The max porter box set, p.19
The Max Porter Box Set, page 19
“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 their 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 liking 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.
The hood of the man offering the third bone fell back enough that Max could see his eager face, a face that spoke for all in the group, one that welcomed Wallace’s ascension, one that wore a grim joy and a dark eye patch. Seeing the supernatural become a reality would only enforce the groups’ belief in Wallace as a superior being. Then again, Max considered that maybe they were all just power-hungry asses who don’t buy into the whole cult thing. Eye-patch certainly appeared to fit that description.
For a third time, Wallace brought his knife against Max’s skin — slitting open the front of the right thigh. As the bowl collected Max’s blood, Wallace brought his face close in. Max could smell garlic on the man’s breath and wondered what kind of meal one would eat before such a ceremony — even as he saw his own blood stained on the man’s teeth.
Eye-patch raised the femur high up as Wallace turned back. Wallace stumbled a step but kept the bowl from dropping. He soaked the bone in blood, weaving the bowl with less care, and giggled at the splashes that fell upon the kneeling man.
When he spoke, his speech slurred. “With bone and blood, with moon and fire, with friend and foe, I accept all the power harnessed before me and given freely by the grace of the earth.” As he slurped Max’s blood from the bone, another wave of energy popped ears and pressed skin.
The third bone split open and another torch extinguished. One man on the circle shivered. It started at his shoulders and rolled down to his knees. He yelped and shuttled into the dark woods. Two other men nodded and hurried off in other directions. Nobody chased after them. Wallace pointed at their backs and chuckled. “Some men are born to accept power while others cower in the woods.”
All those who remained knelt with bowed heads. Eye-patch raised his head. “Did it work, Master?”
Master? Max didn’t know what hurt more — his bleeding body or not being able to mock Wallace’s sense of self-importance.
Wallace arched his head back. “I can feel it. The power of Abagail Wallace is coming to me.”
All humor drained from Max’s head. Once the Call to Power was done, once Wallace had all the blood he needed, Max knew there would be one final strike with that blade. With three strong tugs at the rope bindings, he hoped to break free. But they held firm.
Wallace set his hands on his hips. “All your efforts,” he said to Max, his behavior still drunk on blood and power, “did not get you anywhere. That’s the problem with the Magi and the Hulls and whatever you are. You all think you can beat me, but you aren’t just fighting me. You fight my whole history. My family.”
Max did not pay close attention. His eyes fixated over Wallace’s shoulder on the pale figure that appeared outside the circle. Drummond.
“Something’s wrong,” Drummond said.
Max said, “You think?” But through his gag, nobody could understand him.
“That stone was supposed to call Stanton here. I haven’t been able to find him, and the Rite of Dark Passage is almost done.”
Max looked toward the trail. Did he see firelight in the distance? Sandra, his mother, and J! They must be casting the spell.
Wallace shuddered. “Oh, more. Yes, a little more, and it’ll be done.”
Drummond moved into the circle. “I don’t like the sound of that.” He made a fist, and though he still winced in expectation of the pain, he threw a punch at Wallace.
But it never landed. Drummond flew back as if shocked by a high voltage jolt.
“What was that?” Wallace turned in a circle.
Max strained against the ropes, but they wouldn’t give. Of course, they wouldn’t. He had tried that several times to no avail. He needed to think. Fast.
Wallace had gained some power but not all of it. And he didn’t know how to control it or what it even did — otherwise, he wouldn’t have been confused by the protection it afforded him against Drummond. Could that be used against him?
“Max,” Drummond said as he shook his head. “Get Wallace away from that stone. I’ve got to dig it back up. The circle or Wallace or the dirt — something is blocking its call.”
Yes, yes, that sounded possible. Max glanced at the ground. Wallace stood directly over where Max had buried the stone. Max tried to inch his foot closer to the stone, but he couldn’t get anywhere near it. His feet were bound too tightly to the post.
