by J. P. Sloan
I didn’t waste much time with nostalgia. I hailed a cab after about ten minutes of strength gathering, and headed up Eighth Avenue toward the park. Bollstadt’s building was old, but very well situated. As, I expected, was Bollstadt.
The doorman gave me a nod, and as I drew a breath he asked, “Mister Dorian Lake?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“Mister Bollstadt is expecting you. Ninth floor, number nine-oh-two.”
“Thanks.”
The building had a sweet musk about it, tickling my nose and filling me with a strange sense of both nostalgia and dread. The lighting was pervasive, but dim. Tiny incandescent lights shone like modest pinpricks in chandeliers, barely able to spill its light down to the lobby. The entire building felt alive, and old, and cranky.
After a troubling elevator ride to the ninth floor, I found Bollstadt’s door. I gave it three quick knocks and waited. When the door opened, I saw perhaps the last image I was expecting from a successful Netherworker.
A short, silver-haired man with tanned leathery skin looked up at my face with droopy eyes. He cradled a martini glass in one hand as he held himself up at the door frame. His shoulders were narrow; his entire frame impossibly slight. He looked like a well-traveled jockey.
“Dorian. Nice. Come in.”
He turned and immediately withdrew into his abode, leaving me at the door. I stepped through it and into a staggeringly impressive living room. White-painted bookcases with dentil crown molding were loaded with leather-bound books. Shiny couches stretched out along a conversation pit, a drink service with crystal decanters aligned haphazardly. A gigantic flat screen television played some digital music. Smooth jazz spilled from hidden speakers in the coffered ceiling. I took in the room as I stepped carefully inside.
Bollstadt pulled a small remote from his pocket and dialed down the music.
“Drink?” he mumbled.
“Uh, sure.”
“What’ll it be?”
“Scotch is good.”
He chuckled. “Yeah. It’s pretty fabulous.”
He poured me three full fingers of scotch from one of the decanters and swaggered forward. His gait was irregular and cautious. When he offered me the highball, a whiff of booze hit my nostrils, and not from the highball.
“Welcome back. How’s your life been?”
“Complicated.”
“Tell me about it.”
I nodded with a grin, and smelled the scotch. It seemed low-rent for the environment, but they say presentation is the greater part of tasting.
His bushy gray eyebrows lifted in the middle. “No, seriously. Tell me about it.”
“Hmm?”
“Your life. Since the last time we spoke. Moved to Baltimore, right?”
Last time we spoke?
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t remember, is your problem.” He waved a slow hand at me as he stepped into the conversation pit and plopped down onto a white leather couch. “We’ve met before. You just don’t remember.”
“You’d think I’d remember something like that.”
This conversation was starting to feel uncomfortably familiar. He motioned at the couch opposite him, and I took a seat, keeping an eye on the door.
“It was a while ago, and you were…” He circled his temple with his finger. “Well, not really all together. I remember you, though.”
“Wish I could say the same. When was this?”
“I remember a teenage boy, completely cock-eyed by his parents’ death. Father was a suicide, right? At least, everyone except you thought so. Mother was killed the same week when her car got t-boned by a cab.”
I gripped the highball tight. Good thing it wasn’t real crystal.
He continued, “And this teenage boy had approached every two-bit occultist on the eastern seaboard before he finally got my number. By then he was jaded and exhausted, choking on all of the snake oil he had been sold. He should have just come to me first. It was a pity.”
I set the highball down on a glass top table and cracked my knuckles.
“Right,” I whispered. “My God, I totally forgot about you.”
“I make it a point not to be easily remembered. That, and I cheat. Anyway, I didn’t take your case. It was a bullshit vengeance angle. I hope you realize that now. That it wasn’t personal.”
“No, I get it.”
“Good.” He slurped at his martini. “But hey, I remembered your name. I thought, shit. This kid’s basically fingered through the Devil’s little black book to get even on, I don’t know. The Universe? Death itself? I figured this kid’s going to be something someday. Best to stay on his good side. Never heard from you again.”
“That was a long time ago. A lot has happened between then and now.”
“Yeah well, Emil happened, didn’t he? Whisked you off to England. Fucked the poodle for the rest of us who actually had something of worth to teach you.”
“You knew Emil?”
“Who didn’t? The man was legendary.”
I blinked rapidly at that statement. Emil never admitted to any kind of following. To me, he had always seemed one cell phone away from being a hermit. He was always quiet, surly, blunt, opinionated, and never had a good thing to say about another practitioner as long as I had known him.
“I think maybe the legend and the man were very different.”
Bollstadt sniffed and waved his hand so wide that some of his martini splashed out onto the couch.
“Emil Desiderio was the father of modern syncretic occultism, Dorian. He broke the mold. Every last serious practitioner in the Old World or the New was tied to the old cabal system. The old schools. The Mystics, the Egyptians, the Levantines, the Druids, the Rosicrucians, and all those God damned annoying Italian pissers. All of them were married to the tired old schools of knowledge and all the bias. Then Emil comes along in the sixties and says screw the schools! I’m taking and leaving and taking and leaving! The man had balls.”
