The Curse Merchant (The Dark Choir Book 1)

by J. P. Sloan

  Malosi shifted to take a step around me, but I barred him with my arm. “Wait,” I whispered.

  Osterhaus lifted his eyebrow and sniffled back more blood.

  “You do it,” I said, “and I’ll fire this curse.”

  “You’ll pay for it with your soul. If that didn’t matter to you, you wouldn’t be here now.”

  “Close the lighter, first.”

  “No chance. Not with that gorilla ready to attack me again.”

  He edged the flame closer to the contract. My blood jerked at me hard enough to make me gasp.

  “All right,” I sputtered. “All right. Just stop.” I held the doll in front of me and gripped the twine. The knot was easy enough to pull loose. But it was my only leverage. My only last advantage.

  “Well?” Osterhaus demanded as he swept the tip of the parchment into the flame.

  I felt the heat of the flame in my chest.

  The twine tightened in my hand. The doll shivered slightly, the skin writhing beneath my fingertips. It didn’t want to die.

  It wanted to kill.

  Osterhaus cleared his throat and slumped a little.

  “I don’t know, Lake,” he said, looking down at the parchment. “Maybe I have no confidence in your craftsmanship. Maybe I’m still not convinced you know a Nether Curse from a glammer. But it seems most likely, as you would say it, I’m just tired of your shit.”

  He pulled the lighter beneath the contract, directly below the blood seal.

  An intense, searing heat penetrated my chest as the parchment caught fire. The cords binding me to my blood pulled taut and began to snap under the pressure. Piece by piece, my soul was escaping me. My vision blurred as a single point of flame penetrated the darkening parchment, my blood stamp charring away.

  The light pouring in from the vast wrought iron window in the wall above us took sharp angles, dimming into a vicious cold white hue. My knees buckled. More bonds snapped.

  I was losing the connection.

  There was no more time.

  With a deep, panicked breath, and with as much strength as I could squeeze out of my arms, I lifted the curse doll over my head and hurled it against the terrazzo. The doll flew onto the floor, and with a piercing crack, the shot glass inside its head smashed into pieces.

  A blast of cold energy wrapped around my head as the black fog descended into my body.

  A series of loud cracks echoed through the station, followed by a deep, unearthly groaning noise. The light spilling through the window shifted, tracing a line from my face, down my body, and across the floor to Osterhaus.

  Men on scaffolding shouted as they hopped away from the wall.

  “Move! Move!”

  Women screamed and men shouted and coughed in panic.

  Osterhaus and I looked above us as the titanic wrought iron frame of the window tipped forward from its place in the masonry. The glass panes shattered, spilling out into midair as the groaning of stressed metal vibrated through my chest.

  A hand gripped my arm, and my body went limp as it was hurled backward through space. I watched Osterhaus as I careened into a retreating mass of commuters. He held up his hands to shield against falling glass, peppering him like tiny ice cubes.

  His eyes closed just before the mullion beam of the enormous frame broke free of one center weld, slicing down through space.

  Malosi’s body slumped on top of me as we cleared the wreckage, and I lost sight of Osterhaus.

  My ears filled with an impossible volume of crashing metal and pulverized stone, echoing off the walls of Penn Station, drowning out the screams of the people surrounding me.

  Malosi shielded me from the spraying glass and chunks of stone, lying silent as the din subsided into shocked gasps and coughing.

  The final cord connecting my soul to my heart snapped. I felt it break, pulling away.

  Lost.

  Damned.

  When Malosi rolled off me, he dusted off his sleeves and finally removed his sunglasses.

  “You okay?”

  I had no answer. I was not okay. I was doomed.

  He offered me a hand, and I pulled myself to my feet, finding my knees weak.

  I chanced a look over to the center of the wreckage. A bloodied hand lifted at an unnatural angle from beneath the iron mullion beam, twitching its final pulse as the remains of my soul contract lifted into the air, a glowing ember of ash.

