Camp Arcanum Page 8

  Once again, Brenwyn inspected him with that head-to-toe flick of the eyes. She smiled.

  “Well, I hope I did not traumatize you too much this afternoon.”

  Marc said nothing. It felt like his ears were on fire and he knew his blushing would do nothing for his reputation as a black-clad avenging angel. He pointed at the wooden box in Brenwyn’s hands in hopes of grabbing the conversation by the horns and wrestling it into a new direction.

  “So. Did you bring me a present?”

  “You brought powerful negative influences into your home with that ring,” Brenwyn said. “This is something to chase them away.”

  Marc looked sideways at the intricately carved wooden box, which was no more than nine inches on its longest side.

  “Kind of small for an attack dog,” he said.

  Ignoring his remark, Brenwyn got up and went into the kitchen. She stood at the stove and removed various items from the box: a tiny brass incense burner, something cylindrical wrapped in Mylar foil, a box of matches, and something like pale gravel in a small zip lock bag.

  “Incense,” she explained. “Frankincense, myrrh. A few other things.”

  “Eleven secret herbs and spices?”

  “This will work whether you take it seriously or not.” She continued her preparations unperturbed. Marc saw that the Mylar roll was filled with round bowl-like blocks of charcoal. He watched for a moment as she placed one in the burner and set a lit match to it. It snapped, popped, and sparked as it caught fire.

  “If I took all this seriously,” Marc said, “it would be the obvious first step on the road to madness.”

  “If that is what you have to believe,” Brenwyn said. She didn’t seem to mind his calling her a lunatic. “Are you sure you are prepared for tonight?”

  “I’d like to think that I’m tougher than a pewter pinky ring.” Marc hoped he sounded as matter-of-fact as she did. “Besides, I could use a night out.”

  “And I,” said Brenwyn, “would be pleased to escort you.” She laid a light hand on his arm. “But first, I need something from you.”

  * * * * *

  Marc and Brenwyn searched the bushes around Theodora’s shed with no success.

  “And you have no idea where you threw it?” Brenwyn said.

  Looking her way, Marc suddenly realized how truly appealing she was while bending over at the waist and exposing an inch wide strip of tan flesh. Just as quickly, he realized her comment required a response.

  “I was a little unfocused at the time,” he said.

  “Musetta will be upset.” Brenwyn frowned.

  Marc was about to launch into a lengthy description of the depth and breadth of his feelings on Musetta and her magic ring when Eleazar popped out of his trailer and trotted over to Marc. The jongleur focused only on Marc as he approached, since Marc’s body blocked sight of Brenwyn for the moment.

  “Sorry I did not catch up with you last night, milord. I had to fly ‘ere you got back from town.” Eleazar drew close like a fellow conspirator. “You should see what I found out in the woods yesterday. ‘Tis even scarier than my wife . . .”

  Brenwyn stood quickly, brushing her long, brown hair away from her face.

  “What could that be, Eleazar?” she asked.

  Eleazar pulled back and stared at Brenwyn with a look of unconcealed horror. Marc was completely baffled by this response.

  “What did you find?” Marc asked gruffly.

  Eleazar looked from Marc to Brenwyn and back again with a wide-eyed expression.

  “Er . . . Nothing, milord,” he said after a moment.

  “Nothing?” Marc grumbled.

  “Or perhaps,” Brenwyn said lightly, “there is nothing scarier than his wife.” She looked Marc over with a wry smile. “Though, from the reactions I have been getting today, I must be a close second.”

  “No! Not at all, milady.” At the mere possibility of an offense to a lady, Eleazar reverted to his old charming self. “I mean, I found something.”

  “What?” Marc’s grunted.

  “Umm—trees!” Eleazar answered brightly.

  “You found trees,” Marc repeated, “in a forest?”

  “Well, ’tis only natural,” said Eleazar, as if that were the most reasonable statement in the world.

  “How did that frighten you?” Marc looked over his shoulder at Brenwyn, who seemed as amused with Eleazar as she had been when Marc had answered the door stark naked.

