The Curse Merchant (The Dark Choir Book 1)

by J. P. Sloan

  I scratched the wound on the inside of my arm as I shifted away from Al-Syriani’s intense stare. “For what it’s worth, I haven’t been myself lately.”

  “Very well.”

  “You can’t have it.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “The Library.”

  He blinked rapidly and shifted back into his seat. “I see.”

  “It’s nothing personal. It just has a tremendous sentimental value to me.”

  His narrowed his glare. “I was led to believe that you had not so much as opened it since you came into possession of it.”

  “Does that really matter? Have you ever met Emil?”

  He pursed his lips, then replied, “Once.”

  “The man was a lot of things to a lot of people. Maybe I’m the last person he really knew in life. The Emil I knew was a lonely, sorry son of a bitch who had no sense of having lived any kind of life. Sure. I never opened the damn thing. Didn’t need to. It reminds me of what I could become. What any of us could become if we just stop giving a shit. Does that make any sense to you?”

  “And you have no interest in increasing your knowledge of the Nether Arts?”

  “Listen pal. I have little interest in anything right now except my coffee and what few friends I have left in the world. So sorry, but no. I’m not interested. But thank you for being honest.”

  He continued to sip his tea in silence, looking out over the street. After draining his cup, he gathered his paper and stood up.

  “If you change your mind, feel free to contact me.”

  “Got a card?”

  “I thought I had given you one,” he said, reaching into his coat pocket. He fished out a new business card and set it down on my table. Standing up, he tucked his newspaper under his arm and gave me a half-bow, half-nod.

  “Good day, Mister Lake.”

  “Take it easy.”

  I stuffed the business card into my pocket next to the folded soul contract still waiting inside.

  The Syrian stepped away from the café and disappeared around the corner.

  Straightforward. That was not the term to describe my life in recent memory. But it felt so refreshing, so clearing, that I wanted more. No, I demanded more. And I was unprepared to offer any less.

  “Fuck it,” I mumbled, standing up and patting the contract in my pocket. I bussed my cup and trotted down the street to my car.

  Glen Burnie was only about fifteen minutes from my house. And it was a Saturday, which gave me a clear shot down the ninety-seven. Maybe Carmen trusted me to clear the contract. Maybe she didn’t actually expect me to come through for her. But it was my task, and I did it. And despite the nature of her life situation at that moment, I deserved a “thank you” at the very least.

  Maybe I just needed an explanation for that kiss.

  I pulled up into her parking lot, staring up at the second story landing of her door. I gave a moment’s thought to memorizing some kind of speech, but decided I was too tired for eloquence. My purpose here was simple, and vague, and completely mysterious to me. But I needed something, and I wasn’t going to leave until I got it.

  Maybe closure.

  I made my way up the steps to her landing and knocked on the door. I could hear someone moving up to the door, but it didn’t open.

  “Carmen, it’s me.”

  The door finally did open, and I sucked in a breath to let her have whatever it was that was about to bubble up and out of my throat.

  But I managed to catch it as I stared up at exactly the last face I expected to see inside her apartment.

  “Malosi?”

  “Yeah, I guess we should talk.”

  y stomach twisted as I stared at Reed Malosi’s wide frame filling Carmen’s doorway. A million thoughts collided between my ears, and the commotion made me dizzy. I wanted to say something, but nothing came.

  He stepped aside and left the door open, retreating to the tiny kitchenette.

  I stepped inside and closed the door slowly and carefully.

  Malosi pulled a beer from the fridge and popped the cap. He offered me a second bottle, but I simply shook my head.

  Leaning against the countertop, he took a swig, then a deep breath.

  “I met her when she came to Osterhaus two years ago, looking to buy a charm,” he said.

  “Let me guess. Memory charm.”

  “Impotence.”

  “Well, there’s that.”

  “Anyway, he started in on her, got his hooks in her for her soul. I had to escort her back and forth, and it gave us lots of time in the car together.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “It moved kind of fast. I don’t know, I guess she felt liberated or something. That didn’t last long. After she sold her soul to Osterhaus, she started working extra hours at this club of hers.”

  “You do know what she does, right?”

  “Yeah. I know. So, something happened. She got some kind of promotion, whatever that meant.”

  I tried not to growl. I’m not sure if I was successful. “It meant a woman I admired had to die slowly of cancer.”

  He paused mid-sip, and lowered the bottle.

  I continued, “You do know how this thing works? The forces that power Netherwork have no interest in our well-being. You gain a benefit at someone else’s expense. And sometimes your own. Jesus, Reed, you should know this by now.”

  “I do, but it’s different when it’s…”

  He stared down at his feet.

  “Someone you love?”

  “She told me about you a couple weeks ago.”

  “After I showed up at the club?”

  “She was in a panic about the soul contract. She was saying how you were the only chance she had to get to Osterhaus.”

  “Because she didn’t know someone who spends his entire day with him?”

  “You don’t understand. Osterhaus doesn’t talk to me. He pays me to do what he needs me to do, and that’s all. You were right. I hate that old creep. You don’t even know how vindictive he can be. If he knew I was seeing one of his contracts, he would have made our lives hell, just because. I couldn’t tell him. There was nothing I could do about it.”

