Much of Madness (The Conexus Chronicles Book 1)
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Much of Madness
The Conexus Chronicles, Book 1
S. E. Summa
Copyright © Shantele Summa-Martin
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or
dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For more info:
Visit my website at sesumma.com
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing: February 2016
Inkmancy Press
Cover design by Seedlings Design Studio
Book design by S. E. Summa
This book is dedicated in loving memory to:
Melanie Therese Summa
October 1978 to August 2013
My cousin, my co-conspirator, my heart.
&
Charles Raymond Abernathy
June 1980 to November 2014
My friend, my champion, my brother.
Mel and Charlie were the closest thing I ever had to younger siblings. It is a tragic irony that neither reached the age of thirty-five. In my grief from Mel’s passing, I rediscovered writing. In my shock from losing Charlie, I found the courage to publish.
That motley drama—oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.
-Edgar Allen Poe, “The Conqueror Worm”
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Epilogue
Thank you!
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Part I: SIN
Chapter One
Marceau smiled as his finger caressed the cursed hourglass. It looked like nothing more than a novelty Halloween decoration with two skeletal hands and yellowed, fraying rope to hold the glass bulbs in place. But he wasn’t fooled. Max wouldn’t have sent them to steal the rustic timepiece unless it was priceless.
Breaking into Thibodeaux’s stately Garden District mansion had been the easy part, despite the modern security system. Vespa was taking care of the final guards while Marceau took the greater risk.
This particular hex was a tricky one, and flickers of fiery crimson upon its cords warned Marceau a wrong move could be fatal. He knew one this complex must have cost Thibodeaux a pretty penny.
The voodoo priestess was crafty when she’d woven the hex into the threads of time itself. The very nature of the hourglass allowed for an unusual bond. Now, that he had identified the source of the curse’s strength, it was only a matter of time before he discovered its weakness. Then he could begin his favorite part, unwinding her careful construction.
Thud! The distinctive sound of a body hitting the floor preceded the creaking of the study door behind him. High heels clicked against the hardwood floor.
Marceau exhaled, then said, “I cannot concentrate with all the racket you’re making, Vespa. Find another guard to play with or better yet, sit down and be quiet.”
Vespa wore her usual black working attire, a tight black cat suit and a thigh-high pair of leather stiletto boots that fit like a second skin.
“I’m fresh out of guards, lover. I bought some time, but you’d better break this one fast. The next scanning spell is due in less than five minutes.”
Lover indeed. The thought made his flesh crawl.
Smudged lipstick framed her dangerous mouth. How many souls had she fed on tonight? Her forked tongue slid along her lower lip. Marceau often lost sleep after Vespa glutted herself during one of their jobs as if he then bore some responsibility for the twisted fate of her victims. Maximilian, his benefactor, and her boss, prized her little gift and used her macabre ability to his advantage.
Marceau said, “All the more reason for you to stop rubbing my arm. Go sit down.”
Vespa sauntered to a chair facing him, sat, and kicked, sending expensive tchotchkes clattering to the floor before propping her boots on a table.
“Oops. You think it was a real Fabergé egg?”
Marceau gave her a look. “You call that quiet?”
Vespa raised a shoulder.
“I’ll just enjoy the view, then,” she purred, looking him up and down. “Oh, do stop rolling those baby blues of yours. What type of curse have we tonight?”
Marceau placed his hands back against the grim hourglass. His eyes closed in concentration as he searched through the hex’s vibrations for a weakness.
“The hex is woven to kill anyone, besides Thibodeaux, who removes the hourglass from the curio with selfish intent.” Marceau froze as he felt a loose thread, a tiny opening into the inner workings of the curse. “Ah, here it is.”
“Four minutes.”
“This part can’t be rushed, Vespa. I’m close.”
Marceau tilted his head and pushed more power into his palms.
“Got it! There’s a loophole. You can remove the particular item for a very short time as long as your intention is not to use it.”
Marceau lifted his hands from the hourglass and scanned the room. Not seeing what he needed, he turned to Vespa. “Where’s the nearest bedroom?”
Vespa’s eyes lit up. “Really, lover? I thought you’d never ask, but we are almost down to three minutes.” One eyebrow rose as her eyes trailed lower. “Better make them count.”
Working with her could be a real pain in the ass.
“Vespa. Focus. I need an item to replace the hourglass in the cabinet. Where is the nearest bedroom?”
“Just when things were getting interesting.” She slumped back in her chair. “Second door on the left. The guard in there won’t be a bother.”
