Much of Madness (The Conexus Chronicles Book 1)

by Summa, S. E.

  Vespa said, “Glad to see you recovered after reanimating Maxie-Waxie’s little ballerina.”

  “Hmph. Do me a favor, would you? Call him Maxie-Waxie to his face, just once. I beg you.” Marceau sneered. “But make sure I’m around to see it.”

  Vespa leaned her right shoulder forward, a gesture that made her large breasts move against each other beneath her scandalously low cut dress.

  “Oh, now, now, lover. You’d miss me. Just think of our little kiss last year.” She raked her teeth across her full lower lip. “Tasting your blood brought back memories. I was reminded of our good ol’ days. Like when we stole that silly, little film.”

  Marceau’s skin crawled. On job in California, his self-control slipped for only a moment and had he ever paid for the lapse. Whew. He fell victim to Vespa’s demented appetite for one brief kiss. He’d never forget the mixture of extreme pleasure that had rippled down his body straight to his groin and the freezing, agonizing pain immediately following. Memory of the kiss gave him nightmares for weeks afterward, all the more horrifying as his body ached for her.

  At the time, Marceau had needed a female distraction to keep an aging film archivist’s attention while he stole the original 1922 film reel of the infamous Nosferatu.

  The Djinn Faction in Manhattan paid Max two trunks filled with precious stones for the job since they did not bother to keep up with modern currencies. The faction wanted the original copy of the film to ensure modern film restoration techniques would never reveal that Max Schreck was not a human actor, after all. There had always been rumors of his authenticity as a vampire, which was ridiculous since the foul tentacled Sanguine were the closest thing that existed to them. But Schreck was a ghoul, a lower form of djinn, and he’d fed on the camera. Schreck disappeared not long after the Djinn Faction learned of the movie, but they had been unsuccessful in stopping its release.

  Marceau had needed a djinn’s help to resist the temptation to go to Vespa. His body shivered involuntarily, and she giggled again.

  “So, you do remember.”

  “Enough, Vespa. Why did you follow me here? I thought after your Louisiana visit, you would be hungry for the Los Angeles crowd again.”

  Marceau maintained strict eye contact. He would not give her the satisfaction of looking elsewhere.

  “Mm, I was. They do take such good care of their bodies there… vanity is delicious.”

  Vespa fed not only on her victim’s life force but their desires too. She reached up and traced her finger along her collarbone, trying to draw his attention lower.

  “There are so many pretty boys in Hollywood, but they’ll have to wait. I’ve hungered for a rather tasty morsel in a cowboy hat ever since I saw his moves at the Grammys.” Vespa tilted her head back slightly, indicating the tall man a few feet behind her. “Maximilian sent me to Nashville in case you needed me, so I finally got to taste my cowboy. Sadly, I’ll be finished with him tonight, tomorrow at the latest. He isn’t holding up very well.”

  Marceau looked around her and recognized the country music star leaning against the wooden column. A casual observer might assume he was slightly intoxicated, but Marceau knew better.

  Vespa pouted her lips. “Wanna take me out, lover? We could go Honky Tonking.” She giggled and chills ran down Marceau’s spine. Several heads turned in response to her seductive laugh. “Aren’t Southern words just so cute? The nightlife is intoxicating down on Broadway. Desperation hangs so thick you can taste the lust in the air.”

  Her current victim listed to the side behind her, only standing with help from the wall. Marceau noticed lines that did not belong on the young man’s face and a vacant expression in his heavily bagged eyes as he stared at Vespa’s exposed back.

  Marceau’s lip pulled back in distaste as a line of drool fell from the man’s lip. The cowboy was going down and soon. Maybe he could convince Vespa to let him go.

  “Cowboy’s not looking so good. If he dies here, it will disrupt the auction and Maximilian will be furious. Perhaps, you should be finished with him now.”

  It was worth a try.

  Vespa stomped her stiletto. “Oh, no way. Not this one. I’m taking all of him. He actually tried to sneak out first thing this morning, can you believe it? I caught him tiptoeing toward the door with his boots in hand. He actually thought he could leave me in some damned hotel and go back to his boring, human wife. As if she could ever bring him the pleasure I had.”

