Blind Sight Read online

  “I know your secret, Jordan. I know all about the Celadon Circle. I know what you and your family do.” He jerked her hair harder, until tears sprang to her eyes. “Does that surprise you?”

  She winced as he let go of her hair and backhanded her. Pain exploded across her cheek and her lip split. She wanted to cry out, not only from the pain but from anger, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  “The only thing that surprises me,” she said through clenched teeth, “is that you still play with Ouija boards. I thought those went out of style in the seventies.”

  He smirked before strolling to the altar. “Oh, I don’t use a Ouija board.” He picked up the athame, lightly caressing the blade. He took his time, enjoying her discomfort at seeing the dagger in his hands as he made his way back to her. His lips pulled back over his teeth as he grinned wickedly. “Who needs play-toys when I have powers of my own?”

  He grabbed the neck of her t-shirt and drew the blade down it, slicing through the cotton like butter, baring her bra. Jordan watched in horrid fascination as a drop of blood fell from her lip, staining the white fabric. Corbett straddled her lap, pressing his substantial weight against her. Slowly, looking into her eyes, he laid the point of the athame against her breast, drawing a bead of blood. She inhaled sharply, wondering if he was about to filet her like a fish. She didn’t mind dying, if it came to that, but she would prefer something a little less painful and…messy.

  As if reading her mind, he leaned over and crooned in her ear, causing Jordan to shiver in repulsion. “Don’t you worry, sweet thang. I’m not gonna kill you – yet.” He drew the blade across her breast. Jordan hissed as a welt of blood appeared in its wake. Like a demented dog, he leaned down, lapping it up with his tongue. He smiled, showing blood-stained teeth. “Did that turn you on, baby?” In reply, she spit in his face and then head-butted him. She missed his nose, but did manage to knock out a tooth.

  He stood up, screaming in rage as the hand he held under his mouth filled with blood and saliva. “You bitch!”

  Jordan sneered. “You have powers, right? Just wave your magic wand, utter a little Latin, and grow it back.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “Bippity, boppity, boo.”

  His fist came at her like a locomotive, catching her right cheek, rocking her head to the side. The pain was almost worth the tooth. Almost, but not quite. She hoped he hadn’t broken anything. Her entire face throbbed. She could no longer distinguish one pain from another.

  Corbett spit in a corner of the room, wiping his mouth on a dirty shop rag. He slammed the dagger on the altar and crossed the room to a leaning bookcase. Jordan followed his every move, waiting to see what he would do next, looking for an opportunity to get free. He paused with his back to her.

  She let her eyes roam over the bookcase, which was filled with an assortment of knick knacks. Jordan couldn’t see a pattern or special significance to the items. They were strewn about, almost as if Corbett had tossed them haphazardly and let them lie where they landed. She saw a small baseball trophy on its side, a hairbrush, a yellow highlighter pen, a wallet, a beautifully carved pipe…

  Oh my God. These were items that belonged to people Corbett had a beef with. There were so many! That was probably the pipe he swiped from Buck. Jordan breathed a sigh of relief that it was still on the lunatic’s Soon to Succumb shelf and undamaged. That meant he hadn’t called the Kongamato to take Buck yet.

  “I guess you know what I’ve been doing,” he said, still with his back to her. His voice was unusually flat, devoid of any emotion, and he was so still. Jordan was suddenly glad she couldn’t see his face. She didn’t think she’d enjoy the expression he wore at that moment.

  Corbett removed an item from the shelf but she couldn’t tell what it was. As if reciting a speech from memory, he spoke like a robot. The lack of any inflection gave her the heebie-jeebies. “Do you know what it’s like to be made fun of -- to be taunted day after day? Do you know how it feels to be in love with someone and know that you have no chance whatsoever of having those feelings returned?” His shoulders shook, but his voice remained unchanged. “I got so tired of it…so…very tired. One day, I found a book on witchcraft in a used book store over on Helmont Street. I read it and then ordered others off the internet. As I’m sure you know, our backwoods little town doesn’t have much information on casting spells and calling monsters to kill people.

