Southern Rites (Max Porter Mysteries Book 7)

by Jaffe,Stuart

  Max threw the stone down the hole and plowed the dirt back inside to cover it up. He had to hope the two-feet measurement was never intended to be exact. With the back of the trowel, he smoothed the dirt with the rest of the ground.

  Voices grew louder.

  He brushed some pebbles over the hole and tossed a few leaves as well. Stepping back, he tried to inspect his work with only the moonlight. He thought it would suffice. Not that he had much choice in the matter.

  He could discern approaching footsteps.

  Damn. The plan had been for him to bury the stone and leave. He would then meet up with Sandra, his mother, and Drummond to cast their spell once Wallace’s group had entered the woods. No way could he escape now — going back up the path meant passing by them and trying to go around via the forest meant getting lost in the dark. His phone had GPS, but he worried that the light from the screen would be like shining a giant arrow over his head. Too easy for his enemies to spot him.

  New plan — hide.

  Max scurried back behind the fallen cedar as the front of the group arrived at the circle. Salty sweat trickled into his mouth. Inching slower than a snail, he brought his head in position to watch through the log.

  Four men, all wearing the hooded garb of Wallace’s group, came forth with lit torches in hand. Next, two more hooded figures carried in a long wooden post. Finally, four people arrived — one was Wallace, two were hooded like the rest, and stuck between them, Max saw J.

  The young teen tried to keep a brave face, but Max saw the terror in the boy’s stumbling steps and constant searching of the woods. He had to know that Max would never give up on him. But as the men dug a small hole at the head of the circle and hammered the post into the ground, J’s resolve weakened. His knees buckled.

  The men kept J standing as Wallace smirked. “Starting to understand where you’re going?”

  J kept quiet — the hatred his eyes threw at Wallace said enough.

  The torches had been placed outside the circle, and the shadows they cast danced around the ground. Max watched the area where he had buried the stone. People walked over it without ever noticing. Between the shadows and his quick covering, it looked like he would get away with that part of the plan.

  But it didn’t matter, if he couldn’t get back to Sandra and his mother. Where’s Drummond? How late would Max have to be before they think to send Drummond over to check up on the situation? That’s all Max really needed. Send the ghost in to freeze everyone for a little while, create a little chaos, and Max could spring J with ease.

  Maybe not ease, but he could certainly have a good shot at success.

  The last strike on the post echoed in the woods, and the hooded figures backed away. With a silent motion from Wallace, the others tugged J over to the post. Despite J’s straining, the men in charge of him showed little difficulty in tying him up like a witch ready to be burned at the stake. They wrapped a cloth gag around his mouth and backed away.

  When they finished, each man stood behind one of the symbols drawn in the circle. Edward Wallace paced around the circle twice — once behind the men, once in front — before moving to the open space left for him, directly opposite the post with J. He raised his hands overhead, and all of his followers did the same.

  Max clenched his fist and pounded his chin as he thought. The ceremony had begun. Still no sign of Drummond. But Wallace wouldn’t wait, and Max couldn’t be sure how long the whole ceremony would take.

  “Tonight,” Wallace said as the others bowed their heads, “we fulfill a destiny set down over two hundred years ago. Tonight, we will gain the power that has been denied our people for generations. By the blood of this child and the grace of our ancestors, we will take our rightful place at the head of all strength in this world.”

  He lowered his head, and in a deep monotone, he chanted. Max could not discern the words — he guessed they weren’t in any language he would recognize — but it sounded menacing to his ears. Especially when the hooded men took up the chant like a group of demonic Buddhist monks. J groaned against his gag, but the chanting drowned out his sound.

  Max rummaged through his pockets. He kept meaning to carry a pocketknife, and now wished he had done so. He had his keys and his phone. His phone!

  As long as the firelight from the torches made it too difficult to see into the woods, Max should have no trouble texting Sandra undetected. Besides, all of Wallace’s men had their heads down. Probably had their eyes closed, too.