  I took a seat in the oversized recliner and rubbed my eyes. “You knew about the memory charm, though. Didn’t you? You knew something was on me when you frisked me with your pendulum.”

  “Carmen told me what she had done.”

  “And you were okay with that?”

  “It wasn’t my problem.”

  “No, it was Carmen’s problem, wasn’t it? You couldn’t save her, so she got me involved.”

  “Listen,” he said, crossing back into the living room, “if I had any idea you were going to sign your soul away, I would have said something. But by the time you were at the desk, there was nothing I could do.”

  “You’re a regular hero, aren’t you?”

  “You were supposed to bring a replacement. Not be the replacement.”

  Something about Malosi’s hard tone got my blood up.

  “Well, I had to do something, damn it! No one else was getting the job done.”

  “For a woman that gave up on you. These were your words.”

  “I didn’t do it for Carmen, you meathead. I did it for the baby. It’s just a good damn thing Osterhaus didn’t know what he had. You know, if I were the father, I would have been looking into breaking kneecaps or something. I can’t believe you let me step up like this when it should have been you.”

  He set his beer down on a counter and backed away from me slowly, his heavy eyebrow furling in the middle.

  Oh, fuck me.

  “And she didn’t tell you, did she?”

  He paced a slow circle, putting his hands on the side of his head and breathing heavily.

  I stood up, carried by a sudden wave of remorse. His typically stoic face was drawn in a mix of anger and grief.

  “Can’t be,” he grumbled.

  “Well, okay.”

  “No, se
riously. It can’t be me.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah. I took care of that a long time ago.”

  “So, someone else is what you’re saying?”

  He stomped past me and pushed open a bedroom door. I peered inside to find a made bed, a nightstand with photos, and an embarrassingly eighties silk print hanging over the bed. Malosi gestured for me to follow. As I entered the room, he waved his hand at an open pair of louvered bi-fold closet doors.

  The closet was divided in half. One side contained a series of black and gray suits, a few sport shirts, and the typical wardrobe of a man on a weekend.

  The other half was nothing but empty hangers.

  “Christ,” I whispered. “She’s gone.”

  “I called her after you left the office. She said she was going to work early, so I took my time.”

  I moved quickly out of the room, not wanting to be in close quarters with an angry Samoan.

  “Listen,” he declared as he finally emerged from the bedroom. “I don’t know what you put in your contract, that crap about becoming a comedian or something. But I hope to God it means something, and you’re as sneaky a bastard as I had you figured for.”

  “Oh, I’m a bastard all right. And it does mean something. Whether it will be of use to me, I have no idea. Good news is, I have two years to figure it out.”

  Malosi’s face paled somewhat, and he cleared his throat. “No, you don’t.”

  “Come again?”

  “You have eighteen hours. Give or take.”

  “That’s hours, you said?”

  “Osterhaus packed your contract with the rest. He’s selling it tomorrow.”

  How was that possible? No, I had this figured out. I had a plan. I wasn’t really this stupid, was I?

  “I thought it had to mature.”

  “Yeah, that’s bullshit.”

  “How, exactly, is it bullshit again? Sorry, I just really need to know because I’m completely screwed.”

  “Have you actually read the contract?”

  Shit.

  “I mean, I skimmed it.”

  “I thought you read Greek.”

  “It’s not in the contract?”

  “No. It’s not there. It’s a verbal thing he throws at everyone last minute. He keeps most contracts for a couple years. It’s just a number he chose. Usually most people start getting paranoid by that point, and come crawling back to him. It’s another way for him to make money. He’ll see how much money they throw at him to cancel the contract. If it’s not enough, he’ll tell them to take a flying fuck.”

  I dropped onto the couch. My fingers were tingling, and for a moment I thought I was going to pass out.

  “No. No, this isn’t…”

  “I’m sorry. Really. There’s nothing I could have done.”

  “It’s not your fault. I’m the idiot, here.”

  “Well―”

  I held up a finger, challenging him to finish the sentence.

  My hand dropped to my lap. There wasn’t anything left. She had lied to me. She lied to me and Malosi. She probably wasn’t even pregnant. And I signed away my own soul to save hers, all because I wanted to believe in her.

  I was played. And now, I was damned.

  Malosi held a bottle of beer in front of me.

  I took it.

  “What happens now?” he asked, sitting across from me.

  “Now?” I popped open the beer and drained half of it. “Now nothing. I’m done.”

  Images of Emil’s dead and dissected body filled my mind, and I tried to blink them away. Failing that, I tried to drown them with more beer.

  “I’m done with him,” Malosi grumbled. “This is just too much.”

  “To Osterhaus’ credit, if you hadn’t become involved with Carmen, none of this would matter to you.”

  “Yeah, well it matters now.”

  I finished the beer and set it down on the table.

  “Well, Reed,” I said standing up and composing myself, “your only problem is you’re not son of a bitch enough for this business.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “New York. Eventually. Not much choice left.”

  He nodded, and shook my hand without standing up.

  “Best of luck to you, Penn State.”

