Southern Souls

by Stuart Jaffe

  Drummond said, “Two guesses at the name of the witch behind this mess of a spell.”

  “That’s right — Madame Yan. It’s obvious to me that we have underestimated her. We knew she was a witch and have always been cautious with her, but come on — let’s admit that we thought of her as a harmless, crazy, old bat living under the ground.”

  Max propped his feet on the desk. “She definitely played that up with us.”

  “You’ve probably already guessed that a spell made up of other spells is quite complex and serves more than one purpose. Basically, Madame Yan is using this Soro Group as a backdoor to try to gain power.”

  “Like what kind of power?”

  “If Isaac Brown succeeds and pulls off this spell, he will get the wealth he seeks, but a huge amount of natural energy will also flow through him for a time — my best guess is that it’ll last for about a week. He’ll become like a human spellgun.”

  “And Madame Yan will be the finger on the trigger.”

  “With that power, she’ll destroy the Hulls, Madame Ti, and any other witches who oppose her. When it ends, she’ll be on top. If she plays it right, within a week, she will control all of magic in the state. She’ll be set up for further growth, too, I’m sure.”

  Drummond pursed his lips as he coasted in a circle. “If this is such an old and complex spell, why would she entrust it to Isaac Brown? Why should she expect him to be able to pull it off?”

  “I wondered the same thing. One of my witch sources told me that it was not uncommon long ago for witches to use a non-witch is this way. Especially back in the burn ‘em at the stake days. They learned how to package a complex spell into a form that a novice could handle. The novice would have no idea why it worked or how, but as long as they followed the instructions exactly, everything would be fine.”

  “I take it the exactly part didn’t always go so well.”

  “The more complex the spell, the more exact the novice would have to be. One slip up in pronunciation, one mistake when drawing symbols, and bad things often resulted. But for the witch, when things went bad, the novice acted as a buffer between the witch and the spell. It would be difficult for anybody to trace the magic back to her unless that person knew magic — which they would not want to admit. The novice could say anything and would not be believed.”

  “So this whole thing is just a way to keep Madame Yan’s name out of it?”

  “Partly. But also, I think she didn’t have a choice. Blending these five spells was the difficult part. She must’ve been working on this for many years. Not only did she have to weave the spells so that they would do the job she wanted, but she also had to have the spell pay off for a tragedy group — otherwise, they would never believe the stuff worked — and then she had to put it all in a package that the tragedy group could actually utilize. I suspect Isaac Brown’s Soro Group is not the first she’s ever worked with.”

  Max sat forward. “She’s probably been doing this for decades. Each tragedy group she worked with failed, or they succeeded but the part of the spell designed for her benefit failed. It’s been a ton of trial and error. Refining it little by little.”

  “If she had been performing all those spells herself, somebody would have figured out what she was up to. The Hulls, at their height of power, would have shredded her soul. By using the tragedy groups, Madame Yan’s experiments read like just another part of a long history of non-witches playing with power they don’t understand.”

  “Except now, she thinks she succeeded.”

  “From everything I can see with that spell, she may be right.”

  “Great,” Drummond said. “Not only do we have to save the boy, now we have to stop this spell from rewriting the way magic is controlled in the entire state.”

  Max crossed the room to pour a mug of coffee. His right hand conducted the rhythm of his thoughts as he walked. “Are we sure we have to stop the spell? Obviously, we have to save PB. But is it a bad thing for Madame Yan to take out Cecily Hull and Madame Ti and a couple of other witches?”

  With a gentle but confident tone, Sandra said, “Absolutely. Because I had that thought, too. So, I researched Madame Yan, and you won’t like what I’ve learned.” She checked the time before continuing. “Madame Yan has a long and dark history. Nothing like Mother Hope or Grandma Mobley — she did not use magic to extend her life abnormally — but she certainly does like to use magic. She’s lived all over the world under numerous aliases. I found three in particular including Madame Court in Czechoslovakia, Madame Vee in South Africa, and Madame Tsung in Japan. In all three cases, she was forced to leave those countries, often late at night before anybody knew she had gone. She’s used magic to kill people in horrendous ways. In one case, she boiled a man’s brain from the inside.”

  “Like a microwave?”

  “I think so. She’s also tortured people, cut them up into small bits for her collections, and in South Africa, she started collecting children — well, their eyeballs. But the key thing is that in every place she’s gone, she’s always attempted to take control of the area.”

  Drummond snickered. “Doesn’t look like she’s too good at it. Maybe we don’t have much to worry about.”

  “A lot of failure only means she’s learned what not to do. Don’t forget — she’s been working at this particular tactic for many years. She’s not a clear-minded person. She’s erratic and prone to following her whims. If she actually succeeds and is the ruling body of magic here — it will be chaos.”

  “Well, Doll, there’s a bright side — the Porter Agency will have plenty of work.”

  Max said, “I hate to admit this, but we’re probably better off with Cecily Hull. At least she’s somewhat sane.”

  “One last thing,” Sandra said as she grabbed a mug of coffee, too. “If Isaac Brown pulls off the spell, it will ultimately consume him. When the energy flow finishes, when the week is up, there won’t be anything left of him.”

