Arcanorum Read online

  The Noir waited for them.

  The man might have been surprised if his heart hadn’t been heavy with worry for the woman.

  The Noir didn’t really look like what he’d expected. Unthinkingly, he’d assumed the nickname referred to the color of her skin, but it observably did not. She looked like an old picture of the woman on the traditional family cookbook, Betty Crocker. In her fifties or early sixties, her hair was a brunette bouffant, and her green eyes twinkled with peculiar anticipation. Her creamy face was unlined but her chin drooped. She wore a simple white shirt and a gray skirt with inch-high heels in matching gray. She waited at the bottom of the steps that led up to the house above and brushed her hands over her checked apron. She might have been making cookies.

  The man had heard tales about her before. She lived all across the bottomlands of Louisiana. She was called on by many people to aid in various endeavors. She even had the ear of a former governor, and it was said an American President had consulted her. She knew dark secrets and was able to sway opinions. People did not cross the Noir and were silently respectful of her powers.

  The man didn’t believe everything he’d heard, but he knew his parents did. The man’s father had once performed a favor for the Noir. The glass bead was his reward. It was a symbol of the Noir’s obligation to the man’s father. Break the bead and say her name. Never use the bead lightly. It can only be used once.

  The man had worn the bracelet because his mother worried about him. Despite what the man had said to the woman, the oil platforms were dangerous places, and the man’s specific profession was even more dangerous than the mean. The bracelet became a symbol for the man’s parents to believe in. If the son wore it, then he would be protected. Certainly, it had been a small price for the man to pay to salve his parents’ worry.

  But he’d never believed before.

  The woman was dying. No hospital would be able to save her even if they’d come immediately. The man didn’t know how he’d known. The gifts of the Lake People were varied. When gifts were combined in marriage and in love, their power had tendencies to strengthen and change.

  The woman would die unless the Noir helped her. The man knew it. So did the Noir.

  He stopped before her and adjusted the woman in his arms.

  “Ah, you’re the minted image of your father,” the Noir said. “And he loves you else you wouldn’t be using the favor I gave him.”

  Her voice was throaty and rich. The man stared at her as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. How can she help?

  “Lake People,” the Noir said. “Goujon’s children. You folks have magics all your own, don’t you know?”

  “Not enough,” his voice choked on the last part.

  The Noir’s eyes dipped to the woman. “Something special, oui?”

  “Oui,” the man affirmed.

  The Noir’s hands came out and hovered over the woman’s inert form. “Still alive. A fighter. A strong soul.”

  “Can you…?”

  “I can,” the Noir said. “But the question should be what will you do for her?”

  The man had thought about that very thing on his terrifying journey south. Before he’d known what the woman actually was, through some twisted hand of God or fate or however it had been accomplished. He would have done just about anything. Now his answer was a little different.

  He would do anything for the woman.

  The Noir nodded. She didn’t even need to hear him say the words aloud. She knew. “Bon. Bring her upstairs. The moon is rising, and we have much to do.”

  The Present

  Here and now…

  Chapter 1

  Unless one suffers, one does not learn.

  –Greek proverb

  Traffic was congested on the four-lane divided highway. Although the hour was close to dusk, people headed into New Orleans for evening entertainment and a baker’s dozen of other reasons. An accident had obstructed an intersection three blocks ahead, and traffic had nowhere to go until the police cleared it. An ambulance’s whirring sirens could be heard from a mile away, coming from the north, but the throng of drivers who had come to a standstill didn’t appreciate the urgency of its errand.

  A plain brown sedan was stuck in-between blocks, with not even a driveway or a parking lot to exit. The driver honked twice and then hit his fist on the steering wheel. He looked around as if urgently searching for another way to go. There was a VW minivan and a Hummer H3 stopped to his right. To his left was an impassable median, a looming mound of May grasses that had to be trimmed by a special stand-on mower.

