Southern Blood, page 17
part #13 of Max Porter Mysteries Series
“Shut up. Shut up,” Max hissed.
Or you can believe in me. I haven’t lied to you. I’ve been trying to get you to free yourself, to take control of your life, to follow your dreams. Instead of waiting for these vipers to minimize you into nothing, you simply have to man up. Shut them down before they have a chance to shut you down. Then, the world is yours.
Max didn’t believe any of it. At least, he didn’t want to believe any of it. But he could not stop part of his brain from picturing events as Oxorot had dictated them. Sandra was not the kind of person to do the things Oxorot suggested, but Max’s mind pictured those things nonetheless. He couldn’t stop it. The emotions that connected to those ideas swirled through his heart.
Max spun Irene towards him. “Slap me.”
“What?” she said.
“Slap me. Clear my head. Get this thing out of me.”
Though she did not hit him, she must have understood. She pulled him close, clutching him, and offered soft words as a mother might soothe her child. “You’re going to be okay. Sandra loves you. And you love her. Together with your boys, you make an enviable family.”
She continued on, and each word from her mouth vanquished a bit more of whatever plagued him.
“Look,” Libby said, pointing toward the bookcase.
Drummond floated in front, more transparent than usual. He had a grim expression and did not make eye contact with anybody. He moved as if straining against chains or some other binding. But when his coat shifted, Max saw those horrible clawed hands digging into his side.
Sandra had said they needed to throw their positive energy towards him. If nothing else, Max could do that. “Hey, Drummond, do you really expect us to keep running this agency without you?”
Drummond cocked his ear to the side. He searched around, clearly unable to see Max. Irene nudged Max’s arm. She wore a slim smile and gestured toward Drummond.
“Look, pal, we need you here in the office. We’ve got your favorite flask filled up and ready. And we’ve got ...” Max glanced around the office to find something, anything, to reference, but the longer he took, the dimmer Drummond became. “I don’t know, partner, but I’m sure a case will come in any day now, and you know I’m only good for the research. I wouldn’t be anything in the field without you. We need you.”
“More,” Irene said. “Don’t stop. He’s getting there.”
Max could not tell if Irene spoke the truth or only voiced wishful thinking. Perhaps Drummond did appear more solid. Perhaps.
Glancing at his desk, Max saw a recent photo the family took at the beach. “The boys. Come on, Drummond. You don’t want to miss out watching the Sandwich Boys grow up. Especially J. Now that he can see you, you’ve got all kinds of things you want to talk to him about. Remember? You’re Uncle Drummond.”
If this was working, the progress crawled. Drummond continued to look around as if lost in the dark. His confusion and frustration were only matched by his anger at fighting off the ever present claws.
Max shrugged toward Sandra. “I don’t think it’s going to work.”
Time stood still between two seconds. Less than the flap of a hummingbird’s wing, less than the beat of a heart. The world around Max stopped — long enough to see the tremors in Sandra’s hands, the sweat beading on her lips, the taut cords of her neck, even the shallowness of her breath. Asking her to continue this spell was like asking a boxer with only a few years in the ring to take on the heavyweight champion.
The world continued on, spinning as fast as ever, and Sandra’s eyes rolled up. As she collapsed, Max lunged across the room to catch her. He did not think about it — instinct had taken over. But in doing so, his feet swished over the salt circle and destroyed a section of the lines.
He held Sandra tight. The purple sphere shot outward across the office, and Drummond vanished. The sphere stretched like a smoky trail.
“No,” Max said, wishing his words could have the magic effect of a witch.
The long snake of smoke pulled itself in to form a sphere once again. As Irene and Libby pressed against the wall, the sphere moved closer towards Max.
“Hey, Oxorot,” Libby said, lurching forward with a maniacal laugh. “You can’t get out. We’ve salted and marked all the exits. You’re stuck in here.”
Max tightened his hold on Sandra. “I’m not so sure that’s a good thing.”
Chapter 30
MAX LOWERED OVER SANDRA, expecting a pain-soaked impact against his back at any moment. But Oxorot whooshed by him, shrieking like a beaten dog, and slammed into the wall behind. The entire office rumbled. Lifting his head, Max watched as Oxorot acted like a bowling ball, rushing across the floor and toppling everything in its way.
Max scowled. Having Sandra in his arms protected him, but that didn’t protect the office.
His desk popped into the air and slammed against the bookshelf. Sparks flew from his shattered computer and all of his papers fluttered through the air. The beautiful woodwork of the built-in bookshelf splintered into shards that clattered on the ground like discarded kindling.
Irene — brave Irene — pulled a crucifix pendant from her blouse and held it before her. Its thin chain dug into the back of her neck. “I have had it with you. You are no match for my Lord. And my faith protects me. You will listen to me this time. You will obey.”
Oxorot blazed through Sandra’s desk, searing it like a flaming sword through paper. As sparks firecrackered off of her computer, Max couldn’t stop the simple thought — this is going to cost a fortune.
The purple sphere reared back as it came near Libby. It stretched and deformed until it looked somewhat like the silhouette of a person. Max swore it cocked its head to the side.
“No faith,” Oxorot said.
