The Curse Merchant (The Dark Choir Book 1)

by J. P. Sloan

  “I owe a considerable portion of my ancillary business to your departure.”

  “Okay, point of fact, I never actually left.”

  “But your lack of presence left a void in the market. One I was happy to fill. So I suppose in a strange sense of honesty, I should be thanking you.”

  I clenched my teeth and tried to heed Malosi’s advice.

  “Well, not to ruin your thankful mood, but I’m very much present again.”

  “So I noticed.” He sniffled and reached into his center drawer to remove something small and metallic with which he cleaned his fingernails. “Suddenly, Dorian Lake is taking clients again. And suddenly, I’m feeling the market pressure.”

  “No offense, Osterhaus, but we’re not exactly in the same market here.”

  The corner of his thin lips lifted into a smirk.

  “How do you figure? Baltimore isn’t exactly a robust economy.”

  “I don’t mean geography. I mean I work in charms and hexes. You’re a―”

  “Soul monger, I believe is the term you enjoy?”

  “I was going to say Netherworker.”

  His eyes finally lifted to meet mine.

  “Your point?”

  “My point, I suppose, is that you’re the one horning in on my business. Not the other way around. Just saying, you’re not exactly entitled to any sense of outrage here. So I reassert myself, and you send Penn State here to strong-arm me. Kind of Bush League, if you ask me.”

  “Was Reed impolite to you?”

  I looked over at Malosi, who seemed thoroughly uninvolved in the conversation.

  “No, actually, he’s a peach.”

  “Then I wish you could have returned his manners, Mister Lake.” Osterhaus dropped his nail file into his drawer with intent and leaned forward. “I may appear to be a bottom-dweller to you―”

  “Bottom feeder,” Malosi corrected him.

  I looked over at Malosi and mumbled, “Thanks, buddy.”

  Osterhaus continued, “To an uneducated man, it may seem that I require some sort of playhouse to run to, but it is you who appears to have a problem with free enterprise. There was a need, I filled it. And now you resort to middle grade insults? Who’s playing Bush League here, Mister Lake?”

  “Look, about that. I was having a bad week. Your guy kind of took me by surprise, and if you know anything about me I’m kind of ‘talk first, apologize later.’ I really didn’t mean offense. Well, I mean, I didn’t mean for you to take offense. You know what I mean.”

  Osterhaus glared at me through the dim light. “Regardless, you aggressively culled away one of my best clients.”

  “You’d be surprised how not-aggressive I was.”

  “Bright had no reason to look elsewhere.”

  “Horseshit. You were overcharging him and your lead times were inflated. All I had to do was show up and he jumped into my arms. I think you got the wrong idea about how this went down.”

  Osterhaus spun to the side in his chair with a slap of his palm. “I have no interest in your personal dramas, Lake. If we’re going to operate in the same city, we require an understanding.” He dropped his voice and added, “Lest affairs escalate.”

  The word “escalate” possessed a gravity I didn’t care for.

  “Suits me. I’m all about live and let live.”

  “Geographic division makes little sense in our case.”

  “Right.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Well, let’s be frank here. I don’t deal in Netherwork. Zip. Won’t touch it.” I gestured at the vials in the display case beside me. “Obviously, you have no problem with it. Charms, though? Let’s face it. I’m better at charms than you. I can do them faster, cheaper, with minimal cosmic blowback.”

  Osterhaus wrinkled his thin nose. “I don’t see how you could qualify that.”

  “I don’t need a twenty-eight page dossier on someone to make a God damn glammer for one.”

  He scowled. “You can’t expect me to surrender my charm making.”

  “Ever consider the curse trade?”

  His face darkened, and he shook his head with the fainting wisp of a grin. “I’m not entirely comfortable with that level of darkness, Mister Lake.”

  I eyed the vials again. “Really?”

  Osterhaus followed my eyes and snickered. With a faint groan, he pulled himself out of his chair and strolled over to the display case.

