Much of Madness (The Conexus Chronicles Book 1)

by Summa, S. E.

  Marceau wondered what her real name was, certain it wasn’t Babette. Did she have people who loved her? A family?

  “Revive her and I’ll have Benjamin take her to get her throat sewn. Problem solved,” Max said in a tone more suited to mentioning the weather.

  Lynette sobbed, the back of her fist pushed against her mouth.

  Reviving her with the gaping wound still open was further punishment. Hopefully, the girl would be too confused at first to understand her body’s present condition. It all depended on Max, of course, and how much of the girl’s soul he chose to feed back into her corpse.

  Please, just a little, Marceau silently begged. Don’t give her as much as Lynette.

  “Could she go see Doc fir…”

  “Now.” Max slammed the tip of his cane onto the marble summoning his henchmen.

  Resigned and defeated, Marceau reached out his hand. Max approached, cane in hand peering up at the gleaming silver figure in the form of a scorpion.

  Marceau placed his left hand on Babette’s sticky, red chest. Steeling his nerves, he laid his right on the scorpion’s back while dark magic seeped into his flesh from the head of the cane. The process made his skin crawl. Eyes closed, he focused on weaving a complex hex to reanimate the ballerina’s body, envisioning her small dancer’s frame, skin as pale as snow from blood loss and death, the torn gash in her… no, control it. Life, focus on life. Marceau drew a deep breath and tried again, this time imagining the girl dancing. Her strong arms and legs flowing in graceful, fluid movements as she spun and leapt around the stark room. He visualized the poise and grace of the finest ballet dancer and let the hex well in his chest… growing until the pressure made his heart pound. Focusing his mind deeper into her body, Marceau imagined blood pumping through her veins into her heart and out into her extremities. Next, in his mind’s eye, he saw her brain lighting up as electronic impulses traveled through her nervous system. His hand slipped on her chest when her muscles contracted beneath his hand.

  “Now, Marceau,” Max demanded.

  Exhaling, Marceau released the hex down both of his arms. His muscles contracted as biting, ice-cold power flowed, both into the corpse and the silver figure.

  The scorpion reared back on its tail, striking, violently burying its stinger deep into his right hand. Marceau cried out as thick, hot blood trailed along his wrist contrasting the icy hex flowing through his hand.

  “Reanimate. Forgive me, but I curse this flesh to reanimate and obey.” Each word was accompanied with pain, and he knew it wasn’t over. A venomous pulse traveled from the scorpion’s barb into his flesh. Marceau braced. A wave of pure terror overtook him as the ballerina’s spirit moved through his body and back into hers. Confusion, pain, maddening panic, and blind hatred poured into his mind. He couldn’t draw a breath. What was Max doing?

  Marceau’s chest swelled as the pressure of the girl’s soul pressed against his lungs. His ribs now expanded with excruciating pain as if his bones would snap at any moment. Max was letting too much of her soul in. Marceau had never felt such agony during a reanimation.

  “S-stop. Too much,” he wheezed. Marceau pushed with all his might. His thoughts screamed for release while forcing the girl’s spirit down his left arm and into her corpse. Shaking his head, he fought the darkness threatening him. Losing consciousness now could be fatal. With only enough lung capacity for short, panting breaths, Marceau was desperate to feed the soul back into her body. The dancer was strong. Max had been right about that, but her soul was resisting. After yanking his hand free from the scorpion’s sting, Marceau thrust it onto her chest as well. Screaming, he used all his effort to expel the soul from his body. The corpse seized in a full body spasm and drew a long, gurgling breath.

  Marceau fell onto his side and rested his temple on the cool marble of the spinning room. Tiny stars flashed before his eyes, swirling in the darkness, limiting his vision. He coughed as a wave of nausea rolled over him.

  Babette jerked upright and looked down at the blood covering her. She reached for her neck and moved her hands in rapid, frantic pats over the separated flesh below her jawline. Her eyes bulged in terror.

  Two sets of heavy, lumbering footsteps entered the room.

