Southern Souls Page 12

  He turned back. “Ma’am?”

  “Don’t you think you owe me an apology?”

  “I am deeply sorry. As you said, I’ve formed a strong bond with the boy, and the fact that he is missing has made me think in an unwise manner. Please, forgive me.”

  Slowly, Cecily Hull shook her head. She placed out her right hand and wiggled her ring finger. “Respect. Remember?”

  She let her hand hang in the air until Max understood. A short laugh escaped his lips, but she showed no signs of humor. Cocking his head to the side, he opened his mouth, ready to unleash a harsh word or seven. But the look in her eye stopped him.

  Frowning, he walked toward the desk. His face must have read the question bouncing through his mind — are you serious? — because she nodded. She did not smile nor did she raise her head with condescension. She truly wanted him to offer this gesture of respect as if it meant something.

  Part of him wanted to turn his back on her in dramatic fashion and storm off. But he had to think about PB. Bowing over her ring, Max said, “I truly am sorry.”

  “Kiss it.” Not a mocking tone. In fact, he could hear no pleasure in her voice at all. To her, it seemed that this was a solemn and necessary act.

  Max’s lips clamped shut. He fought his brain, bent lower, and focused his thoughts on PB. He kissed her ring. Heck, he would have danced a jig or sang an aria if she had required it. Anything to get out of that office and back to his search for PB.

  She withdrew her hand and settled back in her chair. “You may leave now. Let us both hope we never have to work together again. But if we do, I expect you to remember the respect you have learned to show me.”

  Max turned away and shuffled out of her office. By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, a second sentry had cut the guard’s zip-ties. She looked like she wanted to kill Max in a deliberate and painful manner, but held back. She probably feared what her employer might say.

  Max picked up his pace as he headed toward his car. Because if Cecily Hull could be believed — and he did not peg her to be a liar in this instance — she knew nothing about Isaac Brown or the kidnapping of PB. Which left Max with an even less desirable visit that night.

  Madame Yan.

  Chapter 18

  MAX CREPT DOWN RAINBOW STREET, his car wheels grinding the dirt and gravel like a prowling predator. He parked the car in front of Madame Yan’s yard and waited. A lamp in the living room window cast an amber glow giving the house a cozy feel in the moonlight.

  Max’s system was shot. Between the repeated adrenaline rushes, the threats to his life, and the unending, stomach-churning fear for PB, he found it difficult to pull upon any more strength for the coming confrontation. His tank felt nearly empty.

  As he ambled toward the front door, every step brought his weight to the ground as if he might continue down until his head rested on the grass and his eyes closed for the next twelve hours. He slapped his face. Twice.

  Entering the house, he eased into the living room and waited for Cheryl-Lynn. A full minute went by without anybody showing up. Stepping outside, he pressed the doorbell and then returned to the living room.

  No answer.

  “Hello?” His voice sounded awkward and foolish as it died against the heavy furniture. He knew they were watching him. Listening. Cheryl-Lynn ran a strict house on behalf of Madame Yan. If she had to go to the bathroom, she would arrange for help to watch the door. Never would the front be abandoned for this long.

  Which meant they were making him wait on purpose. That sent ripples of worry for PB throughout Max — they were wasting his precious time. Just as fast, worry turned to anger. They were playing with PB’s life.

  His hand reached for his weapon, but he held back. No good would ever come from that kind of behavior. Waving a gun around in a person’s house would only get him arrested. Waving a gun around in a witch’s house might result in an even worse outcome.

  But something had to be done.

  At the point when Max contemplated barreling downstairs and forcing his way to Madame Yan’s underground apartment, Cheryl-Lynn appeared in the kitchen. She tucked a few loose strands of hair beneath her hijab as she approached him. All her quaint charm vanished as she said, “You need to go on home.”

  “What I need is to see Madame Yan, and I’m not leaving without that happening.”

  “You do not make demands of her.”

