Southern Charm (21 page)

Melinda held the brush over Howard's body. In a bright flash, the hairs on the brush ignited, burning hotter and higher than should have been possible. Max squinted against the light, but he could still see what happened.

Howard Corkille's arms jerked to the side. Then his legs. Then his entire body spasmed on the floor as if suffering seizures.

"By the blood of those surrounding," Melinda said, "Free this man from that which binds him."

Max couldn't say what he expected to occur, but there was no huge light show, no swirling of spirits, no cracking of the curse. Instead, the air stopped shimmering and the flaming brush lowered to a burning ember. Howard's body settled.

The old man lifted his hand toward Melinda, and his mouth opened into a toothy grin. "I'm free," he said. And his hand flopped to floor. His body empty. Howard Corkille was dead.

Max looked up from the body and saw his wife staring back at him. His eyes glistened as she blew him a kiss. But a frown took over her expression as her eyes focused just above Melinda's head.

"Can you see this?" she asked.

He peered in the same direction, but he saw nothing.

"He can't see it," Drummond said.

"There's an energy above her. It's not like a ghost. It's something strange," Sandra said.

A soft pop of air startled Melinda as the brush ignited once more. The flame no longer hurt to see but it had an odd tinge of purple and blue inside it. It flickered in the air and lit Melinda's face from beneath creating harsh, ugly shadows.

"By the soul of Edward Teach, Blackbeard the Pirate," Melinda said, raising her hands toward the invisible force above her. "By the infinite powers of the great voodoo priestesses of old, I call upon you to take this broken curse, consume its energy, consume its centuries of power, all that it was which now rests in this token of your power —" She shook the brush as if the power would dash from it and sprinkle down.

To the side, Max saw Dr. Connor moving her head. It took a lot of effort but she managed to look right at Max. Her mouth moved but Max couldn't hear her above Melinda's spell casting.

"Dump the bowl!" Sandra said. "Connor says to dump the bowl."

Max nodded and moved his foot toward the bowl of his own blood. Though he stretched as far as his sore limbs would permit, the bowl remained out of reach. Melinda had been careful.

"— take it all from here and release it back unto me. Come into me, spirits of the past, so I may rule as you would once have wanted to rule."

Pointing at Melinda with his free hand, Drummond said, "That woman is nuts."

"Come into me. Come into me," Melinda chanted.

Sandra's face paled, and at first Max thought Drummond had put his ghostly touch on her for too long. Then she said, "Max ... I don't believe it. I think I'm seeing Blackbeard's ghost."

"Come into me," Melinda said. "I am an open vessel."

Max pulled down on the cuffs, but he knew nothing would come of it. He needed to do something, though. He looked around the room, hoping to find some miracle item that he hadn't noticed before.

He saw Dr. Connor, head hung low, her body devoid of any energy. Modesto watched the circle with an expression equal parts disdain and defeat. Sandra stared at an empty space which, no doubt, contained the apparition of Blackbeard. Drummond, holding Sandra's wrist, also looked upon the pirate ghost.

We're a sorry bunch,
Max thought.

"Come," Melinda continued, and waved the smoldering brush in front of her like incense. She reached out with her free hand, and though Max could not see Blackbeard, he pictured the pirate taking her hand like a gentleman asking to dance. But then her body jolted and her twisted face grimaced.

"He's got her," Sandra said. "He's got her."

Whatever pain Melinda had felt, sifted away. Her face softened with a blissful calm. She lifted her eyes toward Max, and looking more sadistic than Max had ever encountered before, she picked up the dagger. "Not enough blood," she said, her voice having dropped an octave. She was no longer Melinda. Blackbeard had control.

She looked down at Howard Corkille and cut open his wrist. Like a vampire, she brought the wrist to her mouth. A little blood pooled but without his heart pumping, there was no flow.

She threw Howard's wrist to the floor and let out an angry grunt. "Need more," she said, and it occurred to Max that the second part of this spell, the part intended to give Melinda such great power, may not have worked entirely. She had said that life fluids were important, but she never said just how important.