  “Ah, perfect timing, Benjamin, take her to the infirmary at once and have Doc sew the wound,” Max ordered. “Oh, and do tell her to try to minimize the scar, would you? I can already see this one is a prized addition. I’d meant to merely strangle the girl but got carried away by the intensity of her performance. I didn’t sever her vocal chords, though, so no permanent harm done.”

  Sweat dripped across the bridge of Marceau’s nose onto the floor. She was aware. Babette had a conscience and would be more like Lynette than the lower level undead Max used as mere servants. She truly was the ultimate punishment for Lynette… and for him, as well. Max had damned her to an eternity under his control.

  Babette managed to get to her feet. Frantically, searching left to right and back, she watched Benjamin and another large footman approach her on both sides, as though she was a wild animal loose from her cage. Her small hands held tight over her ravaged throat one on top of the other, trying to hold the gaping wound closed. She opened her mouth and began to scream. At first a frantic liquid whisper, then she coughed and dark blood flew from her blue lips. After a deep inhalation, she shrieked, this time with more power, sounding like someone blowing very hard to fog glass.

  Marceau pushed himself up and said, “Please. They have to close your wound. Please, don’t fight. They can do no more harm to you. I promise.”

  Babette’s head snapped down, and she glared at him. The next time she inhaled, her rage produced a blood-curdling scream that echoed against the walls.

  “You must go with them,” Marceau yelled this time.

  She ran to the door, but Benjamin grabbed her left elbow, and the other footman caught her right. Babette’s struggling was futile since she was too afraid to let go of her throat. They picked her up by her elbows and carried her toward the exit, her feet scissoring in wild kicks. Fruitless attempts to break free did nothing to slow their pace, but a bloody ballet slipper fell from Babette’s foot as they reached the doorway. It splatted, thick and wet, upon the white marble floor.

  Lynette fell forward, her knees hitting in awkward angles, one at a time. She tried to swing her arm to catch herself, but the coordinating muscles did not cooperate, and she collapsed onto the floor. Smacking her hands against the marble in frustration, she wailed in hysterics.

  “Oh, are we all just going to fall and hang out on the floor this evening then?” Max asked. Again, he slammed his cane against the marble to summon more servants.

  Marceau drug himself a few feet and propped up against the wall. “You put too much of her spirit back into her. I didn’t think you could take much. Babette will be a whole new level, she…”

  “Yes. Well, I have been practicing, my boy.” Max stroked the figure atop his cane.

  Practicing how? Practicing on whom?

  “Did you see how graceful she moved, Lynette?” Max walked over and bent, grabbing Lynette by her chin and wrenching her to face him. “Did you see her grace? How she moves without your awkward, robotic jerking? Your stiffness? She may be a fine companion for us both. What do you think of that?”

  Lynette sobbed harder, short gasps of breath coming between sniffles. Max pushed her away, disgusted. “Why does she not move like the rest? What exactly did you do different this time, Marceau?”

  Marceau fought exhaustion, but even he had noticed her fluidity. He thought it was because Max funneled such a large portion of her soul into the corpse, unless… “Dancing,” he answered. “To reanimate her corpse, I imagined her body graceful and poised. I pictured her dancing around the room full of passion and life.”

  “Ah, can it really be that simple?” Max tucked his cane under his arm and clapped his hands loud and slow. Marceau winced with each celebratory clap, seeing nothing worth applauding in this new
development. “What an interesting revelation. Why this may be the breakthrough I’ve been waiting for all these years. Do I have the key to fluid, cognizant reanimation at last? You must visualize not only their internal biological movements but also their physical prowess?”

  Waiting all these years? Key? Marceau frowned.

  Max looked down at Marceau and stroked the scorpion atop his cane with one finger. Cocking his head, he said, “Well, I see you are not up to celebrating, or anything else for that matter. Really, Marceau, I did have two others. And I had thought a little siphoning off of spirit would serve Lynette right for her petulance and weak escape attempt.” Max glanced at Lynette. Tears streamed down her face. “However, I guess maybe seeing her new companion’s lithe exit was enough punishment after all.” When no one moved to acknowledge or dispute, Max waved his hand. “Fine. I will let the other two lie at rest. It is a shame, though. One was a boxer with an impressive physique. I meant to put him on gate duty. Oh well, no matter now.” Max turned and walked to the doorway. “Vespa? Vespa. Come at once and see to Marceau. He’s in need of your care.”