  Marceau tried to mask his disgust and sound indifferent when he said, “He must love her very much to have even remembered she existed after a night of your feeding, Vespa. Why not cut him loose? Surely, there’s another boy toy here you could devour tonight.”

  “If you’re offering…” Vespa licked her cherry red lips.

  “I certainly am not,” Marceau answered. The muscles in his jaw ticked in anger at the mere thought.

  “Pity, Marceau. One day, though mark my words. That kiss was just the beginning. I want you to cry out my name in ecstasy. Come willingly and I won’t make you beg for my touch.”

  Vespa ran her manicured hands up her slim waist, around the sides of her full breasts, and into her shiny, black hair. She paused to see if Marceau was reacting to her pose.

  He raised his brow and shook his head.

  She dropped her arms. “Fine, whatever. I guess I’ll just have to go back to my cowboy then. Oh look, he’s drooling over me, at least someone is.”

  Vespa turned and sashayed back to her unfortunate escort. A normal woman would have dislocated her hip trying to put so much sway in her walk. Men in all directions gawked, several women, too.

  Marceau was unimpressed. He’d seen it all before, so he turned his back to Vespa and looked for his mystery woman once more.

  His eyes narrowed and his fists clenched.

  What in the hell was she doing?

  Chapter Ten

  Seraphina knelt and lifted the tablecloth.

  “Are you ready?” she whispered.

  “Yeah, thought you’d never get here, Miss Sera. I been sitting still a long time.”

  “I know, Rolf. Thank you for helping me tonight. We have to hurry. Remember how we practiced it?”

  Rolf’s little head nodded. He scooted to the edge and raised his small, ghostly hand.

  Seraphina only felt the barest indication of his touch as she grasped his hand. She said a silent prayer.

  This spell had to work. She couldn’t deal with it if little Rolf were hurt. Please pull from Rolf’s loneliness and pain, and leave only warmth and love in its place.

  Seraphina set her other hand on the grimoire and began chanting the well-practiced spell. Her desperation for the book supplied the nerve to cast a spell in a room crowded with humans.

  Her incantations worked better when connected to the dead. That was where Rolf came in. She’d found a way to use his anguish to fuel the power in it even when she wasn’t nearby. Spells faded. Hers sometimes faded too quickly. This one had to hold its strength for several hours.

  Rolf promised to stay under the table until she returned, and she’d vowed to take him to a place filled with children for a day of fun and let him stay in her room at night. She planned to cross him over the veil as soon as she figured out how. Hopefully, the grimoire would hold some clues about that problem too.

  At last, she felt the tie between her little ghost and the book’s binding.

  Chapter Eleven

  Marceau looked back. Luckily Vespa and her cowboy were too engaged in what some might call soft core porn for her to notice.

  Waves of turbulent magic ebbed from where the redhead stood. Any moment now Vespa would detect her, she would dump her man in boots and jeans in a heartbeat and go after the woman if she got a taste of her mystifying power.

  A few quick strides and Marceau stood opposite her. Marceau’s eyes widened as intricate red scrolls crossed her palm and curled up her wrist before disappearing. A faint red glow faded back into her skin.

  She jumpe
d and quickly replaced her silk glove. Guilt, fear, and then determination, flashed in her deep green eyes. Marceau yearned to pull the sugar skull mask from her face and see her full expression. Who was she? Instead, he followed her gaze downward. His mouth fell open. The Blackthorne Grimoire lay between them on the table. The object she spelled was the very book he’d traveled all the way from New Orleans to procure.

  She bent and quickly wrote on the book’s auction sheet, then locking eyes with Marceau as she firmly laid the pen back down. Without a word, she turned and walked briskly toward the stairs to the West Lobby. Slowing only when she passed the Moonstone cameo, she brushed her hand against the table’s edge and disappeared through the hall’s wooden doors.

  What did she do? Damn it to hell.

  Marceau rounded the end of the long auction tables and rushed to stand where she had been only a moment before.

  Seraphina Pearce, $6,000 was written on the auction sheet in curving, feminine handwriting. The bid above hers had only been $1,000.

