The Curse Merchant (The Dark Choir Book 1)

by J. P. Sloan

  “Dorian?”

  “I need you to understand something, Julian. I didn’t do this for Sullivan. Or you. I did it for Lindsay Burlein.”

  “I can understand that.”

  “No, I don’t think you do. I wasn’t there at a crucial moment. If things had… I just needed to do this. I let them down. The system let them down.” I looked over to the Library. “I found a way to cheat the system. I don’t think you need the Mayor involved. That’s the whole point of bringing me in, right? Keep the Mayor clean?”

  “That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t get paid.”

  I got the impression Bright wasn’t going to let go of this. On a deep level, I appreciated it.

  “Fine. Can we call it a thousand?”

  “We’ll call it five and we’re not going to argue about this.”

  “Well, if you insist.”

  Bright chuckled, and for a fleeting moment, I felt a tug inside my chest. The moment passed quickly.

  “You want to get some lunch later this week? Your treat?”

  I surveyed my possessions from the view of the kitchen, then flipped my egg. I wasn’t sure if I was even going to be in Baltimore for the rest of the week.

  “I’m working on something right now. I’ll call you.”

  “Good enough. Dorian? Thanks.”

  I hung up and dished my egg out. At least one person was happy. Maybe three if I counted the Burlein family. Malosi was out of a job, but at least he could look at himself in the mirror now.

  I considered the disposition of the house as I ate my breakfast. It would never sell, and I needed the money if I was going to subsist in New York. I would need a property manager I could trust, one who would move into the brick two-story on Amity and basically let me be an absentee landlord. I made a short list in my head as I cleaned up my plate.

  The phone rang again. It was a New York area code.

  Bollstadt.

  “Hello?”

  I was greeted with a voice I didn’t recognize. “Is this Dorian Lake?”

  “This is.”

  “My name is Al Bollstadt.”

  “Al Bollstadt?”

  “Yeah. I got your number off of Gene’s voice mail.”

  I cringed and took a seat. “Yeah?”

  “So, I guess you haven’t heard. Sounded like you knew Gene.”

  He used the past tense. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

  “I’m Gene’s brother.”

  I didn’t really need to ask, but I did anyway. “What haven’t I heard, Al?”

  “Gene’s gone.”

  “How’d it happen?”

  He sighed and collected himself before answering, “There was some kind of break-in. He was killed. His body was found by his maid. It was… it was violent.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Any idea who?”

  “Well, my brother was involved in some weird circles. I guess you know that. Your message sounded like you were one of them.”

  One of them. I had never felt so detached from humanity as when I found myself described as “one of them.”

  “I understand.”

  “That makes one of us.”

  “I visited your brother last week. He mentioned he was concerned for his well-being. I think he knew something was coming.”

  “He’s always been like that, Mister Lake. No offense.”

  I extended my condolences one more time and wrapped up my conversation.

  Bollstadt was dead. I imagined the short man spread out on his bed, his legs and arms hacked off his body, just like Emil. I imagined the maid’s face when she walked in on the sight. Only, she wouldn’t have known what had happened. Precisely what had happened.

  There was no break-in. Bollstadt’s debt had been collected. The fate of the Netherworker. Unless I could find some way to restore my soul, it would be my fate.

  There was nothing for me in New York, now. I was surprisingly content with that. I took another tour through the bottom floor of my house, and realized I had no desire to move. I had worked hard to make this my home. I worked to gain a good solid client in Julian Bright.

  And not that I had expected it to end the way it did, but I had just removed my only competition. Hell, I had even made nice with the Presidium. In all truth, my mundane situation was better than it was before Gina Desalo pointed a gun at my face in that roach motel in Dundalk.

  But on an eternal level, I was facing certain doom.

  I busied myself with house cleaning, organizing and dusting the Library cabinet. I stood by the basement door and pushed it with my hand. It gave a little, pressing against the old, brittle jamb. As I opened the door on its squeaky hinges, I peered down the flight of stairs to my largely unused basement. I had some old Christmas ornaments that I hadn’t used in six years. Some boxes of books, some very old clothes I meant to donate. Beyond that, it was a hole in the ground.

  With one point of entry.

  I grabbed my phone and gave Andreas Tatopoulos a call.

  “Hello?”

  “Andreas? Dorian Lake.”

  “Ah, Mister Lake. All is well, I hope?”

  “Peachy. How’s work coming on the property?”

  “It will be completed by the end of the week.”

  “Outstanding. Look, on your way in today, I want you to stop by my home. I have a door I want you to look at.”

  “Very good, Mister Lake.”

  I wasn’t sure if they made interior steel doors, but if they did, I was about to make an investment. I stepped down the stairs after I hung up and clicked on the light. There was lots of space. To store the Library. To work. To practice a whole new art.

  I did the Burleins a favor, but all I had to do was push McHenry the right way. What might I accomplish with the full weight of the Netherworld behind me? What could I do if I filled Bollstadt’s shoes?

  Or Emil’s?

  I still believed in karma. How often had I seen a person’s karma make the difference between disaster and narrow escape? If I continued to work in Nether Curses, who was to say that I couldn’t use them toward justice?

  Maybe I was kidding myself, but it kept me sane to do so.

  Tatopoulos stopped by a couple hours later and inspected my basement door. We made plans to completely rework the door jamb and part of the partition walls leading down to the basement. The steel door, in his opinion, would be best installed at the base of the stairs, where it could be anchored to the support posts of the house itself. By the time he was done, anyone would have to bring the house down on their own heads to break into my basement.

