Southern fury, p.21
Southern Fury, page 21
A thin line of blood dribbled down from underneath her hair. “I don’t expect you to understand us. But I won’t give up. There are three of us in this coven, and that’s plenty to start building again. Witches never stay down.”
Max snorted. “Don’t I know it.”
Lena shuffled on her feet before digging into her pocket. “Before we came out here, Grandma Mobley prepared me for the possibility that she might die.” Lena pulled out an old, brass key. “She told me that in the event of her death, no matter the outcome of the battle, I was to give you this key — provided you survived, too.”
“What’s it open?” Max said, clasping his hands behind his back as if that would protect him from accidentally touching it.
Lena shook her head. “No idea. I was curious, but I knew enough not to ask. I hoped you would recognize it, but since you don’t, the best I can guess is that Grandma Mobley either wanted you to have it for safekeeping or she thought that when the time came, you’d understand.”
Lena pushed the key towards Max, but he stepped back.
“Oh, come now. It’s not going to curse you.”
“Why should I believe that?”
Lena tossed the key and hit Max in the chest — right next to the spot where Mother Hope had cursed him. The key fell to the ground with a dull thump.
“See? You’re fine.” With a dismissive wave, she headed towards the cars. “I hope not to see you again.”
“That makes two of us.” As Max snatched the key off the ground, he suspected it was only wishful thinking. He pocketed the key as he walked on. Every muscle complained and he wondered how many hours under a hot shower would be required to ease the pain.
A gruff voice called out, “I’m glad your aches didn’t transfer to me.”
Max squinted up into the headlights of a sedan. Leon Moore leaned against the door. With a sigh, Max said, “Happy to see you’re alive.”
“Really? Didn’t seem like a thing you cared about.”
“That linking curse was a matter of survival. I never thought she’d actually use it if it meant hurting you.”
Leon chuckled to himself. “You Porters are quite a load of garbage. You profess that you’re the fighters of witches, yet you use witchcraft all the time. You say you never intended for me to be hurt, yet you put me directly in the crosshairs of a curse.”
“I’m sorry about that. I only —”
“Shut up. I don’t care. The fact is that however you managed to break the curse, you also broke it for me.”
“We were linked.”
“I only came back out here to help my fellow Magi. With Mother Hope gone, things might get a little dicey. But I’ve already spoken with Annie. I think the two of us will be able to hold the organization together just fine.” He opened his car door. “You can let all your witch friends know that the Magi are not going away. And since its leaders are no longer going to be witches, we don’t have a soft spot for them. In other words, you can let all the Mobleys and Madames out there know that it’ll soon be open season on their sorry asses.”
Leon drove away. When the last of the survivors also drove off, a blue town car rolled up in the opposite direction. The left front corner had a large dent in it from where Irene rammed the truck of the boys’ kidnappers. Before the car stopped completely, the doors flew open and PB and J sprinted for Sandra. Max jogged towards them. The view of his wife and boys blurred, and he rubbed his eyes. They broke away only enough to make room for him to join in.
PB rattled off the excitement of Irene saving them while J simply pressed harder against Sandra. Max knew he wore a goofy grin, but he didn’t care. Part of him wanted to hold that grin forever. Make it the foundation of all future grins.
“Hate to break up the joyful moment,” Drummond said, “but there was a reason everybody cleaned up and left. At some point, the police are going to be here.”
“Right,” Max said. “Time to get out of here.”
Chapter 31
IT TOOK THEM TWO MONTHS to find a good house, but they had finally succeeded. Just a starter home to the northeast of the city, right off Reidsville Road — a small, two bedroom place with a kitchen and living room, only one bathroom and a one-car garage. As the boys helped lug in the few boxes they had, Max put his arm around Sandra, and they stared at their new beginning. “Once we get our finances settled — especially once we figured out how much having two boys will cost us on a regular basis — we can start building from there.”
“You sure this is okay?” Ever since they put a down payment on the home, Sandra had been concerned that their previous disagreements had pressured Max too much.
“It’s not ideal, but you can miss your whole life waiting around for things to be ideal.”
PB walked over carrying a large brown box marked STUDY. “Where does this go?”
Max said, “In the kitchen. I’m going to take the back corner near the pantry and set up my home office there.” If anything, that was the room he would miss most from their old house. Having his own study had filled him with a weird pride. It shouldn’t have, though. He continually reminded himself that having a room to work in was nothing more than that — a place to work. They had the Porter Agency office, too. No real need for anything else. Besides, after spending several months of his life cramped in his mother’s apartment, he considered any space larger than a coat closet to be an improvement.
Max’s mother had opted not to join them for the move in. Probably would not be coming over for a dinner anytime soon either. As far as she knew, the night of the witch battle was a night of drinking and partying that Max and Sandra did not return from until the following day. Mrs. Porter would be angry with them and their parenting choices for a long time.
Max didn’t worry, though. He could tell that even as part of her relished the idea of having her apartment back to herself, another part of her did not want them to leave. Especially the boys.
He promised they would visit all the time. After all, they were only about a twenty minute drive away. On top of that, Mrs. Porter was still PB’s main homeschooling teacher. But she refused to see it that way. Maybe a little distance would be a good thing. Her behavior towards Sandra had worsened, and the days of Little Max vanished. The latter another bonus to moving.
In his pocket, the brass key Lena Mobley had given him weighed him to one side. He planned to lock the thing in his desk drawer, but that would have to wait until he set up his desk. Or perhaps he would be better off taking it the Agency office. Anything involving a witch would be safer around a ghost detective instead of near a couple growing boys.