  Marceau’s muscles contracted painfully. Electricity jolted through his flesh as the spell blossomed and frenetic magic took hold of his senses. When he looked at the ancient grimoire, he now saw a tattered, ugly book, knowing only a moment before the Blackthorne Grimoire had sat in very spot. He closed his eyes and struggled to picture the grimoire as it had appeared before the spell.

  Moments earlier, thick, red leather binding had covered the weighty volume. A golden latch secured the corded black leather strap that held the book closed. Complex golden patterns of Celtic knots branched out from each corner culminating in a Tree of Life medallion in the center of the cover.

  The grimoire was a beautiful tome. Marceau exhaled and opened his eyes focused on seeing the book as he remembered. Trying to push through the spell, all he saw before him was a dilapidated journal lying limp on the table. Torn bits of yellow stained paper stuck out from the edges. He closed his eyes and focused on how he needed the grimoire to appear. The spell flared stronger. He staggered, overwhelmed with revulsion. This time, he didn’t want to even open his eyes and look at the ugly, insignificant book.

  Painful pin pricks in his fingertips electrified at the mere thought of touching the disgusting thing, and he drew his hands into fists. With each breath, he smelled the rot of musty, damp pages thick with dust, mold, and age. His stomach rolled while the noxious odor increased.

  Powerful. An impressive spell.

  Fine, if Marceau couldn’t get through her spell, he’d work around it. He wouldn’t touch or even look at the damned book. He’d just make a bid and get the hell away as fast as possible.

  Breathing through his mouth, Marceau snatched up the pen to write a higher bid than the troublesome Spellcaster’s. The moment he tried to put pen to paper, a debilitating wave of melancholy, a heart-wrenching grief as strong as the mourning of a new death, overtook him.

  Stunned, Marceau swayed. His eyes closed on their own and started to tear up. He tried to take a deep breath and clear his mind, but the crushing weight of indescribable misery constricted his chest.

  Dropping the pen, he fell forward and grabbed the edge of the table. His firm grip was the only reason he could stand.

  “I don’t want the book,” Marceau said aloud, trying to release the hold of the spell.

  His stomach rolled with nausea. He swallowed rapidly again and again as he fought to keep back the acid sliding up his throat, but it wasn’t helping. He was going to throw up right there if he didn’t put some distance between him and the nasty grimoire. Stumbling back two steps, his arms raised as if in protection.

  “I said I don’t want the damned book,” Marceau repeated with more conviction.

  Another step back and he was able to take a clear breath.

  Someone’s throat cleared nearby and Marceau opened his eyes. An older woman lowered her mask and looked at him questioningly.

  “Just s-something I ate, ma’am,” Marceau forced out.

  “Indeed. Should I get you some help?” she asked in a weathered voice, her Southern accent heavy in his ears. “I said, do you need help, young man? You are swaying like a drunkard and look the worse for wear.”

  Marceau’s ears thrummed, making it difficult to process her words. He took another longer step back.

  “No, no thank you, ma’am. Please don’t trouble yourself.” Marceau’s voice was louder, steadier.

  He straightened his spine and, with trembling hands, smoothed his lapels. Marceau ran a hand through his unruly, black hair causing a strand to fall on his forehead. He faked a smile and nodded as the older woman walked past him, still glancing around, concerned.

  Marceau looked back down at the pen. A wave of nausea and a panicked sweat formed on his brow at the thought of touching it again. His body trembled with a racking chill.

  His knees would give out before he could manage a bid. The mystery woman’s spell would render him unconscious prior to writing his name, let alone a dollar amount.

  Marceau looked up. Vespa was eyeing him. Cowboy licked her neck, oblivious to the judgmental stares he received. She arched her dark eyebrow, surely questioning Marceau’s actions.

  When he stepped back, even more, he could lean against the cool, exotic hardwood paneling. With Vespa waiting to pounce, unconscious and vulnerable was definitely not an option.