  “You have no idea how pissed off I am. Madame Yan has the opportunity right now to meet with me and talk things over. But if I leave here without seeing her, she will have made me an enemy. And if she thinks lightly of that, then you best remind her of Mother Hope, Grandma Mobley, and Doctor Connor — to name just three witches who are all gone because of me.”

  Of course, Max did not directly destroy any of those witches, but he had a hand in the overall environment that led to their demise. If it got him an audience with Madame Yan, he would take whatever credit he needed.

  Cheryl-Lynn paused — perhaps giving credence to his words — and finally walked over to the small table with her laptop. “Let me see her schedule. I think I can fit you in tomorrow around —”

  “You’re not understanding. I’m going to see her right now.”

  “Do you know how late it is? You know she’s been sick — needs her rest. You clearly need it, too. Why, you should be home getting shuteye before the sun comes up.”

  “I’ll wake her if I have to.”

  She watched him carefully. He got the sense that she only now saw the desperation in his face. Or perhaps the anger. Whatever the case, she relented.

  Stepping aside, she gestured toward the kitchen door that led down to the basement. “She’s waiting for you.”

  Max hesitated. “Waiting?”

  “Bless your heart, you really think so little of her. She probably knew you were coming to visit days before you even decided to come.”

  Max moved toward the door, but Cheryl-Lynn remained by her table. “You’re not going?”

  “Don’t you know the way by now?”

  They locked eyes, but Max scowled. He had no time for these games. He walked to the kitchen, his shoulder bumping her further aside, and headed downstairs.

  Hastening his pace, Max scurried to the false basement. He pushed open the hidden door, rushed the old stairs, and crouched as he scuttled across the dank, true basement. Twice he bumped his head on the low ceiling as his desire to get to Madame Yan overcame his slow-crouched gait.

  “Madame Yan,” he called out as he yanked open the door.

  One step in and the world flipped on him. He barely had time to register what he saw — Madame Yan sitting in a casting circle surrounded by flickering candles. She had her left hand out and it glowed with a symbol — three lines crossing at odd angles. But even as that image filtered through his mind, Max lifted off the ground, flipped in the air, and landed with his back on the ceiling. He tried to move but felt as if a giant pinned him there with an oversized hand.

  “You are not welcome here,” Madame Yan said, her voice strong and grave. “Not tonight.”

  He tried to speak but had to clear his throat twice before he could utter a strained, groaning sound. “I take it your helper upstairs stalled me long enough for you to get this spell going.”

  Madame Yan glanced upward. “That’s why I pay her so well.”

  “Let me down. Please. I just came to ask you a few questions.”

  “At nearly four in the morning? You bullied your way into my home, blasted down here like a madman, and burst into my apartment as if you were expecting to threaten me. That seems like more than just a couple of innocent questions to me.”

  “Don’t be a bitch.” Despite his anger, his foul language sounded as impotent as his ability to get off the ceiling.

  Madame Yan snickered. “All out of witty retorts, I see. That’s a shame. Your smart-alecky mouth was one of the few endearing qualities you had.”

  “Don’t you even care that your meddling
is going to hurt an innocent boy?”

  “Meddling? I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

  Max wailed and thrashed about on the ceiling, but his body barely moved. “None of your deceit. You knew that Isaac Brown was PB’s father. You had to know. You’re the one who set Brown onto all of this. You taught him about actual magic. Witchcraft. And when your luck turned that we showed up here, you sent Sandra and I down that same path. On purpose. What are you after?”

  Madame Yan snapped her glowing hand into a fist. Max felt his stomach tighten. She then slammed her hand onto the floor, and the hold on Max disappeared. With nothing locking him to the ceiling, he fell.

  He managed to curl into a ball before hitting the hard ground. Though his bones remained intact, he knew there would be bruises all along his arms and legs — little purple-black reminders that Madame Yan was more than a doddering, amusing old woman. She was a witch through and through.