  Bobby Therin, a ten-year-old boy watching out the window of his mother’s VW Routan, stared at the brown car and suddenly said, “Ma, that woman just hit the driver of the car.”

  “What?” his mother said. “We’re not getting to Granny’s before ten and she’s going to be p-uh, uh, I mean, mad.”

  Bobby’s eight-year-old sister, Trisha, said, “Ma was going to say pissed.”

  “Don’t say that word,” her mother said. “If we cut across this neighborhood, we can get to that one street, what’s the name? St. Avide? Is that it?” She rapidly punched buttons on her Garmin. “We can shoot up that street and…Bobby, do you remember how to work this thing?”

  The Garmin unit said, “Bai-Yai-Yai-Yai! Recalculating!”

  “I’m going to kill whoever programmed it to use SpongeBob’s voice,” their mother announced matter-of-factly.

  “She hit him again,” Bobby said, ignoring his mother.

  “Why on earth would anyone want to get directions from SpongeBob SquarePants?” his mother asked irately.

  “I would,” Trisha said. “I think Squidward is gay.”

  “And she got her hands around his neck,” Bobby said, obviously impressed. “She was in the backseat of the car and he’s driving. You know, I think her hands are tied. She’s using the rope to choke him.”

  “You’re making that up,” Trisha accused. “You watched Pirates of the Caribbean again. I told Daddy, and he said I was being a big fat blabbermouth. Did you know a carob is a bean?”

  “You are a big fat blabbermouth,” Bobby said idly, more interested in the drama in the next car over. The sedan was shaking as the pair struggled inside. “Ma? Shouldn’t we call the police?”

  “The police probably already know about the accident,” his mother said, trying to pry the Garmin off the inside of the windshield. “Does this thing ever come off?”

  “Flip the little switchie thing on the side,” Trisha instructed.

  “Dang,” Bobby said. “She’s got him halfway over the seat, and she’s pulling with her entire body, too. Do you think she’s killing him?”

  “What?” his mother said.

  “Bobby’s making it up,” Trisha trumpeted.

  “Well, look, cheese-doodle head,” Bobby said and pointed. Trish leaned around her brother and peered through the tinted windows.

  “It’s too dark for me,” she protested. “You know I can’t see very well at night, and I’m not a cheese-doodle head. You are. Twice as much as me.”

  “You forgot your glasses again on purpose,” Bobby said, not looking away from his window.

  “The frames make my ears hurt.”

  “Ma,” Bobby said. “I think maybe that woman got kidnapped by that man, and she’s trying to escape.”

  “And he’s really a skeleton in the moonlight!” Trisha shrieked and laughed.

  The Garmin came off the windshield with a loud pop and their mother said a four-lettered word.

  “Ma!” Trisha protested. “I’m telling Dad, and you owe the swear jar a dollar.”

  Their mother said another bad word.

  “Two dollars!” Trisha bellowed.

  “Look, she’s getting out of the car,” Bobby said. “It wasn’t rope at all. It was handcuffs. Maybe he was a policeman, and she was his prisoner. Maybe she killed him.” He gasped. He couldn’t wait until he told his best, Shipton. Ship was going to be so jealous that Bobby h
ad seen it and not him.

  The woman stumbled out of the sedan. Wildly, she looked about, and for an instant her eyes caught Bobby’s. He didn’t know what to say, much less what to think. She looked younger than his mother, but she also looked tired, as if she hadn’t been sleeping very well. Her short, ragged hair was dark in the evening light. Her eyes flashed in the reflection of the car’s lights from behind them.

  Gold eyes, Bobby thought. Never seen gold eyes before. Not like that. Nosirree, Bob. He glanced at his mother. His mother was completely ignorant.

  “Maybe if we get on Marietta Street, we can go down to 46 and then downtown,” she muttered. She glanced over her left shoulder. “But no one’s moving, and no one’s going to let me over there, that’s for tooting. How late does the Chalmette Ferry run?”

  “Ma,” Bobby said. “I think that man is dead. And that woman killed him.”