Drummond floated out of the roof and settled in front of them. “This is the last time I check through this house. There’s nothing in the attic or foundation, nothing in the grounds, I don’t see any signs of witchcraft, remnants of ghosts, or anything else that your darling wife wouldn’t pick up on her own. If you want this house gone over anymore, you can call Irene. Psychics are good at this stuff, too.”
“Thanks,” Max said. He did appreciate Drummond giving the house a once over — well, a thrice over. Sandra could do it, of course, but she needed to help move in and focus on the boys. Plus, it gave Drummond a role to play. “Are you and Irene still an item?”
“It’s not like that. I keep telling you.”
“You know what they say about the guys who protest too much.”
Drummond’s mouth curled into a devilish grin. “You two enjoy your new home. Once your settled in, I’ll be at our office waiting for you. And if I’m not there, you’ll find me.”
Sandra lifted her head from Max’s shoulder. “You’re going to see Irene right now, aren’t you?”
“I’m a ghost of many talents. See y’all around.” Drummond disappeared.
Sandra patted her hand against Max’s chest. Her mother’s ruby ring caught the sunlight as she looked at it.
J stepped out from behind them. Max startled. “Sorry there. I didn’t see you. I thought you were inside the house.”
J stared at the spot Drummond had been in. Then the boy lifted his head and watched PB carry another box inside. He turned around. “You two were just talking to a ghost, weren’t you?”
Max looked at Sandra. He could feel the worry on his face. This was something they expected to have to deal with eventually, but at this point, Max would rather have had J ask about sex or drugs. However, he melted a little at the serene expression in his wife’s eyes.
She said, “Yes, we were. He’s our partner. His name is Drummond.”
“So, ghosts are real?”
“Ghosts are real. And this is a big conversation we can have. Later.”
J glanced back at the house. “Yeah. PB ain’t ready to hear any of this. But I think I am.”
“We’ll find some time. Promise.”
J smiled as if he had just been promised a slice of ice cream cake. “Okay. I want to go look at my room now.” He ran off.
Sandra gazed up at Max and they both burst into laughter. It flushed Max with warmth. Standing with his wife, with their feet firm on the ground, with their boys confident and safe — he closed his eyes and let it all fill him up. He had no doubt that the world would tilt once again, but for now, they would build this sturdy foundation. For now, they had each other and needed no more.
Afterword
Thank you for spending time with Max and the gang once again. It is greatly appreciated. Don’t worry, I learned from Drummond not to get all mushy. Besides, you probably want me to get the good stuff right away. So, here it is:
As you might have guessed, much of the double murder case regarding Mary Goins is true. Wilburn Walker, John Smith, the shootout, and the unidentified man in the straw hat -- all true. The case went to court as outlined, the transcripts were published in the press, and it all played out more or less as I described. Stranger still, the man claiming to be William Crutchfield did show up in California and did report to the police that he had killed people back in North Carolina at the time of the Goins murder. The departure from reality is after that moment. Crutchfield disappeared from the historical record, so I took all the liberties I wanted with his story from that point on. His involvement with witchcraft, witch hunting, and even coming back to North Carolina were all creations of my imagination. As was all indications that Mary Goins had anything to do with witchcraft.
While it is my fiction that Crutchfield not only came back to Winston-Salem but also contracted a disease on his trip, pest houses were a very real thing. There was a pest house located roughly where I placed the one in this story, and the photo I describe is real and of that particular house. However, the house is long gone. In fact, there are very few pest houses still in existence in the United States. They are, of course, no longer used but rather exist as historical sites for those who can find them.
Finally, if you ever come to Winston-Salem and put together your own Max Porter tour, do not try to find the Historical Society Building as I described it. It doesn’t exist. There is a real building in Raleigh that handles all such matters, but the branch office in Winston-Salem was my own invention.
Max isn’t over yet! Get the next Max Porter novel today!
SOUTHERN SOULS
OLD TRAGEDIES, NEW DANGERS
For Max and Sandra Porter, building a family seemed unattainable. But since moving to Winston-Salem and starting a business with the ghost of a 1940s detective, the unattainable did not sound so far-fetched. Over time, they brought two homeless boys into their work and eventually to their home.
But this ad hoc family has a lot of unknown histories. Dark secrets that threaten to crawl to the surface. When one of those secrets breaks through, Max finds himself in a fight -- not only for his own survival, but for the survival of his family as well.
If this family can’t come together now, then they will be ripped apart forever.
It doesn’t help that he has to worry about the Hull family and witches once more, but Max, Sandra, and Drummond have a lot on their side. Brains, magic, and the ghost world, too. Their enemies won’t know what hit them.
I WANT SOUTHERN SOULS!
About the Author
Stuart Jaffe is the madman behind The Max Porter Paranormal Mysteries, the Nathan K thrillers, The Parallel Society, The Malja Chronicles, The Bluesman, Founders, Real Magic, and so much more. His unique brand of old pulp adventure mixed with a contemporary sensibility brings out the best in a variety of SF/F sub-genres. He trained in martial arts for over a decade until a knee injury ended that practice. Now, he plays lead guitar in a local blues band, The Bootleggers, and enjoys life on a small farm in rural North Carolina. For those who continue to keep count, the animal list is as follows: one dog, two cats, two aquatic turtles, and fifteen chickens. The horse is now at a new pasture. She’s having a wonderful time hanging with a herd of thirty other horses. Much better for her. As best as he’s been able to manage, Stuart has made sure that the chickens do not live in the house.
Copyright Information
Southern Fury is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
SOUTHERN FURY
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2019 by Stuart Jaffe
Cover art by Francesca Resta
First Edition: February, 2019
Stuart Jaffe, Southern Fury