  He swiped the screen of his phone, but when he touched the symbol to text, his phone fluttered three old photos of Sandra and then went dark. He pressed the wake-up button, swiped the screen, and tried again. This time the messaging app came on, a blue box flickered along with a stripe of multi-colored text, and then it all went dark again.

  Max looked back at the circle. J wriggled to no avail. Wallace had brought out a wooden bowl and held it over his head in one hand. In the other, he brandished a large hunting blade. “Blood of the innocent will shed its innocence. Blood of the pure will purify us all.”

  The Call to Power — if the chanting had already started creating the spell, then the energy of the spell must have messed with his phone. Max pocketed his dead phone. He checked around him. Desperate, he even hoped to find that snake again. Maybe he could throw it at Wallace.

  But there was no snake, no Drummond, no phone.

  Wallace stepped into the circle. He tapped the knife against the bowl making a dull, steady beat that kept time with the chanting. J’s eyes widened and all his struggling ceased.

  Max had nothing. Nothing but himself.

  That’ll have to be enough.

  Standing atop the log, Max put out his arms. “Hey! Stop!”

  The chanting halted. Wallace twisted back as all the hooded heads lifted and stared in Max’s direction. Even J looked over at Max.

  Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. They all continued to stare as if waiting for Max to do something. So Max said the first thing in his head. “I was just passing through. You know of any good places for barbecue?”

  Wallace looked like he had bitten into a rotten apple. “Get that sonuvabitch.”

  Chapter 25

  Weaving around the trees, Max blundered forward. He wanted to sprint, but even with the bright full moon, there were numerous roots, rocks, and twigs that he would not see until he tripped. The men in pursuit must have had the same thought. Or they were severely out of shape, and Max didn’t think he could be that lucky. But there were a lot of them, so being faster did not necessarily mean escaping — not when they could easily flank him, encircle him, or drive him toward danger like cavemen herding buffalo over a cliff.

  Great. Now I’m thinking of myself as a buffalo.

  The men behind him hooted and whistled, laughed and shouted. Cockiness rocketed amongst those in a group, and when that group consisted of those who would join a cult, the level of arrogance went off the charts. The taunts continued, but they misjudged their prey. Max was not some frightened victim, running for his life, afraid of what might happen should he get caught.

  Not entirely.

  He had a plan in mind. But, of course, it required Drummond to show up.

  Twigs slapped his legs as he navigated his way down a slope. Several of the men hit the grade too fast and tumbled downhill much to the mocking delight of the others. Because they fell, a gap had opened in the rough line of men. Max darted towards this advantage and broke through, rushing back for the circle and J.

  Branches cut across his arms stinging his skin. He smashed through spider webs that stuck to his face and a cloud of gnats that scattered around his head. Wallace’s men had lost all their amusement. Instead, Max heard grunts and commands. The closer he came to the torch-lit circle, the more worried and angry those voices became.

  Max broke through onto the trail and jumped over to the circle. With a guttural noise, Wallace leaped in front of J and spread out his arms. But Max could not stop to fight Wallace, somehow
defeat the man, and then untie J — not with a group of unhinged madmen racing after him.

  Instead, Max dashed away, dragging his feet across the symbols written in the ground. He knocked over one of the torches before shooting off into the woods again. The spreading flames and ruined circle had done their job well. Max could hear Wallace ordering some of his men to stay behind to help restore the spell.

  Off to the right, Max glimpsed a close grouping of pines. He pivoted toward the trees, rushed forward, and slid on the needles underneath the lowest branches. The sweet pine aroma mixed with his sweat as he rolled onto his stomach and behind two tree trunks. Three men thumped right by him.

  “I leave you alone for a tiny bit and look at the mess you’ve made.” Drummond appeared halfway inside a nearby pine. “All you had to do was bury a rock.”

  Max frantically waved the ghost closer. Whispering, he said, “I could use a little help.”

  “You could use a little brains. What do you expect me to do? Go freeze every single one of them. Sure, why not? Who cares if the ghost feels excruciating pain when he does that neat trick? As long as you get out of a mess you created.”

  “I’m sorry. This wasn’t my idea. And, no, I don’t need you to go freeze them all.”

