Southern fury, p.3
Southern Fury, page 3
“I’ve tried to be nice,” Mrs. Porter said, bustling about the kitchen yet never making eye contact. “I’ve extended the olive branch numerous times. She’s simply decided to hate me.”
“You know that’s not true. And you know you’re partly to blame.”
Mrs. Porter jutted her chin at Max, and though he stood nearly a foot over her, she could still make him feel small. “I brought you all into my home. I moved down here to help you, for Pete’s sake. I have done nothing but take care of these boys while you try to figure out how to become parents.”
“And we have thanked you many times. We are not the incapable people who rushed into becoming guardians that we were. We are ready for the responsibility, so you have got to let go of some of it. I may not make breakfast the same way you do, and I may not handle the fights between the boys the same way you would, but I will handle them. Breakfast does get made. Isn’t that really what all parents do? The best that they can?”
As if somebody had changed the channel on the Mrs. Porter show, Max watched his mother’s demeanor instantly flip. Her face brightened, her body loosened, and she stepped closer with an overly-pleasant smile. “Oh Little Max, my sweet boy, you are right. You and Sandra have to learn how to be parents on your own. It’s the way we all have to do it. People write books on the subject, but the truth is that the only way to learn to be a good parent is through trial-and-error. And the same goes for me, too. I have to learn how to stop being a parent and start being a grandma now. All on my own.”
“Thank you,” Max said, the weariness in his voice unmistakable.
“Clearly, this living arrangement is far from ideal. But I think it’s gone beyond a little cabin fever. It’s obvious now that the ease of being under my roof is holding you back.”
Max shut down the flooding comments in his head about the ease of living under his mother’s roof.
She put her hand on his arm. “I think it’s time you move out.”
Chapter 5
AFTER DROPPING J OFF AT SCHOOL, Max and Sandra drove to their office. Max wanted to share what his mother had said, but under the circumstances, he thought it wiser to remain silent for now. Once Sandra had cooled off from the morning’s agitation, he would let her know that for once, his mother and his wife were on the same page. He knew that the fact that both women wanted the same thing — for them to move out — would mean little. Sandra had been burned by his mother too many times. For a while, it seemed like they might bridge the turbulent waters between them, but that had evaporated once they were forced to live together.
In the office, Max set about brewing coffee. There could never be enough. Sandra dropped to her chair and fired up the computer. As Max crossed the large, circular area rug, he paused.
He pulled back the rug. Underneath, a casting circle had been carved into the floor for Sandra’s use. Though not truly a witch, Sandra had spent a lot of time studying their ways. Max never could be completely onboard with her decision to deepen her knowledge of witchcraft, but neither could he deny its usefulness.
He looked at the circle closely. Sandra was right. The circle in the hotel looked nothing like this. It had been nothing more than a circle with one lone symbol drawn in, whereas this one had concentric circles for different levels of symbols and spells. Whenever Sandra used it, she often filled it up with arcane writing and ancient glyphs.
“Better put the rug back,” Sandra said, her voice hinting at the woman he knew and loved. He glanced over at her and she tapped her ruby ring against the desk before pointing at the door. “Our client will be here shortly.”
Max returned the rug to its proper position before getting to work. By the time Mrs. Berkley arrived, he had put together two reports of his findings. One a sanitized version, omitting the supernatural elements, and another that bore witness to the truth of events.
When Mrs. Berkley entered, Max wished Drummond had been there. The woman looked as if she had stepped out of a 1940s mystery film — wearing a long coat with a wide belt and the collar up, a stylish hat brought down, and sunglasses. Her attempt to be inconspicuous and unrecognizable had created a spotlight right upon her. Taking off the hat and sunglasses revealed a Japanese woman with sharp cheekbones and thin lips. Long, black hair had been tied back tight, yet the tail still fell to the middle of her back. The combination of a traditional Japanese appearance mixed with an old American style created a strong, slightly intimidating quality. It set Max off-kilter, and if not for Sandra, he would have sat there staring at their client for far too long.
“Welcome, Mrs. Berkley,” Sandra said, gesturing to a chair. “Would you like some coffee?”
“I’ll go to Starbucks if I want coffee. I came here for an update on my case. I need investigators, not baristas.”
Walking over to the coffee maker, Sandra poured herself a mug. Behind Mrs. Berkley, she made a face that forced Max to cover his mouth for fear of breaking out into laughter.
“Well?” Mrs. Berkley said, pulling out her phone and tapping away quickly.
Max cleared his throat and placed a hand atop each of his reports. “I spent last night on stakeout at the hotel you informed us about. Your husband never showed.”
“Is that supposed to relieve me?”
“We’re not here to relieve you or worry you. Merely acquire the information you seek. The thing is that while I never saw your husband, I did find a woman.”
“Oh?”
Sandra returned with a mug of coffee for Max. She made a point of handing it over before taking her seat. “Are you a religious woman?”
Mrs. Berkley’s head snapped towards Sandra. “What business is that of yours?”
“This woman that Max encountered belongs to an unusual religion.”
“Are you trying to tell me my husband’s involved with a cult?”
