The max porter box set, p.38
The Max Porter Box Set, page 38
Something felt off. It might have been the losing position Max found himself in, but no — he could tell something had gone wrong for Lane and Alan. Observing them closer, he picked up on part of it — Lane was praying. As far as Max knew — and admittedly, he had a lot to learn about witchcraft — no spell required prayers. Witches didn’t believe in deities — not, at least, as a source for magic. So, why was Lane praying?
“Oh, no,” Max whispered. To Alan, he said, “She failed.”
“Shut up.” Alan gestured with the handgun.
“You don’t get it. She couldn’t figure out how to safely break Grandma Darden’s curse or any of the magic protecting the book.”
Lane opened her eyes. She had lost the calmness from earlier. Max could see her trying to summon the courage for what would come next.
“Look at her,” he said. “She can’t win the way she had planned, so she’s going to break through to that book with sheer force.”
Alan’s confidence wavered. “What does that mean? She’s going dig through the floor.”
“No,” Lane said, standing up. She dipped the brush into the bowl of blood and painted a straight line on the floor. “We could dig for ages and we’d never get what we want.”
“But we’re here, so you have some plan to get the book, right?”
She painted another straight line connecting with the first, and Max’s pulse quickened. He knew what she would do and it might be strong enough to work. She said, “Aunt Holly taught me about the protection wards and the various curses we’ve used on the book. To break them requires great skill and power, far more than I ever had. I was cocky to think I could figure it out in only a few weeks.”
“Then what are we doing? You said we’d share all this power. That we’d be able to take over.”
“We will.” She painted a third line connecting with the other two. “You see this?”
Alan looked at the blood on the floor. “It’s a triangle. So what?”
She returned to her knees and placed the knife in front of her. “Go on, Mr. Porter. You had so much fun explaining everything earlier. Tell my dear brother what I’m going to do.”
Come on, Sandra. Save my butt.
Alan licked his lips and bounced his free hand against his side. “Tell me. She told you to tell me, so do it already.”
With a resigned nod, Max said, “Your sister couldn’t come up with an elegant or practical solution, so she’s going to try to bully her way through. She’s going to use the darkest, strongest, worst forms of magic. She’s going to war with the spells that your family has set down for generations. That’s what the triangle is for. A casting circle represents unity, the oneness of all. It helps bind the magic between the caster and the surrounding elements. But a triangle is like a jagged knife trying to cut through that unity and force it to obey the caster’s commands.”
“That’s not so bad. She’s good at this kind of thing. I’ve seen her. She can pull this off.”
“No, she can’t. And she knows it. That’s why she brought the knife.”
Alan’s hand went to his throat. “She’s going to kill me, isn’t she? She’s going to use my blood like she’s using Enrique’s.”
“Relax, Alan.” Max didn’t like the way Alan’s finger kept grazing the trigger. “The knife isn’t for you.”
Lane stood and held the knife between both hands as if clasped in prayer. “In the name of all Dardens who have come before me, those witches that sacrificed their lives to protect our power, I call upon you to aid me, last in the Darden line, to unleash that which we have kept hidden for so long. To you, I give my sacrifice.”
Max wanted to look away. He knew he would be seeing Lane and that knife for years to come in his nightmares, but he had to stay alert. He had to be ready should an opportunity for escape present itself.
Chelsea’s mournful moan found its match in Alan’s horrified gasps. Max stayed silent.
With a sudden motion, Lane jabbed the knife into her left eye socket. Though she screamed, she did not falter. Constant motion and a vicious yet steady hand cut out her eye. Tears of blood streamed down her cheek but she continued to cut. And scream. Her screams haunted the halls and rooms, echoing throughout the house like the centuries of horror that had occurred on this land. When she finished, she bowed her head and let her sacrifice fall to the floor.
Time had run out. If there had been a chance to make a move, Max knew he had missed it. The spell had been drawn; the sacrifice had been made. Max could think of only one desperate move — lunge across the room and hope to rub open part of the triangle, breaking the spell before it fully cast. He would probably take a bullet, but with any luck, he might succeed.
