Much of Madness (The Conexus Chronicles Book 1)

by Summa, S. E.

  Murmuring encouragement to the still frazzled Ms. Woodard, Finn coaxed her to take a drink of the tea. Another retching cough and the woman’s wrinkled hands were noticeably less shaky. He was prompting her to take another sip when her gaze sharpened. Dark eyes bulged as she noticed his hands steadying hers against the blue, rose-patterned teacup.

  “For the love of… don’t touch me.” Phyllis shrieked and threw her arms out. The teacup crashed to the wooden planked floor, shattering as the remaining noxious liquid splashed across her lap and onto the delicate silk of the antique couch. Kandy (with a K) froze a few feet behind the couch.

  “Y-you touched me. You are unclean. Am I infected now?” Hysterical, Phyllis screamed and wiped her hands down the front of her expensive trench coat. She began praying, “Our Father who art in heaven… did you just p-poison me? …hallowed be thy name.”

  “Oh, bother. Victorian silk is so hard to clean,” Seraphina mused, as she elbowed Finn’s side.

  Finn’s unnaturally light blue eyes were beautifully framed by long, white eyelashes. Thanks to their rude intruder, they were full of sadness. When had even his eyelashes faded to pure white? Probably twenty years ago, though his handsome, young face was unchanged otherwise. Seraphina often worried about the sins her best friend ingested. It was clear they took a toll, both mental and physical.

  His words broke the brief silence. “I always did like that teacup.” Finn’s quip was an attempt at humor, but the tightness of his jaw divulged his unease. This stupid woman’s aversion to his touch upset him.

  Seraphina bumped her hip against him, and he looked back down at her. She said, “I’ve always warned you that particular teacup was unmanly. She did you a favor.”

  His pale mouth tilted in a forced imitation of his usual wicked smile. He knew she was distracting him from the sputtering fool now digging in her purse while Kandy (with a K) remained frozen behind the couch.

  The three of them stood perfectly still, a red-haired Spellcaster, an albino Sin Eater, and a well glittered, exotic dancer. Mesmerized, they watched as the hysterical woman—who easily spent their combined annual salaries on her clothing alone—squirted an entire bottle of antibacterial gel in her hands, down her arms, and onto her lap. She rubbed it vigorously on all exposed skin, even the tops of her feet. The clear ointment dripped down onto her designer heels. All the while, she vehemently recited the Lord’s Prayer.

  As if Purell worked on sin.

  Humans.

  When the contents of the bottle ran low, so did Ms. Woodard’s prayers. Finally, as if snapped back into reality, she jerked her head up and flipped her attention to her audience.

  “How dare you stand there judging me? It touched me. What if I die with its sin on me? D-Do I have supernatural sins now?”

  “First, it is he,” Seraphina snapped, “and second, I’m touching him right now, same as I did yesterday, and the day before that, and so on. You’re not going to die just because he touched you. But if you keep on being a hateful, uppity bit…”

  She didn’t get to finish the cuss word because Kandy (with a K) snorted in amusement at Seraphina’s rant, and Ms. Woodard turned and finally noticed Finn’s guest.

  “A whore? I am being laughed at by a whore?” The old woman’s voice rose into an ear-piercing shriek. “You are nothing but a harlot. Is there no limit to the depravity? I’ll not be judged by a bunch of degenerates, heathens.”

  Finn rushed around the small couch and stood in front of Kandy as if blocking her from view would protect her from the harsh judgments being made. Kandy’s curvy body was half turned… hiding. Seraphina was surprised she’d care what this woman thought of her.

  “Phyllis, enough,” Finn commanded. It was his tone, more than the words, which seemed to reverberate throughout the darkened shop.

  Kandy (with a K), as she had reminded Seraphina more than once, was probably the closest thing Finn had to a girlfriend in the last fifty years.

  “Let me escort you to the door,” Finn said. He turned and cradled Kandy under his arm, shielding her while they walked. He lifted her chin and whispered, “Tomorrow, Sparrow. I’m so sorry about her.” He gave her a soft, lingering kiss and locked the door, leaned his forehead against it, and exhaled before turning back around, unsmiling.