  “So?” Drummond said.

  “Damn,” Max said. “She means that if this spell goes off, PB is going to lose his father. Again.”

  Sandra said, “It’s worse than that. There is a reason you don’t see a lot of these pentaid spells. Weaving together five spells of any type is absurdly complicated. When you make them as old and rare as the type Madame Yan is using, it’s even worse. The end result is magic that’s not really stable — and that’s if it’s done right. Putting it in the hands of a novice, even one that’s spent most of his life practicing for this single spell, is nothing but reckless. The spell will consume Isaac Brown, but it might also consume anyone connected to it when it’s initially created.”

  The coffee in Max’s stomach threatened to come back up. “That would mean PB, too.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Max’s phone lit up and the opening chords of AC/DC’s Back in Black rang out — the alarm Max had set in case he fell asleep. He set his coffee mug down, crossed his arms, and looked up at Drummond. “Sandra and I are in this to the end, but it’s not an official case. PB’s our boy and there is no way we’re backing down. But I can’t ask you —”

  “Don’t you dare finish that sentence, partner. If PB is your son, that makes me Uncle Marshall. Simple as that.”

  Max walked over to his desk and picked up his coat and keys. His body tingled as if he were a high school student preparing to step out on stage in front of the entire school. They had faced so many horrible things over the years that it surprised him when he still got nervous. But it made him feel good, too. It meant that he had not become jaded, that he still valued his life, that he had people he loved and worried about, that he was as far from the insanity that drove Madame Yan as he could possibly be.

  “Okay,” he said, opening the office door. “It’s time.”

  Chapter 28

  THE SECTION OF CONSTRUCTION THAT CONCERNED MAX was only seven blocks southwest of their office, but they decided to drive anyway. Walking would have used up a lot of ene
rgy, and they did not want to be tired before their confrontation began. Plus, Drummond pointed out that once they had PB, they would want to escape fast. So, after gassing up his car, Max and Sandra drove down to 1st Street and spent a short time looking for an available and well-situated parking spot.

  Between all of their prep work and driving around, they had managed to eat up plenty of time. With a half hour to go, they approached the construction site one block east of Cherry Street. Turned out getting onto the site was easy. The construction company put up plenty of obstacles, but with such a long swath of road closed off, there were numerous gaps one could sneak through — especially after teenagers started breaking in for fun.

  The project reminded Max of images he had seen of the LA waterways — wide and deep ditches, angled at the sides, flat at the bottom, cutting straight through an urban area. The California version had been covered in concrete, and Max would not have been surprised if the same would be done here. But at the moment, it was a lot of Carolina red clay. The angles were steeper here and several of the roads crossing over had been blocked off. A few bridges had been demolished. In the distance, Max saw where they were constructing new on and off ramps. However, the majority of the roads did not exist yet.

  “We’re lucky it’s not raining,” he said. “This place would be a mud bath.”

  As he and Sandra carefully climbed toward the bottom, Drummond hung at their side. “I think they’re definitely here,” the ghost said.

  Max looked over at Cherry Street. Between the lights of the city and the floodlights set up for the workers, most of the construction site was well-illuminated. Except for Cherry Street. For several feet in front and behind, the bridge remained in the dark. And underneath, where the ceremony would take place, it appeared pitch black.

  Max said, “Is that part of the spell?”

  “Partially,” Sandra said. “You can also see where they knocked out the streetlights and the work lamps.”

  Drummond said, “Isaac Brown was smart. To do this properly, he needed a night when there would be no work going on. Maybe he has some people on the inside who arranged it this way or maybe he found out that this was going to be a night off, but I’d wager that he picked this specific night for the ceremony and worked the timeline backwards to make sure Walter Klein’s death happened on the correct day.”

  Sandra added, “He’d have to time it with the correct phase of the moon, too.”

  “Then he’s extra-prepared,” Max said.

  As they reached the bottom, Drummond said, “Don’t spend too much time out in the open. They’re going to be wrapped up in their ceremony, but a wandering eye could still catch you.”

  Max took Sandra’s hand and they scurried behind a bulldozer. Like soldiers moving in on a fortified position, they dashed from one area of cover to another. Slowly, they progressed forward, and as they closed in on the ceremony, Max could see the cloaked figures of those that had gathered to perform the spell — their images emerging out of the magic-created dark like gothic statues in a fog-covered cemetery.

  Several concrete barriers had been stacked off to one side. Max and Sandra slipped behind before peeking at the ceremony. Upon his first look, Max knew this was going to be more dangerous than the previous gatherings.

  As before, the cloaked figures formed a circle. However, this was not just any circle. A pentagram had been marked in the dirt with white chalk. At each of the five star points, a single candle had been placed. Each candle was a different color — red, blue, white, yellow, and black. The flickering light reflected off the concrete pillars and walls under the bridge. In the surrounding dark, the dim candlelight made the space feel enclosed and tight like a dungeon passage.

  Using three equidistant points on the pentagram, a triangle had been drawn with yellow chalk. At two of the triangle points, they had placed symbols to represent the past tragedies. The one on the left had a small stool, and sitting on the stool, Max could see a rusted, slave collar — a symbol of all those buried at Odd Fellows Cemetery. From a distance, the collar looked to be authentic.

