Nora Volancort appraised her appearance in the mirror. Her long blonde hair was neatly concealed beneath a long black wig and the make up gave her a pale, haunted look. Her businesslike clothes were dark and pressed to a razor-edged crease along the shoulder, sleeve, and lapel, but also sinfully tight where it counted, hugging every well-toned curve of her tall, slender body. She looked something rather like a cross between a high powered attorney and a high paid dominatrix, which meant that she was perfectly embodying her part in the play. Achaeology and, of course, witchcraft, especially its intersections with cultural psychology and ethnobotany, would always be her first and greatest passion, but she was glad she had set aside time to take part in the university's series of summer offerings. The current one was especially challenging, which was probably why it also appealed to her the most.
The play was an avante gard production of Shakespeare's Macbeth, recast in the light of a modern day struggle for corporate power as opposed to kingly power, though the director would gladly argue that they were one and the same in today's world. Nora had won the part of Lady Macbeth and was playing it with a ruthlessly sinister relish. Sometimes it made those around her, and even herself, wonder if she didn't have some sort of thinly buried mean streak. Not that anyone gave it much serious consideration. Nora was a popular young woman, always invited to the best parties, courted by the most eligible bachelors (and occasionally her teachers too!), and consulted by classmates and researchers alike on matters pertaining to her specific area of expertise. Nora was focused with laserlike intensity upon achieving the upper echelons of achaeological research, which is why it took her many friends and colleagues aback when she ventured outside of her comfort zone to play "Mrs. Macbeth."
Nora wasn't entirely sure herself just why she had done it, but she wasn't blind to the shamanic aspects of acting and stagecraft and how they in turn complimented and completed the image of shamanism. Perhaps she was seeking to channel some unsuspected inner power? There was something primal and fundamental in the human desire to transform and appear other than you are, to clothe oneself in shadow and strike out from the darkness, to be mysterious and full of mischief if not outright malice. It made her nervous to consider how natural it felt look different, act different, carry herself differently, so the young woman decided she was exorcizing some thus far hidden inner demons by becoming Lady Macbeth and left it at that.
Whatever her reasons, known or unknown, it was obviously working for her. The play was an unconditional success and Nora's performance was one of the crowning jewels. Even the acid pen of the university's notoriously hard to please drama critic could only sing her praises. Tonight would be the final performance and Nora wanted no "foul spot" to mar the otherwise unblemished success, so she double and triple checked her appearance, getting into character as she arranged a stray hair here, touched up her lipstick there.
Nora involuntarily shut her eyes as if momentarily blinded. When she opened her eyes again, she was somewhere else entirely, except not in the figurative sense of an actor lost in their role. She was in a different physical locality entirely and couldn't remember how she got there - - but only for a second. Memories came rushing back to her and with them a sense of calm. She was in Europe, not New York, and by special invitation. Why had she been thinking of the play? In the course of her studies Nora had experimented with some natural hallucinogenic substances, including mushrooms, ergot mold, and datura root, which made her wonder if she had been experiencing a very vivid form of what old hippies called "flashbacks."
The final performance of The Modern Macbeth had been months ago. Nora remembered it very well because her boyfriend, Paolo, had sent her a boquet of orchids, her favorite, and a very romantic note with them, to commemorate the occasion. She and Paolo had come a long way since then. They were sharing a loft apartment in Manhattan and soon they might even be sharing their lives together. Paolo had been making some noises that sounded suspiciously like he wanted to settle down, or at least Nora hoped so. As twenty-somethings went she was an undisputed success story, but she wasn't getting any younger. If she was going to have children and a career now would be a good time to start on both. Also on the plus side, with a father like Paolo they were sure to be beautiful babies.
Thinking of Paolo, Nora smiled. She couldn't help it. He was so romantic and very protective. He hadn't wanted her to make this trip, but Nora had felt compelled to do it. The summons had been so mysterious, so secretive, and yet, at the same time, so tempting. The note had been hand delivered by private messenger and specified that only she and she alone would be admitted. A plane ticket had been delivered with it, not that Nora needed it, her parents were disgustingly rich, and the return address on the note was that of a remote villa on the border of France and Italy...
Maison D' Morrell.
So here she was, answering a mysterious note that promised her access to the most extensive and most inaccesible private collection of mystic artifacts, weapons, art, and statuary in the entire world. She had a chance to peruse the private collection of Lucian DeMorrell, a man that most of the world knew as a wealthy businessman and philanthropist, but who was even more well known in certain circles as the world's most insatiably voracious collector of all that was associated with the history and practice of witchcraft. Why had he contacted her? Nora couldn't say. She had never met the man, though she had often heard of him and even been outbid by him at certain auctions of magical paraphenalia. Of course, his bids always came in by phone, so she did not know if he was young or old, handsome or ugly, or even if he was a serious collector or just another deluded crank hunting for aphrodisiacs and voodoo fetishes.
Paolo had practically begged her not to go, though even he could not say precisely why. Maybe he thought she would be dazzled by DeMorrell's wealth and knowledge, stealing her away from him, but that would be foolish. The Volancort fortune could never rival that of DeMorrell's, but having grown up around wealth Nora was too bored with money to be much impressed by it. They had argued just before she left, their first real argument, full of screaming and cursing and threats from both sides. Paolo had caved in first, as Nora knew he would. She had a stubborn streak to go with the mean streak, so she was accustomed to getting her way. She apologized to him, as unable to explain why she must go as he was unable to explain why she shouldn't, just as he had apologized to her. With a kiss. They made hurried, angry love to each other after that, hungrily kissing, hands twined in each other's hair, ramming their crotches together over and over with increasing force until they orgasmed in unison, both crying aloud, Paolo groaning, Nora laughing.
