“Sorry.” Eleazar held up one hand. “Serf rebellion committee.”
“Figures.” Marc’s expression and tone quickly returned to his curt and grim baseline.
“So, who’s the other guy?” Marc asked Michael. “Steve dressed as the Pope?”
“Well . . .” Again, for Michael there was more fiddling with knives and the accompanying risk for slicing off a fingertip.
With a nod of his head and simple gesture, Marc indicated the last figure.
“Eleazar, please.”
Eleazar zipped over to the other stand-up. With a flourish, and great expectations for mischief, he whipped the cover off its head. He gasped in surprise when he saw it was Brenwyn rendered up as the queen. He stood and stared until Marc spoke up.
“Can we see it too?” Marc asked.
Eleazar realized that he was standing in Marc’s line of sight. This, unfortunately, also put him in the line of fire.
“I don’t know . . .” Eleazar murmured. “I don’t think it’s really ready for viewing yet, milord.”
“Quit arguing with your king,” Marc said firmly, “and drag whoever-it-is out here. You have my curiosity up now.”
“I hear and obey,” Eleazar said in resignation.
Eleazar carried the queen out to stand next to the king. Marc’s jaw dropped when he saw Brenwyn’s face. Where the other paintings were flat, even cartoonish, Brenwyn’s face was detailed and shaded at the level of a state portrait.
Eleazar and Michael eased back out of Marc’s sight.
“Is this okay, Marc?” Michael asked in a voice sized for a mouse.
“My God, she’s beautiful.” Marc was breathless.
“Thank you,” Michael said.
“She looks alive. It’s incredible.” Marc pulled his eyes away from her face for a moment to look at Michael.
“You’ve got her; I recognize that look. She’d look at me like that and I’d do anything in the world for her. She knew it.”
Marc was silent for quite some time, studying those pale violet eyes.
“And she never hurt me the way I did her,” he said finally.
Marc looked between the queen and king, obviously coming to some great conclusion. His expression changed, and Eleazar assumed that Marc finally understood the true meaning of “cheese-headed blatherskite.”
“Rat’s ass bastard,” Marc muttered under his breath.
Marc strode back to the workbench and picked up two more saw blades. Michael threw himself in front of the targets to protect Brenwyn with his own body; Eleazar snatched Michael out of the way and physically restrained him.
Marc returned to the firing line with the blades fanned out in his left hand. He let them fly in a flurry of angry motion. Marc spun around and made for the door at full steam.
“I’m going into town,” he growled. “You two have the day off.”
He hit both doors with all his weight on his way out and threw them wide. He marched out into the rain and out of sight.
Eleazar could hear Marc slam the door of Mr. Fixit, start up its motor and speed off in a wake of flying mud and gravel.
As the sound of his passing faded into the steady hiss of the rain, Michael and Eleazar stood exactly as Marc left them. The two finally had enough courage to crane their necks and check the king and queen. Brenwyn’s stand-up was untouched, but all three saw blades were lodged in the king’s face.
Eleazar grimaced and Michael let out a sigh of relief. As he relaxed, they both realized that Eleazar still had a death grip around his chest.
“You know,” Michael said evenly, “no matter what you do, I still don’t find you sexually attractive.”
Eleazar released him as if he were on fire.
“Just remember whose forehead these would be sticking out of if I hadn’t pulled you to safety,” Eleazar pointed out.
“Yeah,” Michael said. “Thanks.”
“No problem at all.”
Eleazar stepped over to examine the portrait of the queen more closely. He looked first at Brenwyn’s features and then over to Michael.
Michael looked more nervous than when Marc was throwing saw blades.
“So—you’re in love with her, too?” Eleazar asked.
“Don’t ask me to explain,” Michael said with a shrug.
Chapter 18
A Solvent, Not a Solution
RAIN WASHED OVER THE WINDSHIELD of Mr. Fixit in waves, leaving the glass submerged between strokes of the wiper blades. Marc half-expected a trout to swim by in those moments. He slid the SUV into an on-street parking spot opposite Brenwyn’s shop and killed the engine.
