Southern Belle (27 page)

I'm sorry, my friend. I failed you.

Now Max's last ally had become his enemy. The disappointment filling him made it difficult to think beyond the moment, beyond hearing how Drummond and Patricia planned to kill Sandra and himself. All they needed was the bell. In fact, the only thing keeping Max alive was the fact that they hadn't found it yet. Drummond had even resorted to asking Patricia if she had ...

Wait. That doesn't make sense.
Drummond had spent the last several minutes going through the building top to bottom. He already knew that the bell wasn't on the roof or in the basement. Or he knew that it was in one of those places and didn't want her going there. He gazed up at Drummond —
did Drummond just wink at me?
And no dark mist. He hadn't turned yet.

"Patricia," Drummond said, "look in my eyes."

"Yes, darling."

"Let me tell you how I see our future."

Drummond launched into a flowery story that sounded like anything but Drummond. This was it. This was Max's chance to get out.

As quietly as he manage, Max rolled to his stomach and from there, up onto all fours. He knew how absurd he looked, but his pride would have to take a backseat to his survival. Like a cowering dog, he scurried out of the office and into the hall. He could still hear Drummond's tale of weddings and children and a small farm away from all the horrors of the world. How long could he keep up his love-tale before Patricia noticed Max's absence?

He needed to find that bell. He paced the hall, thinking over every word Drummond had said since coming into the office. The answer had to be there or else Drummond would have taken a different tactic. What had he said? He asked Patricia to think about where she would hide the bell — because he wanted Max to think about how Connor's mother would have seen things. But they had already covered that line of thought before.
Wait. What did he say last?
Something about an old witch crone and ... Max lifted his head, his eyes resting on the other door in the hall — the one belonging to the old woman that had always shot him nasty looks when she came out to get her paper.

Though he felt less sure about his conclusions, he also understood that Drummond could only stall so long for him. He had to act or the whole effort had been worthless.

Max crouched in front of the doorknob. Trying to think of what he had in his pockets that he could use to pick the lock, he concluded that even if he had something small enough, he lacked the skill to do it with any speed. He stood and ran his fingers along the top of the molding above the door. No key. He looked around the banister in the hall for a pot or a shoe or anything that one would hide a key in. Nothing.

Except there was a doormat — a coarse, weaved thing, fraying at the edges. Could it really be that easy? Max bent down and lifted the mat. A cockroach scuttled away leaving behind a scuffed, silver key square in the middle.

Max slipped the key into the lock and gently opened the door. Trying to be stealthy, he only opened it wide enough to slide in. He closed the door behind, hoping Patricia had not noticed where he went.

Before his eyes adjusted to the dim interior, he smelled the room — the stale stench of a body unwashed for years. Max tried breathing through his mouth to avoid the odor, but the air tasted awful, too. He could feel it coating his tongue.

Once his eyes adjusted, he noticed that the main living room looked rather bland and unimpressive. An old woman's room, sparsely furnished but each piece held numerous knick-knacks — a coffee table with porcelain figurines, end tables with collector's plates on either side of a long couch, a reading lamp with beaded chains hanging from its neck. The old lady snored peacefully on the couch, one arm draped across her forehead, the other hanging toward the floor and an empty bottle of tequila.

Witches sure loved the hard stuff.

Except this old lady didn't seem like a witch, especially a witch charged with protecting a cursed object. Maybe Drummond had it wrong. But when Max turned to go, his opinion changed. Painted blood-red on the back of the door, Max saw a large pentagram. Beneath it, a series of symbols had been carved into the wood.

Okay. Right place.

A muted screech filtered through the walls. Patricia must have discovered Max's absence. He could hear her yelling as well as Drummond's bass tones thumping a reply. How long would he be able to argue with her before turning? Considering the strong emotions between them, Max didn't think he had much time left.

He figured the old lady wouldn't hide the bell in the front room. Too easy to be spotted by unwanted eyes. The kitchen to his right looked plain and, frankly, untouched. Whatever the old lady ate, it wasn't coming from there. He doubted she ever stepped foot in that room. Which left either the bathroom or her bedroom — both of which were down a dark hall on the left.

The old lady grunted and shifted her body deeper into the couch. With a loud eruption, she passed gas. Other than quelling a juvenile desire to laugh, Max didn't react. Considering the stench in this place, he guessed he would never notice any added odors.

As silently as possible, Max eased down the hall. The closer he came to the bedroom door, the worse the rank odor became. The hall grew darker as if even light wanted nothing to do with this place.

The voices of Drummond and Patricia intensified though Max couldn't make out the actual words. The anger came through clear enough. He hurried to the door, ignoring his internal warnings that urged him to turn around, to get out of that apartment, to run.

"Hold on, Sandra. I'm coming for you," he whispered and opened the door.

He expected to find a room similar to Connor's office or perhaps one filled with protective wards like Dr. Ernest's room. Instead, he discovered a twisted display that belonged in the pages of
Psycho Weekly.
The foul odor that permeated the apartment doubled in the bedroom. Max could barely breathe without throwing up. A bed had been shoved in the corner to his right, the sheets stained with browns, yellows, and reds. Odd-shaped books had been piled next to the bed. Two bookcases leaned against the walls to either side — each one filled with jarred organs, animal fetuses, and various eggs.

Worse — black and white photos covered the walls. A man in hip-waders displaying a half-eaten fish carcass foul with maggots. A girl in her confirmation dress sitting with a book of poetry in her lap and the head of a cat. Children rolling down a hill of corpses. Max couldn't bear to look at any others. He prayed they had been images designed on a computer and not real in any respect.

