“No,” Maxwell said. “I don’t think so, luv. People can only change so much, my dad never did. Most of my memories of him aren’t good ones, if I’m honest, and I think I only miss him now that I’m starting to believe all his warnings. Even still, he was a strict teacher, don’t think he treated me much like his son most of the time, just an unwilling student. Our dads weren’t the same, I’ll tell you, I think I’d trade for a while given the choice. From what you’re telling me I think we both got the short end. I bet you’ll miss him again in a few years.”
“Probably,” Miranda said. “Maybe I’ll write him a letter, tell him I’m moving back into Mom’s house. Or maybe not, he might want to come and mooch off me until Aunt Susanne kicks him out.”
“What about your aunt Gladys?”
“She loves him, but she’s somehow missing whenever he’s looking to borrow money, feeling down or too drunk,” Miranda said. “I don’t know how she does it, but she did it for about two years. I think she pushed me to stick with my guitar lessons more than anyone though. Got me to play a little on the piano in Italy too, but we didn’t have one, so it didn’t stick.”
“We’ll have to get an acoustic in your hands tonight,” he said. “I’d like to see you play,”
“Oh, no, you break out the guitar, I’ll sing along. I’m not like that with the guitar, I’m not so good that it can speak for me. I’ll use the spare, it’s better than the electric I had in New York, keep playing with you guys, if that’s all right.”
Maxwell laughed and chose a cucumber sandwich from the plate. “I think everyone wants you on stage, luv. I know I don’t want to play without you.”
A knock on the door startled both of them. “We’re headed down to the beach,” April said through the door in a singsong tone.
“See you down there,” Maxwell said with a shrug.
“Wait,” Miranda said after swallowing a mouthful of tomato. “Which beach?”
“Normal one,” Scott shouted through the door.
“See you there.”
Maxwell took a bite of the last celery stick and hopped out of bed. “Wait,” he said. He unlocked the door and poked his head through. “Anyone around?” he asked Scott.
“They just got the meat from the fridge and headed down,” Scott said. “Been busy in there?”
Max ignored the grins on both of them and pressed on. “We’re going to make a dash to the shower, guard the stairs?” He found a two-piece swimsuit swinging from the outside knob, so he grabbed it and tossed it behind him.
“Sure, sure,” Scott said.
“Good for it?” Maxwell asked Miranda. “There are no towels in here.”
Miranda hopped off the bed and picked up her dark red two-piece. “It’s a short run, sure. Looks like one of my aunts know what we’ve been up to.”
“Good thing it’s destiny,” Maxwell said sarcastically.
“All clear!” Scott shouted from down the stairs.
“Good thing I’m nineteen,” Miranda said, kissing him briefly. “Let’s go.”
They ran from his room, down the hall and into the bathroom. Miranda closed the door behind them and walked into Maxwell’s arms. “You know,” she said, snuggling against him. “I would have never thought, but you’re actually a lot of fun.”
“I’m loads of laughs, luv,” he said as he held her and waddled them both into the shower. He braced himself and turned the cold water on first. He laughed as she dug her nails into his back and squealed.
Both her aunts knew they’d disappeared earlier in the day, and to his surprise, neither of them took him aside or gave either of them any trouble. Gladys did pay a little more attention to him though, it was impossible not to notice.
The occasional pinch on the arm as she passed by, or mention during conversation while they were on the more populated normal beach during dinner was a clear indication to Maxwell that she had her eyes on him.
Susanne only seemed to smile at him and Miranda when she saw them together. He would have thought the reactions of the pair would be reversed, but that was definitely not the situation.
The stage was filled with enthusiastic friends that early evening. After several songs a giant blonde and grey haired man named Greg Serra, who approached the stage with a resonator guitar and asked to join them in an almost sheepish manner. Miranda waved him up before Maxwell could say anything because he was busy trying to remember where he recognized the weathered man from.
Three songs after he was on stage, he stepped forward and began singing instead of only playing along with Maxwell and Miranda on guitar. Greg Serra’s voice was a clear, booming bass-baritone that seemed effortless. He played the lead in an eerie version of I Put A Spell On You. His presence was more youthful than his appearance, smiling on one side of his mouth through most of the lyrics. Maxwell remembered where he knew him from; his father had one of his blues records.
Maxwell almost stopped playing backup guitar when he recalled meeting him as a young boy, taking a lesson from Greg on a few minor chords. When it was time for him to leave, he opened his big hand and offered a few guitar picks before telling him to keep practicing. He couldn’t help but wonder if that wasn’t the first Gathering that his father brought him to, weeks after arriving in Canada, and he suspected that it was.
They backed him for two more songs, then he nodded at everyone and left the stage to large applause, especially from the older people there, who crowded in as soon as they heard his voice. They only played a few more songs after that before the band called it a night. Miranda and Maxwell left through the back door before anyone could drag them to a fireside.
Miranda and Maxwell returned to his room with a small bag of pot he traded the last six-pack from the bus to Two Beards for, and a bottle of cherry wine.