  “You too, Long Island.”

  I left Carmen’s apartment. Scratch that. Malosi’s apartment.

  It was probably my imagination, but the wound on my arm seemed to sting a little more. I almost ran a couple lights. My brain was numb. Everything was numb.

  I was afraid to drive home. I was convinced it would just sit there in judgment of its unspeakably stupid occupant. But I had no place else to go. I had no future, no present. Nothing.

  Absolutely nothing.

  Well, I had the Audi. That was something.

  When I arrived at my house, I found a squad car waiting for me on the street. Yeah. This was the kind of day I was having.

  A uniformed officer stepped out of the squad car when I pulled up to my drive, and approached me.

  “Dorian Lake?” he asked with as officially unofficial a voice as he could muster.

  “Yes.”

  “You rent storage unit number twelve at Catonsville Mini Storage?”

  “Yeah…”

  “There’s been an incident.”

  I followed the squad car to Catonsville. Another squad car sat in the lane in front of my unit. Two officers were having a heated discussion with a man who looked vaguely familiar.

  I parked at a comfortable distance and accompanied the officer to the middle of the commotion. I spotted the damage to the overhead door first. A square had been chewed open in the center of the door. The cut was uneven; the metal was jagged, angling sharply in small slices.

  The vaguely familiar man rushed toward me with wide eyes, and greeted me with a breathless pant.

  “Mister Lake. I apologize for this.”

  “You are?”

  “Adam Habib. I am the manager.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “This is a bad, very bad thing.”

  I held up a calming hand and stepped to the opening. One of the officers looked up at me with a smirk.

  “You the renter?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I’m lucky like that.”

  He motioned inside the unit. “I’m going to warn you. It isn’t pretty in there. If it’s possible, we’d like you to make a list of damaged or lost items.” He exhaled sharply and shrugged. “Best you can.”

  I nodded and moved into the hole chewed into the metal door.

  “Careful, it’s pretty jagged,” the officer warned.

  I stepped gingerly into the hole and found the fourth officer treading carefully around a mess of overturned boxes and smashed possessions, shining his flashlight at quick angles throughout the unit.

  The worktable had been overturned, and my chest of reagents had been overturned, the jars removed and smashed against the concrete floor. Most of my boxes had been ripped open and their contents strewn across the ground. I found old clothes, books, and useless mementos of my life on Long Island in varying degrees of broken.

  The officer shone his flashlight at my feet as I crunched along some glass.

  “Watch your step,” he said with a nod.

  “Thanks.”

  The damage was comprehensive. Nothing was left unmolested. I barely noticed the ocean of destruction in what was once my workspace, however. I was focused on the far end of my storage unit. The end that the light never really reached.

  And the cage.

  I stepped past the officer and wound around the upended table legs, holding my breath as I found the iron bars of the cage gate closed. Long cuts along the edges of the bars shone in the officer’s flashlight’s illumination, brighter than the anodized surface that remained unscratched.

  But the gate was still closed.

  And the cabinet remained secure.

  “We think it was a chainsaw,” the offi
cer said, stepping gingerly to my side.

  Chainsaw my ass. These were parallel strokes of some kind of impossibly sharp, ugly talons. This was the work of something beastly. Something that belonged to the Dark Choir.

  He continued, “Got most of the way through some of these bars before a security guard heard the commotion.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “Last night.”

  I owed Sparky a fruit basket.

  I reached into my pocket for my keys, and tried the lock. The gate snapped open without resistance. I walked into the cage and lay a hand on the cabinet.

  “What’s with the cage?” the officer asked.

  “I think that’s fairly obvious at this point. Don’t you?”

  “What is that?” he asked, shining his light at the cabinet.

  What was it? It was basically the only thing I had anymore. How was I supposed to boil down this cabinet’s importance to me in words this policeman could understand?

  “Rare books. First editions.”

  “No kidding. You a book dealer?”

  “Not really. I inherited them. Sentimental value, mostly.”

  “Well, someone sure as shit wanted those books.”

  No kidding.

  “I think they left disappointed.”

  He looked around the unit at the rest of the chaos. “There’s a lot of damage here. Do you have an inventory of your possessions?”

  I shrugged. “Not really. Doesn’t matter.”

  He blinked rapidly, then stepped away to give me space.

  I gripped the top of the cabinet with both hands. It was still there. Despite the efforts of whoever tried their best to take it from me, I still had the Library. It didn’t glare at me, didn’t snarl at me, didn’t fill me with the usual sense of inescapable dread.

  It accepted me. For the first time since I owned it, the Library seemed to belong to me.

  I had to move it.

  After a cursory examination of the mess in the front of the unit, I decided not to declare anything. It was all rubbish. I hadn’t needed any of it for the last several years. What were the odds I would miss it now? The police officers seemed satisfied with my blasé, and made quick notes. I managed to talk Habib into loaning me a moving truck, and with his assistance, loaded the cabinet onto it.

  Two hours later, I had returned the truck, filed my short report, and stood in my living room staring at the dark wood of the cabinet. Its tone seemed to match the hardwood floors and trim in the room. It fit in.