by Summa, S. E.
“Torrance. And yes, you know redrum and all jazz?”
Marceau just stared at her. Was this a new reaction to his power? Delirium?
“Really, Marceau, have you not seen The Shining either? The list of reasons you’re culturally deprived grows.” She filed away her current notes and closed her binder. “In other words, I need to get away from this dusty grimoire and go have some fun. We’ve been at this every afternoon for weeks now. I’m bored.”
“Of course, I’ll take my leave.” Marceau stood. The thought of returning to his lonely room at the Hermitage earlier than usual was not appealing. The hotel was historic and comfortable, but after several weeks of staying there, it resembled a well-decorated cell… with room service.
“I didn’t mean you should go. Why don’t we get out of here for a while and have some fun?” She blushed. “Um, for the curse. Yeah, that’s why. You can examine my hex while we are out in public and see if it’s any different than here at home. I didn’t mean it was a…” Her blush spread deep red across her freckled cheeks.
“An excellent idea.” He almost wanted to let her flounder for another moment or two so he could enjoy her reaction, but his chivalrous nature wouldn’t allow such rudeness. “Where would you like to go?”
“Hmm.” She stood and stretched like a cat who had napped too long on a windowsill. “I know. We can play tourist.” Her smile beamed.
“How does one play tourist?”
“By starting with the meccas of all Nashville tourism. How else? Give me two minutes to change and off to the museum we go, then we can visit the Mother Church.”
“A museum does sound like a nice distraction though I’m not exactly dressed for a church.” He looked down at his jeans and crisp white T-shirt. Marceau wondered what art exhibits were currently on display at The Frist Center while he waited.
Marceau shielded his eyes from the sun as he stared up at the impressive, if unusual, building in front of him. The curved structure’s windows resembled piano keys and a large triangular mast, similar to a radio tower, rose from a circular end.
“The Country Music Hall of Fame,” Marceau read aloud and looked at her with no shortage of skepticism.
Seraphina smiled in return and nodded. Not what he pictured when she said museum, but it explained her wardrobe change. She now wore a big smile along with a pair of cowgirl boots and a denim jacket over her sundress.
Marceau was willing to try almost anything to keep that carefree smile on her face, even country music. He was beginning to doubt the “Mother Church” she’d mentioned was comparable to the cathedrals in New Orleans.
She said, “Yep, tourism ground zero. See how the building curves? It’s actually in the shape of a giant bass clef. And look how it juts out at the end there? That’s to emulate the tail fin of a 1950s Cadillac.” She approached the glass doors. and he rushed to open one for her. “Part museum and part archive, any day of playing tourist must start here. Come on.”
Inside, Marceau insisted on purchasing their tickets. They spent the next two hours wearing headphones for the audio tour and exchanging funny faces and remarks between the displays. He had to admit the instruments, crazy vehicles, and garish clothing of the country stars were interesting.
“Ah, finally, here is my favorite room of all. The Hall of Fame Rotunda.” Seraphina slid the headphones off and entered a round, impressive room.
WILL THE CIRCLE BE UNBROKEN was printed in large letters separating rows of inductee plaques from the large windows atop the room. A huge, triangular mast, identical to the metal framed one jutting from the roof outside, dropped from the center of the ceiling. An old woman walked around slowly as she read, but otherwise, the rotunda was empty.
“Aren’t the faces sculpted on the plaques great? Ferlin Husky, Hank Williams, Sr., Johnny Cash. This is the goal of every dreamer who comes to Nashville to be a country music star. They all want to have their names displayed in this very room one day.”
She and Marceau circled the room and scanned the inductees.
“Where do you wanna go next? We could grab a bite to eat or go listen to some live music. I have a friend at the Ryman so we can take a private tour.” Seraphina headed to the center of the room.
A large ring of contrasting marble was positioned in the middle of the floor. Seraphina walked into the circle and turned slowly while reading the words inscribed there. She raised her arms and spun faster with a laugh. “We don’t have all day, Cajun. Come on, where should we go next?”
Cajun? A laugh barely escaped his throat before the metal structure above crashed down and impaled Seraphina’s chest.
