Southern Belle (19 page)

"Your excuses no longer interest me. I have lost all tolerance for you."

Drummond laughed. "He says that like he ever had any."

"Let me make this clear enough, Mr. Porter. Tomorrow evening, I shall meet you in your office and you will have that handbell. Time has run out. If you fail to show up with that bell, then our employer will be most displeased, and I suggest you and your wife uncover the most rapid exit from Winston-Salem." Modesto's lips part to reveal the tips of his sharp teeth. "Perhaps North Carolina, as well."

Max wanted to act tough, but his face twisted in an effort to hold back a pollen-induced sneeze. Three sneezes later, he said, "How many times are you going to threaten me a year? It's boring."

"These are not threats. These are guarantees. And of all people, you should know full well how much I relish the moment our employer allows me to fulfill those guarantees. That moment is coming. Fail us with the handbell, and I know there won't be any hesitations left."

"I still have Hull's journal."

"If you tire of my threats, I tire more of your attempt to hold that over us. Some things are simply worth the risks. You wouldn't understand. You don't take real risks. You let others do your dirty work. Drummond or your wife."

"Shut up."

"Without them, what are you really? A boy who can research things. Based on your less than impressive skill regarding the handbell, I question even that much of your ability. You are nothing without your wife's gifts and your ghost's connection to the supernatural world. Nothing."

Max couldn't help it. He shoved Modesto's shoulders hard enough to send the man back a few steps. "You've delivered your message, errand boy. You can go now."

Modesto brushed his shoulders and stepped closer to Max. In a low tone, he said, "Tomorrow evening. Bring the bell here or run for your life." He shoved Max in the chest, and Max fell down onto the sidewalk. "Good day."

As Modesto walked away, Max got back to his feet, coughing and sneezing all the way up. Drummond drifted to his side. "Want me give him a brain-freeze he'll never forget?"

"Forget him." Max headed inside. "Hunting down family trinkets doesn't rate too high on my list of pressing issues. Besides, if we don't fix this coven problem, nothing much will matter since we'll probably be cursed or dead."

"You got a good point."

They walked into the office to find Sandra sitting bolt upright. She turned her head toward them — lips pale and cracked, eyes unblinking, sweat-soaked hair plastered to her head. All thoughts of covens and bells and Hulls and Modesto washed away from Max's mind. He lunged to her side and felt waves of cold air coming off her.

Wrapping a blanket around her shoulders, he said, "What's going on? Are you sick?"

"I'm fine," she said in a voice as dead as her eyes.

"We need to get you to a hospital."

"No. I want to stay." She looked to Drummond, an odd smile crossing her face. "Is this the cold you feel? The cold of the dead?"

Drummond put his hands in his pockets and floated back. "Sweetheart, you need to listen to your husband. Something's wrong here. You should see a doctor."

"They've never helped me before." She laughed — a hard, unusual sound that ended in a drunken snort. "I'd be better off at the church."

Drummond paled. "What the hell?"

Max turned to Drummond. "You ever seen anything like this?"

"Have you?" Drummond asked. "If I had to guess, I'd say those witches did something to her before they left. Cursed her, maybe. But I've never seen a curse like this."

"All the more reason to go visit our old friend."

Sandra perked up. "Oh, where are we going?"

"Not you, hon."

"But I want to come along."

"I'm going to see a doctor. You want to see a doctor?"

She pouted. "No."

"Okay, then. Please stay here and we'll be back soon."

"Make sure Drummond comes back. I've got a lot questions about the afterlife for him."

With that said, Sandra returned to the stark position and expression she had been in when they first entered. Max stared at her, waiting for a small glimmer of Sandra to appear. As he watched her with an ache in his chest worsening every second, he held back his tears.

Kissing her cold cheek, he said, "We're going to help you. Hang on for me, hon. You hear me? Hang on, and I'll stop whatever this is. I love you." He kissed her again before storming down the hall and toward the car.

* * * *

The last time Max stood in Dr. Connor's office, she had become a drunken hag, crawling on the floor for a nip of whiskey. The last time he talked with her, she had sobered up and regained the limited trust of the Hull family. While she certainly had not returned to her glory days, he now saw that she had risen far closer to that goal than ever before.

On the surface, her office looked like any optometrist's office — an uninspired waiting room with a chest-high reception desk and a red-headed woman in a nurse's uniform sitting behind it. An elderly man with thick glasses and an overbite sat on a couch reading an old issue of Sports Illustrated — swimsuit issue, of course. Over the speakers, radio station 98.7 ("We Play Everything") had Styx urging everyone to sail away into outer-space. Underneath, however, Max knew the real business at hand — witchcraft.

Rapping his knuckles on the desk, Max said, "Hi, there. Will you please tell Dr. Connor that Max Porter is here to see her?"

"Do you have an appointment?" the receptionist asked, tapping on her computer keyboard. "I don't see a Porter here. It is P-O-R-T-E-R, yes?"

"I don't have an appointment."

"Then I'm sorry, but Dr. Connor has a full schedule today."

"I'm sure she does. I'm equally sure that she'll drop everything once you mention my name."

The receptionist faltered. Max felt sorry for her since he had put her in a bind. She clearly wanted to turn him away, perhaps even thought that made the most sense, but there existed this slim chance that she should inform Dr. Connor. But if Dr. Connor wanted nothing to do with Max, then the receptionist will have angered a witch for nothing. But if she sent Max away and Dr. Connor did want to see him, she would also anger that same witch. Any decision she made risked pissing off a powerful witch, and Max knew exactly what it felt like to be on the wrong end of that sentence.

Drummond floated behind the elderly man and took a close look at the Sports Illustrated. "Some days I really wish I was alive. Look at these women."

