Southern Belle

by Stuart Jaffe

  While rolling his neck and stretching his arms, Max said, "Let's look at the book and figure this all out. I don't want to spend any more time here than I have to."

  Drummond's focus turned toward the kitchen — the place Leed had died. "I think something's in there."

  "Help me with the book."

  "It's like a miniature ghost that's not all there. Like a little bit of ghost but nothing more. I've never seen that before."

  "Ignore it."

  Drummond entered the kitchen while Max leafed through the spell book. "It can't be bigger than my hand, and — oh. It's Leed. At least, I think it is. But he's not fully formed. Or ..."

  "Do I want to hear the rest of that sentence?"

  "Probably not. I think Patricia, when she killed Leed, I think she cut apart his soul. There isn't enough left to make a ghost."

  "All the more reason to help me out here. Last thing you want is your old girlfriend to shred your soul to pieces."

  But Drummond stayed in the kitchen. Max could hear him cooing to Leed like a little girl taking in an injured bunny. If the whole thing weren't so disturbing, Max would have marveled at this unexpected side of Drummond. But things were disturbing. And they wouldn't get any better on their own.

  Max turned page after page, the dried pages crinkling as they moved. A rich, pleasant smell rose from the book, but when he remembered what made the book's cover, he shuddered at what might produce that aroma. From then on, he turned the pages by pinching them with the tips of his forefinger and thumb. He knew he looked prissy and foolish, but nobody was looking — and even Hull couldn't pay him enough to dig his hands into a book made of human beings.

  "Poor little Leed," Drummond said from the kitchen. "You're really lost. Don't worry. It's confusing, I know. But I won't abandon you."

  The next page Max turned brought him to a section marked Location Spells. Though the text had been handwritten, Max's experience deciphering the scripts of people writing from centuries ago made reading this relatively easy.

  All Location spells are easy to cast, entry level magiks which can be used, as the name would imply, to acquire the location of an object, emotion, or soul. Because of its simplicity, any Location magik can divine if the caster has any basic skill or inner-power. One who fails at this task will never rise amongst those of our Order.

  "We've got something big here," Max called out.

  Drummond came back in, his face blank. "Hm? What did you find?"

  Max glanced quizzically at the kitchen but decided to let it go. There would be time to ask about Leed later — if they survived. "Well, first, this book isn't a generic spellbook. It's a coven's Grimoire. It's got references to an order and a hierarchy."

  "You think it's Patricia's coven?"

  "How many covens do you think there are around here? Wait. Don't answer that."

  "You're probably right. Why else would Connor point us to this book?"

  A disturbing thought struck Max. "Does this mean Connor is part of Patricia's old coven? That it might still be active?"

  "Connor and her mother were never the kind of witches to join up with anyone. They worked for hire, and they enjoyed being amongst the most powerful in the area. Covens are formed by witches seeking companions, friendship, access to knowledge, and most of all, they want to strengthen their power through numbers."

  "Like a gang."

  "And what need does Connor have for joining a gang? My hunch is that she got hold of this Grimoire through one piece of nasty business or another, and the witch ghosts didn't like it too much. That's why they ripped her apart. That's also why she wanted us to take the book."

  "So the coven will come after us?"

  "They're already after us. But I didn't see any other ghosts at Connor's office. And they obviously didn't find the Grimoire or didn't have time to look or something, because we've got it. Maybe Connor planned to cast some of the spells in it against them. She did want that blood, after all."

  "Well, that's the second thing. There's a few location spells in here. I'm thinking we could use one to find the handbell."

  Drummond's face dropped. "There's a spell in that book to find the handbell?"

  "I think so."

  "Then why the hell didn't anybody use it?"

  Max read over the spell — its ingredients and procedure. "Maybe it's more dangerous than it looks. Maybe Modesto didn't want Connor knowing what he was up to."

  "She already knew. She's been warning you about it for awhile now."

