Free Fatal Circle by Linda Robertson

might have to use my broom to clear the way.
    The stairs were covered in dust and debris, although the center portion was cleaner from obvious travel—and I could see why people were staying to the center. The walls were black with grime and mildew, the paint and paper peeling like diseased skin. It smelled moldy and musty, and underlying that was the damp odor of rusting metal. This is what abandonment smells like.
    The staircase rounded down a quarter turn and a hallway stretched to either side. The ceiling here was as bad as the walls. The tiled floor was dirty, cracked, and broken—furthering the haunted-house atmosphere.
    Menessos stopped and looked both ways thoughtfully.
    “Are we waiting on ghostly traffic to stop so we can cross?”
    The dim light caught the gray of his eyes, making crescent moons of them and the effect transfixed me. He said, “I am just trying to decide which way I should take you.”
    Accustomed to Johnny’s innuendos, I found that his words had my mind flashing on various sexual positions. Stop it. He’s not Arthur .
    “This way.” He led me to the left, past this level’s boarded-up elevator, and down a longer flight of steps. It, too, curved and was dilapidated in disgusting ways. We emerged into a lobby. Three sets of double doors were spaced along the wall on the far side. The centermost pair stood open with enough light streaming through to illuminate a considerable number of mostly large boxes sitting in the lobby.
    Beyond the door, amid the sounds of construction, a female voice shouted, “Damn it! They better be furred out in ten minutes!”
    Menessos strode ahead of me toward the open doors, but I guardedly kept three steps behind him. It wasn’t a full moon and if people were furring out—
    As I peered around the door frame I saw a room covered in the expected layer of dust, but this was new dust from the renovation that was evidently in full swing here. The area was brightly lit with work lights. The shouting woman stood at a podium near the doors. She was slender and wore a turquoise tank top, black jeans, and work boots. Her black hair was woven into a waist-length braid. Her bare arms were lean but bore obvious muscle tone. Bracelets rounded each wrist.
    In front of her, the theater “house” was a study in contrasts. Portions remained dilapidated, but just as much was fresh and new. All the seating in the orchestra level had been removed. Its gradual rake had been leveled and what appeared to be black marble was being installed as flooring. The stage—I could see right under it—was held up by a new framework. There were men under it, grunting and hammering and sweating.
    Vampires working and sweating? I realized most of the workers’ shirts actually did show signs of wetness under the armpits. So these aren’t vampires but Beholders. A lot of them. My count topped twenty.
    “Did you hear me? Where are those carpenters?” The female voice again.
    “They went to get drinks,” came a static-laden reply through a two-way radio on the podium.
    The woman grabbed the handset. “Mark,” she replied, no longer shouting. “I don’t care if they take their break early, but they didn’t check with me. I intend to stay ahead of schedule.”
    “They checked with me. I meant to tell you.” He sounded apologetic.
    After releasing an aggravated sigh toward the ceiling, she continued. “There’s nothing elegant about cinderblock. I want it furred out and I expect to see the drywall hung by dawn.”
    “They’ll get that done. It’s this exterior wall I’m worried about.”
    They sounded like a married couple disagreeing about which work needed to be done on the house first. He wanted structural issues fixed; she wanted the aesthetics addressed.
    “The bricklayers will be here tomorrow,” the woman replied.
    The man’s voice came softer, saying, “If I had a dollar for every tomorrow . . .”
    “Then you’d be funding this job.”
    Speaking of the guy paying