  “It only took me a few days to master the spell that called the Kongamato. It was almost as if I had a gift for witchcraft -- like I’d found my calling. It comes so easy for me.” He turned around. Jordan noticed his once-blue eyes had turned dark, almost black. His face was as pale as a fish’s belly. He looked as lifeless as a doll. This wasn’t good.

  “I said before that I wasn’t going to kill you yet and I’m not. Instead, I’m going to keep you here, relishing the immeasurable pain that you go through as the creature kills everyone you love.” He held up the item he’d taken from the shelf. It was a music CD. George Jones’ face was plastered on the cover. Corbett walked a few steps closer. He held the plastic case out for Jordan to examine. There was no need. Her heart beat double-time and her mouth suddenly felt as if it were stuffed with cotton.

  “Recognize this?” he asked. A half-smile turned up a corner of his mouth.

  Of course she did. It was Uncle Case’s horrible CD, the one she and Quinn had joked about on the trip to the campground. She had no idea how he got it, but that wasn’t important. What he planned to do with it was.

  “You should be more careful when you open your car doors,” he commented as he sauntered to the table where the altar was set up and placed the CD in the center. He then turned his attention to a lockbox on the floor, pulling a key from his pocket. A pop of the lock and seconds later, he retrieved a mason jar filled with red liquid. It sloshed around, painting the sides of the jar. It was blood. Jordan only hoped it wasn’t from a human.

  He made a show of unscrewing the metal cap and pouring the thick liquid into the silver goblet, flourishing his arms and making exaggerated gestures with his hands. “Tell me,” he said as he worked. “Who does this CD belong to?”

  Jordan remained silent, but the psycho was unfazed. He placed the goblet to the side of the pentagram and pulled a book from his lockbox. “I just can’t see you being a big fan of country music, and I am fairly sure that sweet Charger you were driving didn’t belong to you.” He paused long enough to give her a wink. “You strike me as more of a Camry person.”

  Jordan watched warily as he opened the tome to a bookmarked page. Her mind was racing but fear for her uncle kept her from thinking clearly. She needed a plan. She had absolutely nothing. Corbett had confiscated her weapons and cellphone while she was unconscious, not that she could use them with her arms and hands bound to the chair anyway. She supposed she could try to keep him talking but Jordan was never big on making small talk, especially with those nuttier than a value-size jar of Planter’s finest. She was used to going in like a hurricane, leaving the details to sort for later. Uncle Case was the negotiator of the family -- and he could be dead within a few hours. The thought made her physically ill. He was more of a father to her than her own had ever been. Their family was as delicate as a house of cards, and the whole structure was built carefully upon Case’s shoulders. Without him, they would all fall down.

  Corbett held the book like one might a precious child. Jordan almost expected him to start crooning to it. Instead, he met her eyes, a devilish glint in his own. “No answer to my question?” He pulled a small card from his back pocket, holding it close to a candle flame to read it in the low light of the shed. “Well, I know for a fact that the CD doesn’t belong to…Nathan Bailey, seeing as how he owns the Camaro that’s parked in my field right now.”

  Jordan wanted to cry. He’d found Nathan’s car, broke into it, and taken his insurance card. Now, he had possession of personal items belonging to two of the people she loved most in the world.

  Seeing the un
derstanding in her eyes, Corbett smiled and nodded. He took a heavy-looking metal bowl out of the lockbox (was there a bottom to that thing or was it as never-ending as Alice’s rabbit hole?), placing the CD and insurance card inside of it. He poured a little of the blood on top of the items and began reaching for bottles filled with God only knew what. Like a chef preparing a special dish, he took a pinch or a dash of ingredients from the different bottles, adding them to the strange concoction in the bowl. Any second, she expected him to yell BAM!

  “I guess it doesn’t matter who the country music lover is. Pretty soon, George Jones will have one less fan and I’ll be the new owner of a badass Camaro.” He laughed as he added a final ingredient, wiping his hands on his jeans.

  Jordan watched, helpless, as he ran a finger over a page if his coveted book and began to speak.