That candle lit evening was slow, caring, and filled with breaks for conversation, imbibing and connection. They drifted off to sleep sooner than either expected. Comfort, contentment and companionship led them into the cool dark.
Maxwell didn’t know why he woke up, but he was completely alert by the time his eyes were open. He didn’t move, but watched Miranda’s back and looked through the lightly curtained balcony doors beyond.
A familiar scent rolled in with the cool breeze, like a type of fuel. He identified it a second later as lighter fluid, then winced at the strong aroma of burned hair. “Panos,” Maxwell said to himself as he started to roll out of bed.
A strong hand grabbed his ankles and pulled him off the mattress then across the floor towards the door with such force that grabbing the sheets did nothing to slow it down. The bedroom door was flung open, the jamb burst into splinters as the locked latch tore through it. Maxwell caught the edge of the door as he was drawn through with both hands.
“I command you to leave this house! I name thee, Panos!” Maxwell shouted. To his surprise and dismay, he saw the shape of the fallen monk in the darkness, letting go of one of his ankles, and attempting to reach down with the free hand towards his chest. The shade’s hand gripped the chain holding his silver amulet around his neck, and pulled hard.
“What would you do to me that is worse than how I have suffered?” he asked, blood oozing down across his lips from where half his nose once was. The burns on his face were still black and red.
Miranda was in the doorway then, arms raised, fierce. “I have no fear for you, specter. You are named, Panos, and you will depart.”
Panos dropped Maxwell’s leg and regarded Miranda. “No, little girl, I’ll carve you too. Make pretty ribbons from your lips, and cut the temptation off you.” He drew a short hooked blade from his robes.
“I summon Zorusi,” Miranda pressed, lines of light crossed her chest, hips and face, filling the room with uncompromising light and reducing Panos to shadow.
Maxwell was on his feet and between Miranda and the shadow the instant before it lunged, and he felt the sting of steel against his chest, the feeling of rough cloth against his skin, and Panos’ labored sti
nking breath against his face.
Miranda continued. “Zorusi the Purifier who comes in the name of the Old Ones, I feel your light and banish you from this house, Panos.”
Panos screamed as he faded. The panels along the walls rattled, and the railing along the stairs fell down, then there was silence. Maxwell fell to the ground, unbalanced as his foe disappeared, and Miranda came down on her knees right beside him.
Bernie was there along with Scott a moment later, one of them turned the hall lights on. Maxwell checked his chest only to find a shallow cut and a notch in his amulet chain. “That felt like it hit a rib,” he said, checking it. “I won’t even need stitches.”
“Are you all right, Miranda?” Bernie asked.
“I’m okay, just wiped. That was the most powerful invocation I know,” she said. “Thankfully, that one doesn’t stick around. He doesn’t have to be dismissed.”
Maxwell could tell that whatever Miranda did worked. There was a distinct sensation that the main cabin was clear of influence, just a building with no memories or impressions within it. It was only something he noticed once the warm, peaceful impression the building left on him before was gone. “Seems like your invocation got rid of everything,” Maxwell said.
“You feel that too?” Scott said. “Or feel nothing, rather. It’s almost cold.”
April emerged from the room she and Scott shared with a blanket in hand, and wrapped Miranda in it. “You’re going to feel a little chilly next, after bringing something that big in, then letting it go,” she told her.
“Thank you, April,” Miranda said.
“You’re welcome.” April’s big blue eyes looked around then, noticing, maybe for the first time that everyone was watching her. Everyone was at least curious. “My Dad still has all my Mother’s books and lesson notes from before he was kicked out. I read them over and over, kind of makes me feel like she’s still around, like he never killed her.”
Scott put his arm around her waist and gave her a supportive squeeze.
“Oh, no, it’s all right now,” April said reassuringly. “Well, it isn’t, never will be, but I’m okay. I’ve never been happier to be anywhere, I think. I’m so glad I snuck in for the Gathering. Tell me what I can do to help, I want to help.”
“All right,” Bernie said. “There’s holy water in the kitchen. We have to ward all four walls of the house from the inside, all the windows and doors, then we should get to bed. We’ll be good for the night, at least.”
“I’ll just get something on first,” Maxwell said, standing then helping Miranda up.
What followed was surreal for him. They moved in pairs, flinging droplets of holy water at every outer opening in the house, blessing the space in the name of their ancestors and attending guardians. He remembered his father’s advice, that the blessing should carry belief and conviction, and for the first time, he was able to invest both into what he was doing. Time seemed to slip by as they worked, and when they were finished, faint pre-dawn light filled the world around them.
“Whose Panos?” Miranda asked once they were behind closed doors, back in their room. “You knew him by name, and I’ve heard the name before.”
Maxwell dreaded the question, and was tired, but he felt the least he owed her before going to bed was an explanation. He could work on the rest when they had some sleep. “He was from an order that the Catholic Church denounces called the Purifiers.”
“I know the Purifiers, they’re more active in Europe,” Miranda said, slipping into bed.
