Camp Arcanum

By Josef Matulich

Marc Sindri, prankster and contractor, comes to Arcanum Ohio to build a renaissance faire in only seven months. A man with a reputation for delivering miracles and a bad history with crazy people who believe in magical conspiracies, he soon finds himself in a small town filled with magick and intrigue. As he struggles with deadlines, he navigates a landscape of witches, demons, power tools, and undead skinless rabbits.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Post Mortem Press
• Release date: Mar 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311851307

Book preview

CAMP

ARCANUM

JOSEF MATULICH

Copyright © 2014 Josef Matulich

Cover Art copyright © Philip Rogers

www.philiprrogers.com

All rights reserved.

Post Mortem Press - Cincinnati, OH

www.postmortem-press.com

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

FIRST eBook Edition

eISBN: 978-1311851307

To the real Brenwyn,

who still lives in the broom closet.

She loaned me her name and so much more for the last two and a half decades. This book would never have happened without her.

Chapter 1

Serial Killers Enter in Rear

MARC SINDRI AWOKE IN WHAT HE ASSUMED to be the ICU, marinating in morphine, sterile saline, and hopefully Resperidone that would keep the little monsters away. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t recall what he’d done to put him there. Words of the nurses and doctors, overheard in a drug-induced haze, came back to him: skull fracture, cervical spine fracture, ruptured spleen.

There had been something large and unpleasant and invisible, at least until Michael painted parts of it white. Of course, there was a woman, too, one with grey-violet eyes. There always was a woman involved when he came to connected to tubes and wires. The rest of the recent past was a screaming, throbbing blur. His long-term memory, the time when he arrived in Arcanum two months ago, was much clearer

It seemed pretty nice when I got here.

* * * * *

Right turn coming up at the mailbox, Marc said into the radio headset. We’re almost there. After four and a half hours behind the wheel of Mr. Fixit, the words were the most wonderful a weary toolguy could imagine.

Marc tapped the brakes to alert Michael and Eleazar behind him and then signaled for a right turn. A quick glance in the mirror showed that Michael’s dark green Volvo station wagon remained where it had been the entire way from Pittsburgh: at least five car lengths back and no more than three miles an hour over the speed limit. Eleazar’s gypsy wagon drove too closely behind the Volvo, just short of physically pushing it forward. As usual, Eleazar was trying to annoy Michael into doing what he wanted.

Back it off, Eleazar, Marc warned. You run up his ass and that’ll ruin your fancy paint job.

The gypsy wagon, a Nissan pick-up with camper, had the borders of every surface festooned with red, green, and gold acanthus and filigree like an illuminated manuscript on wheels. The camper’s sides, and its leading edge in mirror script, announced the owner as Eleazar the Jongleur, Master of Speed and Motion. All the work had been hand-painted by the irritable artist in the Volvo.

You scratch the paint on either car and you’re on your own, Michael snapped over the radio.

Oh, but you could nae bear to see your work driving around damaged, replied Eleazar. Now, could you, sirrah?

I’ll just cover it all over with a new coat of white paint, Michael sniped back.

Marc realized it was a good thing that he had packed away his AR-15 in his Pittsburgh storage locker. The inspiration to shoot either of these two might be too much to resist after a few months of togetherness. He double-clicked the talk button on his radio, squelching the argument in a blast of static.

Blessed peace ruled over the airwaves.

The convoy crunched through the gravel of another curve and passed a hand-lettered plywood sign mounted on an old fencepost. Camp Arcanum. Serial killers enter in rear, it read in paint the color of dried blood.

You really know how to set the mood, Marc, said Michael as they passed. Though, I might have done more on the distressing the sign. It looks too new.

If you liked that, Eleazar chimed in, wait until you see the fetid swamp with alligators. We set it up special for you, right behind your trailer, milord.

Let’s not start out squabbling like children again, okay? Marc said. He was a general contractor, even an occasional miracle worker. He hadn’t signed on as a daycare attendant.

"I can act like a grown-up." Michael said in the tone of a disapproving sibling. Eleazar made no reply.

The convoy turned back on itself as it followed the gravel track along the far edge of the fallow pasture. The path followed the tree-lined creek that ran through the property. The late afternoon sun glinted off the water and through the leaves, which were just beginning to change to red and gold. Marc felt a moment of pastoral peace, like his childhood visits to Uncle John’s farm, back before his brother had gotten sick. Eleazar, his voice coming over the radio as a singsong lament, broke the moment:

Are we there yet?

