you go on about your life. No big deal if you are already a solitary. 'Bindspoken, however, is like imprisoning your witch abilities. They bind your power. Kind of like hardening and sealing the aura until it's a wall, so that you're effectively severed—magically speaking—from the universe."

Saying the words made me realize how devastating it would be. If I was Bindspoken and the ley line called to me, I wouldn't hear it. I wondered if it would sever a vampire's binding without making me give up the good parts of myself.

Without another word, I left the guys in the kitchen with their savory-smelling meat. My feet took a route through the other rooms, away from the stairs, so Nana didn't see me in the hallway and start in on me again. Not that she'd likely have had the breath to shout at me while on the stairs. I sank onto the corduroy-covered couch in the darkened living room.

My mind flitted about, searching for some other thing to think about.

This living room was my serene space, although I hadn't found much time for serenity in the past few weeks. I kept all my books on Arthur and Camelot here; the deep red walls were decked with framed posters of nineteenth-century portrayals of legendary characters. The furniture was a mix of antiques I'd found in yard sales and more modern comfort. The room reflected me more than any other in the house.

I thought about the attic room Johnny had moved into. He'd finished it out since moving in a couple of weeks ago. It had drywall and a subfloor to start, but now the walls were painted the color of powdered rosemary and mock-hickory Pergo had been installed as flooring. He kept it neat and made his bed—a twin mattress and springs on Hollywood rails without a headboard or footboard. It occurred to me that his feet must hang over the end, he's so tall. His seven-string guitar sat in a stand next to an amplifier in the corner. A folding octagonal poker table, various plastic bins, and shaggy beige area rugs completed it. There was nothing homey about the room, no photos, posters, or knickknacks, as if he were a throwback to the Spartans. Since he was here as my guard, at least in part, it fit.

Not that I'd been paying him intimate visits there. But I did drop off the occasional basket of laundry he'd left in the dryer.

Thinking about Johnny's bedroom was not bringing me the tranquility I sought.

I sat up and opened the drawer in a side table and found a lighter. After meandering around the room lighting three tangerine- and ginger-scented candles, I returned to the couch. In the flickering light of the candles, my thoughts came to rest on the painting over the mantel.

It was an original John William Waterhouse oil painting, Ariadne. It must have been worth a fortune; Menessos had sent me the painting after I chose not to stake him. Hanging it here above my hearth in my rural farmhouse was incredibly impractical, but I loved knowing it was here for me to study and daydream over. If I ever had time to sit and daydream, that is.

Documents concerning the insuring of the artwork, at Menessos's expense, had arrived by courier a day after I'd received the painting. With it was a notification that some bonded professional group would be installing security devices. A phone number and an email address that was supposed to be Menessos's private account had been included, in case I needed to discuss the matter. Though I suspected Menessos had something up his sleeve with all this, like maybe he was bugging the place to keep tabs on me, having the painting here meant so much to me it might be worth it. I'd finally let the security company schedule for next week.