  “What?” his mother said.

  “Bobby’s making stuff up again,” Trish sang.

  “Bobby, honey,” his mother said. “If I don’t get you to Granny’s house before the news comes on, there’ll be hell to pay.”

  “Granny’s house smells funny,” Trish said.

  “That’s cause she buried the bodies of all her other grandchildren in the crawl space,” Bobby told his sister with malicious glee.

  “Bobby!” his mother yelled.

  “I heard you tell Dad that,” Bobby said promptly. “And really, the police.”

  The woman outside stood frozen. She glanced at her handcuffed wrists and then at the man in the car.

  The man in the car abruptly moved. He leaned forward and choked loudly. Bobby could hear it even through the closed window. One of his hands beat at the window. The woman, so tall and thin, stepped back, horror contorting her pretty face.

  Bobby watched, transfixed. Dimly it occurred to him that the man looked oddly familiar, as if he had seen him somewhere before.

  “You BITCH!” the man yelled. “I’m goin’ kill you!”

  “Well, goodness,” Bobby’s mother said, unmistakably hearing the two declarations. “What is wrong with those people?”

  “She tried to kill him,” Bobby said.

  The man’s words unfroze the woman. She spun on her heel and ran, crossing in-between cars and starting down the middle of the two lanes. Her lengthening strides increased as her pace intensified. People’s heads began to turn as they watched her.

  “She sure can run,” Bobby said.

  His mother stared after the woman. Bobby looked back at the man in the car. He had a cell phone out and was making a call, glancing up to see where the woman had gone.

  Bobby said, “If he was a policeman, I think he’d be running after her.” In his version, she was definitely the kidnapped heroine. Besides the guy looked shady to him. That was his granny’s word for anyone who didn’t look right. Shady. Absolutely shady.

  “Probably some couple having a big fuss,” his mother said doubtfully. She hadn’t noticed the handcuffs.

  But Bobby didn’t think it was a couple having an argument. He’d never seen his father handcuff his mother, no matter how much she might deserve it.

  Ten minutes later cars began to inch forward. He noticed that the man in the sedan turned left as soon as he was able, and he revved his motor as he raced back south to parts unknown.

  * * *

  The woman woke up and heard the sound of a car’s engine running. She didn’t think anything about it at first. She was lying down on a bench seat. Her head was braced against the side of a door. Her legs hung over the sides of the seat. She was too tall to fit lengthwise.

  She didn’t move for a minute. A murky fog floated around her brain making comprehension difficult. The grogginess was a heavy cloud that pressed down on her.

  A trip? And I fell asleep in the back seat? Where are we going?

  The woman frowned and blinked her eyes. She could see outside the opposite window. The skies were purpling, and the sun was on its way up or had already passed the horizon.

  Why didn’t we just stop? I’m hungry.

  Her stomach growled at the thought.

  I’m hungry and…I don’t know where I am.

  She looked at her arms. She was wearing a pale blue shirt with long sleeves. Her wrists were bony, but not so bony that the silver handcuffs around her limbs were loose. Why in the name of God am I wearing those? Handcuffs?

  The man in the driver’s seat said something nasty, and the woman stopped breathing for a moment.

  Her eyes rotated to the left. She could see the back of his head. Shaved bald with a tattoo at the base of his skull, he said something under his breath, and his hand slapped the steering wheel.

  The words finally deciphered themselves to her, as if a puzzle had solved itself. “Goddamn traffic. Why now? Why me?”

  She knew this man. If he turned and looked at her she would know his face. A waterfall of abrupt fear made her stomach lurch. She was afraid of this man. No, it was worse, she was petrifyingly terrified of this man. His name is…his name…his name is what?

  Her arms clenched a little as she shifted. The handcuffs rattled just a bit.

  The man’s head swiveled, and she immediately shut her eyes. Pretend I’m asleep.

  “Awake?” the man said. She didn’t answer nor she didn’t move. She breathed regularly although her heart was thundering in her chest. “No,” he answered himself after a long minute. “Gave her enough meds to down an elephant.”