Her torso stopped spinning instantly, but her arms swung completing their momentum.
The radio antenna replica pinned her like a butterfly in a glass case. Seraphina was suspended in a grotesque backbend a few feet off the marble floor.
Wh-what happened?
The woman screamed hysterically behind him.
Marceau could only stare at Seraphina. Her mouth opened and closed though no sound escaped. Tears fell, pulling in swirling red hues as they mixed with the fine droplets of blood on her cheeks. Her green eyes went blank with death.
All breath left Marceau’s lungs as his mind finally understood the macabre scene before him. Marceau dropped to his knees and covered his mouth. He turned his head away as dark blood fell from her bottom lip in a steady stream.
Above her, the metal structure was fully revealed. The two radio masts were one huge, diamond shaped murder weapon. Sunlight streamed in, circling her body, from a hole in the ceiling where the sculpture had been anchored.
Marceau reached forward and tenderly wrapped his fingers around a long curl of her red hair. It ran through his fingers even silkier than he’d imagined. He had wanted to touch her hair so many times. What could be the danger now?
Pulling his hand back and pressing it against his chest, he tried to hold in the pain. His body shuddered as the screeching sounds of the tourist continued. He couldn’t think, couldn’t even draw a breath.
This can’t be. I don’t understand.
Gasp.
She was just spinning. And teasing.
Breathe.
She called me a Cajun.
His thoughts stuttered through his mind, even his inner voice rocked to its core.
A new noise pounded against his eardrums.
The shrieking stopped mid-scream and now an echoing, repetitive sound grated on his nerves.
Clapping. Slow, steady clapping.
“Now that is one hell of a way to die, is it not Marceau?” Max asked.
Terror shot another round of adrenaline through his heart as Marceau turned to face his mentor.
“M-m…” Try as he might, Marceau could not force the name from his trembling lips.
“Oh, do pull it together, Marceau, or I shall leave her that way simply as a lesson in fortitude.”
Leave her that way? Wait. Then there’s a chance this is one of his threats. Maybe, he will reverse her death. Is this real?
Marceau pushed every ounce of his will into his spine as he rose and straightened himself. He smoothed down his white shirt, now misted with crimson, to stall another moment while he centered himself. “A lesson in fortitude shall not be required, I assure you, Maximilian. I was simply caught off guard. You do have a flare for the dramatic. I am myself once again.” Marceau forced his voice to stay as even as possible.
“Oh,” a small voice exclaimed right beside him.
Marceau’s body betrayed the calm facade he struggled for, by jumping much too high.
“A tear. May I have his tear, Max?” the high pitched voice continued.
“Of course, my sweet,” Max replied, in a tone Marceau was sure he’d never heard before. Max hadn’t even bristled at the use of his nickname.
Babette, the undead ballerina, reached for the tear on his face. She was dressed in a light, blush pink tutu that matched the jagged, raised scar across her throat. Her other hand held Lynette’s ti
ghtly.
Lynette was dressed in a formal corseted gown in the same pink shade and shook her head only enough to catch Marceau’s eye. It distracted him long enough to not flinch as Babette’s cool hand brushed his cheek.
Babette slowly pulled back her hand and his tear hung from her dainty, index finger. She giggled. Chills ran down his back. Babette raised the finger to her mouth, licked the tear and closed her eyes. “Pain, fear, and oh. Affection. Such delicious longing.”
She licked her lips.
“Affection? Longing?” Max laughed. “My Babette has quite an interesting little talent you see, Marceau. She’s extremely sensitive to emotions… and has visions, as well.”
Marceau said, “Maximilian, I’ve been sending you copies of our transcriptions of the grimoire. I speak with you every couple days and am always available when you require me. I hardly think such a graphic threat was necessary to garner my attention.”
“It may not be a threat. Her fate is yet undecided. I am bored by your slow progress on the book. I had a feeling your pace was impeded by,” he curled his lip in distaste as he said, “growing affection. If I end her life here and now, could you not simply take possession of the grimoire?”
Marceau needed to concentrate. Seraphina’s life depended upon his next answer and he knew it. What could he possibly say to save her?