  I wanted to feel something. Revenge. Revulsion. Guilt. Triumph. Something at all. But the longer I stood staring at Osterhaus’ body, the more hollow I became. The dark fog had filled my chest with a numb indifference.

  Malosi reached out and steadied my arm as I went to take a step toward the wreckage. “Whoa.”

  I pulled away and held out a steadying hand. “I’m fine.”

  I reached beyond Osterhaus’ smashed body, grateful that his face was covered by a length of iron, and pulled the suitcase from the glass and rubble.

  When I turned to face Malosi, I spotted three men approaching fast.

  McHenry.

  I cleared my throat and tried to sweep off as much glass and dust as I could.

  Joey McHenry glared at Malosi, who looked back at me. I gave Malosi a nod, and he stepped aside. McHenry was easily six inches taller than me, and much wider in the shoulders. He grimaced as he looked over my shoulder at the gruesome scene.

  Pointing at my chest, he said, “Purple vest. I assume you’re Dorian Lake?”

  “You assume correctly.” I checked his men, who were standing close behind, keeping onlookers at a distance. “Did you see everything?”

  “Yes, I did. You said something about curses in your note.”

  “That’s right. I did.”

  “Never heard of a Curse Merchant before.”

  “Well, now you’ve met one.”

  His eyes moved behind me again. “So this was your doing?”

  “I figured you weren’t a man to take things on faith, so I felt a demonstration was in order.”

  “Yeah, well I don’t believe in that Mumbo Jumbo, pal.”

  I turned and pointed to Osterhaus’ body. “How do you think he feels about that Mumbo Jumbo now?”

  “What, you looking for work or something?”

  “No.”

  “Then what do you want from me?”

  “I want the case against Lindsay Burlein and her family dropped.”

  His face flushed red and he looked side to side in disbelief. “What did you say?”

  “You’re going to drop your suit against the Burleins.”

  “Fuck you,” he spat. “That’s none of your business.”

  “Well, Joey, I’m making it my business, aren’t I?”

  He turned to his men, who had noticed the change in their boss’s attitude. One of them took a step toward me, but Malosi shook his head.

  “I’d recommend against that,” Malosi said.

  The thug stopped.

  I glanced up at McHenry, who looked like he was ready to take my head off.

  “That’s private business between my son and that little whore. My boy was cleared of all charges.”

  “I frankly don’t care about your son. I’m not talking about what he’s done. I’m talking about what you’ve done. You.”

  “Me? I didn’t lay a hand on―”

  “You’re the one pressing the suit. You’re the one who can’t take responsibility for his deviant rapist son. You’re the one who would rather crucify an innocent family than allow this to besmirch the reputation you think is so clean. This is your doing. Whatever your son did to Lindsay, that’s between him and the Cosmos now. But you have time to stop this from turning into your downfall.”

  He set his jaw and balled his fists.

  I reached down and picked up the smashed, limp, hollow curse doll and dangled it in front of McHenry.

  “Because all I need is a drop of blood. And trust me. I’ll find a way to get it.”

  McHenry stared at the doll, and his expression sof
tened. With a snarl he stepped back.

  “They’ve paid enough, anyway,” McHenry said, rubbing a finger under his nose. “I guess there’s nothing to gain at this point. All right, I drop the suit, you stay out of my hair. That’s the deal?”

  “And I want an apology to the family and the mayor.”

  “The mayor?”

  “He’s defended the family from the beginning. I think he deserves some credit.” I dropped the doll onto McHenry’s shoes. “Don’t you?”

  He shuffled back, kicking the doll across the floor. “You’re sick.”

  “Are we in agreement?”

  He stood stiff, looking at me, and at Osterhaus’ corpse.

  With a patient breath, he nodded. Gathering his thugs, he turned to retreat with the rest of the commuters trying to evacuate the station. He paused after a step and gave me one more look.

  “Dorian Lake, huh? I think I’m going to have to remember that name.”