* * * * *

Marc guided the black Ford Explorer into the gravel circle known as Camp Arcanum. Three bright silver Airstream trailers gleamed in the sun like Flash Gordon’s spaceship and looked as if they were awaiting launch on the filled-in foundation of the Edwards’ condemned farm house. An old wooden barn with a tin roof hunkered down at the far side of the circle. Its planks were so old they had gone black beneath the few flecks of red paint that still stuck to them. A few smaller outbuildings huddled close to it.

The Volvo and the gypsy wagon followed him past the barn. Like a well-trained flying circus, the three vehicles came to a halt in adjacent parking spots on the far side of the gravel drive.

Marc leaned against his old Ford Explorer as Eleazar and Michael got out and inspected their new surroundings. Michael Caravaggio was a slight, sandy-haired man in his mid-twenties. Though he had every right to be artistic and flamboyant, he dressed like someone’s office manager in an argyle sweater, Dockers, and loafers. He looked over the compound as if checking for booby traps.

Eleazar, no known name outside his nom de stage, had enough flamboyance for the both of them. He wore a new orange and flame-red vest that matched his long hair and goatee and a blue satin pair of pantaloons that would have been appropriate for either a Turkish court or an old rap video. As always, he carried a rubber chicken hitched on his hip, though it did not sport the lace neck ruff reserved for fancy dress occasions. Eleazar made a more relaxed scan of the area since Marc had warned him there were to be no women and no opportunities for street theater. Neither of his lackeys was taller than five-ten or heavy enough to prevent Marc from picking up one to use as a club on another. That had always helped to maintain discipline on the job site.

When Eleazar finally saw the Bobcat in the tractor shed, his eyes glowed with excitement. It was a hybrid six-wheeled contraption, half miniature bulldozer, half pick-up truck. He dashed over to it and leaped behind the controls.

You got us another Bobcat! A Toolcat 5600, with cargo bed and all-wheel steering, too. He lovingly ran his hands over the controls and wriggled his buttocks to make an impression in the seat. I think I’ll name this one Theodora.

I assume that was another woman in history that caused a great deal of trouble? Eleazar spent almost all of his waking moments thinking about women, historical and otherwise. The Bobcat at their last ren faire had been named Boadicea and decorated in Celtic knotwork by Michael.

"Marc, all women are a great deal of trouble, Eleazar said as if to a toddler, but trust me, milord, they are worth it."

I’m supposed to pull off another friggin’ miracle, Marc grumbled. I don’t have time for trouble.

No time for the Fairer Sex? Eleazar shuddered theatrically as he stepped out of the Bobcat. Milord, thou speakest unnaturally.

I worketh my ass off. Deciding the matter to be finished, Marc led the tour towards the barn.

Each of us gets a trailer, he said, pointing as he spoke. Michael, yours is the one closest to the shop. You, Eleazar, are on the other end. I’ll be in between the two of you, just like the DMZ.

Does that mean that you’ll force Eleazar to behave himself? Michael didn’t sound hopeful.

Misbehave? I? Eleazar asked innocently. Yes, I may sometimes engage in high-spirited antics, drinking deeply from the cup of life without toweling off—

How about lubricating every doorknob in my apartment with Vaseline, Michael asked, and then leaving an inflatable woman in my bed?

You didn’t like her?

I tried rolling her over and thinking of Jake Gyllenhall, Michael said, but it wasn’t the same. I’m not converting.

Eleazar shrugged, acting as if he didn’t care at all. Since the moment Eleazar had discovered that Michael was gay, he had tried his best to change Michael’s sexual point of view. Not that Eleazar thought it was unnatural or a sin, as he had declared many times, simply that Michael was making a terrible oversight to not appreciate women for the miraculous creatures they were.

Well, Michael, I have something to help you get past that trauma, Marc interjected as he pulled the barn doors open wide.

Though the barn was unpainted wood outside, Marc had made it a handyman’s paradise inside. The workbenches were stocked with tools for welding, heavy woodworking, or metal work. The revered names of Ryobi, DeWalt, and Bosch were everywhere. Each tool had its outline marked on their pegboard roosts.

So, said Michael, this is what Heaven looks like for you.