  “Now then,” she said as she perched on one of her stools. “You rushed in here, intent on threatening me, you’ve spoken obscenities toward me, and now you suggest that I somehow masterminded harm that is coming to your boy. Let me ask you this — if I did indeed cause all of this to happen, why would I help you now?”

  Wincing as he sat up, Max crossed his legs and rubbed his sore arm. “Why do any witches do what they do? You’re all caught up in your own nutty machinations.” He thought of PB and his chest filled as he bowed his head. Tears welled in his eyes. “I just want my boy back.”

  Madame Yan hopped off the stool. When Max flinched, she smiled. She walked closer, bent over, and blew out one candle after another. “I like you — sometimes. I’m going to tell you a bit of a secret. You see, there are moments when it appears that a witch has some dastardly, masterful plan in place when in truth, she is simply filling the needs of those who come to her.”

  Sniffling, Max tried to put her words into place. “You want me to believe that this is all just a coincidence?”

  “Not at all. Well, maybe the part when you and your wife came asking questions. I never expected you to fall right into my lap, but I was happy to provide all the guidance you needed to get on the right track. That is, to go the way I wanted you to go.”

  Max thought back to that meeting and his blood chilled. “This was all about getting to Sandra, wasn’t it?”

  “Oh, dear me, no,” she laughed. “That is to say, I have no idea what is behind Isaac Brown’s intentions — well, perhaps. But when you and Sandra entered the picture, then well, yes. I knew Isaac Brown’s son was in your care, and I hoped that in some way down the road I might be able to use that information to my advantage. You all simply made it easier.”

  Another thought hit Max and his chilled blood iced over even more. “Are you planning to kill me?”

  “You are so shortsighted. I’m telling you these things because I want you to know who are your allies and who are your enemies.”

  “And you are?”

  “An ally, of course. For now. I don’t want that boy harmed. If that happened, you and Sandra would be against me. When the time comes that I will call upon Sandra to fulfill her marker to me, I do not want any of those negative feelings. So I truly hope you get your boy back. But I also want you never to forget what I have the power to do. Underestimate me at your peril.”

  “That sounds nice and pat for you, but none of it helps me get PB.”

  With a sigh, she turned away and headed to the back door. “You really need to get some sleep. You’re usually smarter than this.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She turned back to him. “If Isaac Brown has taken his boy, and if Isaac Brown is trying to fulfill his ceremony for wealth and power, then it’s safe to assume that he will bring his boy to the final ceremony. What kind of loving father doesn’t want to show off for his son?”

  Max jumped to his feet — and swooned as he grew lightheaded. With a hand against the wall to steady himself, he said, “Three days. That’s what you mean. We know the next part of the ceremony is in three days.”

  “Perhaps your brain is working after all. Glad to see you didn’t hit it too hard on the floor. Now, if you’re done acting like an ass, you may leave. And don’t forget, your wife owes me.”

  Before Max could say more, she walked into the back room.

  He mulled over everything he had heard. Madame Yan still hid her true purpose from him, but perhaps he would simply have to live with that. She had given him a timeframe to find his boy, and that was a little more information than he had before.

  A clock near the iguana read 4 am, so Max texted Sandra to see if she was awake.

  How can I sleep? She texted back. Still at the office. J’s half-awake too. Come over.

  Max wondered how many more hours the three of them could go before they crashed. At least Drummond did not need sleep. He took a step toward the door but stopped.

  Madame Yan had left him alone. To his side, several of her boxes formed an unsteady tower. One box near the middle looked a lot like the one with Sandra’s lipstick. Or maybe he only thought it looked that way.

  Leaning toward the back room, he strained to hear Madame Yan. He moved closer to the boxes. Like a safecracker sizing up a challenging vault, Max tried to determine how noisy he might be removing the top three boxes, how long he might take sifting through the lipsticks, and how angry Madame Yan might become if she caught him.

  No. PB comes first.

  Closing his eyes, he shoved down the desire to find that lipstick. His chest burst as he turned away. Sandra would understand. She would have been angry if he had risked everything for that lipstick. She would agree that PB had to come first. She would forgive him for letting this opportunity go.