Max looked at Howard's corpse. That blood was no good. Howard only provided dead fluids now. So why wasn't Blackbeard/Melinda coming after them, the living, cutting them open?

Max's lips turned up in a devilish grin. Blackbeard may be in Melinda's body, but for now, he was still a ghost. He couldn't get out of the circle any more than Drummond could get in.

Thinking of Drummond and his ghostliness brought another thought to Max like a shining sun bursting through a terrible storm. Knowing his throat would hate him for more talking, Max braced himself for the pain that would come, and said, "Honey, trust me."

Sandra looked right at Max, straight into his heart. "Always."

"Drummond, let go of her wrist and come over here."

Drummond hesitated. "The cold won't last long without me."

"I know," Max said.

"She'll start to bleed again."

Sandra shook her arms. "Trust him, already."

Drummond looked from wife to husband and back. "If you start to get light-headed, you yell for me. I'll run right back."

As Drummond went around the circle to cross the room, Melinda tried to reach out toward Dr. Connor. The circle prevented her from touching the witch. She spotted the blood-traced symbols on the floor, and like a famished wildcat, she dropped on all fours, and licked what hadn't dried yet.

"What now?" Drummond asked as he approached Max.

"Put your hands on the chain between my handcuffs. You freeze it like you did Sandra's wrist, only I want you to put everything into it. I want that chain so cold that it's practically ice itself. Can you do that?" Max said, his voice fading into a whisper at the end.

Drummond nodded. He placed his hand on the chain, closed his eyes, and touched the metal. Max could see the pain this caused. Touching the corporeal world always caused pain. But, if nothing else, Drummond had always been a tough detective. He winced, bared his teeth, and grunted, but he never cried out.

Melinda scrabbled toward the bloody symbols near Modesto. When she finished there, she moved on to Sandra's symbols. Every so often, she reached toward the circle's edge with one hand. Each time, she pulled it back as if stung. Except Max noticed that each time, she kept her hand against the barrier a little longer. Instinct told Max that when she finished all the blood the symbols had, it would be enough to free her from the circle.

He yanked downward. "Colder," he said.

Melinda looked up. Max could tell by her gaze that she now saw Drummond. A benefit of having Blackbeard inside her, he guessed. Understanding crossed her face, and she sped up her ingestion of the blood.

"Hurry," Max said.

Drummond put both hands on the chain. "Keep trying," he said.

As Max pulled down, Melinda rushed across to the bloody symbols at his feet. She lapped it up, laughing at Max's desperation.

"I'm going to have fun killing you," she said.

He inhaled deeply and put every ounce of strength he had into one crushing pull. His wrists screamed out as the cuffs dug into his skin, but then he tumbled to the ground and little pieces of frozen metal tinkled on the floor. Drummond floated backward, his eyes closed in relief.

"Max!" Sandra screamed.

As he faced her, Melinda stepped out of the circle and backhanded him across the cheek. Not only had Blackbeard giving her the ability to see the dead, but Max learned that she also had gained a lot of his brute strength. The blow to his face sent Max rolling across the floor.

Max stumbled to his feet just as Melinda rushed him. She grabbed his shirt and shoved him against the wall. She punched him in the gut. He doubled over, his lungs giving up all their air, his eyes watering at the pain. Bile raced up, burning the sore tissue as it coated his throat. He struggled to remain standing.

Melinda clasped his chin in her hand and forced his head upward. She gazed down upon him, and Max glimpsed the pirate inside her. He had heard that Blackbeard struck fear in the men he fought against, and Max understood why. The fierce eyes blazing at him lacked compassion, humanity, or even sanity. Had Melinda succeeded, she would have had great power. But with Blackbeard controlling Melinda, her power was vicious.

She pulled back a fist and slammed it across his temple. Max dropped to the ground. The world spun around him.