Damned straight, Marc beamed as Michael and Eleazar stepped inside and immersed themselves in the spectacle. We’ve got almost any tool that you can imagine. Even a full Shopsmith system. I convinced Steve that we needed the right tools to do this job as quickly as he wanted it. It was early October and Steve had made plans for an opening on the first of May.

My God, you can fix anything, Eleazar sounded almost reverent. Even a cheap, spastic boss.

We’ll see, said Marc sourly.

He had tried to fix Steve earlier that year, just after the boss’s girlfriend/site manager had finally had enough of the yelling, complaining, and neurotic whining. Jennifer left him without notice and with two live pigs awaiting the evening’s hog roast. Marc had dispatched the pork on the hoof with two well-placed rounds from his AR-15 and then convinced Steve they would be ruined without a proper set of block and tackles to suspend the carcasses. As Steve had careened around the ren faire looking for rope and pulleys, Marc, Eleazar, and assorted lackeys finished the butcher’s work. In the end, they convinced Steve it had all been done by elves.

Only through surrendering three of his Get Out of Firing Free Cards did Marc save his job, along with Eleazar’s and Michael’s. This new project was not so much an opportunity as a forced exile.

You’ll also be very happy to hear, Michael, that our first project is a foundry shed. Steve wants bronzes, cast iron, carved wood, the whole nine yards.

Do I get an unlimited budget to go with the requests? Michael didn’t sound hopeful.

Eleazar snorted at the thought.

That would take an executive order from God Himself, said Marc. The best I could do was guarantee limited interference from Steve. You’ll have to be … creative otherwise.

I’ve got a few ideas already sketched out, Michael shrugged off the disappointment quickly. They’re in the car.

Michael trotted back out. The opportunity to have free rein in this big a project seemed to lighten his steps. Marc knew if Michael was this happy, an attack from Eleazar was not far behind.

Okay Eleazar, Marc grumbled, what kind of mischief do you have planned?

Nothing, I figured I’d improvise, Eleazar said airily. It’s what I am best at. Two years Viola Spolin Method, Chicago.

We are on a short deadline and I don’t want to be wasting time keeping you two apart, Marc replied. Seventeen street fights, downtown Pittsburgh.

Eleazar acted as if inspecting the drill press was far more interesting than this conversation. Marc considered that a victory.

Michael soon returned with a black leather artist’s portfolio filled to bursting. He unzipped it on the worktable and pulled out sketch after sketch.

First off, Michael said, every renaissance faire in the world is some variation of Tudor England. Architecturally, very boring.

The topmost sketches, showing familiar thatched stucco buildings with exposed cross beams, were cast behind Michael on the floor. A strange new landscape unfolded in the papers below.

While Michael spoke, Marc saw Eleazar take up his rubber chicken, a chisel, and a hammer and begin juggling. The pattern became more involved as Michael lectured.

Now that we’ve got over three hundred acres here, Michael pointed out on a map of the site, most of it heavily wooded, and we’ll have to clear some of it anyway for the faire. Even clearing off this fraction of the total area, we would have more than enough resources to create medieval structures that the average faire-goer has never seen.

So, instead of just bulldozing everything into a pile, Marc observed, you want to harvest the trees with chainsaws first.

In the drive up, Marc had unconsciously catalogued the types of trees on the property. Useless cottonwoods were abundant, mostly along the creek bed, but the upper slopes had a dozen more useful species: red maples, hard as rock and excellent for carvings; oaks and ash would make durable planks and timbers. There was a huge population of black walnut trees that could be either milled for their own use or sold for outrageous prices to cabinetmakers.

This could work.

And if they did pull off another miracle, Marc might be able to get Steve to sign another Get Out of Firing Free Card.

Exactly. Michael began to wind up. Now here is a design based on a stave church in Uppsala, which stylistically dates back to the Viking era.

So, you’re talking about Viking world at Disney? Marc asked. He caught a glimpse of Eleazar’s reflection in the Plexiglas shield of a tile saw. I hope this isn’t boring you too much, Eleazar?

Eleazar had been pounding himself in the head with the rubber chicken while feigning great agony. He quickly turned to using it as a backscratcher.

R-r-r-rubber chicken, he trilled, one thousand and one uses!

I’m sorry, said Michael. I was using words with more than two syllables.

Enough, children, Marc said. He directed the attention back to Michael. You have the designs for the maze yet?

Michael brightened at the chance to speak on that subject.