Wallace placed the blade tip under Max’s chin. With a flick, he cut upward, taking a small gouge of skin as the knife sliced through the gag. With a blood-stained hand, Wallace yanked the gag away. “I want to hear you beg and scream as you die.”
Max ignored Wallace, turning his head toward Drummond. “Get in here and dig up that stone.”
Pausing, Wallace glanced at the empty space Max spoke to. “Who are you talking to?”
Drummond said, “He’s standing on it. You just saw what happened. I can’t push him out of the way.”
“He can’t see you. Get the stone from under his foot.”
“But —”
“Trust me. That stone will stop him.”
Wallace’s face tightened. His eyes dropped to the ground. “What stone?” Leaping back, Wallace pointed at the disturbed earth. “There’s something buried in there. Everyone look out for this bastard’s partner.”
The hooded men all faced outward as Wallace dropped to the ground and dug a hole with the blade.
Drummond smiled. “Clever.”
“No,” Max said. “Leave it alone.” He thought he sounded melodramatic at best and ridiculously fake at worst, but Wallace only dug faster as if Max’s voice were a riding crop hitting him harder with each syllable.
“Ha!” Wallace sprung to his feet, holding the stone while glaring at Max. “You thought this could hurt me, didn’t you? You thought you’d disrupt my spell. But look at me. The power of generations continues to flow through me. It makes me stronger and smarter. And now, you’ll see the great power that I have — I will crush this stone and then I’ll sever your throat.”
Drummond glanced up. “About time you showed up.” To Max, he said, “Get ready. I don’t know what I’m going to be like if this works.” He reached out and grabbed Stanton.
Like the howling of a hurricane, Drummond yelled. All of Wallace’s men turned toward the noise. Drummond’s body stretched upward and he screamed. The air smelled like burning plastic. Chester Stanton appeared next to Drummond, holding his hand as he stepped toward the circle.
Max lost a few seconds to shock. Sandra had described Stanton, but what Max had imagined never prepared him for the horrible sight. Everything on Stanton had been stretched and shredded. Even his teeth.
Wallace’s men scurried to the opposite side, and Max pulled himself back to the moment.
He leaned toward Wallace. “I know you want to kill me.” He jutted his chin toward Drummond and Stanton. “But they may have something to say about that.”
Chapter 27
PALE GHOST-LIGHT STROBED against the trees and faces and the circle. Drummond’s body continued to stretch until he reached the same elongated height as Stanton. Wind blasted outward as their hands melded into one object. Max shuddered at the ghostly chill.
Drummond tilted his head back, mouth open, but made no sound. However, Stanton took up where the detective left off. The shredded ghost hollered a deep, mournful moan. Their arms swelled — the elbows and forearms and biceps, all at the same time, all spreading out until they connected with each other. Drummond wailed while the skeletal Stanton dripped ghostly flesh into a mist. They were merging into one being.
Though his chin quivered, Wallace threatened, “Begone demon!”
The heads of Drummond and Stanton curved toward each other. Drummond continued to yell while a horrid hissing emitted from Stanton. More pale light flashed. Several of the hooded men covered their noses against the putrid odor — the same burning plastic but now mixed with a rotting stench like dead mice stuck in the walls of an old home.
Wallace’s followers gazed up at him, waiting for him to do something effective. He narrowed his eyes and brought his hands together as if in prayer — the blade held between his pressed hands. “Abagail Wallace, I call upon the power you have placed within me. Give me the weapons I need to vanquish this beast before me.”
“Oh, come on. Did you rip that off a B-movie?” Max said, hoping to break the man’s concentration, but Wallace paid him no attention.
But the cult leader’s focus did break. Not due to Max, but rather due to the chanting heard in the distance. Max craned his head toward the sound. That flicker of light in the distance — the fire surrounded by Sandra, his mother, and J — it grew brighter. And the soft chanting grew louder.
No. They’re coming here.
