The Curse Merchant (The Dark Choir Book 1)

by J. P. Sloan

  She stared at me for a while before lifting her chin with a smug grin. “I know what you’re doing, Mister Lake. You’re trying to talk me out of this. This is a test, isn’t it?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well, studying is great and all, but that’s not why I came.”

  “Sarah, this is your eternal soul we’re talking about.”

  “I know,” she replied softly. “So you tell me, what is a soul, exactly?”

  I wasn’t prepared for such a direct and profound question, and I waved my cup in the air, struggling for a real answer.

  She lifted her hands in a shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe you don’t either? What happens to my soul if some meteor falls out of the sky and lands on my head? Would that be any worse? Better?”

  I took a long sip of my cappuccino. “You talk about ancient forces. The things older than God. That’s who wants my soul, right? So, who’s to say they wouldn’t make better use of it than I would? Maybe not, but maybe…”

  She shrugged again.

  A smile slowly spread across her face as I set down my mug.

  “But thanks for trying.”

  This woman wasn’t placing her trust in me. She knew precisely what she was doing. She might have even put more thought into it than I had. My anxiety melted away as she sat picking at her fingernails.

  I finished my coffee and stood up. “Osterhaus isn’t too far from here. He’s on the corner of Pratt and Light Street. Want to follow me in?”

  We had no problem getting to Osterhaus’ office. We both parked in the alley by the stairs. Malosi was waiting for us, and ushered us down into what was becoming an uncomfortably familiar environment for me.

  Osterhaus sat at his desk, a large rectangle of parchment stretched out across the leather top. He stood up and reached out to shake Sarah’s hand in a disturbingly genial gesture.

  “Welcome Miss Camp. Please, take a seat.”

  He gestured at Malosi, who pulled the seat out courteously. Sarah snickered as she took it, entirely unfazed by the dreary atmosphere in the room.

  Osterhaus settled his eyes on me and lifted his chin. “Well done, Mister Lake. You may go now.”

  I crossed my arms and leaned against one of his glass display cabinets. “Like hell,” I replied. “I’ve taken it this far. I want to see this go down.”

  His face softened somewhat, and he nodded. “Seems I’ve made an education out of you, yet.” He took a seat and produced an ink well and a wide, white feather plume from the desk drawer. He sharpened the point with a tiny silver blade and warmed up the ink with his hand. After slipping a pair of truly ancient looking spectacles onto his face, he crouched over his desk and began drafting the contract, beginning with the word CONTRACT in graceful strokes.

  I inched closer, watching as he scratched neat lines of Greek text onto the parchment. The man was insufferable, despicable, unscrupulous, and not a little creepy, but he had the finest penmanship I had ever seen.

  Osterhaus paused and looked up over his spectacles. “The contract, my dear, is for one soul, intact, and without lien.”

  “All right.”

  “Have you taken oaths to any eternal power or principality?”

  Sarah shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Uh, yes. We all took an oath to Hecate when we formed our coven.”

  Osterhaus snickered and waved his hand. “No matter. Hecate is hardly an eternal power.”

  “Why do you say that?” Sarah asked defensively.

  “Well, my dear, Hecate was a witch that lived in Anatolia in the ninth century B.C. She was deified by Hesiod, but I assure you, she was quite mundane.”

  I looked over at Malosi, whose jaw was set tight. I’ve never been the biggest Theist in the world, but I always managed to avoid directly maligning any god or goddess. Just in case.

  Sarah relaxed and nodded.

  “Now, consideration.”

  “What’s that?”

  “My part of the deal. What is it that you want? Your basic wealth and prosperity? True love? Hidden knowledge?”

  “Power.”

  Osterhaus straightened a little in his seat, and looked at me.

  I shrugged, and re-crossed my arms.

  “Define ‘power’, if you would.”

  “I want to do real magic. Not make-believe. The real thing. I want to be one of you.”

  Christ, I really managed to sell this to her.