  “Lovely, aren’t they?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Each one is Murano glass.”

  I knew it. Venice.

  He continued, “I developed a taste for them in my years abroad.”

  My mind pieced together a series of assumptions that explained Osterhaus to me. If he had lived in Venice, it was likely that he trained under the Donati Cabal. That particular cabal of alchemists and hermeticists dated back to the turn of the seventeenth century when their namesake got the entire city of Venice excommunicated. The Donati specialized in soul trafficking and other Netherworkings drawn largely from the pagan Stregheria in the low country. They were historically known for being mercenaries, driven less for spiritual increase and more for financial increase.

  Not that I’m a walking encyclopedia on European cabals. My teacher, Emil Desiderio, was kicked out of the Donati long before I met him. He never spoke favorably of them, and sitting across from one of their alumni, I could relate to old Emil’s distaste for the Donati.

  “Well, if you’re going to bottle someone’s soul, might as well do it in style,” I quipped.

  “My dear boy, these are not soul traps. Thoroughly inappropriate vessels for that application.”

  “So, they’re just bric-a-brac?”

  Osterhaus returned to his desk and released a patient breath as he leaned against the corner.

  “Mister Lake, soul trafficking requires what you may refer to as a long term investment of both energy and of time. While cultivating a regular turnover of contracts makes sense during a robust economy, surely you must understand that a smart businessman must diversify when cash flow becomes restrained.”

  I might have rolled my eyes.

  “Quick money. Gotcha. Well, it’s my bread and butter, Osterhaus. I’m going to defend it. You can try to compete, that’s your right. But you’re going to lose.”

  Osterhaus leaned over slightly and smirked at me. “You’re very confident.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Do you really want to take me on, Mister Lake?”

  I eyed Malosi, still standing by the stairs, immobile. “In a fair fight? I’d win. Might as well play nice.”

  “What makes you think that I have any interest in fair play?”

  “Because,” I ventured, “we’re forty miles from D.C., and if things get ugly, the Presidium is going to get involved. Now, I don’t want that. And I’m pretty sure you don’t either.”

  He glared down at me with a rapidly diminishing smugness. “You act like a clueless brat and you talk like a complete idiot, Mister Lake. But you’re not, are you?” He took a seat behind his desk. “And I can respect that. I will limit my charm making to referrals of immediate clients.”

  I exhaled. I didn’t realize I was even holding my breath. “Good enough.”

  “Now, I actually do have business to attend to, so if you are done?”

  I gripped the arms of my chair and swore under my breath. I had forgotten about Carmen! This smug son of a bitch had baited me into an argument, and I had forgotten why I even came.

  “Actually,” I coughed, “I wanted to speak to you on an unrelated matter.”

  Osterhaus’ eyebrows drew together. “Oh?”

  “Yeah. I have a good friend. Her name is Carmen Gomez. She, uh… she sold you her soul just about two years ago.”

  He leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling. “Go on?”

  “She says you told her she had a two year period to opt out of her contract.”

  “And?”


  “Well, she wants out.”

  Osterhaus leveled a weary gaze upon me. “They all want to opt out, Mister Lake. Usually by the eighteenth month. Sometimes closer.”

  “So?”

  “The question is why?”

  “What does that matter? You gave her the option, she wants to exercise it. What’s the discussion here?”

  Osterhaus watched me with quick movements of his eyes. I figured he was trying to think of a bullshit reason to turn me away, but at this point I had humiliated myself, and found my spine again. I wasn’t in the mood to roll over.

  He stood up and gestured at me with his hand. “Follow me.”

  I stood up and followed Osterhaus through the cased opening and into a room tucked beneath the stairs. It was cramped, occupied with a single file cabinet, a narrow table, and an exposed light bulb with a long chain. Osterhaus clicked the bulb to life, and ran a finger down the front of the file cabinet.

  “Gomez, you say?”