  Another stool on the second point of the triangle had an old hunting rifle. Max recalled that Charlie Lawson had used several weapons to massacre his family including a rifle. Over the years, that particular weapon disappeared. Could that really be the same gun?

  At the final point of the triangle — which matched the top point of the pentagram — Isaac Brown stood with PB at his side.

  Max’s heart leapt to his throat. He wanted to sprint under that bridge, kick those candles away, grab PB in the confusion, and escape. Of course, that would fail. He would never get close to PB. This had to be done carefully. Thoughtfully.

  “Remember,” he said to Sandra, “we have to get PB first. Once he’s safe, we can worry about stopping the spell.”

  Keeping his eyes on the ceremony, Drummond said, “Say the word and I’ll go freeze them all. It’ll hurt something awful, but I’ll do it.”

  Sandra shook her head. “They will definitely be warded against ghosts. Probably witches, too. This is the culmination of decades of work. Madame Yan is not going to leave any of it open for you to swoop in and save the day.”

  The Soro Group started on a melodic chant. Isaac lifted his hands and spoke but Max could not decipher the words.

  “We have to get closer,” he said.

  Sandra said, “If we go out there, we’ll get spotted.”

  Pointing to a large mobile generator parked just in front of the bridge, Drummond said, “Get ready to run for that.”

  He swept forward, rose up into the air, and passed over the bridge. His pale figure descended on the opposite side. He studied the ground until he found a short piece of discarded metal. With a hearty yell, Drummond lifted the small metal bar a few inches off the ground and dropped it. As he danced around waving his burning hands, the metal bar clattered on the ground — and the entire Soro Group looked to the far end where the noise had come from.

  Max and Sandra bolted across in the open. They stayed upright, moving as fast as possible, while everybody’s attention was turned away. Sliding in behind the generator, Max could only hear his heavy breathing. With Sandra’s arm on his shoulder, he calmed and listened closely — until he heard Isaac without trouble.

  Jerking his head, Isaac sent one of his followers to investigate the noise. Max and Sandra held still. Max even held his breath. When the follower returned with a shrug, Isaac continued.

  But the chanting had ceased, and Max could tell by the way Isaac comported himself that this time, things were going to be different. This time, the groundwork had been laid and the bulk of the spell now needed to be cast.

  As if to erase any doubt, Isaac spouted off a flurry of ancient words and all the candle flames lifted high in the air. When they settled back to normal, the cloaked figures lowered to their knees without a sound. They were scared.

  Max could easily imagine that many of them only half-believed in the promises of the Soro Group. But now, Isaac Brown was proving himself. This night, this gathering, had suddenly become darkly real to them all.

  “Tonight is a special night,” Isaac said. “Tonight, after almost a decade, my son, my flesh and blood, stands here with me. Tonight, he will learn the truth of his legacy, and through it, we will fulfill the promise I have made to all of you.”

  With robotic motions, one of the followers rose and stepped up toward PB. This figure carried a heavy looking vest — almost a flak jacket.

  Isaac continued, “Those of you who have been with me long enough know that this bit of magic we wield is very dangerous. Members in our past have died in their attempt to turn fortune their way. But some of us have had success, too. That is how we know it is worth the risk. As with all things in life, the higher the risk, the higher the reward. And what could be more risky than your life? So you know the reward is equally great.”

  Isaac took the vest from the follower and held it above his head. Max did not like this. He could not
say what was off exactly, but the whole thing seemed fishy.

  “Is that part of the spell?” he asked.

  Sandra frowned. “If it is, Madame Yan kept it well-hidden.”

  Drummond descended behind them. “You were right. They have all kinds of wards running in there. I’m guessing each one is carved into those candles. Strong stuff. I could feel it even as I flew overhead.”

  Sandra said, “Maybe it’s just a group thing. Like a Rotary club vest.”

  “Then why haven’t we seen them before?” Max asked.

  As Isaac helped PB put on the vest, he made sure to keep eye contact with the boy. It zipped up the front and a strange layer of cloth flapped over to secure it on the opposite side. Isaac fished out PB’s necklace so that it rested in the open on the boy’s chest. Beaming, Isaac pulled his own necklace out from beneath his shirt. It had a matching pendant.

  Isaac Brown placed an object like an oversized pen in PB’s hand and whispered in the boy’s ear. Max saw it register on PB’s face right away. The surprise followed by the horror. PB stared at this pen in his hand and his arm shook.

  Max’s stomach hit the floor. “Oh, no.”

  Raising his voice, Isaac Brown said, “In each of our steps toward tonight, we have been required to shed blood. Ideally, those sacrifices would have been given freely. And in some ways they were. But tonight — tonight no hand may touch the sacrifice. No soul can assist. Our ceremony can only benefit one individual, so the sacrifice must be related through blood to that individual. Thus, tonight the sacrifice is my son. He stands before us to benefit me.” He turned to PB. “Sorry, son. You are holding what is called a dead man’s trigger. As long as you hold it tight, you will live. But when you let it go, the vest will explode.”