by J. P. Sloan
“Card, sir?”
I shook my head and fished out my wallet. Where the hell would I be without all of my membership cards?
“I need to renew, I think,” I mumbled as I managed to ferret out the old laminated Occidental card.
The clerk wrinkled his nose.
“Have you filled out a new form?”
“There’s a form, now?”
“Are you an active member of the Occidental Temple, sir?”
“No.”
“New policy for non-members.” He reached beneath the work laminate desk and produced a pre-printed carbon copy form. “We’ve had issues with texts going missing.”
I worked through several pens before I found one with ink. After a brisk rifling through the form, the clerk spent several minutes scrutinizing it. He seemed satisfied and looked up at me through his glasses.
“Wait here, please. I’ll prepare a new card.”
“Already got one.”
“We have new cards, now.”
I swore under my breath as he wandered into the side office. I spied the stacks of books lining the long walls into the space. There were magazine racks filled with loose pamphlets, some as old as the Spiritualist movement of the late nineteenth century. A few cabinets of microfiche sat in the center of the room, a reader hunkered behind them.
My eyes settled on a red rope separating four rear stacks from the front of the space. That was new.
After several minutes, the clerk returned with a piping hot laminated card.
“Annual dues are one hundred and seventy-five.”
“God, really?”
He responded only with a rapid course of blinking.
I pulled two of the hundreds from the Loyola student’s envelope, and handed them over for change.
“What’s with the red rope?” I asked as the clerk made change.
“Members only area.”
“I thought the whole room was members only.”
“Lodge members.”
“What’s in the restricted section?”
“Mostly Lodge charters and some texts on Netherworking.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Got anything on Simon Magus, or on soul traps and contracts?”
The clerk wrinkled his nose.
“Restricted section,” he spat.
“Lovely. Look, I kind of came here specifically for that information. Is there anyone from the Lodge I could speak to?”
“Not this morning. I can take a message and leave it with the Lodge secretary to review at the next assembly.”
“When’s that?”
“First Tuesday of every month.”
That was three weeks away.
“I don’t actually have time for that. What can we do about this?”
“I’m sorry, but the restricted area is for Lodge members only. New policy.”
I turned around and paced, rubbing my temples.
“Okay, so, who do I talk to about joining the Lodge?”
“Me, sir.”
“Um, ok. What do I have to do?”
“I can take your membership dues now, if you like. And there’s a form to fill out, of course.”
“I just paid you my dues.”
“Those are Reading Room dues. Lodge membership is a separate charge.”
“And?”
“That’s it.”
“That’s it? Don’t I talk to someone?”
“You’re free to come to the assembly―”
“―on the first Tuesday of each month. Right. What are the membership dues?”
“Two hundred dollars annually.”
I resisted the urge to reach across the desk and choke the living shit out of the clerk. But I needed the info. I gave the restricted section another glance and thought about my own collection.
The one I kept in a cage.
Sure, I could probably find something useful in the Library, but it wasn’t worth the risk. Simply reading those books could jeopardize more than just Carmen’s soul. It could cost me my sanity.
One form and two hundred dollars later, I found myself stepping past the red rope.
To the Lodge’s credit, there was some tantalizing reading tucked away on those shelves. Some names I recognized, even one familiar text written by a certain Emil Desiderio of London, England. But I had a job to do. Not a paying job, but certainly one I couldn’t stall. Within fifteen minutes I found a text on the lives of early heretics of the Church, in which an entire chapter was dedicated to Simon Magus. I tucked that one under my arm as I spotted a book on curses and infernal contracts, written by a Jesuit of the fourteenth century. The tone was highly antagonistic and somewhat propagandist, but what information I thumbed through seemed legitimate.
I brought my finds to a table near the microfiche reader and opened up my spiral notebook. None of the books were meant to leave the building, and photocopying was forbidden, so I had to take my notes and glean all I could. At least I was alone.
Or thought I was.
I had finished the chapter on the life of Simon Magus, a Samaritan during the first generation of Christian evangelists who had locked horns with Saint Peter himself, when a shadow fell over my notebook.
“Curious reading, Mister Lake,” a velvety Arabic voice spilled over my shoulder.
I looked up to find the Syrian smiling at me.
I set my notebook casually on top of the Jesuit text as he leaned on the microfiche reader.
“Good morning,” I grumbled.
The Syrian leaned over and picked up my book with a pausing gesture that at the same time asked for permission and left no room for refusal.
“Simon of Gitta,” he recited. “A widely misunderstood individual in my opinion.”
“Misunderstood in the days of the early Church usually meant brutal death by torture, so there’s that.”
“Colorful stories aside, any serious student of soul magics would do well to study the life of Simon.” He set the book down and narrowed his eyes. “Are you?”
“Am I what?”
“A student of soul magics?”
“Oh, no. That’s not my particular bag of tricks.” I elbowed the Jesuit text further behind me. “I just saw a show on cable last night, and wanted to do some more reading. That ever happen to you?”
“I rarely watch television, Mister Lake. Abominable contraptions.”