“He was kicked out because, and this is just what I heard, he began practicing magic. He stole the Libro de Puertas, holding a girl hostage in the states to get it. I met him before that, when we were on the road in Maine. He came after me when he heard I was buying a haunted kettle. Was supposed to belong to one of the witches burned there a couple centuries ago. That’s not the first time I’ve seen his carving knife coming. He was still with the Purifiers then.” Maxwell slipped into bed beside Miranda, and she curled up against him, resting her head on his shoulder.
“Is that where you lost your earlobe?” she asked.
“That was the second time I met him, after he had the book,” Maxwell said.
“How did you get it from him?”
“I’ll get to that,” he replied with a tired chuckle. “It didn’t end well for him, in Maine. He attacked me in front of this roadhouse, and I tossed him into traffic. It was better than fighting a man who looked like he knew how to use his knife. This station wagon bumped him, he wasn’t hit too hard. I got away smiling then, bugger had to deal with three carloads of people who stopped to see if he was all right, and explain why his case was full of hooks, probes and knives. I made sure he was fine from a distance, and got out of there. Little more than a year later, I caught up with him when he had the book and shard on him. He had a gun, I had a tin of lighter fluid and my zippo.”
“And you killed him?” Miranda asked, surprised.
“No, he was barely burned, enough to distract him, singe him a little, but he stopped, dropped and rolled well enough. Just smoking by the time I left. His nose was what probably hurt most, someone cut half of it off, and that’s where I aimed my fluid. Bugger nearly took my head off with that gun of his, but a few seconds of fire was distraction enough for me to get the book. I’m still going to call every hospital in Montreal asking after him though, he died somehow, need to make sure it wasn’t me.”
“I’ve never seen a spirit like that, I’ve heard of strong spirits, but that was just beyond.”
“I’ve never seen anyone channel like you did,” Maxwell said. “It was like you became light for a moment, and this house was wiped clean. That was a Sumerian House God you brought in, and he came at your calling. That’s power.”
“First time,” Miranda said. “I didn’t see a point in holding back. Not with what was going on.”
“You’re an amazing woman, Miranda,” Maxwell said, kissing her briefly.
“I love you, Max,” she told him.
“Love you too,” he replied. It took him a long time to find sleep. He couldn’t stop thinking about Panos, and how he was extinguished, not badly burned and breathing fine when he left him. Maxwell hoped that he hadn’t earned the revenge Panos had come to exact.
XI
Maxwell woke early the next morning feeling like he had barely slept at all, which wasn’t far from the truth. He was on the phone, calling hospitals in Montreal on the only phone in the main cabin. It was in the main room, but there was no one around yet. The sound of the radial dial’s gear echoed in the empty main room as he turned ten numbers onto its face.
“Hello, I’m Panos Mitro’s nephew, and I only just found out that he may have died in your hospital last night, maybe the night before. Can you help me? I just got in country and want to make sure someone is making arrangements,” Maxwell told the receptionist at the hospital in a concerned tone. “He did not have an easy life, and he was just in an accident where his nose would be cut up badly.”
“I haven’t seen anyone meeting that description, but I can check for you, monsieur…”
“I’m Andrew Mitro.”
“Give me your number and I’ll call you if I find anything, Monsieur.”
“Thank you so much,” Maxwell said. “Please hurry if you don’t mind, our tradition demands that we are buried within two days of dying.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” the secretary replied, hanging up the instant she finished talking.
Muttering curses under his breath about Panos causing him as much work in death as he did in life, Maxwell made the first pot of coffee. With a cup in hand, he returned to the telephone, dialed Information again, asked to be connected to the Montreal Information line, then asked after the number for the next hospital.
The receptionist didn’t respond the way he expected when he reprised his worried nephew routine. “s'il vous plaît tenir,” was all she said before putting him on hold.
He sipped his coff
ee while listening to a repeating tone that was made to reassure callers that they were still on the line. By the time someone picked up again, his coffee was gone and his stomach was growling. “Bonjour, this is the nephew?” the voice of an older man asked.
“Yes, is my uncle there?”
“I’m afraid so, you are in Montreal?”
“I’m in Alberta, and I can’t miss work, so I’ll have to take the red-eye,” Maxwell said. It was one of his father’s tricks. If you only needed information, but wanted to keep your distance, you could sometimes get more information over the phone by pretending the inconvenience of going to the source in person was much higher than it actually was. “Why? Is there a problem?”
“No, no,” he reassured. “I’m Doctor Hickey, I treated your Uncle when he came in. Did he have a history of mental illness?”
“Yes, going back as long as I can remember.”
“I thought so. You must understand, I only recognized your uncle by the description you gave us, he never told me his name. He drew on the walls with his own, well, matter. Strange symbols. He had a pistol on him too, but that’s been handled – the police came to pick it up while he was still alive. Your uncle assaulted one of them while he was being interviewed, but didn’t speak English or French, it was something else. We thought it might be Greek, but one of my colleagues who spoke the language said it wasn’t that either. The police are looking for a young man for questioning, but you’d have to call them for the details.”
Dark Arts Page 16
