Camp Arcanum Read online

  “I guess I get my wish,” Marc said.

  He turned back to Brenwyn, who stood before him in mute adoration. She extended her shackled arms to him in invitation.

  Marc opened the shackles with a quick twist of the wrist. They fell jingling like wind chimes at Brenwyn’s feet. Marc stepped inside her open arms and they kissed. As they kissed, her shift fell to the ground as if released by magick.

  * * * * *

  The first thing Marc saw as he blearily opened his eyes was Eleazar and his shock of wild red hair. The color burned into his retinas.

  “Welcome back to Camp Arcanum . . . stud,” said Eleazar.

  “Mmphl?” Marc replied.

  “You talk in your sleep.”

  “Oh.” Marc was trying to remember what he had actually been dreaming about and what he might have said.

  “Please tell me you weren’t having an erotic dream about hedge trimmers,” Eleazar implored.

  Marc remembered, then. Most of it.

  “Sort of. It was more complicated than that. I think.” It came to him that someone else should be sitting on the edge of his bed. “Where’s Brenwyn?”

  “She slipped away as soon as you were securely wrapped in slumber’s bosom.” Eleazar rolled his eyes. “The silly girl thought that was more important than being wrapped in hers.”

  “I think she was right,” Marc said. He felt like he could do with another twelve hours of sleep.

  “What’s wrong with you two? Is she some sort of vestal virgin? Have you been slipping saltpeter into your coffee to avoid worldly distractions? Maybe you got one of those Depot Perverta implants?” Eleazar’s outraged screech cut right through Marc’s skull.

  “Depo-Provera.” Marc rubbed his temples. “If you’re going to talk pharmaceuticals, you have to be precise.”

  “Okay,” Eleazar said. He made a series of very precise hand gestures as he continued. “Why aren’t you—and her—naked and horizontal—in this bed—right now?”

  Marc sat up in bed and glared at Eleazar.

  “Look, I have just as healthy a sex drive as the next guy,” Marc said, “as long as you’re not that next guy. When it comes to relationships, I’m kind of like a chainsaw: just fine on a job site, but not something you want to cuddle with or leave around small children.”

  Eleazar chuckled at that.

  “My guess is that Brenwyn’s had some problems like that, too,” Marc added.

  “I’m not talking profound, soul-fulfilling relationships,” said Eleazar. “I am talking about good old-fashioned, recreational, cardio-vascular sex. You need to kick off your steel-toed boots and scream someone else’s name—besides mine.”

  Marc sat up, getting into Eleazar’s face.

  “Listen carefully,” Marc said. “Michael can have as many men in his trailer as he wants. I don’t care. You can chase every shapely ass in Darke County. As long as you don’t get shot: I don’t care.”

  “Thank you,” Eleazar said with an extravagant salaam gesture.

  “I would think that your employer would get just as much slack.”

  Eleazar stood and made for the door.

  “Sorry, milord, I’ll butt myself out.”

  “Get the rest of you out, too,” Marc said. “I need to get dressed.”

  “Are you suddenly shy or something?” Eleazar asked. “I have seen you naked before.”

  “I’ve already had one person snicker at my boxers. I couldn’t stand the humiliation if you did, too.” Marc pointed at the door. “Now, OUT!”

  Chapter 10

  Paintball at the Pyre

  MICHAEL WAS IMPRESSED WITH THE PROGRESS they’d made in civilizing Camp Arcanum after only a few weeks. What had been a wooded field when they first arrived became a clear space, level and devoid of stumps. A thirty-foot-by-thirty-foot square slab of concrete squatted behind the tool barn to show for their latest efforts and they now had enough hands to erect the foundry shed on top of that.

  The camp’s population had ballooned to two or three dozen thanks to the fliers. The strangest part for Michael was that Marc gave six of them to him as “his people.” As an artist, his work had been mostly solitary. Now, he was management.

  Actually, Anietra was the strangest part for him. She was a black woman, three inches taller than he was, and likely strong enough to lift him with one hand. In her alpine sweater, khaki shorts, and buff work boots, she looked more like she belonged in an Old Navy ad then on a construction site. She was always right at his elbow, and the way she looked at him . . .