  Meds? That’s why I feel so groggy, so sleepy. That man drugged me? But why? Why can’t I remember his name?

  The woman continued to breathe steadily, and she heard the seat creak as he turned back to the front.

  “Damn it to hell. That woman’s goin’ be unhappy if I don’t get these people where they belong and soon.” The man murmured angrily to himself. “I can’t control traffic. Ain’t nowhere to go, and I can’t even turn around and go back to the bayou.”

  The clothing he wore rustled as he did something. The woman thought he was digging around in his pockets. Her eyes opened a crack. He was facing forward again. His shoulders moved as he performed some action.

  “And I ain’t got no more smokes,” he muttered. “Figures.”

  A scene appeared inside the woman’s head. In full color, it was as if she watched it from a distance. She knew that it had happened to her and not so long before. The bald man glared at her, an expansive sneer on his well-formed face. Three red and white pills sat in the palm of one of his hands. He held a glass of water in the other. Water dripped from the side as he thrust it toward her. “Take them,” he’d ordered. “Take them, or I’ll hold you down and shove them down your throat.”

  The expression on his face had shifted to amused anticipation. He’d wanted her to resist. He liked it when the woman fought.

  The woman had taken the pills. Their bitter taste stuck in her craw even after she’d finished the water. A few minutes later the man left the room, and she’d propelled her finger down her throat. There hadn’t been much in her stomach but those damned pills, but the contents had emerged regardless. She’d actually enjoyed making herself throw up behind the bed. With a little luck no one would notice the pool of vomit for hours, and she would have her chance.

  Despite her actions, she had evidently absorbed some of the medications and fallen asleep. But she was awake now.

  My chance. Here and now. If I could just let go of this fear…

  Another picture emerged inside her head. The bald man’s face above hers, leering and triumphant. Fear blearily and rapidly insouciance. She’d been drugged. Endlessly drugged and the bald man liked a fighter. He’d provoked her to make her fight him.

  The woman sat up and swung her handcuffed hands at the back of his head. She connected, and her wrists exploded with pain. The bald man lurched forward, but she was close behind him, not allowing herself to lose the momentum of her attack. Using the metal of the cuffs, she hit him again, ignoring the strain of stretched liga
ments and wrenched bones.

  Jerking his head against the seat, using his ear, she wrapped the short length of chain around his neck. He had a thick neck so it didn’t work very well, but the woman didn’t give up. She heaved brutally and applied her body as leverage.

  The bald man’s wretched grunting cut off along with the air to his trachea. His fingers urgently pried at her hands trying to find a way under her inexorable grasp. The woman leaned back, her entire body’s weight yanked against the man’s neck. He slid up a little trying to find his own leverage, anything to get that constricting chain away from his throat. His foot kicked helplessly at the steering wheel. Pieces of plastic from the dash flew away as he jerked spastically. One hand gave up on the chain and beat at the glass of the driver’s side window. He was trying to get someone else’s attention.

  The woman could see the minivan to the left. The boy in the window stared at her open-mouthed. He pointed at her. Inanely, she didn’t think the kid was particularly frightened of the scene, but rather engrossed, as if he was watching a television show.

  The bald man emitted a final choking rattle and slumped motionless. The woman fell back, letting the cuffs slip over his head. He didn’t make another noise, and her chest dragged in deep breaths, desperately trying to regain the oxygen she’d lost in her fierce attempt at freedom.

  Run, the voice came to her. It echoed through her brain and pushed at her demandingly. It didn’t sound like the familiar voice of her inner self. It seemed masculine and angry. It called to her as if it knew her, as if someone was frenziedly trying to help her.

  Run! it said again, compellingly. Run! Run! Run!

  The woman grappled for the door handle, and all seemed lost for a moment as she fumbled with the lock. Finally, the button was depressed, and the lock popped open. She yanked at the handle, and the door swung open.