  Osterhaus rubbed his chin and pondered the parchment before him.

  “My dear,” he muttered, “that is perhaps the single most interesting consideration I’ve heard in several years.”

  Sarah released a tight-lipped grin. She looked like she wasn’t buying into Osterhaus’ demeanor. She probably knew exactly what he was, and was stepping directly into this with her eyes wide open.

  Osterhaus scratched something in Greek, and cleared his throat.

  “Terms and conditions. Your soul will detach itself from your corporeal essence and reside within the body of this contract for a period of two years. At the maturity of this waiting period, the contract may be sold or otherwise transferred to its final possessor, at which time the soul will become removed from the astral plane and become the transferrable property of the possessor. During the two years’ maturation, should the need arise, the contract can be negated by myself. The consideration given will be withdrawn with penalty. Do you understand these terms?”

  She nodded.

  “Very well.”

  Osterhaus removed the inkwell and replaced it with a shallow bronze dish from a desk drawer. He laid a highly polished blade with a carved wooden rope handle on the desk beside it and unbuttoned his shirt sleeve.

  “That’s one hell of a letter opener,” I quipped.

  Osterhaus sneered at me as he tightened the cuff near his elbow. “The contract has been drafted. To execute the contract will require both of our signatures. The mechanism of actuation will require your blood.”

  She blanched slightly, looking over to me.

  I didn’t give her any help. This was her choice. I just led her to it.

  With a sigh, she straightened up in her chair and rolled up her sleeve like Osterhaus.

  Osterhaus reached for his blade and slid it neatly over the flesh of his thumb. He looked quickly over to Sarah and squinted. He set the blade down and stared at her arm. With a rapid motion, he reached over and snatched her wrist, jerking it up to his face.

  Malosi stepped forward, his eyes hard on Osterhaus. I watched as Osterhaus lifted a brow at Malosi, and slowly released her. Malosi seemed satisfied, and returned to my side straightening his jacket.

  Osterhaus thrust a finger at me.

  “You idiot,” he spat. “What are you bringing me?”

  “What?” I mumbled, looking back and forth between Osterhaus and Sarah.

  “She’s damned!” he coughed, pushing away from the desk.

  “What do you mean, I’m damned?” she blustered.

  I added, “The hell are you talking about?”

  Osterhaus wagged a finger at her arms.

  “Kindly show Mister Lake your wrists.”

  She grabbed her wrists, burying them in her lap.

  “What’s the matter with you?” she sniffled.

  Osterhaus held up his own wrist and made a slashing gesture with his finger. “She’s a suicide. Can’t use her.”

  I looked down at Sarah and shook my head. “She looks pretty much alive to me.”

  He waved a hand dismissively. “Doesn’t matter. She doesn’t have a soul to sell. Again, you’ve wasted our time.”

  Sarah looked up at me with wide eyes. “What’s he talking about?”

  “Not sure,” I mumbled. “Osterhaus, what exactly is the problem here?”

  “I told you. She’s a suicide. She’s surrendered her soul to the void already. No soul, no deal. Can I make this any clearer?”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but to commit suicide, don’t you have to, you know. Die?”

 
; “You truly have no understanding of my craft, do you? No. You don’t have to die.”

  Sarah shook her head vehemently. “No, that’s not right.”

  “My dear,” he snapped, raising his voice. “Did you attempt to take your life?”

  She paused, looking down at her arms. I caught a glimpse of long scars as she pulled back her sleeves. “Yes.”

  “It wasn’t a cry for help, was it? You genuinely surrendered your will to live. There was a point when you gave yourself over.”

  She sniffled, holding herself in the chair.

  Osterhaus sneered and looked up at me. “There’s a reason the Church declared suicide a mortal sin so many centuries ago. It is a form of soul magic. The first, actually.”

  “You can commit suicide without committing suicide, is what you’re saying?”

  “Think of it like a practitioner, Mister Lake. A psychic schism that overrides the most fundamental will to survive? What conclusion would you come to?” He turned to Sarah. “Did you leave a note?”