  “Spirit of Gehenna, I stand before you with an offering of blood and bone.” Here, Corbett took the athame and sliced his palm with a well-practiced stroke. His blood dripped into the goblet. Figuratively, he was offering a piece of himself to the spirit to ensure his loyalty. Jordan was almost positive that Corbett had no idea what he’d gotten himself into. She doubted he even knew what Gehenna was, much less the “spirit” he was praying to.

  “Corbett, stop!” she pleaded. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing? Do you even know what Gehenna is or to whom you’ve sold your soul?”

  He looked up from his book. “I know exactly what I’m doing. Shut your face.” He tried to appear suave and in control, but fear mingled in his hard-bitten words.

  “Gehenna is another word for Hell, Corbett!”

  Like a frightened horse, his wide eyes rolled and bulged in their sockets. He was afraid. He should be. Corbett pointed the dagger at her. “I said shut up!”

  Jordan struggled against her restraints as he continued his invocation.

  “Please grant me immunity as I invoke the winged creature of death to smite down those who would go against me in fulfilling your wishes. I call thee from the Netherworld. Hear my plea!”

  In the next moment, Jordan ceased her futile attempt to free herself. She stared, grossly captivated as a writhing black blob appeared in front of the altar. The mass pulsated as red streaks shot through it like some sort of virus. Involuntarily, she gagged. She’d seen some nasty stuff in her lifetime, but for some reason, this organic, quivering clot was worse. It was pure evil, stripped down to its barest essence. It surrounded the goblet, completely absorbing it into its wet, oozing body. Seconds later, the mass retreated, leaving the goblet empty and shining clean.

  Like a puddle of tar, the blob slogged over to the chair Jordan was trapped in. It snaked around her legs encasing them in frigid cold so deep it hurt. She could no longer control her nausea and puked beside the chair. Corbett laughed.

  The pulsing, slimy wad continued its way up her body, paralyzing her with extreme cold as it came level with her face. Jordan could only manage a weak ugh, ugh, ugh as her teeth chattered so hard they threatened to crack to pieces in her mouth. A face formed in the black mass, its maw melting and reforming over and over. A poorly formed tongue protruded from the mouth, licking her face and leaving behind spikes of pain that felt like freezing needles boring in her skin. The offensive smell of sulfur assaulted her senses.

  “Get off, damn you! Get off me!” Hysterical now, Jordan rocked the chair back and forth, side to side until it threatened to topple over. Corbett’s laugher echoed in the room, but barely registered with her, frenzied as she was, so desperate to rid herself of the offensive, vile glob.

  Slowly, as if examining every inch of her body, the mass crawled over her arms, touching on her hands and slithering between her fingers. It reminded her of raw liver. For a moment, a vision of it forcing its way into her mouth, choking her, filling her with its cold, dead bulk flashed through her mind and Jordan screamed.

  After what seemed like an eternity, the mass crawled back to the floor, making a laggard path back to Corbett. It shook on the floor like a ball of succubus-flavored Jello. Jordan shook uncontrollably. Even though the thing hadn’t harmed her – not really – she felt violated. How could Corbett not know that what he was fooling around with was dangerous? My God, it was lying right beside him like an over-grown slug! Either he was insane or he just didn’t give a crap.

  He held the athame high over his head, declaring, “My body and spirit belong to you. I shall remain faithful in your service!”

  Jordan shook her head, almost sad for him and the short-lived future he would have. “You just declared your soul to a demon, Corbett.”

  Unfazed, he smiled. “Are you going to shut up so I can finish my spell or do you need assistance?”

  Jordan gripped the chair and leaned forward as far as she could, hoping to get her point across – to make him see.

  “This power you think you have doesn’t belong to you! It belongs to a demon! Every time you cast a spell, it’s lending you power and keeping score. Every invocation you make, every favor you ask for, this demon puts a tally mark on your soul. Pretty soon, it will come to collect. When it’s ready, it will possess your body or drag you down to Hell. Either way, you’re a dead man walking.”

  He yawned dramatically. “You have no idea what you’re yammering about. The only dead men walking around these parts are the ones in your family. Or they will be as soon as I finish this spell.”