  “Good. Because I’m not your secret weapon. I’m your partner.”

  “Which is why I have a plan that requires two partners to work together.”

  Two more hooded figures sped by. Max clamped his mouth shut and held his breath until the men had disappeared into the darkness. Turning back to Drummond, he said, “I’m going to keep this up, it’s a distraction now. I’ll draw the men away again, and you go get J.”

  Drummond frowned. “I was only giving you hard time.”

  “Promise me you’ll do it. I don’t want take a beating from these asses for nothing.”

  “That’s stupid. You don’t need to get hurt at all. Let me get Sandra and —”

  A gravelly voice shouted, “I see him!”

  Max popped to his feet. “Save J.” Before Drummond could respond, Max bolted off in the opposite direction from the circle.

  The calls from Wallace’s men grew louder as Max attempted one sharp pivot after another. He snatched a peek over his shoulder — four of them, maybe five, swiftly descending upon him. Those hoods blocked out all facial features and that chilled Max’s skin. They were like faceless corpses, re-animated and deadly. Monsters.

  He broke to the right. Despite his burning lungs, he poured more energy into sprinting. The roots and rocks and other obstacles be damned — he had to stay free for as long as possible.

  With a grunt, he jumped over a section of the forest glistening in the moonlight. A creek? A puddle? He didn’t care. Keep running. Keep ahead.

  Ignoring the cries from his brain, his legs slowed down to a rapid jog. Air grated his throat as he inhaled and exhaled too fast. He tasted salt and his vision blurred. Not enough oxygen?

  His foot snagged on something dark and small — big enough, though, to destroy his balance. He flopped onto the ground, the air whooshing from his lungs, and a rock cut his cheek. In seconds, footsteps surrounded him. Rough hands gripped his arms and hauled him to his feet.

  Max let his body go limp. If they wanted him to go back to the circle, they would have to drag him. And so they did.

  Three of the hooded men had already begun restoring the circle. The fire had been doused and the torch set upright again. One man on hands and knees reworked the symbols into the ground.

  But not all could be fixed. Max’s head lifted higher as he noticed that the sacrificial post no longer held J and that Edward Wallace rubbed his temples as would a man who had suffered a harsh migraine. Drummond had done it. Max closed his lips tight to keep from cheering. He pictured Drummond soaring in with his trench coat billowing behind. He thrust his fist through Wallace’s head, giving that fool the worst case of brain freeze, and then chilled J’s bindings until they snapped. J still doubted in the reality of Drummond, but Max was willing to bet that the teen might have had a change of heart by now.

  The men dragging Max along stopped before Wallace and bowed their heads. Edward snarled at Max. “You’ve really pissed me off.”

  Max shrugged. “It happens.”

  “Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited, how many hours I planned for this night, how much effort went into making sure all the preparations met the exact requirements of the spell?”

  “You’re asking that like I would care. J is free and you don’t get your witch’s power. I call that a double-header win.”

  “Such boldness for a man destined to die tonight.”

  “You keep trying to talk like some elevated, enlightened sage or something, but you’re nothing more than a punk playing with witchcraft. I’ve seen real witches before. Powerful witches. Sorry, pal, but you don’t have the real touch. Not at all.”

  Max knew he sounded far tougher than his quaking stomach felt. Learning to speak brave while facing life-threatening danger had been one of his first lessons under the tutelage of Drummond and the hard road of their cases. But speaking with confidence did not make one confident. Often enough, though, such bravado could cause an enemy to doubt — doubt a plan, doubt a weakness or a strength, doubt anything — and in doing so, make a mistake.

  Edward Wallace, however, did not look doubtful at all. In fact, a malicious grin twisted his mouth. “Oh, you think you’ve stopped this night from happening, that you’ve saved the day. That’s adorable.” With a sharp motion of his head, he said to his men, “Tie him up.”

  “What?” Max sputtered as the men hoisted him to the post and lashed his hands in the back. “You can’t use my blood. It’s old and tainted. I’m so far from pure that it’s laughable.”