  She nodded sheepishly.

  “Ritual mindset and a logoform. The only element that remains? Blood.” He made another slashing motion at his wrist. “Energy activation with the most fundamental reagent known to mankind. You see all the elements represented here. My craft is little more than a pale representation of the act of spiritual suicide. A controlled exchange, however. Her soul was released into the void, lost forever. Shameful waste.”

  I rubbed my eyes as he laid it out for me. He was absolutely right. Never once had I considered the mechanics of suicide. To me, life had been the ultimate condition. If one was alive, then there was always hope.

  Sarah wiped her face and stood up.

  “I’m sorry,” she blurted. “I’ll go.”

  Malosi moved to open the door for her. I stepped behind her to follow. Reed guided her shoulder through the doorway with a surprisingly gentle touch and gave me a cautionary glance. I stayed behind, feeling Osterhaus’ glare on my back.

  “You have four days, Mister Lake,” Osterhaus said. “Until your friend’s soul reaches the open market.”

  I gave him a blistering look and shook my head. “I know.”

  I rushed up the stairs past Malosi, who stopped and turned to let me pass. I found Sarah huddled near her car, weeping. Her tears made my throat clench. I could never stomach watching someone cry.

  “Look,” I mumbled, “I had no idea.”

  “Is it true?” she sputtered.

  “It… what he said follows. I just haven’t had much experience in this field. I never thought to ask.”

  “What’s going to happen to me?” she bawled at me with red-rimmed eyes.

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  She tried to compose herself, but just stood by her car door staring at the glass.

  “But like you said, we don’t understand the Dark Choir. So, whatever the soul is, there’s nothing you can do to change things. Might as well make the most of your time, I suppose.”

  She wiped her face and sniffled. “I have to go. I’ll be late for work.”

  She unlocked her door and dropped into her seat.

  “Sarah?” I called out to her, strolling up to her car. “Listen. There’s a witch in Delaware, just outside Georgetown. Not far from you. She’s not a Wiccan, she’s the real deal. Mean bitch, too, but if you’re serious about studying, then it might be worth a shot.”

  She stared forward through her windshield without response.

  I looked over my shoulder at the street where Brandt had thrown himself to his own death. The thought of Sarah driving alone in this state filled me with dread.

  “Just a thought.”

  “What’s her name?”

  I smiled as a sense of relief crept back into my chest. “Annarose Rodolfi. She’s listed in one of the grocery store circulars. That’s how I found her, anyway.”

  Sarah sniffled once more, and looked up at me. She reached out and grabbed my hand.

  “I don’t know why you did this, but you’re a very good person.”

  No, I really wasn’t.

  I squeezed her hand, and closed her door. After she started her car, I tapped on her window.

  As she rolled down the glass, I added, “One thing, though. If you find her, it’s probably best that you don’t mention my name. Better for both of us.”

  Her eyebrows wrinkled in the middle, and she smirked. “Gotcha.”

  “Good luck to you, Sarah Camp.”

  She drove away without incident, and I made it back to my house without any side trips to purchase liquor. Four days. I had four days to figure this out.

  I also had a white van sitting in front of my house again.

  As I pulled into my driveway, I spotted Tatopoulos searching my front windows. He gave me a wave as I stepped out of my car.

  “Andreas? What’s up?”

  His face wasn’t filled with that Mediterranean mirth I had come to expect from him.

  “Mister Lake, I do apologize. But it is your tenant. I have trouble.”

  “What’s the trouble?”

  “Perhaps you can come and see?”

  “Andreas, seriously, it’s not even noon and I’ve already had a shitty day.”

  “Please, sir, it is important.”

  Of course, this would have to happen today. I got back in my car and drove the five blocks up Fayette Street to find four day-workers in white overalls standing on the sidewalk in front of my rental units with their hands on their hips. I heard the shouting when I stepped out of the car.