  Marceau’s heart thumped with panic. His chest tightened. He was too weak to protect himself.

  “N-no Max… imilian. Not Vespa. I will—” He tried to raise himself farther up the wall, but his arms shook with violent spasms. He pleaded, “Vespa mustn’t feed.” Blackness threatened to overtake Marceau. He would not stay conscious long. How could he stop this? “Sir, the auction. I will not be able to recover in time if she… if she feeds on me.” Marceau’s arms were giving out. He sat back against the white wall and listened to the click-clack of her heels as Vespa approached the ballroom. “Please.”

  “Oh, all right. I suppose I am pleased with my new ballerina. Vespa, you are to nurse and care for him only. Absolutely no feeding. Am I clear?”

  Vespa’s whine of protest was the last sound Marceau heard before the pressing darkness won.

  Chapter Four

  Seraphina sat in the classic GTO, rubbing her hands together while the engine warmed. An unexpected cold front was moving in and the howling wind pelted heavy raindrops against the windshield. She was surprised Finn had asked her to drive him to the Woodard house because he never wanted her to come along for his jobs. She’d always wondered whether he feared her magic’s affinity with the dead, or if he thought she’d see him as more normal somehow if she didn’t witness his power in action. Seraphina hated the contempt other supernaturals showed him, at least until it was their turn to ask him to eat the sins of their loved ones.

  Cold air interrupted her thoughts as Finn opened the door and climbed in the car. The slight shake of his hands was unusual. Finn rarely acted nervous about anything.

  “Sorry I took so long. All set now, love.”

  Finn had changed into his usual Sin Eater outfit: a black V-neck T-shirt, black jeans, and black Doc Martens. His pale skin was a stark contrast to his attire.

  Years ago, she had made the mistake of asking why he “went all Johnny Cash every time he had a job?”

  She’d never forgotten his response, “Death is messy, even for supernaturals, black hides the blood.”

  Finn gave her a few directions and once they were on the interstate, he cleared his throat and turned to her.

  “I need to make sure you understand what happens when I eat sin. I wish I didn’t need you on this job, but it is a troublesome situation.”

  “Why is this one so different?”

  “I’ll explain in a moment. First, the basics. You probably know most of this, but I need to be sure since this will be your first time witnessing what I do in person.”

  Seraphina nodded.

  “Evil enough deeds in life, when left unatoned, create a spiritual vacuum in supernaturals. Upon death, the body can become an empty vessel. It lies vulnerable if a supernatural in the shadow realm is strong enough to take hold.”

  Seraphina knew all about the Possessed, but they were a taboo topic for supernaturals. Plus, Finn almost never opened up about being a Sin Eater, so she nodded and listened.

  “Possessed are unpredictable and deadly. Sometimes they’ve waited decades, even centuries, to cross back into our realm. They don’t usually understand modern society or care for our rules, whether human or supernatural. Possessed threaten the anonymity of the supernatural community through their reckless actions and could garner the attention of the Conexus. Obviously, no supernatural wants to be on their radar.”

  She asked, “So is that why the families seek out your services? For fear of Conexus reprimands?”

  “Fear and also pride. Possessed aren’t easy to recognize, and humans certainly don’t know of them. They often tarnish the reputations of both the dead and their remaining family.”

  Finn was silent a few minutes. Seraphina glanced at him as he pulled on the strap of his seat belt while lost in thought. He took a deep breath and continued, “As a Sin Eater, I ingest the unatoned sins of the most evil supernaturals. With my aid, their bodies lie at rest. My power pulls their negative energy into a chalice and knife. I channel energy into the bread and red wine. When I consume the sins, I relive each one from the perspective of the sinner. Actually, I think most supernaturals understand much of what I do, but there’s more to being a Sin Eater, Seraphina. I also witness the consequences suffered by any victims. I relive the sin from their perspective and experience any pain or emotion they felt, for only then is true penance paid.”