“She has a curse,” Marceau blurted out. “I’ve never seen one of this complexity. I’ve been studying it while letting her do the tedious work of transcribing the grimoire. You know how obsessed I can become when I can see no way to break one. This hex is quite involved. The affection, the longing, Babette senses are no more than my desire to break the curse. I admire the curseweaver who wove it.”
Marceau turned and let desperation sink into his eyes as he stared first at Babette and then Lynette. Neither changed their expression in the least, but he thought Lynette’s hand tightened on Babette’s a moment before the ballerina said, “A curse.”
Babette sniffed deeply in his direction and then in Seraphina’s. She guided Lynette’s stiff steps, before reaching a cold hand out once more.
Marceau cringed as this time Babette pulled a crimson drop of blood from Seraphina’s, now blue, lower lip. She tasted the drop of blood and closed her eyes and groaned a sexual and primal sound. “Mmm. Yes, there is terrible suffering here. Long felt pain and deep loneliness.” Babette locked eyes with Marceau and held out her hand.
He hesitated, but Lynette’s mismatched stare urged him forward. Marceau took her hand as his thoughts screamed—Save her.
It seemed as if his bones would break from the tension, when Babette finally said, “Yes, I agree. His obsession for this curse drives his actions here. She is much too delicious to waste. Enduring suffering this long has tainted her blood like the aging of vintage wine. Do bring her back so I can taste her again someday, will you Max?” Babette lowered her head and her mouth formed a seductive, dangerous smile, which made Max’s eyes widen.
“Ahem, yes. I believe my message has been received loud and clear, has it not, Marceau?” Max slammed the tip of his cane into the marble floor and a droplet of blood froze inches below Seraphina’s mouth. “My Ettes and I will take our leave, for now.”
Lynette turned her body away from Max and mouthed, “Danger. Stay here.”
Marceau frowned. What could be more dangerous at home? Nothing could be worse than what Max had done here.
The Ettes joined Max, and they each raised their free hand and placed it on his shoulders forming a circle. Max slammed his cane once more into the floor and as if a video played in reverse, the blood droplets began to slowly rise back into Seraphina’s mouth.
“Thank you, Maximilian.” Marceau dropped his eyes and focused on the floor, his posture the definition of subservience.
“I expect more pages by the end of the week then. I shall also expect you’ll be finished tinkering with this curse before the next full moon. Do not try my patience, Marceau. There are many opportunities for a grisly death in this city. Now Babette has a taste for the woman, she may want more.”
“Yes, sir.” Marceau did not look up until Max and his Ettes had completely faded. Then he rushed forward in time to see the tip of the metal spire as it left Seraphina’s chest. Her wound closed and she stood upright.
The sunlight above was muted as the ceiling was again intact. The woman who had been screaming was now quietly reading plaques again.
Seraphina stopped abruptly after half a rotation. She cried out as she pressed against her heart and looked at Marceau with an expression of sheer panic. Her prior levity forgotten.
Marceau froze. Seraphina shouldn’t feel anything with Max gone and his punishment reversed. What did she sense? He reached toward her instinctively, and she flinched back.
“Yes, sorry.” He lowered his arm. “You seem alarmed. Are you all right, Seraphina?” His voice was steady, but his eyes raked over her looking for any sign of her previous injury.
“I-I want to go home. Right now.” Seraphina rubbed her sternum and started forward at a clipped pace. Once outside, she turned. “I need to be alone, Marceau. I need space.”
Marceau didn’t want to let her out of his sight for even a moment but knew he had no right to argue. The farther she was from him, the safer she would be.
Seraphina turned and walked away, her steps quickening as she left the area. Marceau watched until several blocks down, she turned out of sight.
The events of the afternoon reeled through his mind on his way back to the hotel.
He had until the next full moon, less than a month, to free her. Then he would leave and never see Seraphina again, for her own safety.
Chapter Twenty
Marceau chatted with Khat while Seraphina tried to work out a series of troublesome Celtic symbols. Her concentration was shot, however, between hidden glances at the way Marceau’s black T-shirt clung to his body and flashbacks of the biting cold she’d felt in her chest the last time they were together.