Doing his best to ignore Drummond, Max leaned toward the receptionist. "Listen, I can make this easier for you. If you don't tell her I'm here, she's going to have an entire coven of cursed witch ghosts to contend with." He peeked over his shoulder. The old man ogling Sports Illustrated raised an eyebrow but whether that was because of what Max said or because of the white, wet number some hottie wore on a beach in Brazil, Max couldn't be sure. Drummond certainly liked the magazine. Turning back to the still-hesitant receptionist, Max added, "I'll make it even easier. If you don't go back, I'm going to barrel my way in there and start calling out for her, causing all kinds of commotion. I think that'll tick her off far more than if you interrupt her."

Scowling, the receptionist stood. "Please have a seat, Mr. Porter. I'll be a moment."

"Thank you." Max sat in a chair opposite the old man and snatched up a copy of Southern Living. He snapped the magazine open and coughed.

Drummond looked up. "Did you want me for something?"

Shaking the magazine, Max coughed again.

"Oh, right. You're afraid the old guy here will think you're nuts talking to me. Well? Just cough once for yes, twice for no."

Cough
.

"Fine, fine. I was enjoying the swimwear, that's all. I wasn't going to let you go face Connor all alone. And even if I was, what do you care? You've been one-on-one with her before. You've lived."

Barely,
Max thought.

"Are you going to sit there acting like a fool, or is there something you want me to do?"

Cough.

"You want me to check on Sandra?"

Cough, cough.

"You want me to get rid of this old guy? Get the magazine for yourself?"

Cough, cough
. The old man sneaked a glance at Max. "Sorry," Max said. "Getting over a cold. Don't worry, I'm not contagious." The old man made a face that said how little he thought of Max's assurances. "I do wish I could see what the doc was up to, though, don't you?"

Drummond nodded. "I get it. You want me to check out what's going on back there."

Cough
.

"No need to put attitude in your cough. This ain't the easiest way to communicate." Drummond slid through the wall and in seconds, slid right back. "Receptionist is coming."

Before the door to the back opened, Max had tossed the magazine on the coffee table and stood. The receptionist started as she came through, and the old man looked a bit surprised, too. "Mr. Porter, you may see Dr. Connor in her office. Just go down the hall and —"

"I know where it is," he said with more venom than he intended.

As he walked down the hall, Drummond followed. "You know, we really should come up with a system to talk when you can't really talk. That coughing thing won't work."

In a harsh whisper, Max said, "How many times have I had you do recon while I waited somewhere? It should be standard practice by now."

"We never agreed to anything. And I got distracted."

"Looking at hotties in bathing suits isn't why you're here. For crying out loud, you're a ghost. Go peep on somebody in the shower if you've got to, but when we're working, I expect you —"

"Okay, okay. You're going to draw attention."

Max wanted to argue further, but Drummond was right. Also, they had reached Dr. Connor's office door. Max knocked and entered.

The office was small and cluttered. Dr. Connor sat at a desk drowning in papers, some crinkled and faded yellow, some crisp and smelling of inkjet. Old texts had been piled up in the corners and a row of stuffed birds perched on a cabinet behind Dr. Connor's desk. On the wall to her left, Max saw an eye chart with a huge letter E at the top. On the opposite wall, Max saw a celestial map with the moon's phases marked out along with numerous symbols he did not know (though a few he recognized from the walls of Leed and Dr. Ernest).

A few years younger than Max, Dr. Connor had always been a beautiful woman, but the hard times she had suffered through took a toll. Dark hollows had formed around her eyes, and her mouth no longer smiled brightly. Though she wore a white doctor's coat with a spaghetti-strapped summer dress underneath, her once vibrant sexuality had diminished.

Max tried to hide any guilt from his face. He had caused this woman a lot of harm — but often in the course of protecting himself from her vicious attacks.

As Max stepped in, Drummond followed behind only to smack against the opening of the doorway. "What the hell?" Drummond said.

Max turned around, and Dr. Connor cackled. "You don't think I'd be stupid enough to rebuild this office without some protections?"

Drummond pushed on the barrier several more times until he finally leaned his shoulder against it and pursed his lips. "You let her know I can still watch from here. She does anything to you, and I'll find a way in there."

Max took a seat at the desk. "Drummond says you better be careful. He won't let anything happen to me."

"How adorable," she said, her mouth a stoic line. "Shall we get to talking seriously or are you going to waste more of my time?"

Scrunching his brow in thought, Max glanced back at the doorway. "You put up a barrier against ghosts." His eyes widened. "You already know, don't you?"

"Of course, I know. I wouldn't be this town's top witch, if I didn't know what was going on. You really think a witch like me doesn't keep tabs on every witch hunter in the country? You think all the witches around the world don't talk with each other? We can use the Internet, too, you know."

"Then you know why I'm here."

Dr. Connor lifted her head, leveling a sultry yet sadistic look upon Drummond. "Patricia Welling."

Drummond smashed his palm into the invisible barrier. "I hate this woman. Stop playing games with her. Get what we need and let's go."

"That's right," Max said. "We want to stop these ghosts of the witch coven, and judging by your spell at the doorway, you're afraid of them, too. We know where the last one is, but we can't get to it to destroy it. Now, since our interests are aligned for the moment, why don't you help us out? Tell me how to get rid of the last one, and then you won't be needing to lay down a bunch of wards wherever you go."

Dr. Connor wriggled out of her white coat, letting one of her spaghetti-straps fall off her shoulder, and she licked her lips. "Help never goes just one way. You know that."

"If you're trying to tempt me into cheating on my wife, it's not going to happen."