  Something smashed into pieces inside the first unit.

  “What the hell’s going on?” I mumbled to no one in particular.

  Tatopoulos leaned against his van shaking his head. “They have been like this for an hour. We can’t do our work. She is threatening my men.”

  “Who?”

  The front door opened, and I spotted Abe stepping gingerly out of his home. His hand gripped his mouth. Blood seeped from between his fingers.

  “Shit, Abe! You ok?”

  He held out a hand, waving me away.

  A dark-skinned woman stepped out from the rental behind him, shoving him across the porch. She wore a dowdy dress, splattered in blood. Her face was wild with rage, almost animalistic.

  And she was gripping a butcher knife.

  Fantastic.

  atopoulis’ men scattered in several directions, some ducking behind the van, some moving into the postage stamp of grass in front of the row house. Abe lifted a bloody hand and gestured for them to step back.

  I moved slowly onto the sidewalk, keeping an eye on the wild-eyed woman as she sucked in breaths through gritted teeth.

  “Abe?” I called out. “Come on down.”

  He muffled something through the fingers gripped over his bloody mouth, and winced.

  The woman hissed something I couldn’t understand. It might not have been English. Hell, it might not have been words.

  “Come on, Abe. Slowly.”

  The woman’s eyes slipped over onto me, boring a hole through the space between the porch and my car. They were wide black orbs wreathed in yellow-white crescents. I cringed under her glare and had to fight a reflex to turn and run. Something had seized her on a core level, and its malice poured out of her eyes directly onto me.

  She swung her knife into the air, hissing like a wounded cat.

  Abe stumbled at the front steps leading to the porch, and reached out with his hand to steady himself. His mouth was a mess of blood. There was a wide hole where his front teeth had been.

  The woman rushed him, and he groaned in fear as he hobbled down the steps. I had to react, or she was going to stab Abe in the back.

  So I kicked the gate.

  She stumbled at the top of the steps, switching her attention from Abe to me as he limped onto the tiny lawn behind the fence.

  I turned back to my car, trying to recall the contents of my trunk. Jack, tire iron, jumper cables, probably some books from a yar
d sale. I could probably use any of those as a weapon if I had to.

  Wheels crunched on the gravel leading into the alley beside the properties. Two white Baltimore police cars whipped onto the street. I straightened up and waved them forward, pointing at the house.

  Three policemen jumped out of their units while the fourth called something in over his handset. Two of the policemen swept past me, hands on their holsters, calling out low, but assertive demands that the woman put down her knife.

  The third stepped up to me and ushered me with a firm forearm behind my car.

  I rambled, “She’s got a knife. I think she attacked that man there. His name is Abe. I don’t know her name.”

  “How long?” he grunted.

  “I don’t know. I just got here.” I waved over to Andreas, who was watching through both windows from the other side of his van. He rushed over to us, his head bent over as if he were ducking beneath a helicopter blade. “Andreas, when did this start?”

  “We were here half an hour before she came out and pushed my men away from the house.”

  The policeman simply nodded, and pointed behind my car. “Stay here.”

  An unearthly shriek shot from the porch, and I looked up to find the woman gripping her face and slashing at her own torso as one of the cops hosed her head with pepper spray. The knife flew from her hand and stuck by its tip into the wood of the top step. The two cops rushed forward and immobilized the woman while the third herded Abe to a safe position by the street curb.

  I looked around as a crowd gathered on either side of the unit, including some of my tenants who were gesturing more at me than Abe. I turned my back and stood next to Abe, who was twisting at his waist and reaching out to the woman now subdued beneath the policemen’s knees. He moaned and collapsed, his arm dropping to the cracked concrete sidewalk.

  “Abe? You alive?”

  His eyes flickered open, full of sorrow and exhaustion.

  The third cop crouched down beside me. He gave Abe a quick inspection, then leaned into me.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Abe Carter.”

  “Mister Carter? Can you understand me? We have an ambulance on its way.”