  I nodded, and he pulled out the second drawer. It was packed with individual leaves of parchment pressed between two panels of cedar. He unscrewed the rear panel from the bracing rack and loosened the tight stack of parchment enough to thumb through them one by one. After several minutes, he pulled out six pages and inspected each.

  “Carmen Gomez,” he mumbled as he set one of the parchment leaves down on the table. “Her contract. You see, it is intact.”

  I leaned forward to inspect it.

  “Please don’t touch,” he spat. “For her sake as well as yours.”

  My head spun slightly as something powerful and magnetic surrounded the parchment. It was heavy with some kind of charge. Unusually heavy.

  Then it occurred to me.

  “The contracts. They’re the soul traps.”

  “Obviously.”

  I looked over her contract. It was hand-written in a clear, but confusing text. As I tried to follow the immaculate, straight lines of text it occurred to me why it was so difficult to read.

  “Για τη δέουσα προσοχή…” I shook my head. “Greek? Really?”

  Osterhaus sniffled. “Your ignorance of this discipline staggers me, Mister Lake. Of course, Greek. The original rituals for soul fracturing and transport were outlined by Simon Magus during the first century A.D.”

  “Yeah, but this is Modern Greek. Not Koine.”

  He squinted. “So you’re educated. How depressing.”

  I took my time trying to wind my way through Osterhaus’ butchered Greek, and managed to piece together what appeared to be a straightforward contract. A soul held in escrow for two years with a specified astral benefit granted in advance of the transfer of the soul document. Her benefit amounted to truckloads of business based on keeping a hot body. Seemed she double-dipped with the wording, there. Both Osterhaus and Carmen signed the document in blood, presumably their own.

  “So,” I asked as I straightened up and rubbed my eyes, “Carmen’s soul lives in this parchment. What happens after the two year mark?”

  Osterhaus reached out for the parchment and slipped it carefully back into its stack.

  “That, frankly, is none of your business.”

  “Well, it’s a moot point. She wants it back. So, unless you’re going to renege, let’s do this. If you need Carmen here to do it, I can get her.”

  “No, no,” he replied with a carefully measured tone that made my skin crawl. “I can nullify the contract at any moment. Mind you, it must be terminated correctly, or her soul will detach itself and become prey for whatever decides to feed upon it. Typically something infernal.”

  “All right, then.”

  He stared at me, and I stepped back.

  “Mister Lake, surely you must understand that I have an interest to protect. Every soul that reaches maturity becomes highly valuable to me. That long-term investment of time and energy?”

  “Okay.”

  “If I were feeling generous, I could terminate the contract now. However, recent developments in the esoteric market of Baltimore have put me in an uncomfortable position.”

  “Recent developments?”

  “Namely a young punk who doesn’t know how to behave with even an ounce of decorum.”

  It’s always good to be appreciated.

  Osterhaus filed Carmen’s soul back into his cabinet and switched off the light. I scurried back into the relative brightness of the office, trying not to back into Malosi.

  “This request will come at a price, Mister Lake.”

  “I figured as much. What’s your price?”

  He paced slowly toward his desk, relishing the moment. He had me over a barrel, and we both knew it. The unbelievable prick turned on his heel and held out his palms with a smile.

  “A replacement.”

  “Replacement?”

  “A soul to replace Miss Gomez.”

  “You want me to find you a new soul?”

  “Come now, Mister Lake. Surely this seems more than fair. I’ve already invested my time in Miss Gomez’s soul. Really, I’m coming out at a loss here.”

  I turned my face away from Osterhaus, trying not to snarl at him.

  “I told you, Osterhaus. I don’t deal in Netherwork.”

  “I’m not asking you to practice Netherwork. I simply need a client. Someone with a valid, transferrable soul without liens. Preferably younger than sixty, though I can work with older.”

  Osterhaus inched around to face me, and I turned away.

  “That isn’t my line of work.”

  “What? A hex peddler flogging his love charms and esoteric venereal disease is too good for soul trafficking?”

  “Basically.”