Max wanted to throw up at the leer in its voice. Irene scooped up some of the salt circle and threw it at Oxorot. The spirit immediately reverted to its spherical shape as its painful cries cracked the walls deeper. Chunks of drywall tumbled to the floor — poofing white dust into the air while exposing several studs and a tangle of wiring. Libby clutched her ears and screamed.
“There is no escape for you,” Irene said. “You’ve had your fun. You’ve had your taste of our world. But you do not belong here. In the name of my Lord, I command you to return from whence you came.”
Oxorot hurdled over Irene and bombed into the couch. One of the cushions flipped in the air while the spirit ripped the other two into shreds. Yellow foam spewed out. Grunting, Oxorot continued to pummel its claws through the furniture.
Libby started shaking her head. “I can’t be here. I can’t be here.”
Max wanted to pull her in. Protect her with the same compassion that protected his wife and himself, but he knew that wouldn’t work. All of Libby’s positive energy had been a mask. Her terror, her trauma at what the world had thrown her way over the last twenty-four hours had taken hold of her.
“Go outside,” Irene said to Libby, holding her cross toward Oxorot at all times. “Go outside and wait for us. Don’t mess up the salt line.”
Despite her panic, Libby was able to follow orders. Staying low as if under fire, she rushed to the office door. She opened the door slowly, careful not to disturb the salt line when the door swung inward. Then she stepped over as if avoiding a trip line. After she closed the door with equal care, Max heard her sprinting down the hallway, squealing in a mixture of delightful relief and maddened horror.
When Irene launched into another speech about her faith, her Lord, and the fact that Oxorot had to obey her, Max could see they were not going to escape this by her efforts alone. Though woozy, Sandra could lift her head now. Max eased her into a seated position.
He had an idea. Probably a bad one — but at least he would try something.
Moving fast to make sure his brain could not second guess him into standing still, Max swiped the whiskey flask from the floor and held it over his head as he stood. “Detective Marshall Drummond, I’m calling you.”
The whiskey flask warmed under his hand, and Max dared to think that this might work. Near the broken bookshelves, a blurry pale image formed. Clutching the flask tighter, Max thrust it forward as if holding a trophy for all to see.
“Come on, Drummond. Fight your way back.”
The thrilling sensation coursed through his body. Was this what Sandra felt every time she used magic? He looked back at his wife. “It’s working,” he said.
But behind Sandra, on the couch, he saw the reason they were all here. The thing he had forgotten about for a mere second — Oxorot.
The spirit flew across the room, tackling Max to the floor. His wrist slammed into the hardwood, and the flask skittered into the rubble pile of his desk. Max tried to get to his knees, but Oxorot bashed him in the ribs.
Swinging his elbow back, Max hoped to catch the inhuman spirit. And he did. Except his elbow went right through the thing, and a blast of cold shot through his arm.
Then Max felt the claws. They dug in between his ribs, stinging the surface of his lungs, the excruciating ice-fire slicing through his skin. He looked down but saw no injuries. As the pain grew stronger, Max’s feet left the floor. Oxorot held him in midair.
Max wanted to call for help. But Drummond was the one who could help him. He wanted to reach out towards Sandra and profess his love one last time. But the pain locked his mouth shut.
He watched Irene scurry off to the closet and gather a box of witchcraft supplies. Clutching the two Brotherhood books like babies, she handed the box to Sandra as she rushed for the door. Sandra had recovered — a little. She pulled together the ten black candles and put them in the box.
Well, at least he could be a distraction so they could escape.
But Sandra also was his strength. His faith. With a deep breath that sent shards of frozen glass throughout his lungs, he screamed out, “Sandra, I love you!”
The claws holding Max in the air disappeared. He dropped hard to the ground, whacking his head against the floor. His tongue burned — he must have bitten it — and he spit blood.
“Honey,” Sandra said, “come on.”
Using Sandra’s destroyed desk as a crutch, Max got his feet under him. Irene had already stepped into the hall, and Sandra stood at the door reaching out toward him. But that vile purple ball lowered between them.
“Go,” Max said, the exhaustion in his voice frightening to hear.
“I’m not leaving you.” Sandra had her brave mask on, but he could see the tears shimmering.
“I’ll be right behind you. I promise.”
Max turned away from his wife. He knew Oxorot would never let him walk by. If he was going to survive this, he needed a shield. He thought he knew where to get one.
Holding his ribs with one hand, he limped towards the bookshelves. A dim image of Drummond hovered there — possibly confused, definitely angry. Angry enough, Max hoped, to explain why Oxorot had not gone closer. It had thrown things at the bookshelves, zipped by as fast as possible, but its main aggressions had been on the opposite side of the office.
Max kept preparing himself for a blow to the back. Perhaps strong enough to crack his spine. But with each step that he took, with each foot closer to the bookshelves in which no attack came, he became more convinced that Drummond had some power left.
Sandra was right — positive energy. It gave Drummond strength.
When he finally reached the wall, Max bent down and picked up his shield. The whiskey flask. “Come on, partner. Let’s get out of here.”
Brandishing the flask in front of him, Max moved toward the exit. Instead of attacking, the purple ball drifted to the side, allowing Max safe passage. Could it really be that simple?