  What the hell had the Spellcaster done to the grimoire? From this distance, Marceau could think again. It was not a hex, that much he could tell right away. He had a sixth sense about curses and would have felt drawn to the object, not repulsed. His instincts would be intact, and he would have seen a faint glow around the book. Even if the purpose of the hex were to repel others, he would not have felt more than an irritating prickle against his skin. Such was his talent.

  No, this was definitely a spell.

  She’d levied a baffling, powerful spell to have affected another supernatural as strongly as it had. Her dominance in the air seemed familiar, similar to the dark magic Max used.

  The enigmatic young woman in black had somehow managed to make sure no one else could possibly bid on the Blackthorne Grimoire. At least, he knew her name now, Seraphina Pearce.

  Maximilian was not going to be pleased, not pleased at all. Marceau sighed.

  Unless.

  Perhaps, he could get the book another way. He straightened from the wall with new determination and found Seraphina sipping a glass of champagne in the moonlit courtyard. A heavyset twenty-something with a thick mustache was talking to her, his short arms waving around like a cartoon walrus as he spoke.

  Seraphina’s body language spoke volumes. Her arms were tightly crossed in front of her. The almost empty champagne flute in her left hand was tucked against her right elbow. She leaned back from the man, and her gaze darted from side to side as if contemplating her escape. The man leaned closer. Her eyes met Marceau’s across the courtyard.

  He walked toward her, slowly winding through the other patrons. Marceau grabbed two flutes when a waiter conveniently turned in his direction, but he didn’t break the gaze he shared with Seraphina until a girl no older than twelve stepped into his path as he rounded a fountain.

  “Pardon me, Miss.” Marceau winked. She bounced to the side with a nervous giggle. He bowed. Marceau approached and held out the champagne to Seraphina with a half-smile. “With the mask, it’s difficult to be sure you’re old enough to drink this. I’ll not be arrested, will I?”

  Seraphina returned a sly smile, “I’m older than that, trust me. Besides huma… I mean people overlook much.”

  She accepted the offered drink but acted confused for a moment with the two flutes, one in each hand. Marceau took the empty one from her and turned, setting it on a nearby waiter’s stand.

  The pompous walrus was so busy bragging about his bar exam score, he hadn’t noticed their exchange.

  “Ahem.” Marceau cleared his throat. “My dear, Seraphina, I do apologize for the delay.”

  She startled when he said her nam
e.

  “I had unexpected difficulty in placing my bid. I do hope you’re not cross with me.” His smile grew wicked as her eyes widened and her mouth formed a perfect little O.

  The lawyer-to-be had finally come up for air and shut up long enough to look annoyed.

  “Ah, I see you made a friend in my absence. Marceau L’Argent.” Marceau extended his hand politely. “I am Miss Seraphina’s escort for the evening, and you are?”

  “Gene Buford.”

  They shook hands.

  She interrupted, “Well, Gene, it was nice to meet you. If you will both excuse me, I need to go to the powder room.” Seraphina gave Marceau a pointed look as she said both and walked away.

  “She never said she had a date…” began Gene.

  “No harm, no foul. Enjoy your evening,” Marceau replied as he walked away.

  He’d been chasing after Seraphina half the night. Well, this time, he had a hunch about exactly where she was headed.

  As he predicted, she walked directly to the stairs leading back to the grimoire. He didn’t bother to follow her. Instead, he finished his champagne while she checked on her bid.

  When she emerged from the stairs appearing reassured, Marceau stepped into her path.

  “Look, I really don’t like to play games,” Seraphina said.

  “Oh, I think you might.”

  Marceau gestured for her to join him in a less crowded area, a corner of the hall. She didn’t move.

  “Unless you wish to discuss your spell here in the main thoroughfare?” Marceau waved his hand at the people around them.

  Seraphina took small, measured steps to the corner as if trying to stall and come up with a plan.

  Marceau said, “Considering the magnitude of your spell on the grimoire, I’d say you can relax and feel secure you’ll win.”

  “So, it worked?” Seraphina sounded surprised. She stepped back and lowered her voice. “Oh, I meant what spell? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes. I’d definitely say it worked. A little too well for my taste.” He pulled his collar away from his throat at a momentary flashback of the spell’s choking despair.