  “You child. I’m being quite generous, you don’t even realize.”

  “Isn’t there anything else? Can’t you find some other sorry bastard to prey upon?”

  “Certainly. But this is the price I choose to name.”

  “Why this?”

  He stepped in so close that I couldn’t avoid him any longer.

  “Because,” he whispered, “you lack a personal view of my trade, Mister Lake. Perhaps I feel your petulance could benefit from an education.” He turned away and stated, “Or pass. Your decision.”

  I stared up at his rows of delicate blown glass vials tucked away on display shelves. The flickering gas lamps made the shadows sway almost hypnotically. I felt light-headed, and craved the sunlight.

  “I have to think about it.”

  Osterhaus took a seat behind his desk, lacing his fingers in front of his face.

  “Arrive at a decision quickly, Mister Lake. Her contract matures in two weeks, after which point it will reach open market.”

  I turned to Osterhaus, hands balled into fists. My patience was at its limit.

  “You’re not even a predator,” I muttered. “You know that? You’re a scavenger. You pick over the corpses of people’s miserable lives, and you don’t really do anything but sit back and wait for them to come begging to you. You’re a maggot. A shit eater. You’re the bottom of the food chain.”

  Malosi took a step forward, but Osterhaus lifted a hand to him.

  With a grin, he simply replied, “You know my conditions. Contact Reed when you’ve made your decision.”

  I stood in the center of Osterhaus’ office, arms limp at my sides. I unballed my fists, and shook my head.

  Malosi stepped around me to open the door. Blinding sunlight spilled into the room, slashing a visible beam through the thick, dusty air. I stepped outside.

  After stuffing myself into the black Cadillac, Malosi held the door open and leaned forward.

  “That wasn’t exactly polite.”

  “Yeah.”

  I consider myself to be an ethical person. Meaning, I have always operated within the dictates of the Cosmos. Within the bounds of karma. I have never been interested in the eternal effects of Netherwork. There are some things that cannot be reversed. Death. Damnation.

  That is to say, hermetically. Per
sonally, I have been guilty of some pretty howlingly poor judgments in my days. One of those lapses of common sense led Carmen to the point of selling her soul. And even on my best behavior, I couldn’t resist the compulsion to thoroughly sabotage her chances of surviving it.

  I didn’t really have much choice.

  I called Malosi later that evening and agreed to Osterhaus’ terms. I then poured myself a stiff drink and finished only half of it before falling asleep on my couch.

  n my line of work, knowledge is the only real skill. I’m not a sorcerer or wizard, though I have heard rumors that people with some kind of born ability exist. On the contrary, every rite, spell, and sigil of my practice is rooted in the study of countless Gnostics, magicians, alchemists, and hermeticists that came before me. In man’s pursuit of what lies beyond the natural world, certain constant, accessible points of intersection between this reality and other realities have been charted. And as mankind found the courage to cross the oceans once the pioneers had drawn the correct maps, any man with the willpower and the dedication for the years of study required can manipulate his own reality.

  There are consequences to failure, however. And in my experience, I have cherished the power of research. I knew next to nothing about Netherwork, soul trafficking in particular. My first order of business before I took my first step toward helping Osterhaus find a replacement soul for Carmen’s, would be to educate myself.

  After a coffee and a bagel at the corner café the following morning, I set out down Edmondson toward the Occidental Reading Room. A local lodge of ceremonialists maintained the reading room, having inherited several texts from some Rosicrucians and a particularly eccentric Freemason who left his private collection to the lodge in his will. Practitioners of varied interests frequented the Reading Room, from dime store Wiccans to Masons to Old World alchemists. For a small annual membership fee, one could gain access to a fairly comprehensive body of esoteric texts.

  As I parked my car on the parking lane in front of the brick storefront tucked between a fried chicken stand and a barbershop, I realized that my membership might be a couple years out of date.

  As I pushed into the squeaky aluminum frame door, a mouse-faced clerk eyed me with a squint through coke-bottle glasses.