Max picked up the sanitized version of his report and straightened the pages. “We can’t be sure this woman is the mistress you’re worried about, but I find the odds that we would accidently bump into a woman of her religion while on stakeout for your husband to be slim.”
Mrs. Berkley set her phone back in her purse. She sat wooden — only her eyes gave away that she mulled over anything. But he couldn’t even be sure she mulled over his words or something entirely unrelated to their meeting. “What kind of religion is this?” she finally asked.
Sandra said, “A pagan religion.”
Mrs. Berkley’s eyebrows lifted, and Max noted how large the woman’s forehead was — her eyebrows seemed to float high on endless skin. She said, “You’re talking about witchcraft. You ran into a witch?”
“You know about witches?”
“I pay attention to the important people — the Hanes family, the Reynolds family, and for a time, the Hull family. You may not know that last one. They kept very quiet, but rumors abound of the darker things they were involved with. A few years ago, they dropped off the social landscape. Probably lost all their money to one witch or another.”
“We’ve heard a thing or two about that.”
Max set the stack of papers down and picked up the other pile. “Well, this makes things easier. Yes, we found a witch. And if you understand anything about witches, anything beyond rumors, you’ll know that your husband is in serious trouble. These are not the kinds of people he should be messing around with. Forgive the expression.”
“If he’s cheating on me with a witch, then he deserves all he has coming to him.”
Sipping his coffee, Max said, “Does the name Wilburn Walker mean anything to you?”
“Never heard of the man. How is he involved?”
“We’re not sure yet. But here’s the thing — this case has taken a different turn then the kind of case we signed up for.”
Mrs. Berkley clutched her purse. “I thought this was exactly the kind of case you people investigated.”
“That’s true. However, you did not hire us to go after a witch. You hired us to get compromising photos of your husband. Now, we’ll be happy to investigate this witch, to make sure her involvement with your husband does not compromise you or endanger you, but that will require extensive research.”
“I see.” She opened her purse and pulled out a checkbook. “I very much want you to continue with this investigation. Will one thousand for the week cover the extra expenses?”
Max worked hard not to choke on his coffee. “That would be sufficient.” From the corner of his eye he could see Sandra’s shock.
After handing over the check, Mrs. Berkley stood and went about putting on her 1940s costume. “I trust that you’ll contact me when you have further developments. If not before, I expect to hear from you by the end of the week. Anything else?”
Max offered his hand. “I think that covers everything.”
She glanced at his hand like it had some bizarre mutation growing from the fingers. As her footsteps receded in the hall, Max realized he had forgotten to give her the report.
Sandra approached him and squeezed his shoulders. “That went well.”
“It’s about time we have a win.”
Picking up the check, she said, “This will definitely help with our down payment.” She kissed his cheek. “Ready to go look at houses?”
Before he could answer, Drummond swooped into the room. “You guys are not going to believe this.”
“We have news of her own,” Max said.
“Great. Wonderful. Tell me your news some other time. For now, shut up and listen.”
With less enthusiasm, Sandra said, “What is it?”
Max said, “I know — you found Wilburn Walker.”
“Not at all. He’s nowhere in the Other. But the news going around fast is far more important. Two members of the Mobley coven are dead. They were hanged.”
Chapter 6
MAX HAD BEEN IN THE MOBLEY HOUSE on several occasions and it never got easier. From the outside, the house blended in with all the other suburban homes lining a quiet development. A few joggers ran by and a woman walked her dog. All very normal. But, of course, inside the house was a different matter. A witch coven lived there.
Max had spent a few times in their living room where they often entertained guests. He had been upstairs twice — once invited, once not. But this visit marked his first time in their kitchen. He found it no less nerve-wracking than any previous occasion.
Had he been sitting in their kitchen on less important business, he would have been nervous, too. Then again, he would never have come to this place on less important business. But when somebody murders two members of this witch coven, the most powerful coven in the Carolinas, paying respects could not be ignored.
Lena Mobley, a middle-aged woman dressed in a suburban façade that matched the house, finished preparing a tray of cheese and crackers at the marble counter. Despite her motherly appearance, Max knew better. After Grandma Mobley, Lena Mobley was the most powerful witch in the entire coven. Grandma Mobley had formed the coven over a hundred years ago, but Lena ran the day-to-day operations, and she would inherit the leadership when Grandma Mobley passed away — if that old witch could ever die.
The worst thing about the current situation — besides the loss of life — rested in the fact that Max knew of only one group both strong enough and bold enough for such an attack — the Magi. Run by Grandma Mobley’s rival, Mother Hope, the Magi gave lip service to the idea that they sought to protect the world from witches. Perhaps that had been true at one time. But under the control of Mother Hope, the Magi had become every bit as power-hungry and devious as the witches they fought against.
Max rubbed the spot on his chest where Mother Hope had cursed him. She used the threat of enacting the curse to control him. At any moment, practically with a snap of a finger, she could throw Max into a coma and leave him as a half-ghost, lost, neither living nor dead. The only defense he had managed against this curse was to link it to Mother Hope’s right hand man, Leon Moore. But fighting fire with fire did not sit well — not when the fire was witchcraft.