  Jordan wanted to scream. “What in the hell do you think that thing is beside you, Corbett? Ectoplasm?” She took a deep breath. Please let me get through to him and please don’t let it be too late to save his soul. Deep down, she knew it was, though. The naïve teenager had been at this a while. Even God had to play by His own rules and He no longer owned the lease on Corbett’s soul.

  “You said that you know about the Circle and what we do. If that’s true, then you know it’s our job to know about demons and what they’re capable of. Corbett, listen to me! The last person we dealt with who used witchcraft for personal gain had their intestines pulled out through their mouth.”

  Corbett used the dagger to clean under his fingernails. “Uh-huh. Just a few seconds ago you said demons would either possess me or drag me to Hell. How many times do you plan to change your story? Seems you’re a bit confused.” He chuckled. “Maybe I hit you a little too hard with that shovel.”

  Yeah, he had hit her hard. Jordan imagined the goose egg she had on the back of her head was as big as a baseball. Bastard.

  “Demons often like to play with their victims first. Corbett, please…don’t do this. It may not be too late to save your soul.”

  She could tell he was growing weary of the conversation. He was impatient, fidgeting, dancing from one foot to the other. She had another minute, maybe two, before he finished the spell.

  “Well, if what you say is true, then you can save me when the demon comes. After all, that’s your job, right?”

  If only it was that simple. “Corbett, the demon is already here,” she nodded at the quivering blob beside him, waiting patiently. Evil things were like that. They could wait for an eternity if the prize was worth it. Obviously, the demon thought Corbett was. “Once you sell your soul to a demon, there’s nothing I can do. It’s an unbreakable contract, one you signed the minute you fumbled through your first spell.”

  He looked at the pulsating mass beside him. Jordan could tell by the horrified look on his face that Corbett was finally seeing it for what it really was. His illusions of grandeur burst into

  pieces, falling around him like the rain outside. Jordan could almost see them.

  He fingered the spell book, hands shaking so badly he almost knocked it to the floor. “Well, if that’s the case, then I have nothing to lose by finishing what I started.”

  “Corbett, no!” Jordan pulled at the duct tape that secured her to the chair. “Take me! Let the Kongamato kill me instead, but spare my family, please.” She broke down in sobs. She was absolutely helpless. Nathan and Case were going to die excruciatingly pa
inful deaths and she was strapped to a chair by a redneck with five teeth.

  Corbett picked up a black tapered candle. He tipped it into the bowl and the items inside caught fire in a rush of green flames. “Don’t worry,” he whispered to Jordan, his eyes flickering madly as he stared into the fire. “You’ll get your turn.”

  Scalding tears left tracks through the drying blood on her face. A part of her died as she listened to Corbett finish the spell that would seal her uncle and brother’s fate.

  “You’ve had your payment of blood and bone, now do my bidding! I have willed it, so mote it be.”

  The green fire shot straight up, almost touching the moldy boards of the ceiling before succumbing to clouds of yellow smoke smelling heavily of sulfur. Corbett took the ashes from the bowl and scattered them in a circle around the chair Jordan sat in. Any hope she had of saving her family was smothered right then and there. The ashes, she was sure, would keep Gabe or any other angels from hearing her calls or sensing where she was. She’d heard about this before from other Slayers. She doubted Corbett knew the significance of surrounding her with the ashes, but his demon did.

  After he was finished, Corbett walked back to the throbbing entity that was the demon. He took the last handful of ashes and piled them carefully in front of it. The demon-blob reached out with an oily segment and absorbed them like a Bounty paper towel before disappearing, taking with it what was left of her life.

  Chapter Fifteen

  She had no idea what time it was. Corbett had finally left a little earlier, claiming he needed a little sleep before heading to the campground to bask in the chaos he’d created. For hours after the spell, he’d taunted her, trying his best to get a rise from her. He joked about the Kongamato, asking her if she thought its victims tasted like chicken, whether their bones got stuck in its throat if it didn’t chew its food at least twenty times, and if it preferred light or dark meat. Through it all, she stayed silent, staring at a dark spot on the wood in a far corner.