He thought he heard Sandra screaming his name, but her voice sounded muffled and dazed. He turned his head toward her. The floor rushed up to his face, cold and hard.

He saw a figure stand over him. A dark, shadowed figure. Blackbeard. The pirate raised one, powerful foot.

"Goodbye, Max Porter," a voice said.

But that foot never slammed down. The pain never came. Instead, the shadowed figure arched back and toppled over with a surprised yell.

Max rolled onto his side to see what had happened. The first thing he discerned through his blurred vision was that the fallen figure belonged to Melinda Corkille. That made sense and helped clear his muddled brain. The second thing he saw was Drummond floating above Melinda.

Drummond turned his head toward Max and nodded. He shouldn't have done so. Melinda's hand shot upward and smashed Drummond toward the ceiling.

"Idiot," she said. "I am the great Blackbeard. I can see you, and I can touch you, and I most certainly can destroy you."

Melinda clamored to her feet and swung out with her fists. Drummond moved fast, though, and with the grace of an experienced fighter. He dodged her punches and countered with two strong jabs that popped hard, stumbling her back a few steps. Without Blackbeard coursing thorough her, Max figured Melinda would've been out cold.

Back and forth Melinda and Drummond traded blows. Max watched from the floor, his body slowly recuperating. He could see one solid image instead of blurred doubles, and he could breathe without hot pokers attacking his lungs. Swallowing still hurt, but then he fully expected to be on an all-liquid diet for the next few weeks.

Drummond dashed to the right, avoiding Melinda's left fist. He grabbed her near the elbow and swung her around. She fell into Modesto who made no effort to kick out — he was unconscious.

Melinda lunged for Drummond, caught him by the leg, and took him down to the floor. She straddled him, pinning his arms down with her knees, and punched him in the face. Over and over, she connected.

Max had been watching the fight fully expecting Drummond to win. But now things had turned ugly. He rolled up onto all fours, held the position a moment until his stomach settled back, and crawled toward the fight. He had no illusions that he could hurt Melinda in his condition, but he did hope to distract her long enough for Drummond to get free.

She spotted him out of the corner of her eye. "Naughty, naughty," she said, but she took the bait. She reached toward him, perhaps planning to shove him away.

Max had enough strength to latch onto her wrist and fall down. His weight yanked her off balance. Like a bird freed from its cage, Drummond shot into the air, curved around, and knocked Melinda to the side. She fought back, but the two were on even ground again.

"Max," Sandra said, calling him from far away. No. Near. His ears could hear her so closely. He inched his head upward and saw that he had moved quite close to his wife.

"The bowl," she said. "Connor said to knock over the bowl."

Like a drunkard, Max lolled to his side. Ahead of him was the bowl Melinda had used to collect their blood. He stared at it, trying to will his body to move. He was so tired, so weakened. He wanted to close his eyes and sleep.

"Hurry!" Drummond yelled as Melinda tossed him against the stairs. He shot back at her but she parried his attacks.

Max crawled his arm in the direction of the bowl. He felt heat radiating from it. Pushing with his feet, he scooted closer until his fingers made contact. The bowl's surface was rougher than he had expected.

"Turn it over," Sandra said. "You've almost got it."

Melinda's head snapped around. "No!" She darted toward Max but Drummond jumped onto her back, wrapped his arm around her throat, and pulled her away. With a lazy smile, Max flipped the bowl closer toward himself.

Nothing happened.

"Sorry," Max whispered. Too tired to go on, Max let his arm flop downward. It hit the bowl, cracking it into three pieces.

Flames, purple and blue like those from the brush, snaked out of the bowl's shards. Drummond shoved Melinda toward the center of the circle. Like a child lost in a store, Melinda looked from face to face, hoping one would be her salvation.

The flames rose higher, weaving in a hypnotic rhythm. If they had eyes, Max would have sworn they were staring at Melinda. Whatever they burned on — chalk, blood, concrete, or the supernatural — the odor rivaled any natural gas leak Max had experienced. He coughed at the horrible smell.