The streets of Arcanum were mostly abandoned, except for a handful of brave, moist souls wrapped in ponchos. The rest of the populace must have been smarter than Marc and hunkered down in their brightly-colored homes.
Marc saw no sign of life across the way in Proserpina’s Bower. The interior was bright and inviting against its backdrop of gray sky and wet brick. All details were obliterated by the streams of water flowing down the windows of the truck.
With a deep breath and a grunt, Marc threw himself out of the vehicle and dashed across the street. His leather jacket was soaked as he took shelter under the store’s green and yellow awnings. Pressing his hands against the glass, he peered through the window.
Definitely, no one in the front of the store, he thought.
He tried the door and found it to be locked. A shaky, hand-lettered sign in the front glass read: “Closed due to Family Emergency.”
Terrific. It’s been years since I’ve been a family emergency.
Marc scanned the streets for any sign of Brenwyn. There were a few different, rain-soaked people, but none of them were her.
“You know, Marc,” he said to himself, because self-abuse was so much more effective when said aloud, “it would have been smart to get her address before you told her to go to Hell.”
It would have been a good idea to have gotten her real name, too. It was embarrassing to admit he’d fallen so hard for someone he knew absolutely nothing about.
Marc spotted a door beside the shop that led to the upstairs apartments. He put his face to the window to check for names on the mailboxes. With the aid of the flashlight from his belt, he could make out: CZARNECKY; TAYAMA; CARLTON/VISMINAS. There was nothing even vaguely like “Brenwyn.”
“Rat’s fucking ass.”
Marc crossed the street back to Mr. Fixit and scanned the street for any clue. He still saw nothing but rain and a few soggy pedestrians. Marc stood in the middle of the street, wet, frustrated and nearly frantic. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted at the top of his lungs.
“Brenwyn!” He listened for any response besides an echo off the brick walls. “BRENWYN!”
A woman with an umbrella and Peruvian poncho stood on the sidewalk and stared at him as if he had lost his mind.
She was probably right.
Marc quickly slipped from frantic to depressed. The woman slipped into the nearest store.
“She’s not here, you idiot.” He let his arms fall to his sides with a splat. “Who the Hell did you think you were anyway, Marlon Brando?”
A black cat popped into the window above the store, perched between the drawn curtains and the glass. It seemed a natural association—local witch, black cat. But forcing his way through the door and pounding on all the doors of the second floor sounded like a good way to get arrested, even if he found the right one.
Knowing when to come in out of the rain, Marc sloshed back into the truck and shook off what water he could. He slid the key into the ignition, gripped the steering wheel and realized he had absolutely no idea where to go next. With a sigh, Marc dropped his head onto the wheel.
* * * * *
Brenwyn heard Wortcunning yowling from the front room. From the muffled tone of his voice, she could tell he was on the front windowsill behind the curtains.
She was quite muffled herself. Curled in her favorite wingback chair and wrapped in a down comfo
rter, she was fully and properly cocooned. There was no hope of her emerging from this as a beautiful butterfly. There was no hope for her at all.
“What is it, Wort?” she called out into the darkness.
The cat responded with a chittering hunting cry he usually made when pursuing spiders on the ceiling. His thoughts were simple, appropriate for a two- or three-year-old.
Brenwyn, come here, Wortcunning thought. See this!
She was in no mood to get up and see anything. She had a quart of triple chocolate chip ice cream and a spoon in her hands; the remote for the DVD player was in her lap. There was nothing else she needed or wanted from the world.
“What do you have cornered out there?” She tried not to let her voice sound curt or angry. After all, it was not her cat’s fault that she had been the stupidest cow in all of recorded history.
The man. The man is in the street. The man who makes you sad and wear bad pajamas and eat ice cream.
Wortcunning emphasized his thoughts with a series of urgent mraows.