  “Well . . . There were so many of them,” Eleazar started. “And they were in all the wrong places. We cannae get anything done with them loitering about.” He smiled over at Brenwyn for her approval. Marc grunted in agreement.

  “We might be laboring six, seven days a week,” Eleazar concluded, a note or rising terror in his voice.

  “If we fall too far behind schedule, we might,” Marc said. “I do already.”

  “And we cannot have that!” Eleazar responded firmly. “I tell you what I’m going to do: I’m going to check all the areas that we’ve already cleared to make sure none of those trees sneak back in!”

  He made a deep bow to them both and retreated backwards.

  “Milord, milady,” he intoned. “Good day.”

  Eleazar bolted for the barn and disappeared quickly from sight. There was a muffled crash from inside.

  Marc stared after him.

  “Is it possible,” he wondered out loud, “that having too much sex can rot your brain?”

  “I would have no idea.”

  Marc simply smiled and said nothing. After several seconds of nothing, he grew uncomfortable.

  “So,” he asked, “have you had lunch?”

  “I would love to, but I must get right back to the shop.” She waved towards the woods. “Musetta’s ring will have to fend for itself.”

  “I’ll try not to lose any sleep over it.”

  “Of course not,” Brenwyn said. “Before I leave, could you do me one more favor?”

  “Depends,” Marc said cautiously.

  Brenwyn took him by the shoulders and positioned him carefully.

  “All that I need,” she said, “is for you to stand very, very still.”

  “Is this some Arcanum, Wicca thing?” Now Marc was getting nervous.

  “No,” she said. “This is something much more ancient than that. It should be painless.”

  Brenwyn rose up on her tiptoes and kissed Marc. It was slow, warm, and sweet. For the duration, Marc forgot the warning pain in the back of his skull. She settled back on her heels with a self-satisfied smile.

  “Now you can enjoy the evening without wondering what would be the right moment for that,” she purred.

  Once again, Marc found himself without anything to say. Eventually, he said: “Thank you.”

  Brenwyn turned for her car, swishing her skirts around her legs. She seemed confident that Marc would follow.

  “You are welcome any time,” she called over her shoulder.

  Marc reached the Impala first and opened the door for her.

  “Then I’ll see you tonight,” he said as she slid in behind the wheel.

  “No need for concern,” she replied. “I already have Jujubes.”

  The Impala’s engine started with much grinding and wheezing and a cloud of blue grey smoke from the tail pipe. Marc unconsciously diagnosed faulty lifters, a worn fan belt, and loose rings in the automatic transmission. It backed unevenly out of the parking space and made a run for the slight uphill grade of the gravel track. Brenwyn waved and called out the window as her car built up speed:

  “Merry meet and blessed be!”

  Marc just waved as he watched her car disappear over the rise. Then, he turned back towards his trailer only to come face-to-face with Michael.

  “I’m glad to see that.” The artist smiled uneasily.

  “What?” Marc growled.

  “You. Kissing her.” Michael pointed in the general direction of the cloud of dust and smoke Brenwyn left behind. “I was afraid that whole th
ing last night was some sort of bizarre sexual overture.”

  With no better response, Marc just massaged the spot between his eyes where he knew a furrow was forming.

  “I don’t know!” whined Michael. “I never had to deal with sexual harassment in the workplace before.”

  It was the human libido that was doing this to him; since coming to this crazy town, everybody had sex on the brain. He turned away from Michael with the intention of crawling back into bed and hiding under the covers.

  And I swear,” Marc grumbled to himself, “the next big project I have, I’m hiring eunuchs.”

  Chapter 7

  Blessed Jujubes

  UNFORTUNATELY FOR MARC’S PIECE OF MIND, Michael was able to explain Musetta’s remark about Maenads. This wasn’t just a quick explanation. That never happened with Michael. He went into gruesome detail, illustrating their history through pictures provided via the Internet. From ancient Greek kraters to pre-Raphaelite paintings, he inundated Marc with images of wild-eyed women pursuing and tearing apart men and animals. Marc called a time out before the artist could start downloading operas.