She hadn’t mentioned her sudden unease at the Country Music Hall of Fame to anyone, especially Finn. But something frightening and familiar jarred her subconscious in that bitter cold—a hollowed out emptiness set her nerves screaming and kicked her flight reflex into high gear—ruining an otherwise fun afternoon.
Finn walked in and paused to kiss Khat before heading to the refrigerator.
“Interesting. I don’t know why it didn’t register before,” Marceau said. He looked back and forth from Seraphina to Finn and Khat. “Do you mind kissing Khat again, Finn. For science?”
“Well, if it’s for science, then you’d better make it good.” Khat laughed and laid a lingering kiss on Finn that made Seraphina’s eyes drop. She faked concentration on the book.
“Huh.” Marceau stared at the air around Seraphina.
“What?” Khat asked after she came up for air.
“Seraphina’s hex doesn’t recoil when you touch Finn. I had assumed it was a natural reaction to touch, but apparently it’s purely one sided. The hex only reacts when Seraphina touches objects she feels an emotion toward.”
Seraphina blushed. Marceau was referring to when she touched the dahlias he brought her.
She couldn’t help but feel a little jealous her hex showed no reaction when Finn touched Khat. Seraphina was happy for her friends and wanted them to enjoy a normal relationship, but it was still difficult at times. Finn was cursed but still free to experience love, to touch Khat and be touched.
Cut out the petty thoughts. She scolded herself. Snap out of it. She went back to scanning an index of ancient pagan symbols on her laptop.
“There. Go back to the last page, Seraphina.” Marceau pointed at her laptop.
She hit back on her browser. Marceau’s arm hovered over her shoulder as he started to point out a symbol they’d been searching for. He hissed and jerked his arm back, tucking it tight against his chest.
“What? What’s wrong, Marceau?” Seraphina asked.
; “N-Nothing just an arm cramp.” He got up quickly. “I’ve just been sitting too long without stretching.” Marceau paced and shook out his arm, not looking at any of them.
“Arm cramp, huh?” muttered Finn. He looked back and forth between Seraphina and Marceau. “I think it’s my turn. Don’t you? I want to try playing my guitar as a distraction while you work on the curse. May help damper my emotional response. Let’s go try it in my room.”
“Sure.” Marceau followed Finn down the hall still rubbing his arm.
“What was all about?” Khat asked.
“I have no idea,” Seraphina answered and turned back to her translation to hide her worry.
Beautiful music filtered out of Finn’s room, but it was one of his more melancholy songs. One he played when something was troubling him.
The guys stayed in Finn’s room the rest of the evening. Seraphina gave up on the grimoire around seven when she and Khat decided to watch TV for a while.
“I need my comfy pj’s,” Seraphina said, rising. “I’ll be right back.”
She headed toward her room. The music had stopped a while ago, but she hadn’t thought much of it. Finn often preferred to stay secluded in his room while working with Marceau to prevent hurting anyone’s feelings when his emotions got out of control. He hadn’t acclimated to Marceau’s power as well as she had. Seraphina hadn’t thought anything was wrong until she neared Finn’s door.
“I… haven’t seen any signs of that. I mean she always stays focused on our work. Seraphina is well aware of the dangers…” Marceau sounded upset. She couldn’t help it. It was wrong to eavesdrop, but the door was cracked open and they were talking about her. Seraphina was human, well, sort of.
“To be safe… don’t touch her. Sit farther away. Wear damned gloves. I don’t know. Just don’t ever dare touch—”
“Ahem,” Marceau interrupted.
Seraphina’s heart leapt to her throat.
She rushed the rest of the way to her room and quickly closed the door. Leaning back against it, she tried to take deep breaths. Finn was warning Marceau not to touch her. How humiliating can you get? This stupid curse. Seraphina’s eyes stung with unshed tears. She wanted to throw herself on the bed and start bawling, but that was silly and would fix nothing. It wasn’t as though Marceau had ever touched her anyway. They sat together every afternoon and talked for hours, but he followed her rule and was careful. He understood her hex meant touching had consequences. She flipped through a book and tried to distract herself, too embarrassed to rejoin the others.