Nora wore an unseasonable turtleneck to hide the love bites on her neck and she was a little sore between the legs so she had opted for a loose skirt and sensible heels. She hoped the outfit suggested she was casual and confident, but not schoolgirlish. Nora was eager to gain access to DeMorrell's collection, but he wouldn't be getting access to anything under her skirt in exchange for it. Her days of sleeping with professors and curators were over. She had been tempted to one last time - - Professor Jack Merlin, as Nora recalled. He had been a distinguished older man with an iron gray beard and a surprisingly well kept body, lean and muscular, but he had left for a dig site in South America shortly after coming to the university. Around that time Nora had been making her own South American discovery. Paolo was just newly arrived from Brazil, a student at the university like herself, and, ever since she met him, Paolo was all Nora ever wanted.
But this was a close second.
A limo had picked her up at the airport and sped her through the gathering dusk, arriving at DeMorrell's sprawling mansion well after night had fallen. For some reason Nora was reminded of Jonathan Harker's trip through the Transylvanian Mountains to Castle Dracula. The chaffeur took her bags and a strangely silent maid in an almost offensively stereotypical uniform met her at the door. Wordlessly beckoning her to follow, the maid turned and clicked away on very high heels. Legs still a little weak from her last fling with Paolo, Nora briefly eyed the sadistically high heels and was glad she had chosen more sensible footwear. Brought to the master staircase they turned right instead of going up and after several more turns and a long hallway came to a closed set of double doors. The maid knocked and a voice responded with a curt, "Come."
Ushered into a spacious waiting room, the walls lined with books and paintings, the floor covered with an expensive Persian rug, Nora turned to thank the maid only to catch a brief glimpse of large frightened eyes and a swirl of swishing skirt before the door firmly shut behind her. Nora shrugged and turned back to the room itself, her eyes instinctively seeking out four tall glass cases, one for each corner of the room, each containing a well preserved statue representing some aspect of the sorceror-god; Dionysius, Wotan, Quetzalcoatl, and one Nora was surprised to discover that she did not regonize. She was so stunned by this that for a moment she forgot her manners and completely ignored the room's other occupant. Putting the mystery of the fourth staue on the back burner, Nora turned to the man seated in a massive wingback chair and cleared her throat, surprised he had not yet noticed her. Hadn't she just heard him tell the made to come in?
"Hello there," Nora said brightly, hoping she didn't sound too eager. If the mysterious fourth statue was any indication of the treasures in DeMorrell's collection she couldn't wait to get started. The man looked up, his face oddly pale. The book in his lap was forgotten and his right hand shook, clutching something for all it was worth. If this was DeMorrell, he was much younger and much more physically imposing than she would have imagined. There was some gray at his temples, but he had the build of a professional athlete and the predatory look of a big game hunter. Still, it was best not to assume, "I'm Nora Volancort and you are?"
"You don't know me?" the big man said in a strangled voice. He craned his neck slightly as if to peer behind her and then briefly turned and looked over each shoulder as if expecting an attack from some invisible third party.
"How could I?" Nora asked reasonably, while internally questioning if it had been a good idea to come after all. If this was DeMorrell he seemed a little cracked, "We've never met before, though I'm sure it's a pleasure."
"Of course, of course, how could you?" the big man nodded, stealing a quick glance at whatever it was clutched in his trembling fist. After a silent second he continued in a stronger voice, "I am Lucian DeMorrell, my dear, and I am very pleased to meet you, but I have to wonder - - why are you here?"
Hoo boy! Nora rolled her eyes and hoped DeMorrell couldn't sense her irritation from across the long room. He was definitely loopy, but then some of the greatest minds at the university were as well. She dipped a hand into her purse, fishing for the invitation, "You invited me. Don't you remember? I have the - -"
DeMorrell held up his clenched fist suddenly, his voice an intense hiss that froze her in her tracks, "Slowly! Take it out slowly!"
What was going on here, Nora wondered. He acted like he thought she was going for a gun for God's sake! Nora gradually pulled the slip of monogrammed paper from her purse and waved it back and forth, "Here it is, honest. 'Ms. Volancort, on the basis of your considerable reputation in the academic community we cordially invite you to inspect the exclusive DeMorrell collection of witchcraft and mythological artifacts,' et cetera."
She should have known he was a fruitcake when he used the royal "we."
DeMorrell lowered his fist and frowned. His dark, bottomless eyes were genuinely confused. Then his face perceptibly brightened, a smile tranforming his brooding countenance into one of debonaire gentility, "Ah, yes, Ms. Volancort! I remember now! My apologies, miss, I have been under some strain recently. Hate mail, death threats, that sort of thing, indisutrialists like myself get it all the time. So, I hate to confess this, but I had completely forgotten my little invitation. I thought you might be some sort of eco-terrorist or something!"
DeMorrell laughed as if to indicate how ridiculous he actually thought the whole thing, but Nora wasn't fooled. Her experiences in the drama courses at her alma mater had taught her much about acting and she could easily tell when a polished professional was putting on one of his many face, which was exactly what DeMorrell was doing right now. Which meant Nora did the same, laughing off the strangeness with an understanding nod and a brief quip about her own moneyed family's troubles with left-wing whackos. DeMorrell offered her a seat in the wingback across the small endtable from his, but she declined, professing restlessness after the long flight and subsequent car ride. In fact, she had no intention of getting within arm's reach of the man.
Nora didn't know what was going on, but she had a very bad feeling, and if this guy tried anything funny it wouldn't matter how big he was. There was a tazer in her purse right next to where she had kept her invitation and it carried enough charge in it to drop a full grown bear.
