Southern Belle (2 page)

Sandra cocked her head to the side. "You don't want Drummond?"

"I was specifically instructed not to bring him along."

Sandra's eyes widened. "That's odd."

"I know. We've got some time before we need to head out, so I thought this would be a good place to fill you in."

"No way Drummond'll come here."

Max laced his fingers between hers, loving the fact that she understood him so well, and he led her to a quiet table. As he told her the story of Joshua Leed and ignored her jibes at him sneaking off to Little Richard's, he never mentioned the man in the black suit. He didn't withhold the information consciously — not at first — but when he noticed the absence of this detail, he decided to trust his instincts and keep quiet about the man. What could he really say? He'd tell Sandra that Black Suit had followed him all morning, and she would bombard him with questions he couldn't answer. He had the same questions — anyone would — so what good would come of worrying her over something so unknown? Better to wait until he had something concrete to say. Besides, it was possible that it had all been coincidence.

With several hours to kill before they could head out, Max and Sandra drove to Hanes Mall and picked up a few things they had been needing for their house. Well, Max didn't think they
needed
any of it, but Sandra insisted that the throw pillows, organizational baskets, and new bedsheets were essential to fixing up their home. Though Max rolled his eyes, he never put up much of a fight. They had spent so many years struggling simply to put food on the table that part of him enjoyed seeing her splurge a little. After a bit more shopping, dodging an early evening rainstorm, and a quick dinner, they drove off for Thomasville.

It turned out there was no direct way to get from Winston-Salem to Thomasville. The major highways, 40 and 85, never reached close enough to be convenient. Looking online at a map, Max saw that with a direct road, the drive should have taken fifteen minutes, but the circuitous route required an additional twenty. Add in being stuck behind an old lady driving an even older Cadillac and the trip took three quarters of an hour.

Thomasville was a true small town. Formerly full of vigor, still clinging to the old glory days. It had only one claim to fame — furniture. Though the town produced far less handcrafted furniture than it had in its lucrative past, it still operated as a main destination for furniture buyers both corporate and individual. Where most towns would garner their main drag with a statue of some important local figure, Thomasville built an enormous chair — something Paul Bunyan would find comfortable.

Further from downtown, Thomasville became a series of large and small farms dotted with the occasional housing development. Joshua Leed lived in a small house on a wide fifteen acres. Other than the half-acre mowed around the farmhouse and a dilapidated barn, the rest of Leed's property grew wild.

A two-story farmhouse, squarish with a wraparound porch, looked rather new — built in the last five years or so — unless it was an old house that had been refurbished on the outside. Max didn't know enough about houses to tell. All he could say was the place looked comfortable, charming even. That was until he saw the inside.

Before they had a chance to turn the car engine off, Joshua Leed flicked on the porch lights and beckoned them in. Max and Sandra hurried, and both of them gasped at the sight. Leed converted what appeared to have been a lovely interior with old-style wallpaper and carefully chosen window treatments into a demented man's sanctuary.

Archaic symbols lined the walls like an insane graffiti artist had been let loose. Pages from equally archaic books outlined the windows. In the corners of each room, thick white candles burned, giving off the unpleasant odor of ripe fish. Salt lined every possible entrance into the house.

"Careful," Leed said so Max would step over the salt and not disturb it.

Max put a hand on his wife's shoulder. "This is my wife —"

"Sandra. Yes, I know. Pleasure to meet you."

Sandra shook Leed's hand as she continued to look around.

Leed followed her gaze. "Do you see any ghosts in here? I've tried my best to keep them out."

"Looks like you've done a good job."

He smiled — but his lips still trembled. "Can I get you anything to drink? Are you hungry?"

"Let's just get right into it," Max said.

"Of course, of course. Please, come in the living room and have a seat. You didn't bring Drummond along, did you?"

"He's not here. And even if he was, I'm guessing he couldn't get inside."

Leed scanned over the wards and spells he had written on the walls before double-checking the lines of salt. "Okay." He led them into the living room, a sparse area with a gray couch and a wooden rocking chair. Lowering into the chair, his joints popped like a string of firecrackers. He closed his eyes. "I can still see Drummond the day I met him."

"When was that?" Sandra asked.

"September 1938. Had I known that in a year Hitler would launch World War II and a few years after that I'd be turning into a human popsicle while fighting off the Bulge, well, I may not have risked so much earlier." He glanced at Max. "We both know that's not true. Risk or no risk, once the veil of the world has been pulled away, you can never truly go back. You sure you don't want a snack?"

"We're sure," Max said. "Please, tell us what's going on."

"Yes, yes. Let's see ... when I was fifteen, my family lived on a farm up in Virginia. I went to school during the day and helped with chores through the mornings and evenings. One day, I came home from school, ready to go milk the cows and whatnot, when I smelled something had died. It's a distinct, foul odor, and once you've experienced it, you'll never forget. Well, I followed the scent into the house and there they were. My mother and father, on the floor, covered in blood."

Sandra leaned over and placed a hand on Leed's knee. "I'm so sorry."

"It's not something you really ever get over. I was a wreck for a long time. But eventually I began to breathe again, to attempt to live, and when I was around seventeen, I met Dr. Matthew Ernest — a man who changed my life forever. He called himself a witch hunter, and he told me that my parents had been slain as part of a terrible coven ritual. Black magic. That sort of thing. It may sound silly, but for a distraught seventeen-year-old, these words held sway. Dr. Ernest gave me reasons for what had always been meaningless. He made sense to me. And more importantly, he gave me a target for revenge."