But when he made his first step, he felt a vibration through the floor. Before he could take another step, the vibration grew into a strong shake. The shaking intensified as if an earthquake had begun.
Lane cocked her head to the side, looking directly at Max. The gaping hole of her eye socket, dark and wet, dribbled blood down her face. The foul odor of decay oozed across the room.
“Too late,” she said and let loose a horrid cackling. “Too late.”
Chapter 26
AN EXPLOSIVE FORCE rocked the foyer. The mark on Max’s chest, the curse placed there by Mother Hope, ignited a burning pain straight into his lungs. He had to grab Alan’s shoulder to keep from falling over. Loud bangs like dynamite charges rippled from one end of the house to the other. Chelsea covered her ears and curled into a ball at the foot of the stairs. Beneath Lane, the floor cracked along the thick lines of the blood-drawn triangle.
“You see?” she bellowed above the increasing noise. “Aunt Holly always said it only took willpower to overcome these spells. But rare is the witch willing to sacrifice herself.”
Another crack in the floor bisected the triangle, forcing Lane to step away. All these fissures widened until the flooring between them fell away, leaving a gap like a large sinkhole. Dust plumed up from beneath.
The rumbling ground, the cracking stone and wood, the booming charges — all of it ceased. Only the echoes remained, diminishing into the distance like a final roll of thunder. The pain in Max’s chest also dissipated.
Coughing, Lane waved her hand in front of her face as she peered into the hole. “Alan, I see it. I see the book. Come here. Help me get it out.”
As Alan moved, Max saw something he never would have noticed before. His newly-trained martial arts mind recognized that Alan had let his guard down. Acting purely on muscle memory, Max performed a series of self-defense moves he had practiced for months.
His right hand slid down Alan’s left arm and clasped the muzzle of the handgun, turning it flat and to the side. At the same time, he pivoted in front of Alan and put all of his weight forward onto the weapon. With his free hand, Max made a fist and punched. Two jabs to the chin were all it took. Pop, pop — and Alan let go of the handgun as he staggered back.
Lane had flattened on the floor with her arm stretching down into the hole. Max pointed the handgun at her.
“Get up, Lane,” he said. “It’s over, now.”
With a flash of the petulant teenager inside, she said, “I gouged out my own eye. You think I care about your little gun? It’s not like you’re going to shoot me. You’re not a murderer.”
“I can aim for your leg. You’ll live.”
She paused, then smiled, and returned to fishing for the book. Max dropped his aim towards her leg. But before he could the pull trigger, Alan tackled him to the ground. The handgun flew out of Max’s hand, skidded across the floor, and dropped into the hole.
Max elbowed Alan, connecting with the side of his head. Alan rolled off, clutching his face. When Max scurried back on his feet, Lane had pulled out a leather satchel.
She made sure to stand on the far side of the hole as she unclasped the satchel and opened it. “It’s here,” she said, blood drooling from her wide-grinning mouth. “It’s really here.”
It’s over, Max thought. All their efforts to stop her had failed. Generations of Dardens casting spells to stop this from happening had failed. And it only took a teenager with the inner-strength to sacrifice an eye. Why Aunt Holly hadn’t done that long ago, Max couldn’t understand. Everything he had learned about her suggested she had the will for such an act.
Of course, she had to contend with Grandma Darden, and for most of her life she didn’t have the hand with the ring. Max halted — the hand with the ring. Lane had broken the spells that hid the book and protected it, but without the ring, she could never unlock the power within the book.
Max whirled around and dashed up the stairs, leaping over Chelsea as he went. From below, he heard Lane yell, “He’s going for the hand. Stop him!”
At the top of the stairs, he paused, trying to recall if Aunt Holly’s bedroom was to the left or the right. He could hear Alan clumping up from behind. No time. Blindly, Max chose left and rushed down the hall.
Every door he saw, he opened. Guest bedrooms, linen closets, one room with a television and a stationary bike — but no Aunt Holly bedroom. He reached the end of the hall. No stairs, no doors. Just a small window overlooking the side yard.
