by J. P. Sloan
A medical waste bag lay beneath a few cooling packs. I pulled the bag up on its end and unzipped the top. Several sheets of neatly folded skin lay inside, packed tightly. I took a quick moment to compose myself, then reached in and pulled a sheet of skin out. It flopped open as I held it up. Light from the window shone through it like translucent rubber. There was no aroma beyond rubbing alcohol, for which I was grateful. My head still spun from the blood loss during the ritual, and the first off-aroma might have sent my stomach over my tonsils.
I laid the skin out on the table and turned to my writing desk. Carmen’s contract lay on its surface, unfolded, the brown-stained smear where the blood sigil once was staring back at me like a cadaver’s eye. I took the contract and, turning it over, pressed it against the sheet of skin. I wasn’t sure if staples would be enough to hold them together, but I gave it a shot. They performed nicely.
A bowl of my blood and other ingredients, which I had prepared during the ritual, sat just beneath the table. I took a basting brush from my kitchen and began the sigil work on the back of Carmen’s contract. The scribing went quickly, the jagged glyphs of the language much older than Greek proving to be surprisingly simple to render with a basting brush. Such was the beauty of the truly vicious magics. It was so rudimentary, so simple, something that pours out of the brain stem.
When the sigils had dried, I placed a shot glass in the center of the sheet, and bunched it into a tiny bulb, tying it off with string. I repeated the gathering until I had two knots for arms, and two bundles for legs.
A curse doll.
It was a magic that predated human language, and it was still effective. The Nether Curse tome outlined the particulars of the sigil working and blood prep, which were necessary to call upon the Dark Choir’s power to source the curse. It was an act that typically damned the practitioner. However, since my soul was not presently occupying my blood, and if my gamble with the consideration was correct, then I would be able to sidestep the mechanics of Netherwork just enough to keep my soul intact.
That was a big “if.” One hell of an “if.”
The only ingredient I couldn’t acquire on my own was some vitae from Osterhaus. Happily, he had handed me some of his own blood when he gave me Carmen’s contract. If she hadn’t left town the way she did, I would have given it over to her. But, she was gone, and I had just sewn Osterhaus’ blood and spit into my curse doll. It was tangible, symbolic, and easily brandished in his face. I didn’t want to use it. I needed him to see it, recognize it, and fear it.
I pulled off the rubber gloves and carefully washed my hands before grabbing my phone. It was time to make the call. I fished Al-Syriani’s business card from my wallet and dialed his number. He picked up on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“This is Dorian Lake.”
“Mister Lake? A pleasure to hear from you. I assume you’ve reconsidered?”
“Not exactly.”
“I see. Then how can I be of assistance?”
“Hopefully I can be of assistance to you. And the Presidium.”
After a pause, he said, “Go on?”
“If I understand correctly, the Presidium charges itself with the esoteric protection of the United States. Particularly from the interference by Old World Netherwork?”
“That is the general understanding.”
“Then you’ll be interested to hear that an agent of one of the Levantine Cabals will be at Penn Station to purchase one hundred souls from Neil Osterhaus.”
My words were returned by a very long silence.
“He’s selling souls to the Levantines. They’ll be at Penn Station at eleven o’clock.”
“I have no interest in your personal drama, Mister Lake.”
“No, but you should have a real interest in one hundred American souls falling into the hands of a foreign power. This sale goes down, they gain leverage, which upsets the balance. It will be a thousand times more difficult to correct the imbalance once the souls exit the country. Come on, man. This is what you do.”
“Eleven, you say?”
“Right. I’d come early if I were you. I might have to do something about this, but I’d rather you stepped in first. It would be less destructive.”
“I take your meaning.”
“So?”
“I will see.”
It was the best I could expect from the Presidium. They were aggressive, but secretive. Having the phone number of one of their members was a coup in its own right, usually indicating that you have wandered too close to their notice. But by God, if I was going to be on their radar, I was going to use it!
I checked the clock. It was approaching eight o’clock. Three hours left to catch my soul before it was lost forever. I took a seat in my writing chair and closed my eyes, calming my senses. Emotions were still nosing into my brain, getting in the way of rational thought, the only defense against the dark forces I was openly courting.
I felt a tug on my insides, drawing my attention away from my front room, my house, my street. My mind was led to the center of the city. Motion. Energy in motion. My energy.
My blood.
The consideration was tying my mind to my soul contract. I felt it moving east.
Osterhaus was on the move.
blast of northern wind rushed over my collar as I stepped up onto the walk in front of Penn Station. I checked my watch. Ten thirty. I made it with enough time to find a position and wait. I ducked beneath some scaffolding and wound my way toward the construction entrance. A cherry picker lifted a worker near the wide wrought iron windows along the front of the station. He paused to let me pass underneath him as he waved in a forklift. I gave the men a nod, knowing I was making their life difficult. But I didn’t want to take the main entrance. I could feel my soul contract nearby, and though it was still moving, I couldn’t be sure if Osterhaus had beaten me to the station. I wanted him to see me, but not until I had given the Syrian enough time to bring in the cavalry.
