The Curse Merchant (The Dark Choir Book 1)

by J. P. Sloan

  “Mister Lake?” he crackled as I stood directly in front of him.

  “Yep.”

  “You, uh, got it?”

  I dangled the flash drive in front of his eyes and lifted an eyebrow.

  “As advertised, my friend. Instructions are on the drive.”

  He reached into a binder and fidgeted with an envelope, looking back and forth with the nervous energy of a virgin acquiring a hooker’s services.

  I grinned and muttered, “This isn’t illegal, you know. You can relax.”

  He shoved the envelope at me and snatched the flash drive. He dangled it at the end of its cord, staring at it with uncertainty. I lingered until he physically touched the anchor. The subtle shift of energies let me know that the fix was in, and I gave him a quick nod.

  “Keep in touch,” I told him, turning on my heel. “I predict you’ll have very little problem keeping your head in your studies now.”

  “Thank you,” he mumbled.

  There was nothing left to do or say, so I walked back to my car. That was the nature of my business. Simple acts, simple transactions, mysterious mechanics. Some clients feel cheated by the lack of histrionics and puffs of sorcerer’s fire. Others seem relieved by its simplicity. In my time, I had grown to understand both points of view.

  I was feeling almost satisfied with myself, and the five hundred dollars tucked into my hip pocket, until I checked my voice mail in the car. Andreas Tatopoulis had been to the properties to inspect the awning, and left me a message with his findings. It seemed the anchor bolts had pulled some of the masonry loose, and I would need a contractor to put the building back to code.

  Which meant more money, and more time than my citation would allow. With any luck, my meeting with Bright would prove lucrative.

  I was glad for the early start. Finding parking downtown is usually murder. I got to the steakhouse early, but Bright was already there, engrossed in an intense conversation on his phone. He waved me past the hostess, and gestured the way to a pair of glass doors separating a private room from the restaurant. Several binders and folders lay spread across the dining table. His office away from his office.

  I took a seat at the table as a waiter stepped in past Bright. I ordered a neat scotch and Bright simply made a “two” gesture as he continued to bark into his phone. The drinks arrived before he concluded his call, after which, he dropped into a seat and closed his eyes for a moment.

  “Rough morning?” I ventured, reaching for my highball.

  He smiled and opened his eyes. With a swift, steady gesture, he snatched his glass, clinked it to mine, and took a desperate sip.

  “Sorry about that,” he gasped. “Thanks for coming on short notice like this.”

  “I’m used to short notice. I have to be flexible for most of my clients.”

  “That’s good to hear. Flexibility is something I’m lacking in my current provider.”

  Nothing could stoke my fire quite like mentioning my competition. I was actually unaware of any competition for my niche services in the Baltimore area. I was familiar with a handful of talisman makers in Philly, a Stregha witch in Delaware, and I had heard that there was a bona fide Netherworking Curse Merchant in New York City. This close to the District, however, the Presidium maintained a tight control on whatever was considered damaging to the national identity.

  Bright had my interest piqued.

  “Current provider, huh? What is it that you’re looking for, exactly?”

  “Career development, if you will.”

  “You seem to be doing ok.”

  He grinned and nodded.

  “Not for me, Mister Lake. Mayor Sullivan.”

  I leaned back in my chair and took in a deep breath. This was more complicated than I was expecting.

  “The mayor wants metaphysical aid?”

  “The mayor doesn’t know the first thing about this, and that is precisely how it has to remain. You would work for me. I would pay you for your services, but the mayor would never know about it.”

  I sat and considered the liquor in my highball for a moment.

  “I’m not sure that’s really possible.”

  “It is possible. That much I know. At least, this is the scheme I’ve employed for the last two years.” He watched me carefully for a moment, and added, “To considerable effect.”

  “Who have you been using, if I might ask?”

  Bright took another long sip of his whiskey, his eyes busy with calculation.

  “Neil Osterhaus. Heard of him?”