  "I don't have an answer. And, frankly, I don't care. Not while my wife is in trouble."

  Drummond said nothing more. He simply glanced at the list of ingredients and began searching through the house. Max followed suit, checking out each room of the house carefully. They needed four blue candles, a goblet filled with water, and lotus incense.

  As they rummaged through the house, Max noticed that Drummond repeatedly patted his left coat pocket and murmured softly to it. Max had a suspicion about that, especially since all mention of the unformed ghost of Leed had disappeared, but things were creepy enough without adding a new dimension to his understanding of the ghost world. If they made it through all this, if Sandra made it through, he would ask. Sandra knew so much more about it all, and she could explain it in a way that wouldn't disturb him, that might actually make the whole thing logical and benign.

  In the dining room, Max located a silver goblet with Roman lettering around the lip. Drummond indicated where several packs of incense had been stashed in the bedroom. And finally, in Leed's office, where Drummond could not enter, Max found two plastic tubs filled with candles — red, black, green, white, and a blue nub.

  Max picked up a red candle. "Will any one of these do?"

  "Spells are very specific. I don't know why the color matters, but it does. Probably has something to do with whatever's inside them to give them the color."

  He glanced at the candle, thought for a second about the deep red color, the blood red color. He shot open his hand, letting the candle bang on the floor. "No candles we can use." Wiping his palm against his shirt, Max stepped out of Leed's office. "We've got to find something. There's no way I'm waiting until morning to pick up blue candles at a store. Who knows what your girlfriend will have done with my wife by then."

  "She's not my girlfriend. She's not my anything." Drummond cocked his head toward his coat pocket. "Not a bad idea," he whispered.

  "What idea?"

  Trying to look casual, Drummond said, "We know one place that's filled with the ingredients a witch would need for spells."

  "Really?" Max shook his head as he gathered his things. "I hate that place."

  But he knew Drummond was right. Despite the late hour, despite the weariness in his muscles and bones, Max trudged back to his car and headed back towards Winston-Salem, towards Dr. Connor's office. The drive would take an hour — a long time to be stuck worrying for Sandra with nothing active to do — but at least Drummond remained quiet throughout the trip. Any talk with that ghost would have led to the thing in his coat pocket, and Max wanted nothing to do with that at the moment. Not that he feared the little thing might be Leed. More that Max feared it might not be — that Drummond's mounting emotions in this case were pushing him towards insanity and turning him into an evil specter.

  At length, they turned onto Westgate Center Drive, passed by Home Depot, and drove into the section of doctor's offices, local accounting firms, and small legal practices. Max had traveled this route more times than he had ever wanted. The quiet darkness of a late night visit to the witch had become too familiar. Except this time, the darkness filled up with flashing lights of red and blue.

  Three police cars blocked off the parking lot while detectives walked in and out of Connor's office. A WXII News van sat as close to the action as the police would allow, while a reporter taped her story in front of the bright lights provided by the cameraman.

  Before Drummond could say anything, Max said, "I know, I know. Ke
ep driving."

  They passed by in time to see a covered body wheeled out the front door. Up ahead, Max turned the car back toward Hanes Mall, figuring they could park on the far side away from this action and plan their next step.

  Drummond had a different idea. "Go to Matt Ernest's house."

  "What?"

  "He's got all sorts of magic-related items there. You know it. There's a good chance he'll have the candles. They're fairly common amongst those who dabble in magic. Considering all the candles Leed had, Ernest would probably have more. And besides —"

  "Enough. This isn't a court trial. You don't have to lay out all the evidence. If you think we can get the candles there, then that's what we'll do. But if I get caught and sent to jail, you're doing time with me. I don't know how, but I'll make sure you're there."

  "You really want me haunting your prison cell?"

  Max thought about it and shuddered. "Shut up."

  It took about fifteen minutes to reach Ernest's house. Max parked a few doors beyond to be safe. "Stay here," he told Drummond. He expected a protest, but Drummond waved him on, the detective more interested in talking with his coat pocket than arguing with Max.