  Marc retired to his own trailer and a growing mound of paperwork. Though all he had to do was to confirm potential employees weren’t forging their I-9 documents in crayon, he had trouble concentrating. After an hour of sorting through job applications and photocopies of driver’s licenses and Social Security cards, he gave up for the night.

  * * * * *

  Marc came around the corner of Proserpina’s Bower slowly, checking for trouble. Michael’s lecture added more than a little to the anxiety he felt over his first date in years. He could see Brenwyn strolling slowly back and forth in front of her shop. Her garb differed only in color from what he’d seen before: a black leather bodice and a black and purple skirt that shimmered like flowing water as she moved. She clutched a black lace shawl around her shoulders against the cold.

  Mostly harmless, Marc thought.

  Marc saw no sign of frothing, frenzy, or other Maenad-like behavior, so he approached. He hoped to sneak up on her as she had with him, but she turned as soon as he stepped away from the building.

  “Good evening, Marc,” she said. Her smile was radiant and he felt warmer inside.

  “Am I on time?” Marc asked.

  “Exactly,” Brenwyn replied, with a confident tone.

  Marc checked his watch.

  “Seven twenty-eight,” he said. “And forty-seven seconds. Hmmm.”

  Brenwyn’s exact prediction could have been just a coincidence or a really neat trick. He’d figure that out later.

  Brenwyn cocked her head back and smiled at him. Her eyes flashed at what he held in his hands: a black leather rose and a jumbo box of Jujyfruit.

  “Are those for me?” she asked.

  Marc handed her the rose with a flourish.

  “This is.” He held up the candy. “I brought these in case we ran out of ammo."

  Brenwyn sniffed the rose with great pleasure, closing her eyes as she did.

  “Black leather.” She purred. “Very evocative.”

  “I’ve caught you surreptitiously sniffing my jacket.”

  “Surreptitiously?” Brenwyn raised one dark eyebrow at his remark.

  Marc felt the tops of his ears warming.

  “I’m not trying to show off my huge vocabulary, or anything,” he said, “but if you don’t exercise some words from time to time, they tend to atrophy.”

  “‘Atrophy’, too. One cannot help but admire a man with an enlarged . . .” She paused for half a breath there. “Vocabulary.”

  Marc chose to veer away from the discussion of the relative size of his attributes.

  “You look very nice tonight,” he said. “Very nice.”

  Brenwyn did a quick twirl to show off her outfit. The skirt and petticoats rustled and flared around her.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I wore black to conceal candy stains.”

  “Me, too,” Marc responded. He held out the lapels of his black leather jacket to display the black dress shirt and Dockers underneath.

  “As a departure from the bright primary colors you usually wear.”

  “You taunt me,” Marc said.

  Brenwyn expression was playful. Her pale violet eyes seemed to glow in the dark. Marc couldn’t help but smile back.

  “What is that going on behind your eyes?” she asked.

  “Don’t you know?” he asked, not at all seriously.

  “I like to hear you say things in words,” she replied.

  It was a complicated debate between his head and his gut, one that had been going on since her visit that afternoon. His head remembered the standard course of his relationships: a few months of best behavior followed by a cloud of emotional shrapnel. As always, there was the warning pain at the base of his skull contributing to the conversation.

  His gut, on the other hand, was saying: “That was a long time ago and circumstances have changed.” That half of the argument was mostly the feeling of butterflies fluttering around his insides. His head and gut agreed, however, that Brenwyn was certainly able to take care of herself.

  “You know those moments you mentioned back at camp?” he asked.

  “I remember that.” It looked to be a fond memory for her.

  “I feel one of them coming on right now,” Marc said.

  “Well, one thing modern Wicca encourages,” she murmured, stepping closer, “is the wisdom to embrace the moment.”

  Marc slid a hand behind her neck and gently drew her towards him for a long, lingering kiss. They were interrupted by the sound of a jackhammer coming from Marc’s jacket.

  “Do you have a jackhammer in your pocket?” Brenwyn asked. “Or am I that good a kisser?”

  “That’s my phone,” Marc said. He checked the caller ID and saw it was Steve. No doubt Marc’s boss wanted the latest status report and an excuse for heart palpitations. “I’ll let it go to voicemail.”