A wide cabinet sat in the center of the room, out of place and obstructing Max's view of the rest of the room. Slowly, Max entered, walking around the cabinet, trying to prepare for any kind of traps the witch had set, anything that might leap out at him. When he came to the other side, he jumped back, startled by the amazing sight.

The old lady had built a shrine. A circle of salt surrounded the entire thing. Inside, three green candles burned on an altar of wood with a velvet cloth cover, gold pentagrams hanging from the top of the cabinet, and situated on a silk pillow — the thirteenth Bell of the Damned.

Larger than he had imagined, the bell had a small chip in the handle but otherwise matched the photographs exactly. Max inspected around the shrine, attempting to locate any form of security alarm. Then he considered the apartment he was in — witches didn't need security alarms. He reached under the bell and guided the clapper against the side so it would not ring out. Holding it in place with one hand, he lifted the bell with the other. Not a sound. In fact, he had been so quiet, he could still hear the impassioned argument coming from his office.

Max walked around the wide cabinet, took two steps toward the door, and froze. The old lady blocked his way. She stood in the doorway breathing heavy but strong. A growl emitted from her throat, and her head lowered, darkening her eyes, threatening him like a rabid animal.

"I am the protector," she said in a strong but cracked voice, "and you will return the bell or face my wrath."

Had he been a common thief, he might have laughed at the old lady, might even have attempted to bully his way by her, but Max knew witches too well to ignore her threat. Yet as much as he knew he should comply, he could only shrink before her strength and hope that this witch had a heart.

"Please," he said, "I need this bell to save my wife."

"It is cursed, and so will you become if you use it."

"A High Priestess has possessed my wife. The witch, Patricia Welling. I was told that this is the only thing that can save my Sandra. If you know another way, tell me. Otherwise, I must have this."

The old lady thrust out a clawed hand. Max cowered, sure that he would be turned into a toad. When his human form remained, he peeked up at her. She scowled.

"Max Porter, seer of a single ghost, you have been a thorn in the foot of the Hull family since you arrived here. That is the only reason you have remained untouched by me. But should you press forth and remove that bell from this sacred room, I will no longer restrain myself. Put the bell back, and all shall be forgotten. Take one step closer, and you'll learn how powerful an old witch like me can become."

Max clutched the bell closer to his chest. He looked at the hall stretching out behind the old lady. Surely he could barrel her down and make it out through that hall. From there, he'd bust out of the apartment, hurry to his office, ring the bell at Patricia, and pray for the best. Yet even as he considered this plan, the old lady seemed to fill out the doorway even more. It may only have been a trick of his eyes brought on by fear and worry, it may have been an illusion cast by the old witch — either way, he saw his chance to leave diminishing.

He glanced back at the shrine. If he did as she asked, if he returned the bell, would she stay true to her word? Would she let him go and forget his intrusion? And what of Sandra then? A loud crash came from his office. That settled it. If he didn't get in there fast, Drummond would either end up destroyed or turned.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Unless you can help me stop this witch, I don't see any other way."

"Don't think that the bluster you've displayed in the past will aid you today. Turn around. Put the bell back. Forget you ever knew of this place."

Max lowered his body slightly, ready to pounce on the old lady, toss her aside, and race for his office. His heart quickened and sweat broke along his back and neck. He licked his lips and gave one final thought to Sandra.

Before he could launch into action, the old lady's eyes widened. She saw his intentions, and she already had her hand out, prepared to strike with whatever magic she possessed.

"I think you should stop this nonsense," a voice said from the hallway.

Both Max and the old lady peered down the dark hall. Mr. Modesto walked forward. The old lady stepped into the room, allowing him to take the doorway.

"Good evening to you." As always, Modesto wore a smart suit and held his body perfectly straight. "I see, Mr. Porter, that you have acquired the bell after all. Our employer will be pleased."

The old lady squinted an evil gaze at him. "Neither you nor your pathetic employer will ever have this bell. I've pledged my life to protect —"

"Yes, yes. Except, you see, Mr. Porter is the one holding the bell, and quite frankly, you don't have the skill to do anything about it."

"You'll regret those words."

She raised her hands and opened her mouth. A tight, choking came from her throat. Her eyes rolled back and she crumpled to the floor.

Modesto walked in and lifted the bell from Max's stunned hands. Max wanted to fight, but he couldn't imagine how Modesto had defeated this witch with such ease. How could he fight Modesto against that kind of power? It was over. He had failed and now Modesto had the bell. He just couldn't understand what had happened.

As if to answer Max's unspoken questions, Modesto gestured to the hall. A small, thin woman with a deep scar running from her nose to her jaw stood alone. Dressed in a black gown adorned with symbols Max had seen too many times in recent days, the woman lowered her hands and ran a finger along a bone pendant around her neck.

"I'll take care of the others," she said and walked off toward Max's office.

With his free hand, Modesto guided Max back to his feet. "The first rule in fighting with magic," Modesto said, "is to always bring the strongest witch."

Chapter 25

Modesto had no need for a gun. As long as he held that bell, Max didn't see any choice but to go along without a struggle. They left the old lady's apartment and walked back to the office.

Breathing clean air once again revitalized Max's dull senses. His mind leaped from one crisis to another — Sandra and Patricia, making sure Drummond didn't turn, stopping Modesto. All these thoughts made the act of entering the office as a failure that much worse.

The office desks had been shoved against the walls, and two chalk circles with symbols had been drawn on the floor. Drummond pressed against the confines of one circle, and Patricia the other. Neither looked particularly happy. Drummond paced the narrow space like a trapped puma, turning every two steps, fuming and grunting. Patricia, on the other hand, settled cross-legged on the floor, her face a cold burn of controlled rage.