Turning back, he found Alan halfway down the hall. Blood reddened his mouth while sweat soaked his hair and shirt.
“Not looking too good,” Max said.
“You know I’m going to have to give you a few whacks to return the favor.”
“I figured you might feel that way. But if you’re smart, you’ll forget about me and go stop your sister. If she opens that book, you’ll be lucky if death is the only thing coming your way.”
Alan spit to the side, leaving a bloody splotch on the wall. “You think because you spent a few hours doing research that you know us, know our family, know everything about how we live and think. You’re more of an idiot than Enrique ever was, and that idiot actually thought he had some way of getting into this family.”
“Chelsea seemed to want him.” Max tried to relax his tense muscles as he set his feet in a fighting stance. He tightened his fists.
“It’s been a long time since Chelsea had any say in what went on around here. We humor her, that’s all.” Alan stopped short of being within Max’s reach. “Just like I’ve been humoring you, letting you interview us, making you think you understood the way this family is set up.”
“I read the Will. That wasn’t made up. You got screwed out of everything — no money, no property, nothing.”
Raising his fists, Alan hunched over slightly and added a gentle bounce to his feet. Like a boxer. Max had barely gone halfway to his black belt, and Alan appeared to be a seasoned boxer — a lightweight, perhaps out of shape, but a boxer nonetheless. Answering the surprised look on Max’s face, Alan said, “Five years off and on. It started as a way to get out the aggression I felt towards Aunt Holly, but it became a real passion.”
“I don’t suppose you want to back up and let me get by?”
Alan closed in, leading with a jab. The entire move took Max off guard, and Alan caught him in the chin. Max’s head rocked back.
“Guess we’re done with the banter portion of this fight,” Max said.
When Alan jabbed a second time, Max was ready. He blocked from the outside, maintained his balance, and followed up with a counter-punch. But he missed — too slow. Alan scooted out of reach without much effort.
Stuck in the hallway, neither man had enough room to maneuver well. Max hoped it bothered Alan to a greater degree. Alan would be the one who expected to be able to circle an opponent. He would be the one who would know how to take advantage of that. If Max was lucky, his own inexperience might help him in this case by throwing Alan’s expectations out the window.
Max attempted to lunge forward, but Alan closed the distance and tossed an uppercut. The jolt to Max’s head sent numbing prickles across his entire body. He stumbled back into the wall at the end. No getting lucky with this fight.
If inexperience won’t help me, I better think like somebody with a brain. His training taught him that all fighting styles had positive and negative aspects. Alan was a boxer. He would be fast with his hands and be able to charge each punch with great force. He would be light on his feet and good at ducking, dodging, or deflecting punches.
But what about kicks?
When Alan attacked again, Max dropped low and side-kicked at his opponent’s shin. He kicked hard, focusing on a target beyond the shin, and heard the bone snap. Alan shouted as he tumbled to the floor.
“Sorry,” Max said, gingerly stepping over Alan. He did not feel his kick go all the way through, so while he doubted he broke the leg, he certainly caused a fracture of some sort.
Hurrying back along the hallway, he went by the stairs and started trying doors again. He kept expecting to see Sandra sitting in a circle of chalk and lit candles, but after five doors, he opened the one to Aunt Holly’s room. Standing in the hall, he felt a chill prickle his skin.
He glanced down the hall. Alan stood upright and attempted to put weight on his injured leg. He hobbled a step before grabbing at the wall for balance. But he didn’t fall. And he took another step. And another.
“Because why should it ever be easy?” Max muttered as he entered the bedroom. At least here, he knew where to look. He opened the walk-in closet — huge and filled with full racks of clothes. Cubbyholes with shoes made up the back wall as well as a full-length mirror. And on a small stool by the shoes, Max saw the cardboard box that held the glass cube.
But it wasn’t in there.
He stared at the empty box, his stomach churning, and tried to think. He knew Lane didn’t have it — if she did, she would’ve destroyed everybody by now. Sandra? Maybe she had it. There were still rooms to check.