I reached for the scotch again, and nodded. “Guess I never really knew the climate he started in.”
“It was brutal, let me tell you. There was the free love movement going on. New age spiritualism was in its infancy, and everyone from the old ways was shaking his head and figured it was the end of serious hermetic practice. There was this tightening of knowledge. Dogma grabbed us all by our tackle and wouldn’t let go. And it got mean. Really ugly. That’s when the Presidium started making their real grab for power.”
“Watergate, right?”
“It led to that, but it went much further. Their roots ran profoundly deep. We’re talking Thomas Jefferson deep. They cracked down and left us all wondering if the Red Scare wasn’t going to actually literally turn into Salem again. Emil just didn’t give a shit. He had this amazing gift for finding people, whether they wanted to be found or not. And when the Presidium gave him an unambiguous threat, he just hopped the pond. Hit the old Mystic schools in England first. Wove his way into France, Italy, Jordan, Israel, Egypt, India. Never stayed long. Just long enough to coerce the useful bits out of the cabals’ death-pall grip, and move on. He had as many people cheering him on as he did trying to level death curses on his ass.”
I squinted at Bollstadt. “Curses. For leaving?”
“Absolutely. That’s the only real worth we have as practitioners. Our secret knowledge. Taking that and sharing it? It’s theft. It’s treason. It’s exactly what our odd, little world needed, and he was the only one who was willing to do it.” Bollstadt stared into space for a long moment, then looked at me. “Then you happened.”
“What about me?”
“I don’t know. That’s the honest truth. What in God’s name inspired Emil Desiderio to take a plucky, but hopelessly misguided boy under his wing, go into hiding for ten years, and flush away all of the goodwill he had developed over thirty years of active practice? No one knew. Least of all me. But I knew one thing. Dorian Lake may have been some little punk with a chip on
his shoulder, but he had exactly the kind of tenacity that it takes to make it in the Practice.”
I watched Bollstadt as he finished his martini, barely managing to navigate his way back to the liquor service. Despite his impaired ability, he was remarkably adept with the shaker.
“So,” he continued as he poured a fresh gin martini into his glass, “when’s the last time you saw the old boy?”
“Who, Emil?”
He nodded.
“He died. About ten years ago.”
He set down his shaker and stared into the martini glass. “I don’t suppose it was natural causes, by any chance?”
“Not exactly.”
“One of the Levantine cabals?”
“No. It wasn’t the act of a human. I don’t know if that makes any sense.”
The color in his face faded.
“Makes all the sense in the world.” He took a long, hard breath, and returned to his seat. “So you’re a player in the Game, then? Baltimore. Charm City. How’s business there?”
“Like I said before. Complicated.”
“Then complicate me.”
“Well, actually I came here to ask you about soul trafficking.”
“God, you’re not a soul monger, are you?”
“No. But I have one soul monger in particular that has made my life several flavors of Go Fuck Yourself, and I’m rather interested in getting him out of my life.”
“Hate to be the bearer of bad news, but soul trafficking isn’t exactly my practice.”
“I realize that. But anything you could share would be helpful.”
“Well, Dorian, if you managed to sell your soul to some hack in Baltimore, despite years of Desiderio’s tutelage, then I’m afraid there’s precious little in this Cosmos that can save you.”
I scowled and possibly rolled my eyes. “Not me. A friend.”
“Ah!” he chirped, leaning forward with verve. “Gotta be a girl. Or a boy. Not sure. You dress well, but I’m not getting that vibe from you.”
“Yes, a girl.”
“Isn’t it always? Let me guess. She sold her soul, and now she’s having second thoughts because she’s seeing things in the corner of her eye?”
I should have found a Netherworker earlier.
“Basically, exactly. Only, there’s a wrinkle. Maybe a big one, I’m not sure.”
“What’s the wrinkle?”
“She’s pregnant.”
He sat still for a long moment, his eyes slowly narrowing. “You said pregnant, right?”
“Yeah. I don’t know what that means in a situation like this.”
“Are you in love with this girl?”
I didn’t have an answer for that question.
He shook his head. “This is basic stuff, kid. Pregnancy and Netherwork never mix. Ever. It’s just begging for all kinds of nasty, horrible things. I’d go into detail, but I assume you want to sleep ever again.”
I put the glass down again. Only after it clinked against the glass table did I notice that I had managed to drain it.
“That bad?”
“You think a human is going to leverage her own soul, and then offer up a fresh, empty vessel for the Dark Choir to fill, and they’re going to pass on that opportunity? The Dark Choir is largely unimpressed with humanity, but they are certainly interested in our bodies.”
“Empty vessel?”
“Use your head, kid. How many evil men have walked the Earth?”
“Not exactly sure.”