  “I’ve heard of him. He’s that two-bit soul monger down on Pratt Street, isn’t he?”

  Bright coughed on his whiskey and ran a finger under his nose, snickering.

  “Christ Jesus, you magicians are a bunch of fishwives, you know that? Yes, that would be the man.”

  “I didn’t know he even did charm workings.”

  “Apparently he does. My business with Osterhaus for the last two years has been fruitful.”

  “So what changed? Why are you talking to me now?”

  “Good question. And a fair one. Truth is, he’s become somewhat demanding. And expensive, for lack of competition I figure.”

  I shook my head and sighed. “I’ve been working Baltimore longer than that hack.”

  “Perhaps. But I’m just now aware of your existence, which is a relief really.”

  “So, you’re shopping me against Osterhaus. Is that basically it?”

  Bright looked down at the table and fiddled with his fingernails. “Not entirely. There is a personality I prefer to deal with, professionally. Over the years, I’ve learned there’s a type of person I get along with.”

  “Osterhaus isn’t your type, I’m guessing?”

  “He filled a need. But there are significant carrying costs in dealing with him. I’d rather free my brain to deal with…” He swept his hand over the open binders and paperwork. “I get a better feel from you, Mister Lake. To be honest, I like your style.”

  “My style can be pretty hard to swallow sometimes. Just warning you.”

  “That’s the second time you’ve tried to flag me off, you know that? Know what that tells me? You’re proud of what you do, and you put your clients up for scrutiny. Either that, or you think I’m a complete asshole. But I suspect you’re the type to tell me I’m an asshole if you think I am.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. “Got that much right.”

  “So, scrutinize. How would you like to get involved in forwarding the mayor’s career?”

  “Depends,” I replied. “Why are you paying your personal money for this? What do you get out of it?”

  Bright finished his whiskey and leaned forward.

  “Partially, it shields the mayor from a money trail. The IRS is the great equalizer, it seems. But that’s not really my motivation. Truth is, Sully’s a good man. A genuine, solid servant of the people. He just doesn’t quite grasp the brutal reality of elected life. I don’t know, maybe that’s exactly why I want to see him succeed. To prove it can be done.”

  “A good man in office?”

  “Right. Problem is, he’s a devout Catholic, and he would positively shit kittens if he knew I was paying occultists to put him in the White House.”

  “White House, huh? You are ambitious.”

  Bright shrugged with a smirk.

  “I’ll push him as far as he’ll be pushed.”

  “Why not you? Why set Sullivan up as your straw man? Why don’t you get in the game?”

  “Another fair question. Truth is, I’m not made for public life. I don’t have Sully’s white-bread Americana appeal. I don’t have his family and kids and his McMansion in Towson. Besides, I have personal pursuits that, well… I’m not electable, nor do I want to be.”

  “Enough said.” I examined my highball, searching for a way to talk myself out of doing business with an elected official. “What you have to understand, and I can’t stress this enough, is that for this to work, he has to be well positioned spi
ritually. My craft hinges on karma. It’s how my particular approach to hermetic workings is powered. I can’t coax good things out of the Cosmos if he’s a son of a bitch behind closed doors. Take my meaning?”

  Bright stared at me with intensity, then spoke very low and clearly, “He’s the best man I have ever known.”

  I nodded and leaned back in my chair.

  “All right. I suppose we’ll take this one step at a time. What’s first?”

  Bright straightened in his chair and reached across the table for a folder.

  “Excellent! The mayor is traveling to Pittsburgh for the Conference of Mayors annual meeting. He’s putting forward a resolution for a green public housing strategy. The resolution is solid, well researched. I know, I wrote it.”

  “Okay?”

  “It’s his first annual meeting. There’s a lot of buzz rounding the circuit about Sullivan. Buzz I’ve personally cultivated. Considering the circumstances surrounding the former mayor’s departure from office, Sully has to drive this home. I don’t mean a walk. I mean knocking the ball into the stands.”