But Oxorot had no intention of giving up. It just didn’t care about Max for the moment.
With staggering speed, the spirit flashed across the room and attacked Drummond. Purple claws slashed and ripped and tore at Drummond’s ghostly form. All the strength that Max had given only moments earlier, all the positive power that Sandra’s spell had created for Drummond, had vanished. Oxorot raged through the office and brought Drummond along.
Sandra, Irene, and Libby had left, and Max had the flask in hand, preparing to leave as well. Spirit and ghost smashed through walls and furniture and lighting fixtures — anything that could be destroyed succumbed to their path. Max did not move. He watched in hopes of finding some way to help Drummond.
A desk lamp twirled through the air, shattering against the bathroom door. All the grimoires and coveted first editions of old texts blasted across the room, their pages fluttering like ash from a forest fire.
Fire.
Max felt heat. He looked to his left. A real fire had started. It crawled up the wall, engulfing the bookshelves, devouring the books, reaching toward the ceiling. So fast.
He felt moisture on his cheek. He knew he cried, and he knew why. What more could he accomplish by standing there? If he remained, Oxorot would kill him. “Hang in there, partner. Don’t give up.” Afraid he might somehow catch Drummond’s eye and see bitter disappointment, Max limped his way into the hall.
Chapter 31
ONCE THEY ESCAPED TO THE STREET, Max, Sandra, and Irene joined up with Libby and headed straight for the car. Black and gray smoke belched out of the second story windows behind them. In the distance, sirens could be heard approaching.
They clambered into the car, and Sandra drove off. Rounding the block, they continued west for several more blocks before parking. Then they all sat still — sweating, panting.
From the backseat, Irene scooted forward and placed a hand on Sandra. “I’m so sorry.”
Though she sniffled, Sandra said, “It’s only stuff. The couch, computers, the desks, all of that can be replaced.”
“Not your witchcraft books,” Max said. “Those grimoires — they’re one-of-a-kind.”
“I’m well aware. But this isn’t the first time in the history of witches that fire consumed their texts, if not their lives. Why do you think researching a spell is so difficult?”
Like a child impatient from sitting in a car too long, Libby got on her knees and looked out the back window. “Is that it? Will the fire destroy Oxorot?”
“No,” Irene said. “Fire won’t kill it.”
“Besides,” Sandra added, “the only thing keeping it in the office was the salt and symbols. The fire will destroy all that. When it does, Oxorot will be free once again.”
“And the skies getting light already. It’s going to get very strong.”
Opening and closing her grip on the steering wheel, Sandra turned her head towards Max. “I don’t understand what happened. We were so close. It should have worked. It was working. You saw it, right? Drummond appeared before us.”
“I don’t know,” Max said. “You’re an incredible witch, but maybe you’re not ready for this difficult a spell — if it was possible at all to begin with. But I know Drummond’s the strongest fighter I’ve ever seen. Dawn is approaching and that’ll make Oxorot stronger, but it’s never faced something like Drummond. That old ghost won’t give up until he has nothing left. Which means we don’t give up, either. Not ever.”
Sandra reached over and laced her fingers between Max’s. “I know. Not just for Drummond, but for the boys. For all of us.”
“Look at the bright side — now you don’t have to worry about us making rent on that office.”
Sandra choked out a laugh.
With a gentle pat, Irene said, “That’s better. It’s good that you’re laughing. Although, if you need to cry, that’s okay, too.”
“No, we don’t have time for this.” Sandra put her arm over the back of the seat. “We need to figure out what went wrong, so we’ll do better next time.”
“Next time? Attempting this spell took everything out of you. Another time might kill you. Not to mention, that spirit assaulted your husband and burned down your office.”
“Yet Drummond still needs our help.”
“Risks of the job,” Max said.
“We’ve got the candles, the salt, the Brotherhood books, the flask — what went wrong?”
They grew silent. Libby’s voice, muted as she continued looking out the back window, broke in. “Not enough positive energy.”
Max said, “What?”
“You said this spell worked off positive energy. That’s the point of the flask, isn’t it? To make a beacon out of something Drummond’s attached to. If he’s surrounded by Oxorot, fighting it almost nonstop, then you can think of him as being stuck in a thick fog. The flask and our positivity is the lighthouse leading him to safety. We simply weren’t bright enough to shine through.”
Sandra said, “But we love him.”
“Guess it’s not enough.” Libby sat back.
Before Max could snap a comment in defense of his wife, Irene said, “She might be right. Not that we don’t love Drummond enough, but that our love is not what the spell is calling for. Drummond has existed for nearly a century. He’s only known the two of you for a few years and me for even less. Why should our love outweigh his entire existence?”
“I thought love was supposed to be the ultimate positive force,” Max said.
“It is — psychically speaking. But the spell calls for an object and a location that matters to the lost ghost. That’s a physical expression. Things so important when he was living as to draw him near. Our love might be the tipping point once he’s here, but we have to get him here first. And with the fire, we’ve lost our —”
Max’s his entire demeanor shifted as his brain fired off new connections. “An object and a location — the flask and the office.”