  Brenwyn looked at him quizzically

  “I have a friend,” Marc said. “He’s called Tweak; he’s a phone phreek—sort of like a phone hacker. He’d be wanted in seven states if the authorities knew he existed. He created the ringtone for me so I always know it’s mine in a crowded room. Probably the only legal thing he’s done this century.”

  “Tweak,” she said, playing with the sound of the name. “You have some very unusual associates.”

  “Lately,” Marc fired back.

  Brenwyn responded with a tiny gasp and a look of false umbrage. That changed to a coy smile that set the butterflies in his gut to flight.

  “So?” she said. “How would you like to meet a few hundred of my closest friends?”

  “Sounds like fun.” Marc offered his elbow and she wrapped both of her arms around his upper arm. Her hands were warm despite the cold weather. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, they fell into step and walked arm-in-arm to the theater.

  * * * * *

  Brenwyn’s remark about hundreds of friends was no exaggeration. The marathon’s audience filled the sidewalks outside the Arcanum Orpheum Cinema, like a chattering flock of magpies in black, orange, and purple. Brenwyn seemed to know every one of them by name. She and Marc pressed through the crowd slowly, meeting and greeting all the way. Marc smiled and nodded affably as he was introduced to Olwen and Calpurnia and then Feather.

  Brenwyn led him by the hand through the crush to the ticket taker. The silver-haired woman wore a black suede witch’s hat and a dress of black gossamer and lace. For not the first time that evening, Marc got a head-to-toe inspection and a cryptic smile. He followed Brenwyn into the lobby with a sense of trepidation.

  The crowd was thinner there, scattered in knots of two or three. Of course, there was a line eight deep at the concession stand. Every time he caught a woman looking his way, he got the same appraisal and secret smile. A quick survey of the room showed he was the only man in the house. He felt like he’d been dropped in a lion’s den with a pork chop
tied around his neck.

  Brenwyn stood up on tiptoe behind his shoulder and whispered in his ear. “Do not worry, I will protect you.”

  It sounded like she was listening to his thoughts, but anyone with an elementary knowledge of cold-reading body language could have known what he was thinking. He just nodded and said:

  “Okay.”

  He did his best to look self-possessed and completely secure as they reached the counter and he paid. Brenwyn handed him a jumbo-sized bucket of popcorn and guided him towards the double doors of the theater.

  * * * * *

  Passing through the doors, Marc glanced at the sign which read “Maximum Capacity: 456.” That was his habit, like checking for extinguishers and exits, always keeping an eye out for the next disaster. The theater could have been at three times its capacity; there was no way he could have counted heads with everyone milling around the way they were. Marc suspected even the local fire marshal, if he were male, would be cautious about making an appearance here.

  The place was wall-to-wall witches of almost every color, size, and shape Marc could imagine. Many were in the classic black dress and pointy hat, though he had yet to see anyone painted green. A large portion of the group dressed like Brenwyn in Stevie Nicks/New Age Goth garb. Three young witches of that school dashed up towards the lobby as Marc and Brenwyn worked their way down the center aisle; Marc recognized them as the same three that had nearly run him down on the sidewalk the other day. Tonight, they were all wearing black and purple so sheer he could have catalogued their body piercings and tattoos through the fabric. He looked away quickly.

  “That is Amber, Ivy, and Crystal,” Brenwyn said. “They do everything together.”

  Before he could stop himself, he imagined a lurid scene with the three of them naked, doing everything.

  “Oh, I could not say anything about that,” Brenwyn drawled.

  Again, it wouldn’t take a telepath to guess what was going through his mind at that moment, but he decided not to take any chances. As they squeezed their way into their seats, Marc chose to keep his eyes on the architecture.

  The black-on-red flocked wallpaper must have gone up when the theater was built in the thirties. The same for the gilded cherubs on the wall sconces. Though it must have been meant to imitate the grand opera houses, seventy years later it just looked like a worn-out New Orleans whorehouse. The only new things he saw were the carpet and the heavy plastic sheeting taped over the screen. The red velvet drapes on either side of the screen looked to be rotting where they hung.