“Every bastard in history. Forgotten. Abandoned. Filled with the source of chaos that only comes from the Dark Choir.”
“Hitler?”
He rubbed his face and set his martini glass down. “Seriously, how are you practicing Netherwork that close to the Presidium and not know your actual history?”
“Well, that’s the thing, Gene.” I felt insulted enough to throw his first name at him. “I don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Practice Netherwork. Swore it off a long time ago.”
He shook his head slowly and laughed. “Emil Desiderio’s prized pupil doesn’t dip his toes into the Netherwork? That’s just tragicomic. Actually, it’s very much Emil, now that I think about it.” He snickered to himself and stared into space. “Well, he didn’t do you any favors if he left your education on dark practices lacking. I can’t for once imagine he left you with nothing to survive.”
“I’m doing okay.”
“Really? What exactly are you selling down there on the Chesapeake?”
“Hexes and charms.”
“Hexes?”
“Yes.”
“Charms?”
“Basically. Karmic anchored.”
“Fuck. That’s just…”
He snatched his martini glass with a sharp violent motion, spreading gin across the table, and rushed off to his kitchen. I twisted in my seat to watch as he busied himself at the sink, mumbling something inarticulate. I felt my welcome had been well worn at this point.
I set down the highball and collected myself. “Sorry. I’ll be going.”
He dropped the glass into the sink with a snap of cheap glass, and jogged out into the living room.
“Wait!”
“Why?”
“Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“But, you just got here.”
“Listen,” I said, stepping toward the short man with my finger held stiff at his breastbone, “I didn’t come here to be lectured, patronized, or insulted. And I’m sorry if my life doesn’t live up to your expectations, but you know what? Fuck you. This is my life, and I’ve got a good friend who’s pregnant, and a sorry son of a bitch who’s banking that I won’t find a way to get her out of this. And all I’m getting from you is some drunken wandering down memory lane, so I think I’m done. Thank you, and good day.”
I turned for the door, not expecting to reach the knob before he said something desperate to stop me.
He didn’t disappoint.
“Please don’t go.”
I stood at the door, waiting for him to continue.
“I wasn’t trying to insult you. I assumed too much. I apologize.”
When I turned, I almost jumped. He was directly behind me, his eyes as wide as I had seen them, filling with misery.
“Think we can talk about this like adults?” I asked.
He reached out for my arm, then pulled away.
“You have the same look about you. That’s all.”
“What look?”
With a ragged sigh, he replied, “Doom.”
“Sorry?”
“We Netherworkers are full of doom. It hangs over us constantly. I see someone with that same damned expression, and I assume.”
I shrugged and followed him back toward his kitchen, where he swept up shards of his cheap martini glass.
“Can I terminate her contract without the soul monger being involved?”
He shook his head curtly. “No. It’s a simple magic, one that requires the broker. Releasing a soul isn’t the difficult thing. It’s the process. It’s all in the process.”
“Does he have to do it? Or do I just need his blood?”
Bollstadt lifted an eyebrow at me. “Dark thinking there, kid. No. His blood, or rather his vitae, is all you really need. He can be circumvented. Think about it. What good would it be for anyone who buys the soul on open market if souls were nontransferable?”
“And when it’s transferred, what happens then?”
“Depends on who buys it. There are practitioners, particularly among the Levantines, who collect soul essence for their own purposes. Largely ceremonial purposes, thankfully. They aren’t the ones to worry about. It’s the agents of the Dark Choir you really have to sweat.”
He winced as he dropped a particularly sharp piece of glass. I handed him a paper towel from the end of his Corian peninsula as he sucked on his thumb.
“When you say agents, you’re talking about Netherworkers.”
“Your point?”
“My point is there are very real, very tangible beings in our world that act on behalf of the Dark Choir. Only the truly demented or the utterly mislead would ever deal with them. But there you are.”
“What happens when they get a hold of a soul?”
With a jerk, he squinted and stared up at the corner of the kitchen. I saw nothing out of the ordinary, but he seemed to follow something with a grimace.
“They use souls for sustenance.”
“Sustenance?”
“Survival. It’s the currency of their existence. That’s simplifying it, but words fail us when we discuss the Dark Choir.”
“Christ.” I rubbed my eyes, wishing I could forget all of this. “And the child?”
“Like I said, a damned mother creates an empty vessel. Humankind has spent its entire existence attempting to explain the nature of the eternal self, and so far, we’ve only managed to shine a dim light onto a grand tapestry so wide and deep that we can only fabricate our own mythology from the single inch we’ve seen.”
“You called it an opportunity.”
“These agents of the Dark Choir? These walking bridges through the Veil? How do you think they’re made? I can guarantee that any reasonably intelligent soul monger would recognize what he had if a contracted woman ever conceived a child. It would be like having an ounce of silver suddenly transmute into double its weight in diamonds.” He nursed his thumb and turned to face me. “May I ask who the soul monger is?”