Actually, I have several options. Almost every medieval cathedral like Chartres or Notre Dame had a labyrinth design inlaid on the floor. Symbolically, these were representations of the journey through the afterlife …

Michael interrupted his lecture to glance back at Eleazar, who innocently strummed his rubber chicken like a ukulele.

Anyway, we have several layout designs, Michael summed up. I’d like to have the walls made like log palisades. We could set things like gargoyles and dragons in the dead ends.

Marc looked over the sheer mass of Michael’s presentation. He’d fleshed out enough ideas to fill a thousand acres, on enough paper to choke a horse.

Looks like a lot of work, Marc sighed. Let’s get settled in here and tomorrow we’ll go into town and see if we can recruit a whole bunch of strong backs and weak minds. Michael, can you make up some flyers for us real quick?

Michael pulled more papers out of his portfolio.

I already have some designs, the artist said.

* * * * *

Eleazar had cajoled the Washer Wenches down to the pond and somehow the lot of them had fallen in. Wet chemises, naked limbs, and eager mouths were everywhere. Being a flexible man, Eleazar took what liberties he could. The wenches, as always, were willing and able and gallant with their charms. Something distracted the women, though. A ghastly metal behemoth loomed over the horizon. Its smoke smeared a dark smudge across the blue sky that drew their eyes away, and its ill-tuned motor drowned out the far more pleasant sound of feminine laughter. It approached, crashing through the trees with the sound of skulls and bones crushing beneath its iron wheels.

Eleazar’s subconscious, that reptile brain that never slept, recognized that sound as a car pulling into the gravel drive outside the trailer. That primal portion of his mind knew that trouble in the form of jealous boyfriends and murderous husbands often arrived in cars, and it shut down the happy dream. Eleazar’s eyes snapped open and he was instantly awake, prepared for flight or fight. He quickly checked the clock upon his window sill and found it to be six o’clock ante meridian, a time when only invading armies and scoundrels went out visiting.

He slipped out of bed and quickly pulled on a utili-kilt and white fencer’s shirt that laid across his bedside table. He hopped across the cluttered trailer as he pulled on his soft leather boots. On his way, he hid the pictures of Megan, Joyce, and Monica beneath the bedding and put his bag of juggling props over that.

Eleazar popped out of his trailer, straightened his clothes, and tried to be nonchalant about the blackthorn club he leaned on as a walking stick.

A faded green Impala, something from the nineteen-sixties, had just parked outside the trailer. Its driver was stepping out just as he did. She was a stunningly beautiful woman who stood at a perfect height to slip under his arm. She was obviously no girl but a woman who had achieved full ripeness. Her pale grey or violet eyes seemed to glow against the olive skin of her face. She wore a gold-embroidered saffron peasant blouse and red skirts with gold magpie baubles hanging down from her belt. She threw a black and gold crocheted wrap over shoulders for warmth. The figure beneath the clothes was exquisite, all flesh and curves with nary a bone protruding. Her dark complexion, clothing, and the wavy dark hair that flowed down past her breasts gave her the look of a New Age Gypsy Princess. Eleazar wondered if he might convince her to run away with him in his gypsy wagon.

Good morrow, milady. Eleazar made a small bow and flourish as the beauty arrived at his trailer. How may I serve you?

Good morrow. Her voice was a gentle purr. Her tone and her gaze made Eleazar feel as if she had been somehow warned about him or as if those violet eyes could see right through to his less-than-pure heart.

Marc, too, must have been roused from his lair with the woman’s arrival. He came out of his trailer, six-foot-three of excessive manhood clad only in his black jeans. The woman looked appreciatively at the muscles and assorted scars as he pulled on his black tee-shirt.

Eleazar’s heart sank. Though he was charming and a practiced flatterer, the jongleur knew he couldn’t compete with washboard abs and pectoral muscles fit for a gladiator movie.

The woman walked over to Marc’s trailer, dismissing Eleazar.

You are Marc Sindri, she said.

I am, Marc answered, his tone only mildly confused. And you are …

The woman extended her hand in a gesture of pure grace.

Brenwyn, she said with a smile. I am pleased to meet you.

They shook hands, holding the clasp just a moment longer than necessary while looking into each other’s eyes. Eleazar saw it was time for an intervention.

Eleazar sprinted around the corner of his trailer. Once Brenwyn’s hand was free, he moved in, kissing it. This close to her, he could smell her perfume, a unique mix of patchouli, sandalwood, and some subtle musk.