“You are delusional.” Brenwyn rolled her eyes in spite of herself. “You have never seen Marc in your life.”
The cat cried out desperately.
The man is going away. Come see! Come see!
Brenwyn jammed her spoon into the ice cream, as she would have loved to do with somebody’s heart, and set the container on the end table to her right. She switched off Sleepless in Seattle and extricated herself from the comforter.
Wearing only threadbare sweat pants and a ten-year-old “Starwood” tee-shirt, Brenwyn felt cold outside of her cocoon. She nudged the thermostat upwards two degrees on her way to the front room. From the dim, blue light of the television screen, she could see the papers and books left in an untidy heap on her dining room table: bills, her company accounts, even her Book of Shadows. A quiet voice in her head scolded her for the mess, but a louder voice said What does it matter? She walked past the table without another glance.
The closed curtains moved rhythmically as Wortcunning flicked his tail forcefully from side to side. Through the fabric she could hear him let out a plaintive cry.
Gone, was the thought that accompanied the sound.
Brenwyn pulled aside the curtains and checked the street below. As she expected, there was no sign of Marc or his black SUV.
“See,” Brenwyn said as she stroked the top of the cat’s head. “There’s nobody down there, darling.”
Wortcunning’s stare and low yowl were accusatory. No higher thoughts attached to that, just a feeling of profound frustration.
“Perhaps, you were right,” Brenwyn murmured. “Too bad.”
Brenwyn picked up the cat and caressed him. With his tail and hindquarters cradled just above her hip, he was able to rest his paws on her shoulders. Perhaps he was eating out of depression, too. He felt to be a pound or two heavier than his usual twenty.
“I would have loved for you to have met him. He is a good man.” Brenwyn scratched Wortcunning along his jaw and skull in the way he always loved. “But it does not seem that will happen anytime soon.”
Wortcunning rubbed his face against her jaw and then favored her with a nose-to-nose “kitty kiss.” He was purring loudly enough to be heard in the next room.
“I love you, too, Wortcunning.”
Brenwyn closed the curtains and carried her cat back to her wingchair cocoon.
* * * * *
“Mike’s” was a non-descript bar on Alembic Avenue that caught Marc’s attention with the neon “Rolling Rock” sign in its window. He’d seen the same type of place in dozens of campuses and small towns: brick walls with historic photos hung everywhere, several crappy round tables, probably with uneven legs, the local alternative rock station playing on the stereo.
Most of the tables were filled with locals and students just old enough to buy beer. The bartender, obviously not Mike since he looked just barely legal to drink himself, watched everything from behind the bar.
Marc pulled the door closed behind him and casually shook the rain off of his leather jacket. He hung it on a hook near the door.
His habitual assessment of threats indicated the situation was benign except for a large group tucked in a shadowy back corner. Someone with a bandaged face on the far side of the table ducked down when Marc looked his way. Noting that as a possible hazard, Marc picked a spot at the bar that was against the wall and afforded him a view of the room through the mirror behind it.
“What can I get for you today?” The bartender was friendly enough, without affecting a cheerful “customer service” demeanor that might have inspired Marc to vomit.
“I need something that’s really strong,” Marc said, “but tastes really bad, so I feel like I’m atoning for my sins.”
“Ah, another Catholic!” The bartender smiled broadly at Marc’s remark. “I have some slivovitz here.”
Once again, something arcane in Arcanum. Probably a cocktail of absinthe and fermented goat’s blood.
“What’s that?” Marc asked.
“Serbian jet fuel,” the bartender said. “The importers call it plum brandy to trick Americans into drinking it.”
“Perfect.” With any luck, it would wash the feeling of wet and stupid off of Marc’s brain. “I’ll have a double.”
The bartender poured his drink and Marc passed him a ten in exchange. Before he took his first swig, Marc checked out the large group with a quick glance in the mirror. A young woman leaned over the table to chat with them. Her jean-clad, shapely derriere must have been aimed purposely at Marc.
