Dark Arts (21 page)

“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 stinking 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.

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.