“Well, all right then.”
He lingered beside me, staring down into my eyes. I shifted in my seat, trying not to look horribly guilty of something I had no intention of doing.
“How long have you been a member of the Occidental Lodge?” he asked, finally breaking the tension.
“Oh, roughly a half hour, now.”
He shook his head in confusion.
I jammed my thumb over my shoulder.
“New policy. Some crap about a restricted section and Lodge members. I just ponied up to get to the good stuff.”
He nodded with a warm grin.
“That makes sense. You did not strike me as the ceremonialist type.”
“Know many ceremonialists, then?” I ventured.
His eyes lifted at the corners.
“You are aware, Mister Lake, that the practice of Netherwork is not kindly viewed by certain elements within the American magical establishment?”
I watched his face for a quick moment, trying to figure out if he was threatening me, or if he was genuinely asking me a question.
“Anyone with a brain knows that,” I whispered.
“The question then becomes, are you a risk-taker?”
“I’m really more of a sure thing kind of guy.”
He smiled and tapped on top of my notebook, making my stomach flip.
“Forgive my intrusion. Enjoy your studies.”
He stepped away, grabbing a book from the top of a nearby table and settling down in a chair almost directly behind me. I glanced over my shoulder a couple times, trying not to look nervous. The Syrian was studiously not watching me, which only adde
d to my anxiety.
After several minutes, I pulled my notebook off of the Jesuit text, keeping it in front of me and out of the Syrian’s line of sight. I opened up the book and waded through the thick Oxford translation of the French Jesuit’s diatribe against Satan and his demonic horde. Somewhere in this text could lay the clues I needed to undo Carmen’s contract without playing Osterhaus’ sick game. Unfortunately, the language was convoluted, diverging regularly into counter-reformation rhetoric. Plus, I could continually feel the Syrian lurking behind me. I couldn’t concentrate for any length of time, and after an hour of staring at a blank notebook page, I realized that I was getting nothing done.
I folded up my notebook, and snatched the two texts, trying to return them to precisely the wrong locations on the bookshelf in hopes the Syrian wouldn’t hop up after me and nose around the restricted stacks trying to figure out my research. I gave him a salute as I stepped past and made a quick exit.
The information I distilled from Simon Magus was interesting, but largely useless for my purposes. I had the feeling that the Jesuit text might give up some solid information if given enough time to boil it down. I felt I didn’t have that time, and with the Syrian popping up everywhere I turned, I was feeling tremendous pressure. The taint of Osterhaus hung over me, and I really didn’t want the Presidium picking up on the scent.
The moment I stepped out onto the street, my phone chimed. Seemed I missed two calls. It wasn’t uncommon for businesses that trade in hermeticism to ward their space to the point that phones would lose a signal. I took a seat in the car and listened to the voice mail.
The first message was from Julian Bright, who had just returned from the Pittsburgh trip and wanted to report back on how the mayor’s glammer worked out. From his bouncy tone, I assumed things went well.
The second was Carmen. She was calling as promised to see how the meeting went with Osterhaus. I rolled through my incoming call list and smirked. Now I had her number. I immediately dialed back and waited for three rings until a gruff voice answered.
“Skipper Jack’s.”
Not what I was expecting, but ok.
“Uh, yeah. Is Carmen Gomez there?”
“Who?”
“Carmen Gomez.”
“We don’t have any Carmen working here.”
“Ok,” I mumbled.
“We open for lunch at eleven, maybe you can try back then.”
“All right, thanks.”
She called me from a restaurant. I could understand her reluctance to allow me back into her personal life, but she was being tremendously paranoid. But then again, she was two weeks away from having her soul damned for all time, so I took it in stride.
Julian bought me lunch that day. Over a medium rare London broil, he told me what a splash Sullivan had made at the symposium. He went on to detail some financial minutia about House appropriations, but my mind was on soul trafficking. I made a mental list of all the Netherworkers I had encountered in my career, mostly in England where I studied. I couldn’t count on any of them to work with me. Emil had made enemies of most of them prior to the “accident”. There were acquaintances I could solicit, but with my reputation suffering from two years’ of inactivity, it might have required more ego abuse than just playing Osterhaus’ stupid game.
“So how long?” Julian asked as I chewed over a particularly fatty bite of beef.
“Hmm?”
“The glammer? I assume it has a shelf life?”
“Right. Well, it can be used for a period of time, but the Cosmos is going to take it into account. He only has so much coming to him, so if I were you, I’d choose his moments sparingly.”
Julian nodded and made a note on the back of a napkin. He sipped his tea and looked up at me meaningfully.
“His karma… what happens when he uses it up?”
“It helps not to think of karma as a reserve of good or bad. It’s the condition of your soul. The overall disposition of a person based on his deeds. Or, the impact he’s had on the Cosmos.”
“So what governs it? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“Why would I mind?”
“Well, I’m basically asking you if you believe in God. Not entirely professional of me.”
I finished chewing my bite of beef and set down my utensils, wanting more than anything to deflect Bright’s intense gaze.