I reached for a construction hat when none of the laborers were looking and leaned against a pair of plans spread out over a table. I positioned myself so that I could peer out into the majority of the benches running the length of the interior of the station. I was partly covered by a closed coffee kiosk and a stack of metal studs.
A worker wandered up to the table and smiled.
“Hola.”
“Hola,” I replied as he grabbed a bucket and a cordless drill. My dress was somewhat formal. I probably passed as an architect. An architect in a bright purple vest.
I remained hunched over the set of plans until I could feel the tug of my blood intensify. Then I spotted him.
Osterhaus.
He walked in carrying a large suitcase. He plodded in front of Malosi, his eyes moving furiously. I hunkered down and kept my hard hat low. After a few very long minutes, I checked on him once again. He had taken a seat in the middle of the station. Malosi stood in front of him, scanning left and right like a good bodyguard.
I waited and watched. Osterhaus turned in his seat regularly, checking both sides of the station as people entered. The man was clearly nervous. I had serious doubts he had ever dealt with a Levantine before.
Nor had I, for that matter.
I checked my watch as my feet ached. Ten forty-five.
Two more workers stepped up to the table. One of them peered at me, then stepped directly in front of my line of sight.
“You Atkins?”
“No,” I replied with a firm tone. “I work with him.”
“You have any idea when the framers are going to finish up with the Internet Lounge? I want to get some rock up before I lose half the painters to the port project.”
I peered over his shoulder, making sure Osterhaus had stayed put. “I’ll ask Atkins, and let you know.”
“Okay.” He finally moved aside, adding, “I left a message about the welders yesterday. Any idea if he got it?”
“Not sure.”
“Well,
I’m ready to pull these guys down off the windows until he talks to Mitchell about them.”
Osterhaus stood up and turned in my direction. I stepped around the table, putting my back to him. “I think I heard him talking to Mitchell on the phone this morning.”
“Okay then. If he’s on his way, then I’ll keep them going. I’m just not happy about these windows.”
“I’ll send him your way when I see him.”
“Thanks. What’s your name?”
“Curt… Curtis.”
I always sucked at lying.
“Thanks, Curtis.”
He stayed nearby, pouring himself a coffee and grumbling behind my shoulder.
Osterhaus paced behind Malosi, keeping his suitcase in his hand.
In a few minutes, a group of pedestrians flooded into the station from the street. Among them were three men, two in suits flanking a wide-shouldered ruddy faced man in a polo shirt and khaki pleats.
Joey McHenry had arrived. Thank you, Ben!
They stepped into the center of the open space and moved in a tight circle, scanning every face. I stepped nonchalantly behind the stack of metal studs, pretending to look up at the interior scaffolding. After several minutes, I checked my watch again.
Five of eleven.
I settled into a new position, and had to glare away the helpful handyman who seemed content to park his ass directly in front of me. As I leaned against the metal studs, I patted my front pants pocket, feeling the weight of the doll inside. It was ready. I was ready.
Where the hell was Al-Syriani?
Eleven o’clock came, and I chanced a look around the corner of the stud pallet. McHenry’s men had split away and were slowly moving along the sides of the station. As the closer of the men approached the kiosk, I stepped around the table, keeping one of the workers in between us. He passed without making eye contact.
I stole a glance out into the gathering commuters, wondering if Osterhaus’ buyer had arrived. Osterhaus continued pacing, pausing as people entered from the street. His face took on increasing shades of pink.
By the time McHenry’s men had made the full length of the station, Osterhaus had moved toward the street entrances. He was inching closer and closer to the doors. I couldn’t let him escape. But it wasn’t time yet. The timing had to be right.
I checked my watch again.
A couple minutes past eleven.
McHenry stepped briskly toward his men, making a circling motion with his finger. He was done waiting, and Al-Syriani wasn’t coming.
I had run out of time.
I doffed my hardhat and set it down on the table. With a hand on the doll in my pocket, I stepped out into the station. Osterhaus had his back to me, but Malosi spotted me as I approached. He had probably spotted me when they walked in, to be honest. I gave Malosi a nod. He tapped Osterhaus on the shoulder and gestured in my direction.
By the time Osterhaus had rounded to face me, I had cleared the distance.
“Lake? What do you want?”
“I want my contract.”
He blinked at me and pulled his suitcase behind his leg. “What in Heaven’s name for?”
“Safe keeping.”
“I assure you, my office is perfectly safe from intrusion and theft. You’ve seen the fire safes.”
“It’s not in your office.” I pointed at his suitcase. “It’s in your bag. And I want it.”
“Ridiculous.”
“I can feel my blood, Osterhaus. I know it’s there.”
He looked over my shoulder impatiently. “You’re mistaken.”
“You asked what haimatos means in Greek?”
“Humor?”
“Blood.”
Osterhaus clamped his mouth shut and squinted.
“Is there a point to this?”
“If the Donati ever bothered with the proper, traditional teaching of craft languages, you would know that. But you only learned the bare minimum, didn’t you?”
“What do you know of the Donati? You’re an infant.”