What a lovely and exotic name, so befitting an exquisite flower like yourself. I am Eleazar, the Jongleur.

Why, thank you, she responded with an embarrassed expression. Though actually, that is my craft name.

So you’re a hand crafter, like with jewelry or candles? Marc asked.

No, she said. Witchcraft.

Eleazar dropped her hand as if it were on fire. He knew several women whose only interest in neo-pagan religion was a way of doing awful things to men’s testicles at a distance. His wife Alice was one of them. Fortunately, the trick escaped her for the moment.

Brenwyn went on with only the slightest smile and a look his way.

I am the head of one of the local covens, she said. Mr. Edwards, the former owner, used to allow us the use of his land on High Holidays.

High holidays? asked Marc. Marc, to his credit as a poker player, did not display his prejudice towards believers in the supernatural on his face.

Samhain, Yule, Beltane, Midsummer’s Eve, Brenwyn turned back to Marc. The simple list of holidays sounded like poetry to Eleazar. A few others you would not recognize. There is a clearing over that direction where we build our bonfires every year. I was hoping we could make some kind of arrangement with the new owner.

Eleazar’s mind, in spite of a healthy fear for his testicles, accessed the smoothest propositions he had used before out of habit. I’m sure, milady—

Not that kind of arrangement, Eleazar. Marc was always trying to cut short his fun. Just a few questions first. Has anyone ever gotten hurt at one of these … events?

Nothing major, the kind of bumps and sprains you would expect with a bunch of people dancing in the dark, Brenwyn said. There have been a few women whose skirts have caught fire. I am sure you know how that goes.

The tone of her voice intimated that she knew all the details of the serving wench who had fallen into the cooking pit of Steve’s other ren faire less than a fortnight ago. Eleazar felt the hairs on the back of his neck bristle.

Yes, I do, said Marc cautiously. He must have picked up on the unspoken message, too.

That is why most of us dance sky-clad. Naked, that is, Brenwyn continued, though it is officially clothing optional.

Eleazar’s heart leaped. Her coven might be thirteen castrating harridans, but they would all be naked. If the others were half as beautiful as Brenwyn, he could die a happy eunuch. Marc glared at him to remain silent.

And there are no problems with the locals or the police? Marc asked. As always he was too cautious where there was any chance of excitement. Marc must have been born under a wet blanket.

You have not been in Arcanum very long, have you? Brenwyn’s mockery seemed affectionate. Marc smiled sheepishly. This was a bad sign for Eleazar’s intentions.

Now let me see if I am hearing you correctly, milady, said Eleazar in quick summary. You’re asking for permission to host naked pagan rituals on Steve’s property, complete with dancing around a bonfire in the dark?

I suppose that is one way of phrasing it. Brenwyn looked away from Marc for just a moment. Perhaps, she was amused, maybe even charmed by Eleazar yet.

I hear heart palpations coming on, Marc said cheerfully.

A ruptured aneurysm, if we’re lucky, Eleazar added.

Oh, we’ll definitely make the arrangements, Marc stated. Marc and Eleazar took it as their special mission in life to torment their employer. Few men deserved it more. The liability risks dancing through his head would boil Steve’s blood much more than imagining naked pagans did for Eleazar.

Thank you, said Brenwyn.

You’re welcome, said Marc. He seemed to be warming up to her and Eleazar didn’t know whether to resent the competition or pass on his condolences.

Is there any way I could mayhaps finagle an invitation? asked Eleazar.

Brenwyn assessed him carefully, with a cool look and pursed lips. Eleazar felt his testicles trying to retreat into his body cavity.

Certainly, she said evenly. You could even bring your wife.

Eleazar looked quickly at his left hand, checking for any telltale mark from the ring he seldom wore, and then hid it behind his back.

Who said … ? Eleazar started, then shifted to an unusually honest tack. I mean you wouldn’t want that. I’ve seen her ‘sky clad’ and she takes up much more of the horizon than you.

It is your choice, she said easily. She glanced expectantly at Marc. Well, I must be leaving. I have to be another place in half an hour.

Brenwyn stood there, looking enticing, but made no move to leave.

Let me walk you to your car, said Marc.

Thank you, Mr. Sindri, she said. Her smile was like sunrise over a field of gold.

Call me Marc.