  “Now, Phyllis. I presume you require my services? I cannot imagine you would travel across town near midnight and sully your grand reputation with my company otherwise?” Finn didn’t try hiding the acidic tone. “Collect yourself and stop being a nuisance or I’ll put you out on the street myself. We’ve had more than enough of your theatrics.”

  Phyllis was once again tongue tied. Finn had matched her arrogant attitude with a dose of his own.

  Some personal history existed there. Even though Seraphina knew his real age, it always struck her as strange when Finn—who looked to be in his mid-twenties—could so easily put others in a position of vulnerability, as if speaking to disobedient children.

  Apparently, it worked on uppity Ms. Woodard because her demeanor changed right before Seraphina’s eyes. She straightened and smoothed her hair back again, this time leaving an unladylike glop of antibacterial gel in her hair, much to Seraphina’s delight.

  “It’s Virgil. He is dying even as I speak. He deserves to be cleansed before he passes and…” Phyllis stopped at Finn’s white raised brow. “Okay. I know he’s complicated and can be misunderstood, but it is not his…” Finn’s brow raised even higher, causing her to stop once more and grimace. “Fine. My brother is a cold-hearted man who has lied, bribed, and forced his will on others his entire life.” Her words snapped in the air like electrical impulses. Unsteadily, she began to rise. Finn started to reach out to help her, but he lowered his arm when she gave him a look to kill. “Begging? Is what you want to hear from a grieving old woman, Sin Eater? He did what he had to do to protect his family’s assets. H-he had a lot of responsibilities. You promised. I was told you…”

  Finn raised his hand. “You don’t have to justify your brother’s actions to me. I know his sins better than you, Phyllis. He is at Odol’s home, I presume?”

  “Odol has been dead more than twenty-five years Fi… Sin Eater.” She huffed and met his eyes. “Yes, Virgil is there. Hospice sent him home to die weeks ago. I have paid the best healers, both human and supernatural, to do everything possible to keep him alive. The last Spellcaster left an hour ago. She wouldn’t even try to help him. She said money couldn’t buy more time.”

  “I’ll be quick then. I trust you will have the offerings prepared? Red wine and bread?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Phyllis waved her hand at him and bent to collect the last few items thrown from her purse in her feverish pursuit of germ killer.

  Finn asked, “Do you require a cab?”

  “No. Addams is waiting with the car.”

  “I’ll prepare and be there soon.”

  Seraphina watched the suddenly more formal exchange like a tennis match and felt relief as Phyllis Woodard headed to the door. The elderly client paused, apparently confused by the various locks. Seraphina rushed forward to let her out.

  Phyllis turned as soon as she was outside and said, “Girl, you are far too young to understand. You mustn’t touch the Sin Eater like that. Ever. He is a supernatural, an unclean demon. He will corrupt your soul.”

  Seraphina let a tiny trickle of power into her eyes. Not enough to hurt, just enough to make her green pupils glow with bright streaks of gold. She smiled wickedly when the woman gasped, clutched her chest, and stumbled backward.

  Seraphina slammed the door.

  “Love, anything wrong out there?” Finn called.

  “Oh, not at all. Everything is just peachy.” Seraphina locked the door and missed Finn’s appreciative smile as he headed back upstairs.

  Chapter Three

  Trepidation plagued Marceau as he turned onto Max’s private road. Thick Spanish moss swung loosely in the breeze from the low boughs of the old growth p
ecan forest along the path.

  Marceau cringed as his headlights cast a spotlight on the first corpse of the evening. Even from this distance, something obvious struck him as unnatural about the footman—other than his outdated embroidered waistcoat, knee breeches, and white stockings. Rigid, old-fashioned formality reigned supreme in Max’s household.

  The footman was abnormally tall and broad shouldered, a powdered wig sat slightly askew atop his head. He was one of the lower levels of undead at Max’s disposal, little more than an over-muscled puppet to raise and lower the bridge gate at Max’s command.

  Max maintained control over his undead workers through a hive mind. By joining their minds to his own, he was able to trap them into servitude. But Marceau wondered what other benefits Max reaped from the unnatural mental connection? How much did Max see through this undead servant’s eyes, and was he watching even now? An icy chill shot down his spine at the thought.