“I know that the soul traps you create work on blood bonds. I know that my ‘consideration’ has given me a real sensory connection to my own blood. Which is why I know you have my soul contract in that suitcase. So let’s please just cut the shit, and give me the contract.”
“What do you intend to do with it? Hmm? You can’t nullify the soul trap. Not without me.”
“I realize that. But it’s better to secure my soul until I can find a suitable replacement, than have you sell it to a Levantine.”
Osterhaus took a step back.
“Do you have any appreciation for what I can do to you?” he snarled. “What kind of Hell I can make your life? I’m not some hex peddler with a white-bread morality.”
“Funny,” I replied, pulling the doll out of my pocket. “Neither am I.”
His face paled. “What’s that supposed to be?”
“I think you know.”
“I’m done playing games with you, Lake.”
“Here’s the deal. You pull my contract out of that case, and you hand it over to me. I’ll take it with me and leave before your buyer sees me making a scene. Monday, I’m going to visit your office, and we’re going to dismantle this idiotic contract. Fail any of this, and I’ll fire this curse.”
His face twitched. He looked up at Malosi, who was standing solid and expressionless.
“I’m flattered you feel I’m worth a Nether Curse,” he said. “But, I seriously doubt you have either the skill, or the inclination, to get this color of blood on your hands.”
“You don’t think so?”
“No, I don’t. You’re a child. An amateur. You know nothing about Netherwork. If you did, you would know that you require my vitae to enable any kind of Nether Curse. And you don’t have my blood. I would know.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” I said. “I do have your blood. Carmen’s contract. It has your blood and spit on it. I worked the contract into the middle of this doll, which means your blood is at the heart of the curse.”
Osterhaus’ eyes lifted and he shook his head as he chuckled. His chuckle became a cough, which became a full-throated laugh.
“My blood,” he wheezed, turning behind Malosi. “Nice try, Lake. But you’re still a child.”
I glared at the man, moving around Malosi to keep an eye on the case.
He lifted his hands and shrugged. “I salted the blood,” he said between snickers. “Keep your gruesome little doll. It’s toothless.”
I gripped the doll, the skin stretching slightly beneath my fingers. My eyes tightened, but I didn’t want to betray the panic that flooded my chest.
Salt.
He was right. The bastard salted the blood seal. He did it right in front of me, and for whatever reason, I managed to overlook that simple fact when I concocted this plan. The blood was totally stripped of vital essence. Cleansed.
I was holding an unloaded weapon.
Malosi shifted on his feet to turn toward Osterhaus.
“Reed?” Osterhaus asked as he tapped Malosi’s shoulder. “Please remove Mister Lake. Not that he hasn’t brightened my day considerably, but I have some business with adults to attend to.”
Malosi turned his head to me and lifted his brow.
The man was huge. I wasn’t sure how to deal with him. Knee, groin, something I could hit and run without getting my face flattened.
Malosi took in a deep breath and shook his head at me.
“I can’t believe you’re making me do this,” Malosi muttered.
He turned on his heel and smashed his massive fist into Osterhaus’ nose, sending him sprawling over his suitcase. Osterhaus landed on his ass, arms flailing, coughing and sputtering as his meager frame hit the terrazzo floor. A woman nearby chirped in alarm and pulled her child away from the scene as Malosi bore down on Osterhaus. He reached down and gripped Osterhaus by the front of his collar and pulled his head off the floor. Malosi wagged his finger in front of Osterhaus’ w
atering eyes in a scolding gesture, and shoved his fingertip under Osterhaus’ nose, pulling back a smear of blood as it trickled out of his nostril.
Malosi dropped Osterhaus back onto the floor and stepped lightly toward me. He reached out his bloodied finger and smeared the vitae on the face of the curse doll.
“That work for you?”
“Yeah, that’s great. Thank you, Reed.”
The doll vibrated in my hand. The skin seemed to squirm slightly as if it were waking from a coma. A nearly imperceptible weight dropped onto my shoulders like a dark fog wrapping itself delicately around my head.
Osterhaus coughed and gripped his nose, wiping it with a white handkerchief from his pocket.
“You,” he growled as Malosi took a new position just behind me. “Fine. You I can deal with easily enough.” Osterhaus pulled himself up onto the bench and took a moment to catch his breath.
The scene caused a lot of attention to center on the three of us, and I scanned the crowd quickly for cops, or for the Syrian.
Osterhaus reached down and pulled the suitcase onto his lap.
“You’ve become far more trouble than your soul is worth, Lake. Fine. You can have the damned contract.”
He dialed the combination into the edge of the case and popped open its latches. I spotted several parchments stacked inside. After a quick thumbing, he produced mine. It tugged at my guts, pulling me closer, calling back to me. It wanted to return to its natural state.
Osterhaus slipped his handkerchief back into his breast pocket and sniffled.
“You know, I keep these in fire safes for a reason.” He pulled out a shiny Zippo lighter and flicked it to life. “They may not seem it, but they are quite flammable.”
The blood rushed out of my face as I dropped slightly to a crouch. “Hold it.”
He steadied the flame just to the side of my contract and gave me a withering glare. “Now. Unwrap that damned doll, or I’ll send your soul directly to Hell right now.”