  “I follow.”

  “If you’ve never met the man, you wouldn’t understand how humble he comes across.”

  “Humble is good, isn’t it?”

  “Not in politics, my friend.”

  “Okay.”

  “What I want from you would be considered a charm. I believe the term is ‘glammer’? Something to boost to his appearance and demeanor. Just for the conference.”

  I lifted a brow.

  “Seems you know a thing or two about the craft.”

  He waved me off with a shrug.

  “I’ve always been fascinated by your world. I just never had the patience for it.”

  “I understand completely. Fine. A glammer. Shouldn’t be too challenging, really. I will need a few things to complete the charm.”

  Bright opened the folder and produced a stapled stack of paper, and slid it across the table.

  “I thought you would say that. This is the information Osterhaus requested when I propositioned him on Friday.”

  I picked up the pages and skimmed over them. Birthdate with accurate time to the minute and location. Names and ages of his family members. The dates of his first confession, first communion, and confirmation. His diet for the last two weeks.

  “Why in the crap does Osterhaus need all of this?”

  “He seemed to feel it was necessary for completing the charm.”

  “Well, it’s not. Sorry, but glammers are basically charm making one-oh-one. They’re kid’s play. All of this? Well, I suppose if you’re trying to force a craft anchor without a grounding in planar metaphysics, you’d have to fly by wire.”

  I looked over to Bright, who was grinning and shaking his head.

  “I figured I needed a second opinion.”

  “Seven hundred.”

  Bright blinked a few times, and sat stone-faced.

  I reiterated, “I would bill you seven hundred dollars for this kind of glammer. So, there you go. Don’t know how that rates against Osterhaus, and it’s not polite to ask. I’ll tell you this much. Charms are what I do. I have a longer track record than that rank amateur. I have a client list going back fifteen years, and references if you need them. I never advertise. All of my business comes from referrals, so if that means anything to you―”

  Bright interrupted, “Osterhaus was going to charge me twenty-five hundred.”

  “Dollars?”

  “That’s right.”

  I rubbed my eyes. I should have gone for a thousand.

  “I have been aware his prices were outpacing inflation,” he continued, “or even common sense, really. But I had no idea.”

  “Well, I don’t know what to tell you. You’re getting screwed, Mister Bright.”

  “Please, call me Julian.”

  “Okay. Julian, you’re getting bent hard.”

  His eyes moved down to the folder, the corners of his eyes wrinkling in what I imagined was a blistering desire to beat Osterhaus with a length of iron pipe.

  “Sold, Mister Lake.”

  “All right, then. The items I’ll need to collect include a piece of his person. It doesn’t need to be dramatic. Hair would work. Blood is better, but I think he’ll ask what’s up when you come stampeding toward him with a syringe.”

  “Hair. What else?”

  “Everything else, I can get. I collect on delivery of my charm. Usually in talisman form. Something you can slip on his person without his noticing. But he has to keep it on his person. I’m thinking, for example, an American flag lapel pin. No one notices, but he’d probably feel like an asshole if he didn’t wear it.”

  Bright beamed as I spoke.

  “Yes. Perfect.”

  “Will Wednesday work?”

  “For what?”

  “Delivery?”

  He blinked again.

  “Are you serious?”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “How long did Osterhaus quote you?”

  “Two weeks.”

  “God. What a lightweight. No. If it takes him two weeks to bind a glammer to an anchor, then he really needs to go back to the Psychic Fair, or wherever he learned his con.”

  I tossed the dossier of personal information back to Bright.

  “Here. This isn’t anything I need. Shred it. All I need is some part of the mayor, and I can turn this around next day.”

  Bright’s phone rang, and he snatched it from his coat pocket. He sighed and answered it.

  “Hang on.”

  He tucked the phone into his chest and leaned forward.