Marceau rushed to the bedroom. The sentry would certainly not be a bother. His corpse lay on the floor. What remained of his flesh was little more than a dry husk covering bones. Marceau stepped over the skeleton, grabbed what he needed from the bedside table, and refused to look at the withered remains on his way out.
Back in the office, Marceau raised his hand to grab the hourglass… and hesitated.
“Two minutes until the next security spell, lover. Do pull the
trigger and get us out of here,” Vespa urged.
Marceau took a deep breath. A miscalculation would be more than unpleasant because the priestess was renowned throughout the French Quarter for her savagery.
Grabbing the hourglass, he lifted it a few inches off the shelf. Power from the curse surged up his arm, contracting muscles and sending electric pulses into his chest in warning. Yet he did not release the precious item as the hex demanded; instead, Marceau removed it from the curio and willed the priestess’ hex to take hold. He fought his reflex to drop it and repeated, “I will put you back in the curio. I will put you back…”
A long night of cat burglary and hex breaking had certainly taken a toll, but last night’s challenges were child’s play compared to the danger posed by Maximilian… who as luck would have it, was due to arrive any moment.
At ridiculous o’clock in the morning, only one thing could improve Marceau’s mood. Closing his eyes, he inhaled: bold chicory coffee, powdered sugar, and fresh beignets. Perfection.
Sitting at a tiny round corner table, he scanned the green and white canopied patio again. He’d positioned his back to the wall and allowed the best angle for surveying the crowded café. In Marceau’s line of work, safety was paramount. Besides, Vespa, Max’s favorite serpentine pet, threatened to track him down and finish the seduction she’d tried last night.
Daybreak had only been a few hours earlier, but Café Du Monde was already bustling with activity. Tourists were easy to spot in their “I heart NOLA” souvenir T-shirts and colorful plastic beads. Business people hurried in and out, their attention focused on various electronics as much as their rushed breakfasts. A collection of aging regulars read newspapers and debated current affairs.
One motley group sat at a nearby table—a broad, muscled man with a handlebar mustache—a palm reader wearing the expected heavy layers of eyeliner and scarves—a street performer painted silver from head to toe. When an alluring, older woman joined them, she propped a weathered saxophone, with care, on the green chair beside her.
In any other city, a group like that would have attracted interest. In the French Quarter, their eccentricities were par for the course. They were probably heading to Jackson Square to entertain and swindle the tourists.
Max referred to the park attracting such diverse performers as Place d’Armes. Always old-fashioned, always formal, and certainly always punctual… that was Maximilian.
Another sip of coffee. This time, he let the rich, thick liquid swirl on his tongue before swallowing. Max had demanded a meeting, so Marceau insisted it be at the café, knowing Max was sure to ruin his morning. At least, he’d get breakfast out of the deal. In the meantime, Marceau endeavored to enjoy the small things. Watching normal people, humans with no ties to the supernatural, fascinated him. What would it be like to work a normal job, spend free time with friends and family, to not bear the weight of Maximilian’s cruel demands?
At a nearby table, a couple seemed unaware of the growing audience. Their coffees and beignets sat cold and untouched. They stared at each other as if entranced.
How much entertainment could that possibly provide? The girl laughed, and the boy’s eyes widened. He cupped his hand against her cheek. She leaned in.
Marceau tried to ignore them, but his eyes betrayed him again and again. One of the old men across the room had abandoned his newspaper to observe the couple, as well. He could not imagine loving someone, trusting with his heart. The vulnerability, the surrendering of one’s self to another person with no guarantees they wouldn’t turn power against you? It was absurd.
Girls seemed to like his dark hair, olive skin, and Mediterranean features. Max’s money also probably didn’t hurt the situation. His off-campus apartment and sports car were much nicer than those of his classmates. A sense of not belonging in his own life kept Marceau from making friends easily.
“Gah,” Marceau said when a high-pitched shriek jolted him from his thoughts. Everyone in the café turned and watched as two laughing boys with powdered sugar mustaches darted between the small, crowded tables as a pretty girl chased them.
Marceau looked down and quickly closed his hand to hide the blue glow radiating in his palm. A rapid scan of those nearest him provided assurance no one else had noticed. He was still on edge from last night or summoning a hex wouldn’t have been his first reaction.
Pull it together. Max was incoming. Calm, measured, control.
Taking a deep breath to center himself, Marceau visualized the immobilization hex trickling back up his arm, across his shoulder, and into his chest where his power over curses originated.
The babysitter grabbed one of the boy’s arms just as he knocked into Marceau’s table. She gaped at him a moment and her lips parted in a shy smile as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and said, “Sorry about that.”