Leed's formed a fist with one hand. "I'm not proud that this was my motivation for joining Dr. Ernest, but I can't change things. I became his assistant, traveling, never staying the same place for long, helping him track down any witches we learned about. All the time, though, I kept my eyes and ears wide open, hoping to find a clue that would lead me to the coven that killed my parents.

"And then, one day, without expectations for the day to be different in any way, we found a young lady who wanted to escape her coven — the same coven that I had sought. She needed our help. Dr. Ernest tried to prepare me, tried to see that I would have the proper priorities. Well, you can imagine. It didn't go well. We captured two of the witches, but the rest got away." Leed grew silent, his eyes looking far away, his fingers absently rubbing the nicked part of his earlobe. "Ugly things happened, but I don't believe those details are important to recall for you. Suffice it to say that I had my revenge. Only as in most cases of vengeance, little relief came. I couldn't bring my parents back no matter how much pain I inflicted on those responsible, and I ended up losing part of myself every time I hurt my prisoners."

Max settled deeper into the couch. "I'm guessing the coven witches that escaped found their way down to Winston-Salem."

"Patience. I'll get there."

"Forgive my husband," Sandra said, still patting Leed's knee. "He can get a bit enthusiastic."

"Good. We'll need that kind of passion. But I'm an old man, so I don't move as fast — even in my storytelling. Seems backwards, doesn't it? Seems that with so little time left to live, I should be doing everything faster. Try to get as much crammed in as I can. But that's the way of it."

"Mr. Leed? The coven?"

"Right, right. Now, Dr. Ernest and I spent months tracking the coven. We picked off a few more members during our search but eventually we discovered the majority had slipped into North Carolina. See, we had developed a contact in the warehouse at the Sears & Roebuck Company. He carried a list of supplies that Dr. Ernest devised. It contained the kinds of practical things a coven required but wouldn't want to order in bulk locally in case it aroused suspicions — candles, salt, that kind of thing. If that list was ever ordered together and in large quantities, our man would call and give us the address. I don't think he ever knew why that list was important. And that call eventually happened, leading us to Winston-Salem."

"How did you end up meeting Drummond?" Max asked.

Sandra backhanded his chest. "Let the man speak."

"You have to understand," Leed continued, "Back at that time there weren't many witch hunters around. In fact, most people thought we were nuts. So word spread fast about new people who fought against these evil beasts — at least it spread fast amongst us. It didn't take long to learn of Drummond.

"That day we walked into his office, I knew we had found a man who could really help. So many times, we met crazies who thought cultists were raising Satan in their backyards or scientists who wanted to capture witches for study or overly prepared but intellectually under-qualified warriors. Drummond, on the other hand, stood out as a capable man of action. The kind of man who thought through an immediate problem without causing the mess to fall back on his men. One who understood the necessity of destroying these abominations without falling prey to sympathies because of the enemy's human appearance."

Sandra frowned. "You don't think witches are human?"

"What kind of human would do the things they did to my mother and father? No, I think they gave up that right when they started meddling in magic."

Max saw the strained tendons in Sandra's neck. She teetered on the edge of letting Leed know how wrong he was, but Max's simple touch on her shoulder brought her back. She glanced at Max with an embarrassed grin and settled into the couch, nestling closer to him as they listened to the rest.

"Drummond didn't want anything to do with us. He thought we were the very kind of crackpots we had avoided from the start. But we gave him two names and what information we had, and we left. Before dinner that same day, he contacted us. As we knew he would, he checked out our story and now he believed there was something worth looking into. And boy did he ever.

"I don't know how he pulled it off, but in less than a week, he identified where the witches were staying, what false names they were using, what jobs they held, everything. From there we learned the names of the other coveners, and we were set to curse them, to destroy the whole coven in one night."

"Curse them?" Sandra said. "Is that part of your vengeance? I mean, wouldn't it be easier to simply kill them?"

"True witch covens are extremely powerful. They bind and accentuate the energies of all the witches within the coven. Killing one only turns it into a ghost which can continue to feed the coven with its energy. But we knew of a curse that if done properly would break the power of the coven and lock the witches in their dead bodies, preventing them from roaming around as ghosts. It was a difficult spell to cast and required all six key witches in the coven to be killed on the same night.

"In order to protect ourselves and to insure that the coven did not reform or break the curse, we divide the killings amongst the three of us. Each man took two names from a hat. We agreed on the night that the curse would take place and made sure we each understood what was required. Finally, and most important, none of us would know where the others buried their witches. This way, should something go wrong, we were protected from each other. The planned night arrived, and we did what had to be done. And I truly thought it was all over."

"I don't think I'm going to like this next part," Max said.

Leed licked his lips and arched his head back. "It's been quiet all these years, yet something inside me always niggled at the idea that it might not be done. Then yesterday morning I saw this." With his cane, Leed pointed to a newspaper on the coffee table.

Max picked it up and saw a circled article headlined: PROFESSOR OF CULTS MURDERED. "This is Dr. Ernest?"

"Oh, yes. You can take that with you. Read it in detail. For now, believe me when I say that all the signs are there — this murder was an act of rage and revenge and the first step into freeing the full power of the coven. If you look close, read between the lines, you'll see that Dr. Ernest was murdered by a ghost, and the only ghosts in Winston-Salem that would want to harm him belong to the coven."

"But you said the curse prevented —"

"Obviously, somebody found a way to break our curse, didn't they?"

"And with Dr. Ernest's coven ghosts released, you think they murdered him."

"They'll be coming for me soon enough."

"To kill you for revenge?"

"Eventually. But first they'll torture me to find out where I buried their sisters. And if a ghost can kill another ghost, they'll go after Drummond, too."