  Michael made no secret of his being gay, but it didn’t seem to matter to her. Working things out with her was going to be the first of his many challenges as a supervisor.

  With the increased population, the camp was a knot of controlled bedlam. While Michael and his crew framed the shed, Eleazar guided Theodora through the chaos like a barrel racer running his horse through her paces. Nobody was hit, but there were several close calls. Michael saw a potential lawsuit flash with each near collision. Marc would probably make him give back “his people” if any of them got hurt.

  He tried to keep one eye on the chaos as he was putting up a lintel for the shed’s sliding door. Anietra stood close by, while Albert held the other end of the double two-by-six beam. As he was keeping tabs on his charges and trying to secure his end of the beam, Michael was also going through the plans for the foundry shed in his head. That was at least one thing too many.

  Michael dropped the heavy chunk of wood on his thumb. While he was swearing to himself, the twelve-foot beam slipped off the bracket on his end. He didn’t have time for his life to flash before his eyes as he saw the beam falling towards his face.

  Anietra stepped in and got her shoulder underneath it before the beam cracked his skull. Michael just looked up at her, speechless.

  “You almost wound up like the ‘Fallen Caryatid,’” she said in a husky whisper. Michael knew the Rodin statue she referenced, a delicate nymph twisted and crushed beneath the weight of the massive stone capital of an ornate Greek column.

  With a grunt, Anietra lowered the beam to the ground. Michael struggled to come up with the right thing to say.

  “Wow,” he finally said. “You saved my neck and made a Rodin reference doing it. I’m impressed.”

  Anietra gave an easy shrug. “I had to put my Art History degree to some use.” She had a nice smile and Michael found himself responding in spite of his being her supervisor. And her being a girl, and all.

  With his head still intact and attached to his shoulders, Michael realized there were some definite positives to her sticking to him as closely as she did. He just couldn’t ever tell Lance.

  * * * * *

  Marc looked up from the plans of the Faire only twice. The first time was when he heard someone squeal like a little girl. He saw Michael and Anietra in the partially framed doorway of the foundry shed. Michael cowered beneath her as she stood with a wooden beam propped on her shoulder. There was no blood or continuing shrieks of anguish. Marc assumed that this was just another job-site accident avoided by a young woman that could bench-press a Volkswagen. Unless there was gushing blood or a lawsuit, Marc saw no point in stepping in as Michael perfected his management style.

  Marc went back to explaining the construction plans to Randy and Earl, his two best candidates for second-team foreman. Earl seemed to be a stolid local farmer, all denim and flannel. He probably needed to work construction to make ends meet. Though Randy wore denim and work boots, the collar of his madras shirt was embroidered in Celtic knot work. That, and his long beard and ponytail, led Marc to think that Randy’s sympathies might be with the Wiccan fringe. Still, the two of them listened attentively as Marc laid out the broad strokes of his master plan for Arcanum Faire.

  Marc only looked up later when he heard the most annoying sound that could be heard on a job-site: silence. No engines, no power-tools, no pitter-patter of steel-toed boots. All he could hear was hushed conversation and the distant sound
of an ill-tuned engine.

  Marc looked around, his mood quickly deteriorating. All work had stopped and everyone on the site was looking in the direction of the sound. Eleazar even climbed up on Theodora’s crash cage for a better view.

  Brenwyn’s ancient Impala chugged over the rise and around the corner. Evidently, the local Queen of the Witches had a following even amongst Darke County’s working class. Marc looked over at Randy, who just smiled and shrugged in an expression that was half amusement and half commiseration. Marc closed his eyes and counted under his breath.

  “Did anybody hear the lunch whistle go off?” Marc finally yelled at the lollygaggers. “Huh?”

  Marc picked up an air horn from the table and let off a blast.

  “Okay! That was the whistle! One hour!” he shouted. “Now go away and let me have some privacy.”

  Randy and Earl sauntered away. The other workers scattered like pigeons. Marc couldn’t help but grin at his success in striking terror into the hearts of underlings.

  Michael grinned stupidly at Marc as he passed. Marc simply shook his head.

