The Curse Merchant (The Dark Choir Book 1)

by J. P. Sloan

  I pulled the door all the way down, fighting off a wave of paranoia. He was a security guard. Just an hourly wage employee. He didn’t necessarily want to know me, or what my business was. He was just checking to make sure I wasn’t a homeless man.

  There was no reason at all to suspect he was working for the Syrian. No reason to think he was trying to catch me in the act of Netherworking. No reason to get worked up.

  So why was I so worked up?

  Before long, I found the Simonus text. The leather was no longer entirely black. Mostly it was just worn down. The pages were bound in tight weaves of thread, the ink hand-written and smeared in places. At least it was written in English, though the organic spelling and the use of f’s instead of s’s dated the book to the seventeenth or eighteenth century.

  I checked the lane outside the unit before shutting down the light and locking the door. Sparky the Security Officer was long gone, and I didn’t see anyone else watching. I don’t know if that made me more or less paranoid.

  I drove home with the Simonus text lying in the passenger seat. It seemed that every stoplight tried to turn red on me between Catonsville and Amity Street. I shook my head, trying to pull myself out of this anxiety.

  When I pulled up to the corner of Fayette and Amity to find a hatchback parked across the street from my house, the anxiety returned in full force. I lingered at the stop sign, debating pressing on. With a tight grip on the wheel, I circled the block, trying to catch a glimpse of my home. I couldn’t see anyone sitting in the car. There were no lights on in my house, or signs of forced entry.

  I pulled into the drive beside my house and sat with the engine off, listening. After a few minutes, I snatched the Simonus text and exited the car.

  “Dorian?” a voice called, making me jump out of my skin.

  I spun around to find Carmen standing by my front stoop. “Carmen?”

  She had her arms crossed in front of her, her head hung low. “Where have you been?”

  “Around. How long have you been here?”

  She walked up to me and looked down at her feet. “I felt like I needed to explain. After you left yesterday.”

  “You don’t have to explain anything.”

  “Yeah, I do. I just didn’t know what to say at that moment, so I just blurted that out, and I think you deserve more than that.” She looked up at the book in my arms. “What’s that?”

  “This is a book. People read them.”

  “Ass.”

  I gestured at the front door. “Look, let’s get inside. It’s been a weird night. Don’t feel like standing on the street.”

  I braced for a protest, but she simply nodded and led the way to the front door. After I let us in, she unzipped her jacket and hung it up on the coat rack by the sitting room. She wore a spaghetti strap halter top and a particularly tight pair of jeans. It was casual, but definitely a far cry from the sweats she wore last time I saw her.

  As I slipped the text into my writing desk and closed the tambour, I winced. I was noticing her clothing. I was supposed to be pissed off at her, but I was still noticing her clothes.

  “Coffee?” I offered.

  She shook her head and took a seat on the sofa I never used. When she lived with me, she would always lie on that sofa reading. I never found much use for it, but it was her designated spot.

  “Dorian, I just wanted you to know that the father of this child is still in my life. This isn’t something careless or thoughtless.”

  The words struck me in the center of my chest. I wasn’t sure why. I was done with her. What did I care if she had a man in her life? I was over her.

  Really.

  “Okay.”

  “It was bugging me. I didn’t tell you, and I’m sorry about that.”

  “It’s okay.” I sniffled and tried to straighten my posture. “So, I talked to someone today. He gave me an idea of how to handle Osterhaus.”

  “Handle? I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “I’ve learned a lot today. And I intend to learn more.”

  “Dorian, don’t push him. Please? Just do what he wants, and don’t put my baby’s life in danger.”

  “Trust me, that’s the last thing I want.”

  Her eyes narrowed as her brows drew together in grief. Tears welled up in her eyes.

  “This is just so insane. I don’t know how this even happened to me.”

  “Well, it started when you Tased me and erased my memory.”

  She covered her face for a moment, then sniffled hard. “Yeah.”

  “Then you sold your soul to some second-rate jerkoff.” I held up my hands as her face flushed with anger. “And I get it. You blamed me, and there’s a degree by which I pushed you.”

  Tears flowed down the cut of her cheekbones, gathering down beneath her chin. Her skin was so smooth.

  She whimpered, “It’s not just me, now. That’s what I can’t figure out. I’ve always just been me, for me. And that’s it. But everything’s just suddenly changed, and I can’t do what I used to do, and I just don’t know anymore. I have to think about the baby now. And the future. I’ve never had one before.”

  I stood up and moved to the end table just behind her to hand her a box of tissues. She thanked me and wadded a couple in her hand to dab her face.

  “Look, Carmen, there’s two things here you have to deal with. The first is your baby. Now, I can’t pretend to understand what that’s like, looking at a future with a kid. But it’s a big deal. A bigger deal than anything you’ve dealt with before. The second thing is getting your life put together for that baby. That means you have to make decisions about the Club.”

  She nodded. “I know.”

  “And if the father’s in your life, he has to be part of this decision. He knows, right? He knows what you do?”

  “Yes. He does.”