Lena turned around and set the snack tray on the kitchen table. “I apologize for having to meet with you in here. We obviously prefer our sitting room, but under the circumstances, we need that space for other purposes.”
Other purposes. Had he been eating one of the offered crackers, Max would have choked. The two dead women lay on tables in the living room turned parlor, and he knew that elsewhere in the house, Mobley witches worked hard to establish spells that would find the killers and exact revenge. Not that anybody had to guess hard where to look.
As Max picked up a cracker, he heard Drummond’s gritty voice from down the hall. “Keep her busy. I’m checking out the dead women.”
Before Max could choke for real, Sandra leaned forward as if she might offer Lena a comforting hand but held back at the last moment. “We simply wanted to offer our condolences.”
Despite Sandra’s comforting tone, Max knew she seethed underneath. They were supposed to be house hunting. They were supposed to be setting the building blocks of a better life. Instead, they were talking with a witch. This whole day had turned into a mess and they weren’t even close to lunchtime. Worse, they both knew that any conversation with a witch had to be approached with wariness and care. Or else they might leave with far worse than a curse over their heads.
Drummond floated under the archway leading to the rest of the house. “I just want to go on the record saying that this is a bad idea. These witches don’t care whether you show up or not. You are not part of the coven and, if anything, you’ve only ever brought trouble their way.”
Max wanted to point out that the only reason he even knew any of the coven members was that, in the past, they had hired the Porter Agency to investigate their problems. But it would not help, and he did not need to make the Mobleys self-conscious that a ghost was listening in on their conversations.
“Having said my piece,” Drummond went on, “I’ll let you know that things look strange in there. Back in my day, I saw a lot of suicides — The Great Depression and all — and I can tell you for certain that those women were hanged after they died.”
Lena Mobley lifted a teacup but immediately set it back down. “What is it that you want? I have a very busy day ahead dealing with these deaths.”
Sandra said, “Besides paying our respects, we wanted to offer our help. We know you can’t go to the police — they don’t believe in witches, and if some do, that’s probably worse for you. So if it will help, we can investigate for you.”
Everything in Max’s mind screeched the brakes, yet he still heard the crash and twist of metal as his thoughts smashed together. He and Sandra had never discussed this course of action, and hearing Drummond’s partial report on it confirmed how bad an idea this could be, but he could not get into a fight in front of Lena Mobley. That would give the witch too much ammunition.
Before he could protest, though, Lena sat back and crossed her arms. “No,” she said.
“Good,” Drummond said. “Polite offer, considering she’s a witch, but you’re lucky she —”
Max reared as if flicked hard against the nose. “What do you mean No? We’re the best investigators of the paranormal and the supernatural there are. Somebody’s murdered two of your people and you don’t want to investigate it?”
“I don’t want you to investigate it. Your constant association with Mother Hope and the Magi creates an undesirable conflict of interests.”
“Just because we’re stuck having to work with them from time to time does not mean we are beholden to them.”
“What are you doing?” Drummond said. “You don’t actually want to work for her? The woman said No. Take it and let’s get out of here. I didn’t even get around to telling you that those dead women were marked. Understand? The witch we found casting a spell about that Walker fella — well, that circle with the crosshatch symbol is on both these dead women.”
Max locked his attention on the floor. He did not want to give away any emotions that Lena might pounce on. Sandra, on the other hand, tapped her ruby ring on the kitchen table.
Lena’s face darkened. “Ugly things are coming our way.”
“She’s got that right,” Drummond said.
“Grandma Mobley has been warning us for years that eventually Mother Hope’s patience would end. Tensions between them have been bad lately, and she knew that this day would come soon enough. We would know when that moment arrived because we would start to die. And those deaths would be the opening salvos to a war.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” Sandra said. “You don’t have to tear each other apart.”
Drummond drifted in, gesturing at Lena like a game show hostess. “Of course she does. Look at her. She’s not going to simply sit here and let Mother Hope kill the rest of her coven. And a grim death, at that. You better believe Grandma Mobley’s upstairs right now working on some horrible spell of the deepest and deadliest magic to retaliate. Please, listen to me. We should leave.”
Lena stood and took her untouched teacup to the sink. As she washed it, she gazed out the window to the backyard. Max thought of all the neighbors. Nobody in the development would suspect that this simple house could actually be the seat of extreme power. It was like hiding dynamite in a bowling pin. Nobody would know it was there unless they tried to knock it down.
But now somebody — most likely, Mother Hope — was doing just that.
“The time is coming,” Lena said. “Soon, you both will no longer be able to ride the middle. You will have to choose sides.”
“Yes,” Drummond said. “Choose my side. Every single time we come to this terrible house, I’ve warned you to leave and you both never listen. And every single time, I’m right. So, damnit, listen to me.”
Max glanced at Drummond before answering. “Hate to disappoint you, but we’re not taking any side. We’re not witches, and we are certainly not interested in having either the Mobleys or the Magi take over control of our city or state.”