  Max strolled up to the house as casually as he could manage, taking furtive glances around, seeking any sign of trouble. Nobody watched him. Besides, at such a late hour, anybody still awake was probably drunk.

  Or an insomniac happy to watch my every move and report me to the police.

  He fought off the avenues of thought that wanted to take him and focused on the job. From Drummond he had learned to act with confidence when doing what one shouldn't be doing. Observers would fill in the most plausible explanations if he behaved as if everything was normal. So, Max didn't hesitate when he reached the house. He walked straight to the back door and pulled off the tape he had recently cut.

  Had he time to plan for this break-in, he would have brought along a flashlight. Instead, Max had to pop on his cellphone. The bluish hue cast across the crime scene accentuated the claw marks in the walls and disarray of the rooms. The air smelled damp and dead. Every footstep creaked.

  Ignoring all the messages his brain screamed at him, all the instincts to run away from this horrible place, Max pressed straight for Ernest's room — the man's last stand. He stood at the closed doorway to Ernest's room, breathing hard though he had done little more than walk into the house. Courage, bravery — these were acts one took despite the fear raging in one's mind. He wished Drummond were here. Or Sandra. Anybody who could tell him if ghosts occupied the house or if he stood alone in an empty hall.

  When Patricia Welling attacked his wife at the church, she had not been alone. Yet Drummond had not mentioned any other ghosts since then — except for whatever Leed had become. But surely, the other coven ghosts had followed them.

  "No," he said to the house. "They followed their High Priestess." Wherever Patricia had taken Sandra's body, that was where the other ghosts would be found.

  Then I'm alone here.

  "Okay, then. Go." Max threw open the door, rushed in, and headed for the closet. The symbols on the walls designed to protect Matt Ernest seemed to slither away in the dim light. He flashed his cellphone around until he saw a stack of boxes. He poured through these as fast as possible, holding his breath most of the time as if to gasp the air in the room would be to inhale evil itself.

  On the third box, he struck gold. Well, blue. The candles were square at the base, thin, and as long as his forearm. He grabbed four, stepped away, came back, and took two more — just in case.

  Moving fast, he headed down the hall when he heard Ernest's bedroom door slam behind him. Max froze. He tried to sense any change in the air — a drop in temperature, a bright perfume or a foul odor, the general aura of the room. Anything that might hint at a ghost — benign or otherwise. But it was no use. Whatever wiring in his brain allowed him to see and interact with Drummond went no further. He was as blind to other ghosts as any everyday person.

  The door banged open and closed again.

  Max walked straight toward the back door, not wanting to look behind. As he reached out to open the door, something ice cold tapped across his neck. He whirled around and saw nothing. Fumbling behind him for the doorknob, his eyes darted around the darkness.

  Though he could hear the shaking in his breath, he opened his mouth wide and said as firmly as he could manage, "You go tell the High Priestess I'm coming for her. You tell her that if she harms my wife, I'll curse her with the worst things I can find." He swore he could hear confusion and uncertainty in the air. As his hand found the doorknob, he couldn't resist adding a final blow. "Oh, and tell her the spells will come from your own Grimoire."

  He opened the door and turned, but before he could exit, the door shut hard enough to crack the panes. An icy touch clamped around his neck. He tried to inhale, but what little air managed to get through chilled his lungs painfully.

  Max tried to force the door open. He pulled and kicked at it, but it refused to budge. The darkness in the room grew even darker. Little spots of color danced before him. Max lifted his hand for the doorknob one more time, but his fingers only slapped at it. He couldn't breathe, couldn't feel the air in his lungs, couldn't hear the subtlest wheeze. He fell back, the candles tumbling to the floor, and he had long enough to regret not being able to save Sandra.

  "Max?" Drummond's deep voice echoed in the room.

  Max saw the detective pop through a wall. Drummond acted fast. Leaping above Max, Drummond engaged in a bizarre fight where his opponent could not be seen — at least by Max.