The blonde’s shorts revealed tanned, nicely muscled legs. She appeared to be about twenty. Marceau was only a couple years older, yet his upbringing was such that they might as well be worlds apart.
“No worries. You’ll be busy until the sugar rush wears off those two,” Marceau responded with a wink. He reached for a napkin to wipe up the cream that had spilled across the table.
A blush flamed across the girl’s cheeks as she tugged on the hyper boy’s hand. Marceau paused to check out her assets while she walked away.
All movement in the crowded café halted, and the boy clutching the blonde’s hand froze mid-leap. A momentary hush was Marceau’s only warning before…
“Ever an observer of the mundane Master L’Argent?” asked a familiar voice.
Years of practice kicked in and without flinching, Marceau turned and raised a dark eyebrow. “Don’t you ever bore of your tired entrances?”
“I must find merriment where I can these days,” answered Maximilian, now seated at the table. He smoothed an impeccable gray pinstripe suit and twisted, attempting to settle into the café’s uncomfortable green chair.
“You could drink your coffee at a fine establishment, one befitting a young man of your wealth, Marceau, though you’d have to wear more appropriate attire.”
Marceau glanced at his jeans, sneakers, and college T-shirt, then shrugged. He’d looked out of place when he started at Tulane. Now, almost finished with a dual master’s degree, he’d learned to dress like everyone else on campus. Anything to avoid standing out in the crowd.
Max continued, “I’d certainly prefer the comfort of a leather high back chair and a good cigar at the club.”
“You know I have coffee here every morning. This café has history and the best people-watching in the city when they are allowed movement.”
Marceau gave him a pointed look. A light breeze blew through the patio, sending thin paper napkins fluttering to the ground. None of the patrons were sentient to catch them.
Maximilian shrugged. “You’ve seen how these fragile humans react to my presence if I do not halt them. These people are attuned to me from the moment they are born into this realm.”
A single nod was the only concession Marceau was willing to offer. If Maximilian did not mask himself, every human in the café would turn toward him in an almost magnetic, involuntary response. Certainly, a survival instinct buried within their subconscious would recognize him, even if they did not.
Max’s penetrating hazel eyes, square jaw, and straight, Roman nose were worthy of an old movie star, but what lay beneath was anything but attractive. He often kept his sun-streaked, dark hair long in a ponytail, a contrast to the stiff formality of his suits worthy of a 1920s Gatsby party. He looked to be in his late twenties; appearances were quite deceiving when it came to Maximilian.
Marceau broke the temporary silence. “Can we forgo the usual banter and get to the point of this meeting?” He took another drink of his cooling coffee.
“A bit testy this morning? Feeling the effects of last night’s acquisition, are we? Vespa came home pouting too. You make an excellent team. I assume you know she desires yo
u.” Max’s face showed no emotion when he laid an ornate wooden cane across the small table.
“Vespa’s desires are irrelevant.” Marceau dared a quick glance at the cane. It was a sign of trust in Marceau that it had left Max’s palm. Today, the cane’s silver handle had morphed into a frightening mimicry of a feline face, complete with stones resembling tiger’s eyes. The grotesque figure’s lip peeled back in a snarl, revealing two long fangs.
Perhaps Max was stressed and territorial today?
Marceau’s assessment took only a second or two. He looked away and feigned disinterest, hoping Max hadn’t noticed.
With a simple twist of the handle, an eight-inch knife would spring forth from the cane’s tip, but the sharpness of the blade was not the true danger. The rare venom coating the edge made the weapon deadly to all creatures, human or otherwise.
“You already know I procured the hourglass or we wouldn’t be having this discussion.” Marceau leaned back in his chair. “You did fail to mention the trinket came attached with a rather nasty death curse.”
“True, but ‘rather nasty death curses’ are your specialty, are they not? Or did I waste a small fortune on your private tutoring? Besides, if the hourglass was not a priceless, occult instrument, Monsieur Thibodeaux would not have paid the Mambo to hex it, now would he?”
A conspiratorial smile did nothing to soften Max’s severe expression.
“Tell me, Marceau, what clever trick did you derive to break it? I’m always entertained by your ingenuity. And I am confident this curse was masterful. I heard rumors it was a six-figure job for the Voodoo priestess.”
Maximilian leaned in a little too far; his tone was also too sharp. He did not often agree to join Marceau in such a mundane location. Today, it served his purpose because he wanted answers.
“The Mambo wove the hex to kill anyone, besides Thibodeaux, who removed items from the curio for a selfish purpose.”