Bolting out of the bedroom, Max hustled through the hall, checking every remaining door. Alan neared the staircase, but Max didn’t see him as a threat anymore — as long as he kept away from Alan’s fists. Second to the last door opened on a room with tall windows and the furniture all pushed aside. The circle Sandra had used dominated the floor. But no Sandra.
Did Lane have her? No. If Sandra had the hand and Lane had Sandra, then like before, all would be over. If Lane had Sandra and neither had the hand, then Lane would be calling Max out to come save his wife. Which meant that Lane still had nothing. Plus, Max knew Sandra didn’t have the hand because that didn’t go with any part of their plan. She wouldn’t have abandoned her goal. Not ever. It was too important.
So, where’s that damn hand?
Max perked up as he recalled where he last saw it — the library. Chelsea had brought it to him to take a picture. A family this rich would employ a maid. Years of expecting somebody else to clean up a mess would lead to careless behavior. Chelsea probably left the hand in the library knowing that the maid would eventually return it to its rightful place. But since it wasn’t in the closet, the maid hadn’t done her job yet.
Rushing back into the hall, Max saw Alan had managed to work down several of the stairs. Max dashed forward and tried to use his momentum to carry him through. Alan caught the back of Max’s shirt and yanked him off balance. They both fell forward.
Alan barked out as his injured bone fractured more. Max rolled to a stop. He checked over his body — nothing worse than a few bruises. Unless. People died from falling down stairs.
Holding his breath, he reached for the banister. And he touched it. His hand did not go through. He wasn’t a ghost. Breathing again, he got back on his feet.
He saw Alan sitting a few steps above, but Alan did not look angry or concerned. Nor did he look like he had given up. Instead, he had a thoughtful gleam in his eye that soon opened into a realization.
Damn. He figured it out.
Alan inhaled deeply and yelled. “Lane! It’s in the library!”
Ignoring his bruises, Max raced down the stairs, skipping a few as he went. Chelsea had not moved from the bottom, her back heaving as she wept. Max hurdled over her, then over the hole in the floor, and sprinted toward the library.
He flew through the living room, down another hall, and right by the library doors. He stopped so sharp, he toppled over. Scrambling back, he crashed into the library. Wild-eyed and breathing heavy like a rabid dog, he tried to take in everything at once as if he could single out the glass cube if he only had a complete picture of the room.
Except it wasn’t necessary.
Lane had the cube. She stood atop the large desk in the middle of the library. In her right hand, clutched against her chest, she held the original manuscript to The Malleus Maleficarum. In her left, she held the glass cube containing the witch Kalinski’s petrified hand and the ring. With a mad smile and blood staining her shirt, she watched Max like a victor trying to decide what method of vengeance she would employ upon her enemy.
Then her smile dropped into cold certainty.
Chapter 27
MAX COULD NOT MOVE. It wasn’t a spell that kept him frozen to the floor, but rather, fear paralyzed him. He had heard about that happening to people, even had a few instances that came close, but gazing into the eyes of this thing that used to be Lane disconnected his brain from the rest of his body. No matter how he tried, he could not equate the teenage girl he had seen only a short while ago with the monster standing before him.
A loud bang echoed from the foyer, but Max couldn’t even flinch. Stretching her sadistic smile wider and wider, Lane opened her hand and let the cube drop. The world slowed down. Max could hear the displaced air as the cube tumbled toward the floor. When it hit, it shattered like a grand ballroom chandelier breaking into thousands of tiny shards.
Lane clasped the book in both hands and held it above the broken glass and the petrified hand. The ancient, dead fingers twitched. At first, Max thought it was moving from the jolt of hitting the floor, but then the fingers all pointed upward at the book. The ring rotated. Over and over. Like a screw being spun loose.
When it finally escaped the hand that held it, the ring lifted into the air. Lane moaned with pleasure as it rose toward the book. Max’s breath caught in his chest. He wanted to stop this from happening. If he only could move, he would have gladly rushed forward and tackled Lane to the floor. He would do anything to stop her.