  As Marceau’s Aston Martin approached, the corpse began turning a large, wooden wheel. The massive iron gate rose at a slow, steady pace, and Marceau’s shoulders clenched as rusted chains screeched out into the humid night. Revving the engine of the Vanquish, he popped his neck side to side and forced his posture to relax.

  The sentry was another cadaver not laid to rest and damned to walk the earth for eternity. All so Max’s stupid gate would be raised by a uniformed footman who resembled a sick perversion of Masterpiece Theater. No living human could raise a gate that heavy, for sure. Had Max even considered upgrading to an electric motor? Of course not. He enjoyed the pomp of his servants, hence their ridiculous attire.

  When the corpse paused, Marceau drove under the gate and onto the long bridge. Thick fog rose from the swamp below, ebbing and flowing over the wooden planks while the car bounced rhythmically across the bridge.

  Another screech as the footman released his hold and the imposing gate descended, trapping Marceau inside Max’s compound. His breaths were shorter now, the familiar grip of imprisonment squeezing his chest. This place had once been his home. Marceau shuddered, remembering his childhood here, and the constant state of fear and longing that accompanied it.

  Max monitored Marceau’s every move. His studies, clothing, and even his food choices were all carefully managed. Every action he made from the age of seven had been cautious and calculated. Reprimands were swift and cruel. Marceau remembered the weight lifted when Max allowed him to move into New Orleans proper. Somehow he had convinced Max that living amongst humans while attending the university was to Max’s benefit, as much as his own. He’d reasoned it was “an essential step in learning to function without undue notice in modern society.” He could better carry out his duties while immersed, and, therefore, hidden, in the life of the city. Max saw through his arguments, but Marceau infused enough logic with his desperate plea to win.

  For a few precious days, he’d thought he was free.

  The bridge ended and Marceau continued onto the oyster shell drive. The mansion illuminated ahead was a glowing beacon of opulence and refinement in the center of the Bayou Sauvage. More than 24,000 acres of swamp, brackish marsh, and old growth forest surrounded Max’s compound, all conveniently located within the very city limits of New Orleans.

  Didn’t the humans think it strange that every attempt made to tame this land and develop “New Orleans East,” as they called it, had failed?

  Max used Voodoo, untimely deaths, and well-placed hexes to retain control over the precious property the humans thought was a wildlife preserve. The inhospitable terrain also limited casualties that arose from stumbling into one of the undead.

  While Marceau parked, another corpse approached in a foolish uniform. He could open his own damn car door, thank you very much. Marceau was quick to exit his sports car into the musky swamp air heavy with the smells of decay, brackish water, and earth.

  Every angle of the mansion’s spotless white exterior stood brightly lit, as if in defiance of the encroaching darkness of the surrounding swamp. Thin pillars along the porch stretched three stories, and a half-rounded portico served as a side gallery.

  The haunting notes of a soprano opera accompanied by piano floated into the thick, evening air, contrasting with the night chorus of frogs and insects in the swamp. Lynette’s angelic voice rang out from the large bay window of the ballroom. Someone else was entertaining, as well. Marceau spotted a lithe form dancing behind the lace curtains. Ballet? The piano stopped abruptly and Lynette’s voice faded mid-note, about the same time a shadow ran forward and grabbed the spinning dancer. Marceau couldn’t see what was happening, but Lynette’s piercing scream made his blood run cold.

  What hellish game was Max playing tonight? He climbed the rounded stairs of the Italianate plantation house two at a time.

  The piano music resumed and Lynette’s voice joined in, though not as controlled as before. She missed too many notes. Something was very wrong.

  Benjamin, Max’s head butler, opened the large, ornate door and bowed. His complexion must have been a rich ebony when alive, but death had faded his skin to a sickly shade of gray.

  “Master Marceau. Master Maximilian requests your presence in the White Ballroom,” Benjamin said in a gravelly monotone, gesturing to the ballroom.

  “Thank you, Benjamin.”

  Marceau was halfway down the hall before the corpse closed the door and returned to the servant’s quarters in stiff steps.

