Mysteria Nights

“Okay, none of this makes any sense. The artist seems to know who I am, but I have no idea who this person is, how he or she got my poems. I mean, I just wrote them for the online class. I typed them into the computer, attached them to my e-mail, and sent them to the creative writing professor. Then I put the originals into a file labeled with the proper class. I suppose someone at the university could have gotten to them. The only other copies were blown away one day in a freak windstorm.”

Godiva shifted guiltily in her chair.

Candice shot her a narrowed look. “What do you know about this, Godiva Tawdry?”

“Nothing!” she said quickly.

“So you did not print them in such lovely calligraphy?” Barnabas asked.

“No! Not even my handwritten copies looked anything like those.” Candice got up and marched to the front window. She yanked both framed poems from the easels on which they were displayed. As an afterthought she made little shooing motions at the gawking, crying people. Then she hurried back to Barnabas’s office.

“Let me see them,” Godiva said. Candice gave them to her and the witch studied the poems. “This is hand- lettered with a calligraphy quill—nothing computer-generated about it.” She kept staring at the poetry, and suddenly her eyes widened. “It’s not working!”

“What?” Candice asked.

“The magic. I’m not feeling anything.” She looked apologetically at her friend as she handed the poems back. “They’re perfectly lovely poems, but I’m not crying.”

“So the magic’s gone?” She should have known it. No way would she really have magic. She glanced at Barnabas. The vampire looked stricken.

“Wait. I have an idea,” Godiva said. Flouncing herself over to the window, she grabbed one of the paintings, noting that all the criers had dried up and drifted away. She returned with the picture. “I need the poem that goes with this one.”

Candice looked at the green-eyed woman in the cave of ice, and was in the process of handing the free verse poem to her friend when she gasped and stared at the painting.

“The eyes! I knew there was something about them. She has my eyes.”

Barnabas looked from the painting to the teacher. “Mon dieu! You are right, madam.”

“The other one has your hair,” Godiva said.

“Holy shit,” Candice said.

“Give me the poem.”

Candice let Godiva take it out of her numb fingers. The witch held the poem up beside the picture. Almost immediately the vampire started to sniffle. Through his tears he said rapturously, “It has returned! The magic has returned!”

“It never went away,” Godiva said. “It just doesn’t work without the paintings.”

“That is weird as hell,” Candice said.

“Madam,” Barnabas gushed breathily into the silence, “I would like to commission you and the artist for twelve more poetry paintings. And I would be willing to pay you this amount of money.” He scribbled a number down on a piece of pink notepaper and slid it over the desk to Candice.

She picked up the paper. She blinked. And blinked again. She could not believe the amount of zeros on the paper. “You want to pay me this for twelve poems?”

“Mais non!” He looked offended. “I would pay you this for each of the twelve poems, as long as your artist agrees to illustrate them. “Naturellement, I would pay the artist the same commission. I have already called my brother in Denver. As soon as you and the artist fini, we will have a grand opening exhibit in the city that will be très extraordinaire!”

Candice wasn’t sure she could breathe. “But I don’t even know who the artist is.”

“We’re idiots!” Godiva said. “Isn’t there a signature on the paintings?”

“No, madam sorcière. I studied each painting for the artist’s signature. What I found was odd, not a normal signature at all.”

“Well, what did you find?” Candice asked, staring at the painting.

“In the bottom right corner of each is a miniature reproduction of a full moon. That is the only signature the artist left.”

Candice sighed. “Looks like I’ll be here at sunset to meet this mysterious artist.”

“But I think you should go home and change first,” Godiva said. “Those jogging shorts are frayed and you spilled banana split all over your shirt.”

Candice was too busy wondering at the amazing events to notice Godiva’s self-satisfied little smile.

Eleven

Candice was more excited than nervous. She dressed carefully, purposefully picking artsy clothes instead of the boring teacher crap that hung in the front of her closet. A poetess! she told herself, I’m going to dress like a poetess.

She chose a silk skirt that she’d bought in a funky shop in Manitou Springs the last time she’d visited the Colorado Springs area. Its scalloped hem flirted a couple of inches above her knees and it made her feel pretty and feminine. She matched a sleeveless black top with it and then hung her new necklace around her neck. It was a waterfall of amber beads and she realized that she’d bought it only because it reminded her of Justin’s eyes—but she couldn’t seem to help herself. This job will help me get over him. And if it keeps up it’ll be my ticket out of here. Denver, here I come! She pointedly ignored the fact that rumor said Justin was living in Denver. It didn’t matter. Denver was a big city, and she’d never run into him. She didn’t hang in the coed crowd. Instead of thinking about Justin, Candice slid on a pair of strappy black sandals, gave her hair one more fluff, and rushed out to her Mini.

The sun was just setting when she pulled up in front of the gallery. She was relieved that Barnabas had taken the paintings and poetry out of the display window. She really didn’t want to wade through another crowd of crying people to get to the door.

Stepping into the gallery she was met by Barnabas, who was wringing his hands.

“The artist insists on meeting alone with you, madam,” he said. “I will go, but I will be back in exactement one hour to hear your decision. Au revoir until later, then.”

“But where’s the artist?”

“In the rear gallery. That is where I have hung your work.” With one more worried glance around his gallery, the vampire minced out the door.

Candice straightened her shoulders and walked to the rear gallery. He was standing with his back to her, studying the two paintings that hung beside the framed poems. He’s really tall, was her first thought. He was wearing a dark, conservative suit that fit his broad shoulders well and tapered nicely down to his waist. His thick sand-colored hair was short and neatly cut. He didn’t seem to notice that she was there.

“Hi. My name is Candice Cox and I’m the poet,” she said, wishing she’d given more thought to how she would introduce herself.

“I know who you are,” he said without turning around.

Candice blinked. Was she so excited that her ears were playing tricks on her? That voice. She knew that voice. Didn’t she?

“Why did you write these poems?” he asked.

“As an assignment for a class I’m taking.” She felt the air slowly being squeezed out of her.

“Was that the only reason?” He still didn’t turn around.

“No,” she said softly. “When I wrote them I tried to explain how I was feeling.”

“And how was that?”

“My heart had been broken. I made a stupid mistake and jumped to a conclusion that wasn’t the right