  As his words sank in, Seraphina’s heart ached for him. “Finn, I didn’t know. I cannot even imagine what you must have suffered all these years.”

  For a long time, she’d worried about losing Finn to the sins he consumed. His moods swung without warning. One moment he could be joking and like his old self, the next he could shut down and spend days barely speaking. But he’d seemed better lately. His sense of humor had returned. In fact, his pranks were getting a bit out of hand. He had become less prone to violent mood swings. What had changed?

  Kandy. He’d been spending more time with Kandy (with a K) lately.

  Finn was silent again, only giving directions here and there. “Turn left just ahead. This is the road and the Woodard Manor is a few miles down. You’ll see a large iron gate banked by lion statues.”

  They’d reached Belle Meade. The land of antebellum mansions, country clubs, and old money.

  After a couple miles, she said, “Almost all these houses have gates and statues. How can I tell which one it is?”

  “Trust me, this one will stand out to you.”

  “Well, that’s certainly mysterious.” At the next bend in the road, ripples of dark magic flowed ahead. “Oh.” Seraphina turned onto the drive and stopped abruptly. She leaned forward and pressed her chest against the steering wheel to see up past the car’s roof. Finn was right. No supernatural would ever miss the red glow of spelled markings ingrained on the large marble gateposts. When turning the windshield wipers to their highest setting, lightning lit the sky and for a moment, and she could clearly see the expressions on the frightening, snarling lion statues atop the spelled gateposts. Imposing, spike-tipped gates stood open, revealing a long winding, cobblestone driveway. She eased on the gas and the hair on her arms rose as she neared the statues. At the iron gate, Seraphina gasped, shock traveling all the way down her body, making her squeeze the steering wheel and curling her toes painfully under as dark, stinging magic slapped against her skin.

  Finn wrapped his arms tight around his own waist and exhaled. The dark magical barrier was barely restrained from harming visitors, for now at least.

  She looked at Finn and raised her eyebrow. What if they were trapped inside?

  Finn answered her unspoken question, “Old Man Woodard, Phyllis and Virgil’s father, was a bit… territorial. His name was Odol and he was a Possessed. His body was held by something ancient and without mercy. He was one of the most evil, psychotic bastards I’ve had the misfortune of meeting. In my line of work, that’s truly saying a lot.”
r />   “A Possessed? In Nashville? So that’s why the gateposts had such strange markings? What if we can’t leave?”

  The GTO’s left front tire ran slightly off the edge of the long driveway, the pounding rain-fed streams of runoff and fallen leaves making it impossible to tell how deeply the ground dropped off along their path. This was definitely not the place to get her car stuck.

  “We won’t be trapped here. Odol disappeared a long time ago. And Virgil is on his deathbed, or trust me, we wouldn’t be here. Phyllis has no active powers. She knows of our community but keeps her distance because she fancies herself to be more human, and, therefore, better than the rest of us.”

  Seraphina interrupted, “If we’re so safe, then why has your leg been bouncing the whole car ever since we left? And why did you finally ask me along? I’ve offered to assist before and you always refused. Why are you so nervous about this one, Finn?”

  “Because evil is as deeply rooted here as these old oaks. Don’t be deceived into thinking Virgil is anything other than dangerous, no matter how weak he seems. Odol fed his tainted blood to his son before Virgil ever had a chance to nurse from his human mother. One drop insured Virgil was as close to Odol’s natural born son as possible, despite the weaker supernatural body Odol possessed during the conception. Virgil’s lesser DNA suppresses some of the power from being the offspring of a Possessed, but he’s lacked none of the brutality.”

  “And Phyllis? You said she’s human?” Seraphina swallowed, thinking about how she had basically hexed the woman earlier.

  “Not fully, no. Phyllis was spared only because Odol felt a female child was unworthy of his gift. In fact, her human mother took her away at birth, and Phyllis never met her father. She was raised in a convent. Hence, her propensity toward religious fervor.” Finn smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “By the time Phyllis returned to this house, her father had disappeared. And good riddance. The death count in Nashville took a considerable dip after Odol was gone.”