  “Sorry, I’ve been avoiding this call for a day now. You have a green light. Can you meet me at the front steps in front of the National Aquarium this time tomorrow? I can get you what you need then.”

  “Uh, sure,” I mumbled, tossing back the last of the whiskey before my impending dismissal.

  He nodded and reached a hand across the table.

  “I feel good about this, Mister Lake. Thank you.”

  I didn’t answer. I just shook his hand, and stood up as he pulled his phone back to his ear. As I stepped through the double-glass doors into the main restaurant, the smell of beef and potatoes filled my nostrils. My brain buzzed with the palpable turn of my fortune.

  I gave the waiter a fiver on my way past the hostess station, and stepped into the brisk October air.

  The sun was turning the corner of its overhead arc through the blue autumn sky. The taller buildings west of the harbor slashed shadows across the Inner Harbor as a slight breeze carried the dead smells of the bay over the rows of nightclubs and restaurants.

  This was my shot. The Cosmos saw fit to throw me a bone. Now, all I had to do was to step up.

  By the time I had driven home, it occurred to me that I didn’t even get a steak out of the meeting. I made do with some chicken lo mein sitting in my fridge, and started mapping out my All-American Mayor Charm Pin.

  This was going to be the easiest seven hundred dollars of my life.

  he following day I found Julian in front of the aquarium, leading a clutch of his young lions. He stepped away from the others and gave me a quick and assertive handshake, slipping a plastic bag discreetly into my hand. With a nod, he continued on to the front doors. Once he was out of sight, I examined the plastic bag. Inside, I found a little, white sheet of lint roller tape that had captured several brownish-white hairs. I would trust these were the mayor’s.

  The glammer crafting went smoothly. It really was an elementary working as long as one powered it from a reliable, outside source. I preferred karma as it carried with it a measure of failsafe. It’s the same reason that prayer never really bites a person in the ass. The worst that anyone ever gets is nothing.

  The same couldn’t be said for Netherwork. Very often, the worst thing one could receive was precisely the thing he asked for.

  The following day, I delivered the glammer’s anchor, a tiny American flag lapel pin I bough
t from a Royal Farms gas station, and collected my paycheck. I took a check. I felt confident Julian was good for it. He handled the paper-wrapped lapel pin gingerly, treating it like a miniature live grenade. At least he was taking this seriously.

  For the remainder of the day, I returned several calls and ran down more clients. Tatopoulis had the numbers from his contractor. They weren’t happy numbers. I had a good couple days, but I was still considerably short of the contractor’s estimate to repair the row house, and my time was running short. I resolved to ask Julian if he could pull some strings to get me an extension. I managed to set up two client meetings that evening, and another for the morning.

  Each of the clients was solid. Classic hex work. Two jilted lovers and a lawyer gunning to make partner at the expense of his best friend from law school. Most of Thursday was spent in my workspace in the Catonsville Mini-storage, wrist-deep in thaumaturgy. In between hex craftings, as I applied some silver nitrate to my fresh wounds, I eyeballed Emil’s Library hunkered in its dark cage. For the first time in a decade, a niggling temptation crept in the back of my head to call Edgar and sell him the lot. Perhaps it was my own sense of caging a dangerous beast, just as Edgar had gathered his cursed inventory, but I never felt comfortable transferring possession of the Library.

  On the other hand, if Edgar had an arrangement with the Presidium, the odds were good that the Library would be locked away, possibly buried beneath some new monument in the District, never to be seen again. The Presidium may have been a gang of elitist pricks, but they certainly had very little patience for Netherwork. Selling the Library to Edgar at this juncture may have been my only chance to rid myself of those damned books. And the window of opportunity seemed to be slowly closing as Edgar was losing his taste for the business.

  I considered the issue as I leaned back against one of the cardboard box stacks. Something slipped from the top and clipped my head on its way to the concrete floor, where it smashed with a spray of tiny glass shards. I rubbed my head, wincing at the hot pain on my scalp, and knelt down to inspect the damage.