  * * * * *

  The door of the ’69 Impala creaked open and Brenwyn slid out in a rustle of orange and gold fabric. Marc’s insides gave a little lurch when he saw her smile; he began to see why work stopped when she arrived. From the bounce in her step, he guessed she was just as pleased to see him. She nearly skipped on her way to Marc.

  “Happy Samhain, handsome!” she called out.

  “Happy Halloween, perky witch,” he replied.

  Brenwyn threw her arms around his neck and they kissed. No matter what other powers she pretended to have, Brenwyn was a magnificent kisser. For a moment, Marc forgot all about the lollygaggers and rubber-neckers that surrounded him. Brenwyn pulled away after a long while. She looked satisfied with herself—and him.

  “Are you ready for your big night?” Marc asked.

  “Oh, most definitely,” Brenwyn said. “Would there be any problem with my seeing the site before tonight?”

  Marc took her hand and led her towards the Bobcat.

  “Let me commandeer Theodora and I will whisk you away.”

  “You know,” she said with a coy sideways gaze, “how easily I could get carried away by you.”

  * * * * *

  Marc gunned the engine as they went over another rise. There was a split second of freefall before Theodora hit earth again and her six tires bit into the dirt and leaves of the forest path. He stole a glance over his shoulder as they careened into the clearing. Brenwyn was still standing in the bed and holding tight to the crash cage. Her hair and skirts flew behind her like pennants. She looked down at him and let out an unlady-like whoop of joy and surprise.

  Marc grinned manically and put Theodora into a sideways skid around the bonfire. Marc killed the engine and then stepped out to lift Brenwyn down from the Toolcat. Once on the ground, she attempted to straighten her clothes and hair.

  “Well, I am a mess,” Brenwyn said as she picked bits of leaves out of her hair. “Do you always give a woman such a wild ride?”

  Marc knew she wasn’t talking about motor vehicles and found himself momentarily speechless at the image that conjured in his mind.

  “I believe you do that just to see me blush,” he said.

  “Your ears turn pink just like a baby bunny.” She brushed his cheek with one hand.

  “Leveret,” Marc said.

  “Pardon me?”

  “A baby rabbit is a leveret,” said Marc. Probably, Brenwyn knew exactly what he meant. Again, she was just being conversational. “I was forced to do vocabulary enrichment every time I was sent to detention for fighting. I consequently have a huge vocabulary.”

  Brenwyn pointed at the black nylon holster on his hip.

  “And does the gun relate to that huge vocabulary?”

  “It’s just a paintball marker. I’ll explain that in a bit.” Marc gestured to encompass the clearing. “So, will it do?”

  There was a stone-lined fire pit in the center of a clearing twenty yards across. The stones formed a perfect circle exactly nine feet across, and the timbers for the bonfire were stacked with mathematical precision. All dried leaves and grass had been exiled from the clearing.

  “Do?” Brenwyn gasped. “We have never had anything so . . . extravagant. Thank you, Marc.”

  “Thank Michael and Eleazar, too. Michael and a bunch of our grunts spent nearly a day getting this set up just right.” Marc looked up to get his bearings through the clouds and the last of the autumn leaves. “I think it’s supposed to line up astronomically or something.”

  Marc pointed out an effigy of Joan of Arc tied to a pole at the bonfire’s summit. “That was Eleazar's contribution.” The rag doll had its arms tied across its chest and it held a crude cross in its hands.

  “The Maid of Orleans,” Brenwyn said. “While I appreciate the wit, that might offend some of the local Christians.”

  “Yeah. That’s what I thought,” Marc said. “I’ll get it down.”

  Brenwyn looked the stack of firewood up and down.

  “That has to be twenty feet tall.” There was a definite note of concern in her voice.

  “Naw,” drawled Marc. “Sixteen feet at most.”

  Marc backed up to get a running start.

  “As Eleazar says: ‘Watch and be amazed.’”

  “Be careful,” Brenwyn said. Marc was glad to hear it come out as a warning instead of a command. He profoundly hated commands.