Marc appreciated the view for a moment or two, then closed his eyes and shook his head. The old phantom bludgeon pain flared across the back of Marc’s head to remind him what damage was linked with lasses with nice asses.
Marc took a gulp of slivovitz to take away what sins might still be clinging to his soul. He grimaced as the liquor burned its way down his throat and evaporated before reaching his stomach.
When he next opened his eyes, the woman was headed his way. She had long blonde hair and a red top that was cut as low as any serving wench’s. Marc braced for trouble.
“What does a girl have to do to get a drink around here?” she drawled.
“Probably talk to the bartender,” Marc said. “Flirting with the lachrymose guy at the bar might work, too.”
“Lack-rih—” The woman stumbled on her attempt at the word. “What does that mean?”
“Depressed to the point of tears,” Marc replies. “I have a huge vocabulary.”
Marc ventured another sip of his drink, a very small one. As the burn slid down his throat, he stole a glance in the mirror at the big group again. The man with the bandaged face was still there and openly watching Marc’s back. The man in shadow beside him did the same.
The blonde beside Marc laid a well-manicured hand over his on the bar.
“It’s nice to have a really big—vocabulary—to use on a woman.”
Marc faked an appropriate smile and waved over the bartender
“So, what are you drinking today?” Marc asked the woman.
“Champagne?” She flashed the same electric smile at the bartender. He showed no sign of being impressed, either.
“All I have is Great Lakes domestic,” he replied.
“Okay,” she said after a moment’s deliberation. “A rum and coke, instead.”
“And you, sir?”
“Some strong, black coffee to counteract that cleaning solvent you sold me,” Marc snarled.
The bartender smirked and brought their drinks without interrupting Marc and the woman’s chat. Marc left a twenty on the bar.
“You’re funny,” the woman said.
“Thanks,” Marc said. “I’m sure there’s something funny about you, too. My name’s Marc.”
“I’m Bambi,” she said breathily. She subtly postured her body to show her cleavage to its best advantage. Marc looked her in the eye. They were green, verging on hazel.
“Obviously, your parents
were great fans of Disney,” Marc observed.
“Oh no,” she said, “that’s my stage name.”
As if that was a surprise.
“And what do you do onstage?” he asked innocently.
Somehow, Bambi changed her posture and even more cleavage appeared. Marc could almost see down to her navel piercing.
“Anything you want.” Bambi smiled suggestively. “I’m a dancer. I’m working at the Candy Shack over on Route Thirty-One tonight. I could get you in for free, if you’d like.”
“That would be great,” Marc said. “You know, I’ve never met an exotic dancer before and I’ve always been curious about one thing.”
Bambi leaned in close, pressing her chest against his forearm.
“You can ask me anything.”
“Okay.” Marc looked deep into her eyes and smiled. “Where is he?”
“Where is who?” Bambi blinked her eyes vapidly.
“The man with the two-by-four.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She glanced back at the group at the big table, but tried to be discreet about it. It was obvious that she had some idea, but she was admitting nothing.
“The last time a woman looking like you was this friendly to me—” Marc tapped his chest. “Well, when I followed her out to the parking lot, her boyfriend hit me in the back of the head with a two-by-four and took my wallet.”
Marc leaned back against the bar propped up on one elbow.
“I’d be embarrassed to let that happen twice,” he said quietly.
Bambi was instantly furious, her anger switched on like a light.
“You pig!” she shouted. “Do you think I’m such a white-trash slut that I wouldn’t be talking to you if I wasn’t setting you up for a score?”
Her eyes and nostrils flared wide and blood rushed to her cheeks. Marc had to admit she was very good at what she did.
“Fuck you, you little prick!” she added for her big finish.
Every eye in the bar was locked on them. Bambi glared at Marc as he looked back with no sign of emotion. He made no move from his lounging position.
“Very nice redirect with the hostility,” he assessed quietly. “Normally, that would have a guy falling all over himself to apologize.”
Camp Arcanum Page 22