  “Well, there you go.”

  “It’s just this thing. I don’t know how I’m going to tell him about it.”

  I shrugged. “Tell him what?”

  “About this Osterhaus thing.”

  “I didn’t say that was one of the things you have to worry about, did I?”

  She shook her head. “But―”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m going to take care of it tomorrow. It’ll be done, and you and your family can begin. Okay? Promise me you’ll just go and start?”

  Her face pulled into a tight grimace as she sobbed and nodded with enthusiasm. I barely had time to step back before she jumped up from the sofa, gripping my neck in a tight hug.

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she whispered.

  “Yeah.”

  She gripped me tightly, her hips pulling a little closer. Her sniffling subsided, and when she pulled her head away, I found those glorious eyes staring up at me.

  She was wearing that perfume. I loved that perfume.

  We stood motionless, staring at each other. Her face was inches from mine. Her body pressed against me. She was so elegant, even after crying. So composed, even when desperate. There was nothing cheap about Carmen. Everything about her was priceless.

  My face moved closer to hers.

  She stepped away, crossing her arms around her chest.

  Sometimes I can be such an idiot.

  “Sorry,” I stammered, catching my breath.

  She held up a stiff, patient hand, staring at a point on the floor.

  We lingered in awkward silence for a moment before she cleared her throat and looked up, wiping her face dry with the palms of her hands.

  “Okay,” she said.

  “What is?”

  She rushed forward and whispered, “This,” before gripping the sides of my jaw with her fingers and pulling my face down for a long kiss. Her lips parted, sliding along mine. Her hands moved up into my hair, cradling my head as I wrapped my own around the small of her back.

  She pulled away before I completely lost myself in the moment.

  With another clearing of her throat, she wove around
me and gathered her jacket.

  I stood motionless, still feeling her in my hands, still tasting her on my lips. Wondering what had just happened.

  “I’m trusting you,” she muttered as she opened the front door. “You know that means something, right?”

  “Yeah. I get that.”

  “Okay. Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “Good luck, Dorian. With your life. With everything.”

  I closed my eyes, and tried to fight back the emotion that was bubbling up into my throat. She was dismissing me. In no uncertain terms, this was the last time I would see her. And it made perfect sense. She had a man, a baby on the way, and a future to plan for. I couldn’t be a part of that picture.

  But why did she have to kiss me?

  I heard the door close behind me, and I dropped down to the sofa.

  I’ll admit it. I cried. I wept. I was a miserable, sopping wreck for a good hour or two. There was a lot to purge out. And I let it go. I had to.

  To do what I needed to do the following day, I needed to get as much of my emotions out of the mix as I could.

  he sunrise filled the window over my writing desk with pink light. The Simonus text had slipped from my lap and onto the floor. My neck throbbed as I straightened myself in the chair, lifting the book with my foot. It was still open to the page on soul trap construction. I had learned volumes that night about soul extraction and entrapment. Unfortunately, very little of what I had learned gave me much hope that I could dismantle Osterhaus’ soul traps without his direct involvement.

  And I didn’t have time to explore it much further.

  After a blistering hot shower, I called Reed Malosi to arrange one last meeting with Osterhaus.

  “Hello?”

  “This is Lake. I need to meet with Osterhaus this morning.”

  After a static-filled shuffling of his phone, he replied, “He’s waiting for you.”

  I figured he would be waiting. He knew, win or lose, I would have to deal with him.

  When I arrived at his office, Malosi was waiting at the top of the stairs. His shoulders were more hunched than usual, and he bobbed his head, trying to get a look into my car.

  “Where’s the client?” he asked.

  “What client?”

  “The replacement?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  He stiffened a little. I had finally ruffled Malosi’s feathers.

  “What’s your business, then?”

  “Well, my business is with Osterhaus.”

  “What about your friend? Did you give up on her?”

  “She gave up on me, Malosi.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  That was a good question.

  “My dignity, I suppose.”

  I felt Malosi’s eyes on me as I descended to Osterhaus’ office. I strode into the dank space, spotting Osterhaus at his desk with parchment ready.

  “Mister Lake,” he said.

  “Neil.”

  “Do you have a replacement for me? Today is the last day.”

  “I do.”

  He looked over my shoulder, then back at me.

  Malosi closed the door behind me, shaking his head.

  “Who?”

  “Me.”

  Osterhaus sat motionless for a long moment before repeating, “You?”

  “Right.”

  He sighed and leaned back in his chair with a frown.

  “Honestly, Mister Lake, I don’t think this is the best use of our time.”

  “Why wouldn’t it be? You need a soul, and I’m bringing you one.”

  “My intention here is not to take your soul.”

  “No, it was to liberate the cash from your buyer’s pocket. What difference does it make? I’m ready to sign.”

  He squinted at me hard, his eyes darting back and forth.

  “And you expect me to believe your soul is unspoiled and free of liens?”

  “You know how I operate. I’m cleaner than you are. I never traffic in Goetia, I’ve never attempted suicide, and I’m in full possession of my faculties. I didn’t even drink last night.”