“I visited Osterhaus yesterday.”
He leaned back in his chair, blinking. “About our business?”
“No. Something unrelated. But you did come up.”
“Is he pissed?”
“Considerably.”
Bright crossed his legs and sipped more tea. “Where do you stand, now? With me and the mayor? Have you reconsidered further projects?”
Bright was offering me an opportunity to sweeten my position with Osterhaus. All of this replacement soul nonsense was an object lesson, a hazing routine to bust my chops and assert himself. If I handed Bright back over to him, it may have been enough to express my contrition, and perhaps get him to cancel Carmen’s contract without pulling me into the soul monger business.
“No, I’m still good to go.”
Bright grinned, and his head bobbed down in a little jerk of triumph. I could tell he had the same opinion of Osterhaus as I had. And as Bright ripped into his steak with a happy energy, I couldn’t help but feel truly appreciated. It was something I hadn’t felt in a very long time, and that was worth almost any humiliation.
After another hour of small talk, and an interminably long one-sided conversation about the Orioles, I finally got away and made another pass by the Reading Room. The lights were out. The Lodge must have been cutting back hours, the cheap bastards.
The sun managed to shine most of the day, warming up the air enough for me to spend some time at the Inner Harbor. The air cleared my head a little, and I felt a new resolve. I made a mental list of known Netherworkers between Baltimore and Philadelphia whom I could call. I considered trying the restaurant again in case Carmen was waiting, but without a solid course of action, I decided that I didn’t want to talk to her. There had to be a way to dismantle the soul trap. Some karmic way.
By the time I got home, my spirits were as high as they had been all week. Unfortunately, I found a black Cadillac waiting for me in front of my house on Amity.
I pulled into my side alley, and stepped out. Malosi was standing on the sidewalk. He simply gestured with one impossible-to-ignore wave. I approached as the rear window rolled down.
Osterhaus scowled at me from the car.
“You idiot,” he coughed.
“Good evening to you, too.”
“I was contacted by the Presidium today.”
Oh, shit.
Osterhaus continued, “They asked me about you. If you and I had met. If you were training under me. I have absolutely no idea what it is you did, but you have placed an impossible amount of pressure on me.”
“Yeah, about that―”
He held up a hand.
“I don’t want excuses or explanations. I offered you a peace gesture, but clearly you are incapable of discretion.”
“To be fair, this clown has been following me everywhere.”
“Imagine my relief to hear you say that.”
“It’s some kind of personal thing with this guy, Osterhaus. I think it has to do with a friend of mine, but I can manage it.”
His eyes narrowed and he shook his head slowly.
“I remain unconvinced.” With a sigh, he added, “I’ve had to move my handoff forward.”
“The what now?”
“My buyer. Understandably, he is completely uninterested in any notice from the Presidium, so in fairness to him I’m pushing forward the sale of my inventory.”
I blinked and bent over to get to eye level with Osterhaus.
“Your soul inventory?”
“You now have one week, Mister Lake. I suggest an improved sense of propriety in your personal dealings if you want to save
your friend.”
As he rolled up the window, I shouted, “That’s bullshit! You can’t just jerk me around like that!”
Malosi put a solid hand on my shoulder, and on reflex I spun around with my hand in a fist.
He lifted a brow and tightened his grip.
I never have been, nor am I likely ever to be, a fighter. I was pissed, panicked, and I wasn’t thinking.
Good thing for me Malosi seemed to understand that.
“Calm down, sir.”
I opened my fingers and shook my head.
“What am I supposed to do now?” I asked no one in particular.
Malosi released me and moved around to the back of the car. As he reached the taillights, he turned and replied, “Try getting over yourself.”
He said it without an ounce of malice or irony. It may have been his cool, Zen-like demeanor, but the words hammered me in the dead center of my chest.
Malosi stepped into the car and drove quickly away.
Get over myself.
Was that the real issue, here? Osterhaus was making this easier than he had to. And sure, the Syrian may have been sniffing around my business, but Osterhaus didn’t ask me to involve him with the Presidium. And now, just like I did with Carmen, I was bringing trouble to his doorstep.
If I managed to swallow my pride and indignation for one week, and actually commit to this, it could all be over. In a way, shrinking my window could have been a blessing. Less time that I had to spend in Osterhaus’ underworld.
The sun began to set, and the wind whipped a bit of chill into my clothes. I turned back to my front door and fished for my keys. I could do this. And the quicker I got straight to the matter, the quicker I could move past it.
For my sake, and for Carmen’s.
spent two full hours organizing my writing desk by the street window, making piles of receipts and bills, separating my personal life from my business life. For some reason, the work was unbearably difficult. I kept thinking about anything except the task at hand. I’m known to have a mildly avoidant personality, but I couldn’t sidestep this particular task. I managed to whip my paperwork into shape and plundered my voice mail for recent activity, jotting down names and numbers onto a yellow legal pad. By the time the microwave announced my frozen lasagna dinner was done, I was staring at a list of business calls from the last four months.