  With a squint, he turned and disappeared into the crowd.

  Malosi stepped up beside me. “You got any other terrifyingly powerful people you want to kill or piss off today, or can we get the fuck out of here?”

  “I think I’m done.”

  I grabbed the suitcase, and Malosi cleared a path for us to exit back onto the street. Two squad cars had arrived, their blue and red lights swishing across the panicked faces. Sirens bounced from the tall buildings of Baltimore. We moved quickly, putting distance between us and the scene of carnage inside.

  “Oh shit,” I shouted as we reached the corner. “The doll!”

  I turned to move back to the entrance, when Malosi slapped something into my chest. I looked down to find the curse doll.

  “Thanks. You’re a life saver.”

  He sneered and pointed at the doll’s leather. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  He shook his head. “You people are seriously screwed in the head. You know that, right?”

  I stood on the corner, stuffing the doll into my vest, when I spotted a black sedan with diplomatic plates pull up to the side of the street and stop. The door opened, and out stepped the Syrian, his bushy eyebrows lifted high.

  “Come on,” I said to Malosi, leading us across the intersection.

  The Syrian pointed at the chaos near the front of the station. “I take it the sale went badly?”

  “The sale didn’t happen. You’re late, by the way.”

  “Beltway traffic. What has happened here?”

  “Window caved in.”

  The Syrian squinted at me, and I held up my hands.

  “Hey, bad welds.” I looked over at Malosi. “No seriously, I heard the foreman talking about it when I was hiding from you.”

  Al-Syriani looked down at the suitcase in my hand. “And what is this?”

  I pulled the suitcase up to my chest, cradling it. “Ninety-nine souls.”

  His face took a hard edge. “And what, exactly, were you planning to do with these souls, Mister Lake?”

  That was a good question.

  “I haven’t had time to think about it. Keep them safe, I suppose.”

  “A man in possession of Emil Desiderio’s Library and a suitcase of bound souls? This man is going to simply keep them safe?”

  “I’m not…” I was going to say I wasn’t a Netherworker, but that was no longer true, was it? “I’m not interested in playing with soul magic. But Osterhaus won’t be available to clear these traps for the rest of his life.” I turned and looked back at the ambulance giving the crowd a shot of its siren.

  “He’s dead?”

  “Very.”

  Al-Syriani rubbed his chin, then nodded. “I can take them.”

  I stepped away instinctively, blinking as I checked myself.

  “For what?” I asked.

  “This is the reason small operators such as Osterhaus and yourself don’t present an appreciable threat to the Presidium, Mister Lake. As sophisticated as you feel your understanding of the hermetic arts is, it can only be one lifetime’s worth of learning.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “We have dedicated centuries toward applying the knowledge of the great mystic thinkers. Where you see limits, we see possibilities.”

  “Still not following.”

  He rolled his eyes. “We can liberate the souls from the contracts.”

  “The hell you say.”

  “Just as you said, Mister Lake, this is what we do. Of course, you can keep them in your self-storage or your tiny brick house, but when someone comes along with more than a dabbling at his craft, then you may wish they were being kept by capable practitioners.”

  I mulled over his words, wondering if I should have felt offended by them. But it was all true. Someone had taken out my storage unit to get to the Library. How much more difficult would it be to break into my house. I felt a moment’s panic as I thought about the dark wood case just sitting in my front room, unlocked, unprotected.

  What was I going to do with souls?

  “Your choice, Mister Lake. But it may go a long way toward building good faith with the Presidium.”

  I set the suitcase down on the sidewalk in front of Al-Syriani. “Just don’t bury them in some warehouse.”

  “You should see our warehouses.”

  “I might take you up on that someday.”

  The Syrian smiled, then reached down and took the suitcase. “Well, Mister Lake, it seems the balance is maintained for another day.”

  I took a cleansing breath. “Looks that way.”

  He gave me a salute and stepped back into the rear of the sedan, which pulled away and disappeared down Orleans Street.