  “Your blood may not be pure, but it is blood. It’ll have to do. There is no way I will allow failure tonight.”

  “But if your spell needs pure blood —”

  “Are you a witch? Did you ancestors spend generations exploring the Call to Power? Your blood will be fine. It won’t be as easy a conduit to deal with, and I probably will not get the full benefit of power from the bones, but it will work. And that’s all I need to get started.”

  The hooded men found the positions on the circle once more, and the chanting began again. Wallace made his way around the men as before — once in front of them and once behind — before he stepped to the space left for him. He lifted the wooden bowl in the air. With triumph blazing in his eyes, he raised the hunting knife above his head and tapped it against the bowl.

  Max knew enough of witchcraft that he thought Wallace would regret this. No way would the spell work without virgin blood. Well, maybe that wasn’t true. Maybe the spell would cast. Yet Max had an uncomfortable feeling that neither he nor Wallace would like the results.

  Regardless of whether or not the spell would work, Max had a bigger problem. He would bleed to death either way.

  He searched the darkness behind the men. Where was Drummond? He had to be there. He had to come back. But all Max saw was the darkness.

  Chapter 26

  The coarse ropes chaffed Max’s skin. After all the abuse his body had taken recently, the idea that aggravated skin could still annoy him made him want to laugh. If not for the intimidating blade approaching his body, he might have had the gumption to do so.

  Wallace whisked the knife across Max’s chest and pressed the wooden bowl beneath the fresh wound. Max hardly felt more than a sting. As his blood dribbled into the bowl, however, he watched Wallace’s lustful gaze.

  Max wrinkled his nose. “Ew, don’t tell me you’re going to drink my blood.”

  “When I drink this, it will no longer be your blood.”

  “Still, that’s pretty gross. But you’ve got my blood. Mind if I leave?”

  Wallace grimaced. “This is only the first cut. By the time we finish, you’ll be too weak to care what I do with your blood. And then you’ll die.”

  “Yeah? I’m not liki
ng that last part.”

  “You’re like an annoying fly, buzzing and buzzing. My men forgot to gag you.” With a sharp look to his left, one of the men hurried to rectify the error.

  Wallace turned his back to Max and raised the bowl of blood over his head. He chanted more archaic words before lowering his hands. Without any other cues, three men stepped forward and dropped to one knee. Each produced one of the femurs with the Call to Power written into the bone.

  Max scanned the dark woods again. Nothing. He closed his eyes and pressed his head against the post. Did they rush J off to the hospital? Is that why nobody came to save him? Or were they trying to perform their ceremonial spell but got stopped by a cruising police officer? Or maybe something happened to Drummond? The only thing Max could be sure of was that his team had not abandoned him.

  He opened his eyes to find Wallace pouring the blood over the first bone. “The power of ages past, the strength of family long dead, the wealth of a pure lineage, these things have been offered to me through mine. It is these things that I accept.” He took the sticky, wet bone in his trembling hands and brought it to his mouth.

  Max’s ears popped and pressure pushed against his body. The others in the circle appeared to have experienced similar forces as they rubbed their ears and exchanged astonished gasps. With a deep snap like the hull of an eighteenth century frigate busting open, the bone in Wallace’s hand cracked in two. One of the torches snuffed out, trailing gray smoke into the air.

  Wallace let the bone fragments fall to the earth. He turned around, and in a swift motion, he cut across Max’s arm. When he had filled the bowl with warm blood, he moved in front of the second bone. “The sacrifices of those before me, the opportunities set before me, the future that rests before me — it is these things that I accept.” He lifted the second bone covered in Max’s blood, and with more hunger than the first time, he brought it to his mouth.

  Again, Max’s ears popped and he felt the pressure on his body. Wallace’s men murmured as another loud crack followed the breaking of the bone and another torched snuffed out. Though the hoods hid the men, Max had no doubt worry now creased their faces. Many of them must not have believed in this as anything more than ceremony. Like those who joined other cults, Wallace’s men probably were lost souls looking for a community and acceptance. They didn’t necessarily expect real witchcraft to exist.