Eleazar watched them walk side-by-side to the battered car. Marc was a full foot taller than Brenwyn. Many women found that vulgar display of mass and muscle to be attractive. No doubt, having the beautiful woman always looking up to him would have some reciprocal effect.

You know you are welcome to join us, Brenwyn said as they reached the car. I am sure you would like to keep an eye on things.

Marc raised an eyebrow and smiled. Eleazar saw some part of Marc’s protective shell crack and was amazed. It actually looked a bit goofy. Eleazar scoffed in spite of himself and Marc fired an angry glare over his shoulder

To make sure nothing goes wrong with the fire, of course, Brenwyn amended. Besides, I believe you can be a gentleman, in spite of the company you keep.

Are you sure your people won’t mind my being there while they are … you know, Marc couldn’t even say the word naked in polite company.

The human body is not an object of shame, Brenwyn said.

It depends, Marc responded, on how you wind up with a body on your hands.

Marc opened the door and Brenwyn slipped in with a rustle of skirts and petticoats.

Rescue is out of the question, now, Eleazar observed. Far too late.

I shall see you later, she said pleasantly. Blessed be!

Bless … Marc started to reply, then cut himself off. I mean, bye.

The car started with sound of mechanical grinding and a puff of black smoke. It lurched backwards out of its parking spot with assorted ticks and rattles, which Eleazar ascribed to deathwatch beetles in the bodywork.

Marc awkwardly waved as she drove away. Eleazar noticed the car’s rear bumper seemed to be held together with two purple stickers: MAGICK HAPPENS and MY OTHER CAR IS A BROOM. If she was able to keep that wreck moving in the shape it was in, maybe that was proof she did indeed have magical powers.

You know you dinnae have time for this, milord, Eleazar said smugly as he sidled up behind Marc. Marc looked to be on the horns of a dilemma, and it was time for Eleazar to push him to sit on one or the other.

You’re right, Marc said. He unconsciously massaged the back of his head as he watched the Impala disappear around the curve of the gravel track. I suppose you do?

There is always time for that, Eleazar said.

Marc looked at the retreating car, then the acres of uncleared forest behind the barn. He shook his head and strode back to his trailer. In celebration, Eleazar did a little jig in the dirt.

Michael finally came out of his trailer, having taken the time to get fully dressed, coordinated, and tucked in. He ambled over to Eleazar as Marc walked away.

So what do you two have going on so early in the morning? Michael asked Eleazar.

Nothing you would appreciate, said Eleazar cheerfully.

Women? Already? Michael sounded, as he usually was when speaking to Eleazar, both incredulous and disgusted. "What do you do, have them shipped in

Reviews for Camp Arcanum

[dwatson2_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Three men arrived in Arcanum Ohio with a pick up truck, a camper and seven months to build a renaissance faire. Little did they know that Arcanum is a town where most of the population practices magick and the woods are filled with supernatural creatures. The man in charge is Marc, who along with a love of power tools, has a family history of mental health issues and he doesn’t believe in magick. His beliefs soon change though when he meets a woman named Brenwyn who is head of the local wiccan coven.Marc is forced to reexamine his views on magick and he has to deal with Jerimiah who is a powerful warlock and Brenwyn’s ex lover. Jerimiah has plans to finish off Marc but not before he uses him to become more powerful. Between the witches, demons and undead skinless bunnies, it’s going to take more than power tools to get the renaissance faire open in time.Camp Arcanum by Josef Matulich is a comedy with horror elements and an interesting love story. When Marc and Brenwyn meet you see that they are exact opposites but right away their relationship clicks. One of my favorite scenes in this book was when Marc who has a history of schizophrenia sees magick spells being done and believes that he is loosing his mind. He starts to freak out and Brenwyn tries to come to his aide but at the time Marc doesn’t want her help and leaves Brenwyn feeling heart-broken. Eventually they start to accept their differences and work at becoming a couple. What really stuck out for me about this love story is that it didn’t seem too perfect and despite their differences I was rooting for them to stay together.I also loved how witchcraft was represented in this book, I admit I don’t know a lot about covens, wicca or magick but this book made me want to find out more. All of the witches and warlocks in this book came across as people you might meet in everyday life and were nothing like the stereotypes that I’ve seen in other books and movies. In fact this book makes fun of those stereotypes. Though it’s not a big part of this book I have to say that I loved how schizophrenia is dealt with in this story. Marc spent a period of time taking care of his brother who has schizophrenia and I liked how he points out that people who have it can’t help how they act. In many books you see people who have mental health issues as being a villain, so I liked that this book treated it like it wasn’t a bad thing.Camp Arcanum was kind of a mixed bag for me. I thought the story was slow-moving and even though I liked the villain he didn’t seem to come across as very threatening. All of the characters in the book were interesting and I liked the love story between Brenwyn and Marc. This book has some great moments such as Marc using tools to battle a coven of witches and there was a hilarious scene where all the local wiccans gather at a movie theater to watch and make fun of bad movies based on witches. This book is definitely worth your time and the ending is left wide open for a sequel.