  Malosi stepped around me and leaned against the building, watching the emergency personnel rushing through the crowd.

  “What happened in there?”

  “You were there.”

  “What happened to you, I mean. Your soul?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  That was the truth. The soul wasn’t purchased. The trap was destroyed. It was released into the ether.

  Just like a suicide.

  “Now what?” he asked, cracking his neck.

  I looked down the street at the tall buildings, catching a glimpse of an old edifice tucked between modern obelisks of steel and glass. This old, mysterious, complicated city felt more like home than ever before.

  “Guess I’ll go pack my bags.”

  “You’re still leaving? Osterhaus is dead.”

  “I’m damned now. The last reason I had to avoid Netherwork is kind of moot, now. I’m going to have to learn all of it, if I’m going to survive.”

  “What’s in New York, anyway?”

  “Just another teacher.”

  Malosi shook his head and shrugged. “All right. Well, you’re going to need some luck, so good luck.”

  He held out his hand.

  I smiled and shook it.

  “Thanks for that part where you saved my life.”

  “Oh that?”

  “See you around, Penn State.”

  “Jesus, I hope not,” he mumbled as he turned and walked away.

  And I was alone.

  hat evening, I stood in the front room of my house, resting my hand on the dark wood cabinet holding Emil’s Library of Netherwork tomes. For the first time since I had inherited the Library after Emil’s death, the cabinet didn’t frighten me. It didn’t fill me with a sense of dread or danger. It didn’t fill me with any sense at all.

  It was just a cabinet. One simple cabinet with volumes of knowledge I would need to survive. It was a tool, not a monster. There was no longer any menace to the cut of its grain or the way it never really sat in the light. I suppose one must have a soul to notice such things.

  The Syrian was right about my knowledge and how incomplete it was. I had only been operating on my lifetime’s worth of experience. Cased in this cabinet was Emil’s lifetime of learning, drawing from the lives of those he had studied.
I had been afraid to explore this knowledge for fear of losing my soul to it. But at that point, I had already lost my soul. It was time to join the Syrian’s level, if not his ranks.

  To that end, I would need Bollstadt. He made his offer to train me, and I was about to find out how serious, or possibly drunk. he was. I fished my phone out of my pocket and dialed his number. The phone rang until it rolled to his voice mail.

  “This is Gene Bollstadt, please leave a message.”

  “Gene, this is Dorian Lake. I’ve considered your offer, and I wanted to discuss it in detail. I have a lot to learn, and maybe you’re the only one who can help me. I think maybe you were right about me. About everything. Anyway, give me a call back when you can.”

  I left my number and hung up.

  After the sun had set, I locked the door and kept vigil on Carmen’s sofa. The cabinet remained the lifeless box it should have been, sitting in front of my fireplace. Someone had already sent something nasty to get to it. It had failed, but how long would it take to come for it at my home? I would need to find a secure place to store it when I moved to New York City.

  I fell asleep on the sofa. I remembered having bad dreams by the time the sunlight woke me up the next morning, but the details vanished before I had even opened my eyes. But my house was intact, as was the Library.

  My phone rang as I fried an egg for breakfast.

  It was Bright.

  “Good morning, Julian.”

  “Was this you?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Channel Eleven.”

  I searched the side table for my seldom-used TV remote, and turned to the station. An image of Joey McHenry standing on the steps of some downtown building greeted my eyes.

  Julian repeated, “He just dropped the suit and issued an apology to the mayor. It was smug, backhanded, and he spun it to throw more support at Sooner, but this came out of nowhere. So, was this your doing?”

  “You could say that.”

  “You said to call Monday, but I see you’ve already taken care of business.” Bright was silent for a long while before finally saying, “This is really going to help us. I’ve already got someone drafting a response.”

  “Glad to help.”

  “Look, we didn’t contract a price for this yet. I thought we’d have time, but―”

  “No charge.”