As Drummond and Stanton continued to bridge the gaps between them, Sandra approached the circle holding a tray with a ceramic bowl. Not just any tray — the ugly serving tray his mother had given them for a wedding gift. A concoction of wood, charcoal, and spices burned in the bowl. Mrs. Porter and J flanked either side of Sandra, both chanting the same archaic phrase over and over.
Wallace pointed at them. “They are the ones causing this abomination before us. Stop them.”
But in order to fulfill the command, Wallace’s men had to pass by the Drummond-Stanton ghost. They all made slight motions to one another, but none stepped forward.
“Disgusting cowards.” Wallace dropped back and brought the knife to Max’s throat. “Cease your spell or I’ll kill him.”
Drummond-Stanton lowered his feet to the ground. They had become one being, an amalgam of handsome detective and rotting corpse. He gestured toward Sandra, and the chanting stopped — the Rite of Dark Passage had succeeded.
Wallace lifted the knife forcing Max to strain his head upward. “You’ve all failed. The Call to Power has been cast, and I have taken its gifts.”
Placing the tray gently on the ground, Sandra said, “Then why are we all still here? If you have all the power, then why have you allowed these ghosts to materialize and combine? Why do you threaten my husband with a knife, when you should be able to smite him with a spell?”
The cult followers backed further from the circle. Only the three men who presented the bones remained close.
Wallace whipped the knife at the ground before his men. The handle wagged back and forth as he approached them with his arms out. “You doubt me? Did you not see the spell cast? The bones broke, the torches doused. I felt the surge throughout my body. I am becoming the leader you desire. I will destroy our enemies, and we will rise.”
Sandra said, “Seems rather empty when you’ve yet to create a single spell.”
“Shut your mouth.”
“Now, you’re being rude.” To the hooded men, she said, “You cast the spell with impure blood. The spell failed.” Cocking her eyebrow at Wallace, she added, “You wasted the bones. All that power is gone forever.”
“Oh really?” Before Wallace moved, Max understood — the whole time Sandra had been talking and Wallace had been chastising his men, he had been casting a spell within himself. He already stood in a sacred circle. Some spells, smaller ones, needed little more.
His hand shot out to her arm, and she stiffened, her words choking in her throat. “See?” he yelled to his followers. “I do have power. Not even their little ghost can save them.” To illustrate his superiority, Wallace waved his hand through Drummond-Stanton.
Except his hand stopped on the ghost’s arm — Drummond-Stanton stood firm and solid. He had a body again. He looked down at Wallace’s hand, met the man’s eyes, and grinned as understanding reached them both.
Then Drummond-Stanton attacked.
With a war cry that sounded like shrieking crows, the seven foot ghost launched into Wallace. The pale light surrounding him brightened as he plowed Wallace into the ground. Sandra stumbled into the arms of Mrs. Porter while all but one of Wallace’s men piled onto Drummond-Stanton. As scared as they were, they still had the drive of a cult — they had to defend their leader.
But one man remained. Eye-patch.
Growling, he lunged for the knife in the ground. Max had no illusions about the man’s intention. He did not seek to help Wallace — he believed Wallace could handle anything. He sought one thing only — to slit Max’s throat.
Drummond-Stanton writhed and thrashed. Cultists were knocked back in all directions, but the moment they hit the ground, they bounced back up and returned to the fray. Crackling electrical sounds followed flashes of light beneath Drummond-Stanton. With his hands straight out, Wallace thrust unnaturally into the air. The men scattered and Drummond-Stanton shot high above. He hovered a moment before dive-bombing back into his enemies.
Max felt hands fumbling with his ropes. “Who’s there?”
“It’s me, Bossman.”
“J!” Hearing the boy’s voice thrilled Max, but the joy did not last. With the knife held overhead, Eye-patch rushed toward them. Max saw the blade and knew J would not untie him in time.
But Eye-patch never got far. A loud gunshot stopped him.
Less than ten feet away, Mrs. Porter stood brandishing a snub-nose revolver, smoke drifting up from its mouth. “Take one more step toward my son, and I’ll kill you.”