[eisah-1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I received a free copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.(Spoilers within)The basic story is three men, Marc and his two employees, Eleazar and Michael, go to a new town in order set up a renaissance faire. This new town is full of witches and such, though, and they end up dealing with magical forces. Marc falls for a pretty witch, Brenwyn, but she has a sleazy ex-boyfriend who wants her back (Jeremiah). It's well-written. The author puts in amusing asides and keeps a sense of humor throughout the book.Marc said nothing, but he said nothing in a very churlish and hostile manner.(In response to demons being summoned on the property, Marc says:)Steve would never get liability coverage if the insurance companies found out.The flow is generally good and its easy to read the majority of it. The banter between characters is good. I thought the personality clash between Eleazar and Michael was handled well, and even when Eleazar was insensitive (Michael is gay) it felt like it would fit his character, and he probably wouldn't even understand what was wrong with his actions (trying to make Michael appreciate women).Action was written well and there were a lot of clever set-ups.There are some errors, though not enough that it took me out of the story. The biggest one I saw was "We're men with power tools and were not scared!" because the line was copy and pasted several times with the typo in it.So, why the rating?It didn't always work for me. I was fine with Marc's movie date with Brenwyn at first, but when flipped out he dealt with it the worst way possible just for the sake of hurting Brenwyn and causing tension. In that situation, where he thinks he might be having a delusion, I understand why he would want to leave, but shouting that he didn't want to be near her wasn't necessary. He didn't even try to make an excuse, which seems like something most people would do. Not even a "I'll explain later, I just really need to go now". He went straight to yelling at her. At the same time, she really doesn't take the hint here or later.Then he was cutting down trees and pretending they were the witches, including Brenwyn. I get why he would pretend they were the other witches, but why her? Brenwyn hadn't done anything to make him mad. She invited him out, he had a panic attack, and she tried to comfort him doing it. There's nothing rageworthy that she did (yet). She invited him to a rowdy movie event with witches. He was warned it would be rowdy and crazy. It turned out to be rowdy and crazy, then he gets mad that it was exactly what he was told it would be.About Brenwyn herself - at first I was fine with her. Although they had some decent banter, I was never charmed with her, and I pinpointed the reason why after a bit and it got much worse later.The main thing is that she presents herself as a mind reader, and not a tactful one. She's constantly saying or doing things that, if she isn't reading your mind, make it seem like she is. This isn't charming. Imagine, for a second, if someone hopped onto your computer and started reading all your private e-mails, then came over to you and started reciting things from your e-mails. Would you be thrilled? Probably not. It's a huge invasion of privacy, and even if you had someone who couldn't help reading minds they would still have to learn how to handle that in a graceful, less creepy way that wouldn't send off alarm bells.Here's an example: Privately, while discussing with his employees how to hire some workers, Marc says he wants people with "Strong backs and weak minds". This doesn't get put in the ad. Later, when he visits Brenwyn, she says that he's looking for "strong back and weak minds", the exact same thing he said in private.Now, let's give a different scenario. Say you knew a woman who went into a town to do some work. She meets and attractive guy. That guy starts very blatantly mentioning things that she said in private. Would you suggest:1) She be charmed by his odd behavior.2) She put on her running shoes and run, run, run as far as she can from the creepy stalker.Just because it's reversed and it's a woman saying creepy, stalker-like things to a man doesn't make it better. She doesn't have the right to invade his privacy, and if she can't help it then she could easily try to at least seem normal. She could have told him the same information without using the exact phrasing that he said in private. It's like she's rubbing it in his face that she knows things she shouldn't, and the book gives her a free pass because she's 'hot'.I mostly overlooked that part of it and could still enjoy the book just fine "because story", but then she did something that was just heinous to me.Read the rest here.