  He wasn’t so sure he could forgive himself, though.

  Chapter 19

  MAX JOLTED AWAKE with his heart pounding and PB on his mind. He had a crick in his neck and his lower-back felt like a lump of cement. It took his brain a few seconds to recognize that he had fallen asleep on the office couch. J had curled up on the area rug that covered Sandra’s casting circle.

  Sitting up, Max found his wife at her desk working on her laptop. When she saw him, she beamed her sunshine smile and indicated the coffee pot on the sideboard. “It’s only about twenty minutes old.”

  Scratching his stubble, Max moved to the coffee pot like an old man — slow and in pain with each step. Thankfully, Sandra did not pepper him with endless questions. In fact, she had the loving sense to let him caffeinate in peace.

  After drinking down half-a-cup and scalding his tongue, he topped off his mug and sauntered over to Sandra’s desk. Sitting next to her, he noticed the time. “Eleven in the morning?”

  “You came in here, said we had three days to find PB, and plopped down on the couch. Eyes closed and you were out. You were so tired, I didn’t want to disturb you.”

  “But I’ve lost so many hours. We’ve got to stay on this.”

  Sandra put her hand atop his and kissed his cheek. “I’ve been up working on the case.”

  “Then you haven’t had any sleep, either. You need rest, too.”

  “That’s why I let you sleep. I figured at least one of us needs to be coherent.”

  Max could not argue with that logic. As long as one of them worked to find PB, then they were moving forward — together. J snorted, and Max thought he might be awake. But he merely rolled to his side and fell back into a deep slumber.

  “How did he handle the witch talk?” Max asked.

  “Like a pro. Nothing seems to faze that kid.”

  Max’s eyes drifted from J to a large book on witchcraft opened to some of the basic history. “How many of those has he read?”

  “That was only the second. The first one I gave him was more of a children’s primer. He ripped through that pretty fast. This one’s a little more challenging. Plus, it was three in the morning. He was a bit tired.”

  Pointing to the rug, Max said, “Did y
ou cast the location spell? If you did, I’m guessing it didn’t work because you’re really burying the lead if you know where PB is.”

  “It didn’t work.” Sandra rested her head on his shoulder. “It’s possible that Isaac Brown has some kind of ward or charm to prevent me from finding them. Madame Yan could have given him something like that. More likely, I’m too full of anxiety to properly perform the spell. A witch’s emotional state can change the nature of a spell, making it easier or more difficult. Because I love PB and I’m obviously upset, it’s possible I just can’t pull off the spell. Or maybe I suck at this. Maybe I’m fooling myself to think I could become some talented, good witch.”

  “Stop that.” Max lifted her head by the chin and looked straight in her eyes. “You’re only talking like that because you are exhausted. You know you’re good at this stuff. So what if we can’t use the location spell this time — you keep at it. We’ll find some other way. We don’t give up. Right?”

  “Then I’m going to need another cup of coffee.”

  Max swiped her mug off the desk and refilled it for her. The muscles in his back had loosened a little, and his mind had found some focus. When he handed over the mug and sat next to her again, he noticed the article on her laptop — an in-depth look at tragedy groups.

  “I take it when the spell didn’t work, you chose a different avenue.”

  Sipping her coffee with grateful pleasure, she said, “This is from one of my darkweb witch forums. I think I found something that might help.”

  Skimming over the article, Max discovered further proof that Madame Yan’s involvement in all of this was no accident. Diagrams showed the key parts of any ceremony such a group would need to perform — the rest of what the group did was ritual and window-dressing. Other charts showed the phases of the moon and when the ceremonies would be most effective considering they had to occur over the course of nine days total.

  Cradling the hot coffee in her hands, Sandra said, “These tragedy groups are actually an offshoot of some long-gone Christian sects.”

  “What I saw out there did not look like anything to do with Christianity.”