Dark Rite

Chapter 18

“I can't leave Cassie. I'll take any help you can give me.” Strangely, Grant found he was unafraid. Perhaps it was the surreality of the whole situation, or maybe it was because, deep down, he knew he couldn't survive this and had already accepted his mortality. He should have died, beaten and dumped in a creek, but had won a reprieve thanks to Amos. He knew he would never be able to live with himself if he just walked away now, not after everything that had happened. So better to die trying than live in shame. For once, he was going to see something through, no matter how hard it got.

“I'll do what I can for you, then,” Ma Withers said, “but it might not be near enough. Now, the first thing you got to do is eat something and get you some rest.” She saw the argument in his eyes and hushed him with a raised, crooked finger. “You ain't in a fit state to do nothing for her right now, and neither is Amos. Besides, they can't do nothing ‘til the convergence tomorrow night. Cassie won't even be there yet. They'll be keeping her somewhere til then.”

Grant nodded reluctantly. She made sense, though he hated the idea of waiting.

“That'll be just fine then. I need some time to make ready anyhow.” She tottered off and returned minutes later with a mug of broth, two slices of buttered bread, and an apple. Grant devoured the meal as if it were his last, which it might be. Finally, he accepted a steaming cup that smelled of mint, a concoction, Ma Withers said, that would both help him sleep and dull the worst of his pain.

“But if the Stallards come…”

“They ain't comin.” She tapped her head. “I would know if they was.”

Grant slipped into a fitful slumber, his dreams populated by a macabre mix of gun-toting hillbillies, masked cultists, and demons. When the crow of a rooster woke him, he was surprised to discover that, despite his dark dreams, he felt rested. He'd risen and taken half a dozen steps toward the front porch when he realized the pain from his many injuries was nearly gone, with only a dull ache to remind him of their presence.

Amos and Ma Withers sat on the front porch sipping coffee from cracked mugs. By his relaxed expression, Amos seemed to be feeling the benefits of the old woman's potions, as she called them, as much as Grant was.

“Thought you was gonna sleep all day,” Amos wheezed.

Grant couldn't help but grin. Only the faintest hint of the coming dawn glowed amongst the dense trees, lending the world an ashy gray undertone.

“Well, I'm up now, and we need to make a plan. That is, if you're still willing to help me.”

“Them sumbitches done seduced my son. I mean to make 'em pay.”

Grant nodded. “We've got to figure out where they're taking Cassie, and maybe we can ambush them on the way in. I imagine they'll be on their guard once they get started. Maybe even before.”

“I believe I knows exactly where they's going to take her.” Ma Withers grinned. “The girls who died was found in the same place, and it ain't too far off from here. You can get there in a day, easy. But first off, we got to get you ready.”

She ushered Grant back into the house and sat him on the floor in front of the fireplace. With bit of charcoal, she drew a circle on the floor around where he sat, then scratched out four straight lines.

“Are you drawing a pentagram?” He was unable to keep a bit of nervousness from his voice.

“A pentacle,” she corrected. “And I don't want to hear no foolish notions about Satanism and evil. It be a tool like any other. I won't close it off ‘til it’s time.” She moved to the fireplace where a small, cast iron kettle hung. Then, one by one, she took down several old mason jars that lined the mantle, drew a pinch of the contents from each, and dropped it into the kettle, whispering to herself as she worked. Grant caught a few phrases here and there.

“Oxeye and bloodroot to give you strength. Rattlesnake master to make your bite deadly.” He heard her name other plants or roots as she sprinkled the leaves and powders. Most were unfamiliar: stonecrop, Adam's needle, lizard tail, Jacob's ladder.

The contents began to smoke, filling the cabin with a cloying scent that made him wrinkle his nose. Ma Withers reached into an apron pocket and dug out one of the tiny New Testaments like the Shriners handed out at parades. She flipped through it until she found what she was looking for, tore out the page, and tossed it into the kettle.

“Can't hurt,” she said with a grin. “Now, give me Josiah's finger.”

“What?” Grant blinked. He didn't know why, but he was reluctant to part with it.

“Fool boy, I only need a touch of it. Come on now.” She snapped her fingers and Grant hesitated only a moment longer before taking out the finger and handing it over to her.

It contorted wildly in her hand, like a worm trying to flee from the fish hook. Using a paring knife, she scraped a few flakes of the withered flesh into the pot, then spat into it before handing the finger back to Grant. Next, she pricked Grant's finger with the tip of the knife. He watched in fascination as his blood welled on the flat of the blade. This went into the pot as well, followed by a splash of water. She gave it three stirs in each direction with a wooden spoon before turning to Grant.

“It be time.” She leaned down and drew the final line of the pentacle. As she did so, Grant felt a shiver run down his spine, and the air around him seem to thicken.

Ma Withers dipped her finger into the pot, drawing out a heap of black goo. Muttering words in a language Grant had never heard, she anointed his forehead with the foul smelling paste, then pulled up his shirt and drew a symbol over his heart.

She added water to the kettle and stirred until it roiled and steamed.

“Now, you need a weapon.” She pulled an old Bowie knife down from the mantle. The blade was a good ten inches long and rounded at the end, and its razor sharp edge gleamed in the firelight. Its spine was thick and straight, the last two inches curved inward and sharp, making the knife double-edged at its tip.

Slowly, like Achilles' mother dipping him into the river Styx, she coated the blade in the liquid. Holding it up, it seemed to Grant that it glowed faintly, though it was probably just the firelight glistening on the blade. When it was dry, she slid it into a battered leather sheath and set it aside.

“Last thing, just in case the blade don't work.” She added cold water to the kettle, tested it with her finger, then upended it over Grant, chanting strange words, their meanings seeming to hang just beyond comprehension.

Grant shivered as the lukewarm water soaked him to the bone. He soon realized he wasn't trembling due to the temperature, but from something else. Whatever spell Ma Withers had cast, he could feel it working. He felt powerful. Was that what made him quake?

And then he remembered why he had undergone this macabre baptism. If he couldn’t save Cassie, couldn’t stop Kalatherex from rising, Grant himself would be the sacrificial lamb, the poison pill, like Josiah Brunswick. An icy wave of fear rolled through him, and he knew exactly why he trembled.