  Marc made a dash at the pyre and jumped up onto the lowest layers. He hopped from log to log in an ascending spiral until he reached the top. Once there, he held onto the central pole with his left hand and flipped open his unitool with his right. A few snips of the baling wire restraints and he was done. Stowing the tool and grabbing the effigy in one complicated motion, Marc then descended the stack even more swiftly.

  Marc made a final leap and landed beside Brenwyn.

  “Huzzah!” He dropped the effigy at her feet. Joan of Arc’s yarn wig fell to the ground.

  “My!” she said. “As light-footed as an elf.”

  Marc reflexively looked over his shoulder. “You’ve seen elves around here?”

  “Only Orlando Bloom,” Brenwyn said. “On my DVD player.”

  Marc exhaled.

  “Thank God,” he said. “I don’t need any more weird things wandering around here.”

  “Is that why you are carrying the pistol,” she asked, “to protect yourself from elves and wee beasties?”

  “More like an empirical experiment.” He waved to the far side of the bonfire. “Would you care to join me in that stand of trees?”

  Brenwyn looked sideways at him and bit her lower lip.

  “I do not believe we have time for something like that,” she said.

  Marc quickly shook off the effect she had on him this time.

  “You are such a tease,” he murmured.

  Brenwyn stepped back, her hand on her chest in a theatrical gesture.

  “I am offended,” she said. “A tease never succumbs; I simply have an exquisite sense of timing.”

  Marc clenched and unclenched his jaw, unconsciously chewing over the remark. She was making a promise, a threat, and a joke in one stroke.

  “Maybe I should bring St. Joan along as a chaperone?”

  “I can handle myself,” Brenwyn stated.

  “I was thinking for me,” he said.

  Brenwyn leaned in close.

  “Are you saying that you are afraid of the wicked witch?”

  Marc avoided her playful gaze as he tossed the effigy into Theodora’s bed. He turned back to Brenwyn and nodded towards the woods.

  “If you would care to join me?”

  Brenwyn stepped in close and her hand slid naturally down his arm to clasp his left hand. His fingers tightened around hers and they fell into step. As they approached the woods, Marc unholstered the paint gun with his right.

  Marc and Brenwyn walked hand in hand a few ya
rds to stop in a sunlit place between trees.

  “This seems to be a good spot,” Marc said. He dropped Brenwyn’s hand and left his hands hang quietly by his side. “Okay, stand still. Keep looking straight ahead, at that stump over there.”

  She crossed her arms beneath her breasts and shifted her weight to one hip. Still, she stared ahead, not looking over to Marc.

  “What are you plotting?” Brenwyn asked

  “Don’t you know?” Marc asked back.

  “Perhaps I do,” she purred. “Pretend I do not.”

  “I’ve been coming out into these woods nearly every day for the last three weeks,” Marc said. “There’s been something watching me from the trees.”

  “Something other than squirrels and blue jays?”

  Marc scoffed at the idea now that he heard it spoken out loud.

  “Yeah, I know it sounds insane, but that’s about average for Arcanum.” Marc flicked his eyes to the left to see that Brenwyn was still keeping a straight face. “Sometimes I can see these things in my peripheral vision: about the size of spider monkeys, but they look just like the bark and leaves.”

  “I believe we went over all this once before?”

  Marc remembered that incident: the morning he had nearly cut her in half with a chainsaw.

  “Yeah,” he sighed, “but I was drugged out of my mind and you . . .” He decided to stop there, discretion being the greater part of valor.

  “And I,” she said, “was most likely just as crazy as your brother.”

  “I never said that.”

  “Can you tell me that you were not thinking that?”

  It was an open secret that he thought that about pretty much everyone living in Arcanum. No evidence of mind reading with that deduction.

  “Hold on a second,” he said. “Do you hear that?”

  “I do not know if I hear anything,” Brenwyn replied, “but I can feel presences all around us.”

  Marc felt absolutely nothing except niggling embarrassment and the rush of hormones always inspired by Brenwyn. He heard the leaves rustle as something moved through the branches. He even thought he heard them chattering just above the sounds of the leaves in the wind. There was movement through the turning leaves, dozens of small brown and green bodies were barely visible through the screen of brown and orange. One skulked down below the canopy onto a tree trunk to Marc’s right.