  The grip on his throat loosened, and he coughed and sputtered while Drummond threw punches into the empty air. Drummond ducked, popped back up, and shot a deep uppercut. With his chest puffed, he stared at the corner of the room for a moment before turning to Max.

  "You okay?"

  Max got back to his feet. "Thanks. Is it a witch?"

  "Definitely. Let's get out of here before she wakes up."

  Collecting the candles, Max nodded. "Why did you come in, anyway?"

  "A car pulled up, parked, but nobody got out. I think the cops are staking out the house. Maybe they found a connection with Connor's murder."

  "Or maybe Modesto is playing both sides. The Hulls do have influence with some of the law."

  "Doesn't really matter. You've got to sneak out of here without them seeing you. Crouch down, follow me, and do as I say. It'll be easy."

  Even as Max crouched before the back door, he rolled his eyes. Drummond passed through the wall and reappeared outside the house. Here we go. Max opened the back door and slipped out. Keeping low to the ground, he duck-walked around the corner. His thighs burned with the effort, turning his quads into sharp rocks that ground into his bones with every waddling step. But pulling a quad seemed a better risk than getting picked up by the police.

  Drummond pointed to a telephone pole. "See the shadow from the streetlight?" A thick black line ran from the base of the telephone pole clear up to where Max squatted. "You can stand and walk in that shadow right up to the pole. Our friend is parked across the street. Stay in that shadow and he won't see you."

  When Max stood, his legs screamed in both relief and pain. He wanted to move fast along the shadow, but with his muscles protesting every motion, he had to take small, slow steps. Probably saved his hide. Had he raced over to the pole, he would have most likely slipped out of the shadow's narrow confines. Taking a deliberate pace meant he could place each foot carefully.

  Once he reached the telephone pole, Drummond pointed down the street to his car. "This is the hard part. When I tell you, you're going to have make a run for your car. Sprint down there, get in, and drive away."

  "But —"

  "Trust me. Wait for my signal." Drummond slid into the amber pool of the streetlight. "We'll give you as much time as we can."

  "We?"

  "Be quiet and wait."

  Drummond reached into his coat pocket. When he pulled
his hand out, he had it shaped as if he held something, but Max saw nothing. Drummond bent over and whispered to the nothing. Leed?

  From the look on Drummond's face, Max discerned that Leed had zipped away. A moment of silence passed. As Max wondered what Leed would do, he heard a car alarm go off several houses up — away from his car. Another alarm went off, this one complete with flashing headlights. Max watched Drummond, waiting for a signal. He rubbed his thighs with his free hand, his other clutching the candles against his body — Sandra's life rested in those candles.

  A third alarm went off, the kind that changed tones every few seconds. Whatever Drummond had waited for happened. He clapped his hands and waved Max on. "Come on. Go!"

  Max shoved off the telephone pole and rushed for his car. He wanted to sprint, pour every ounce of power into his legs, but his thighs buckled. It took all his will to keep upright.

  He snatched a peek over his shoulder and saw a man standing next to a car. The man placed his hands on his hips and looked up the street at the increasing number of car alarms. Though Max only had time to see the man in silhouette, he saw enough — Stevenson, FBI.

  That got his legs moving. He half-jogged, half-skipped his way to his car, slipped in the driver's seat and turned the engine over. People had come outside to turn off their alarms only to have the alarms start up again. All that noise and confusion masked Max's engine, and as he drove away, he saw Stevenson in the rearview mirror — standing with his hands on his hips, watching the bizarre car alarms.

  * * * *

  By the time Max returned to Leed's house, his adrenaline rush had worn off, dropping his tired body a few notches further toward exhaustive collapse. He stumbled into the house and leaned against the living room wall. As his eyes closed and his breathing slowed, he heard Drummond's deep tones arguing with someone.

  "They're not going to understand. Hell, I don't get it either."