  Marceau stopped in the doorway and looked at the white grand piano on his right. Max played while Lynette sang. Her empire waisted red gown draped her hips, and blonde curls in an old-fashioned up-do completed a formal look more befitting a fine opera house than an isolated home in the bayou. His eyes scanned around her. Everything appeared in order.

  The imposing room had tall ceilings adorned with intricate plaster frieze work, Corinthian columns, and sparse furnishings. Everywhere Marceau looked he saw white: the ceiling, walls, draperies, and both the marble floor and fireplace mantle. The only color, besides the inhabitants, was gleaming gold leaf repeated on the chandelier, drapery ties, and elaborate gold frames of the Victorian mirrors and furniture.

  Where was the dancer he’d seen in the window?

  Lynette’s head turned in small, jerking movements toward him, her haunting melody uninterrupted. Her operatic voice echoed throughout the sparse room accompanied by Max on the piano. Strange eyes, one a deep blue and the other a milky white, passed over Marceau and widened in fear as they stared at something in the opposite corner.

  Reluctant, Marceau stepped inside and turned. A reaction from Lynette meant nothing pleasant awaited him across the room. He froze in shock, horrified by the grisly scene. A young woman in a pink ballerina tutu sat on the floor, her legs splayed at unnatural angles, her throat slit open from ear to ear. Dark blood poured down her body and pooled around her in hideous contrast to the white floor. Not far from her, a red gown matching Lynette’s lay across a white chair.

  The piano stopped again and Lynette’s singing halted at once. Max finally spoke. “Ah, Marceau. So glad you could join us. I see you’ve taken notice of Lynette’s new companion. Quite a striking resemblance, don’t you think? I’m naming her Babette.”

  The corpse favored Lynette in every way except the sticky ringlets of her hair, where dry, were a darker shade of blonde. Well, and the gaping wound resembled a grotesque, low worn smile.

  Marceau’s fists clenched, asking, “Why, Maximilian? She had her whole life ahead of her. She can’t be more than twenty-five years old. I-I won’t raise her.” Marceau waved his arm at the still bleeding corpse. “I told you no more murders. Natural causes only. I…”

  Max interrupted, “And I warned you there would be occasional exceptions, did I not? I specially selected Babette, even lured her here to dance for our dear Lynette. It was such a lovely dance too. The girl had real talent, such grace.”

  Lynette flinched.

  Max continued, “I mentioned Lynette’s insolence this morning, remember? Wel
l, I came home to find she’d wandered off into my swamp, foolishly deciding to escape while I was in the city. Can you imagine? Luckily, I had a secondary plan in case an attitude adjustment from you would not suffice.”

  “A plan? Maximilian, she was an innocent.”

  Max slammed the cover over the keys and Lynette ran around the edge of the piano.

  “It’s a pity my Lynette needed such a messy reminder,” Max said while rising from the piano bench, “a visual aid if you will, to refresh her half dead brain of who exactly is in fucking charge here.” Spit flew from his mouth as he fumed. Lynette cowered behind the piano.

  “You’ve made your point, so please let her rest, Maximilian. Don’t force me to raise the poor girl in this condition,” Marceau pleaded. He was pushing it, but he had to try to stop this madness.

  Max’s voice lowered, asking, “Shall I procure a Marceau look-a-like and cut his throat open, as well? Would witnessing an innocent choke to death on his own blood still your tongue? His pulse slowing as jets of blood paint my floor with each heartbeat? Well, shall I?”

  “No.” Marceau’s head dropped. “No, of course not.”

  “Then cease your little tantrum and revive her body. Be quick about it, Marceau. This one’s spirit is strong. She is already trying to cross into the other realm. Raise her. Or I’ll find another damn girl and start all over again.”

  Marceau saw no way out. Max was in a dangerous frame of mind tonight. He didn’t doubt another Lynette look-a-like, and if necessary, someone resembling him, would be murdered. Better one unfortunate corpse than two more.

  “It is harder when they have… when there are such wounds.” Marceau winced at his own last words. Dropping to his knee, he forced himself to lift the woman’s chin. Babette’s body was still limber and her arm fell limply from her soaked chest. The back of her hand smacked into the pool of blood beside her… splattering a web of crimson droplets farther onto the white marble.