  “How do I know you’re not lying to me?”

  I leaned across his desk, thankful that Malosi appeared too stunned to jump on top of me. I tapped the left hand side of the surface with my knuckles.

  “The same way you can tell from any of your contracts off the street. Your darquelle.”

  He lifted a brow and looked down to his drawer.

  I continued, “That’s no letter opener. Venetian dagger, right? I’ve seen one before. My mentor owned one.”

  Osterhaus winced and looked aside.

  “Your point?”

  “The Donati have precious few requirements among their numbers, but one of the rules is that every member’s athame must be a darquelle.”

  “Do you even know what that word means?”

  “A blade that has taken a life. Its imprinting allows it to cut on both sides of the Veil. Makes it a useful, even necessary tool for a soul trafficker.” I leaned back to check on Malosi, who was lingering by the door. “You wanted me to get an education, right? Well, I’ve done my homework. An experienced soul trafficker can use a darquelle much the same way a geomancer uses a pendulum. A different tool for a different energy.”

  Osterhaus reached for his drawer and produced his darquelle, holding it lightly between his thumb and index finger by its twisted rope wood-carved handle.

  “So, what does your nasty, little letter opener tell you about my soul?”

  I reached my arm out and laid it across his desk.

  Osterhaus glared at me, then glanced down at my arm.

  “I have no interest in your soul, intact or otherwise.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “Regardless of what you do or do not choose to believe, I have my soul contracts in order, and am not compelled to release anyone from their agreement.”

  “So you’re going back on your word?”

  “What can I tell you, Mister Lake? I’m a bad person.”

  “There’s bad, and then there’s unprofessional.”

  “It’s simply too much trouble for me to even deal with your friend any longer. I’m taking my codex to market tomorrow. My buyer is expecting one hundred souls delivered. In what way would shorting him a contract be considered professional?”

  I pulled my arm back and stared a hole through Osterhaus.

  “You think this is too much trouble? Want to see how much trouble I can be for you, Neil?”

  “So we’re resorting to personal threats at this point?”

  “Not unless you want to put on your big boy pants and treat this like a business transaction.”

  “Fine!” he snapped. “I have one hundred souls. If I replace one mature contract with a new contract, I’m short a soul. Where’s my incentive?”

  “In addition to my soul as a replacement for Carmen Gomez, I’ll sweeten the deal.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll leave.”

  He took a moment to take that in.

  “Leave what, exactly?”

  “Baltimore. You can have it.”

  He leaned back and rubbed his hand, staring down at his darquelle.

  “For how long?”

  “I’m not screwing around with you, Osterhaus. I’ll leave for good. You’ll have the run of the city. Bright, Sullivan, everything. That has to be worth more than one soul to you.”

  “You’d be surprised what a single soul can bring on the open market.”

  “That’s not the point though. Is it? You’ll win, Osterhaus. You’ll get everything you wanted. I’ll even act pissed about it, if you want me to.”

  “Grow up.”

  “This is a strong offer. What do you say?”

  With one deep sigh, he opened his bottom drawer and produced the writing implements. With less than half the grace he used to start Sarah’s contract, he began the long process of drafting the Greek ver
biage.

  I leaned back in the chair and checked Malosi again. He was fidgeting on his feet.

  “Consideration?” asked Osterhaus.

  Right. Here was the gamble.

  “As consideration for my soul, I ask for humor.”

  Osterhaus lowered his pen and squinted at me.

  “Humor?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “What?”

  “I’m asking for humor. What do you not understand?”

  He sputtered over the parchment for a moment, shaking his head.

  “Problem, Neil?”

  “You want to laugh?”

  “If I’m going to be damned, I might as well enjoy my existence. I’ve thought it over. The way I see it, money and power bring misery every time. If I want to be happy, I might as well go for the throat.”

  Osterhaus glared at me for a long moment. “If you think I’m going to draft a contract without understanding its terms, you’re a bigger idiot than I had figured.”

  I wasn’t going to give him an inch. I couldn’t. This had to be a hard press, or it wasn’t going to happen.

  “Stop talking down to me. You have no interest in the consideration or the terms of the contract. You don’t provide the benefit, and you aren’t held responsible. That’s how you can trade in souls and not be damned for it. Am I right? You don’t use your darquelle on yourself. Just the clients. As long as you possess the contract, your interests are protected.”

  Osterhaus sat motionless, glaring at me over his spectacles.

  “Humor is my consideration,” I repeated.

  He wilted and began scratching Greek letters onto the parchment. I leaned in as close as he would let me before I cleared my throat.

  “What are you doing?” I grunted.

  “What does it look like I’m doing, you dolt?”

  “Aspirated upsilon, mu, omicron… Jesus, Osterhaus. I thought you were a scholar.”

  He gripped his feather quill so tightly that it trembled in his hand.

  I clarified, “Humor is a Latin word. You’re not going mix languages on an esoteric contract, are you?”

  His eyes widened and he cleared his throat.

  “Of course.” His eyes searched the ceiling.