  Before he left, I asked him to send Abe a message from me. I couldn’t think of many more people with his quality of fortitude and character to save himself from certain doom, and manage to become a decent human being. I may have been staying in Baltimore, but I needed time to study. Abe would be the perfect person to manage the properties. Hell, he was doing it already. I figured that much was worth free rent.

  I got Tatopoulos to help me carry the Library down into the basement, where at least it would be out of sight, and would benefit from my flimsy wood door’s protection until he could get to work. After he left, I found myself restless, but energized. Things were moving forward, and it felt as close to optimism as I could muster.

  The trick was trying not to think too deeply about my long-term prospects. Keep it short-term. Keep it grounded.

  I put my jacket on, walked down the street to the café, and ordered a cappuccino. I sat on the outside tables, sipping my coffee and watching the cars pass down Fayette Street. People streamed into the café at regular intervals, grabbing coffee and moving on to their jobs. Life was moving forward.

  The morning sun lifted above the building behind me and bathed Fayette in golden light. I closed my eyes and drank in the warmth, debating whether I felt up to a blueberry muffin.

  o, what do you think?”

  “Cozy little space, man.”

&nbs
p; “You’re jealous, aren’t you?”

  “Nah.”

  “You’re jealous.”

  “You have a huge ass basement, man. You know that?”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “How much did this damn door cost?”

  “Enough to pay for my contractor’s summer vacation back to Greece.”

  “Damn it. You can store gold bullion down here.”

  I leaned against my new octagonal worktable in the center of my basement, admiring the black painted steel door at the base of the stairs. “If gold was all I was protecting, I’d sleep better at night.”

  Edgar shoved his hands in his pocket and nodded. “I might have another magic lock I can dig up for you.”

  “I don’t need any yarn, but thanks.”

  “Oh, I was going to tell you, I have this cat up in Toronto who wants to sell me a genuine vampire skull.”

  “No, Edgar.”

  “I’m thinking about taking a look at it.”

  “Edgar, seriously. No.”

  “He says he had a lab run the tests on the tissues inside the cheekbone, and get this. The tissue is still alive.”

  “Christ Jesus, Edgar.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Knock yourself out.”

  Edgar pulled a box from underneath the coat he had slung over his arm. “So, got you something.”

  “What’s this?”

  He handed a red and green box with a bow to me. “Merry Christmas, man.”

  “Oh shit, Edgar. I didn’t get your gift yet.”

  “No sweat. I just thought maybe this would be a Christmas kind of basement dungeon ritual space warming present, you know?”

  I peeled off the wrapping paper and opened the box to find a slender silver blade with an ebony hilt carved with Celtic knotwork.

  “Is this…?”

  “It belonged to Robert of Argyle.”

  “Robert the Heretic?”

  “Thought that since you were, you know, kind of doing the dark side thing, it might come in handy.”

  I held the blade gently in one hand. The light from the light bulb overhead glistened from its polished silver blade.

  “Is it blooded?”

  “History says he killed sixteen Anglican priests before he was arrested, quartered and drawn.”

  “A darquelle.”

  “See? You’re not as stupid as Wren says you are.”

  “Right.”

  Footfalls stampeded overhead, and Wren’s voice called from down my stairs. “Edgar? Come on, we have thirty minutes.”

  I ushered Edgar up the stairs, closing the vault door behind me with a booming thud. Upstairs, Elle and Eddie ran through my kitchen, rushing dangerously close to my artificial Christmas tree next to the writing desk. I set the darquelle on my mantel beside the little animatronic snowman Aunt Viv mailed to me several years ago.

  Wren was rifling through her purse in a panic. “Oh God, the tickets!”

  Edgar pulled two tickets from his back pocket and waved them in front of his wife. She snatched them with a sharp exhale and kissed him on the cheek.

  “Elle! Eddie! Move your asses!”

  Edgar tapped my shoulder as his children rushed past us. “So, you doing okay?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got a thing tonight. Doing some business.”

  “I don’t mean about your business, man. You. You doing okay since that whole Osterhaus?”

  Wren sidled up next to Edgar, her button eyes peering at me with a softly challenging lift of her brow.

  “I’m fine, guys.”

  One of the kids jammed the horn of the Swains’ Jeep parked out on Amity. I leaned into the door, and spotted Elle smacking Eddie on the head from the back seat, pushing off of the cooler packed into the rear.

  “I think they’re ready for the game.”

  Wren stepped up and gave me a hug. “Thanks for lunch, Dorian.”

  “Hey, this is going to be a regular thing now, you know that right?”

  She rolled her eyes and groaned. “Great, I have to eat your food all the time now? Jesus.”

  She winked at me and hopped out of the front door, screaming something vulgar at her kids.

  Edgar pulled on his coat, then lingered in the foyer, his eyes boring friendly holes in my head. “I got a guy, you know.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Says he heard about a woman in Oregon who was making a servitor when something went wrong. Lost her soul in the process. She might have some information about your situation.”

  “Call me tomorrow. I might want her number.”

  Edgar nodded and held out a hand to shake.

  The Jeep honked at Edgar, and he winced. “All right, man. Take it easy.”

  He turned and stepped through the open door. He waved at someone as he stepped out onto the street. A tall, thin black man pulled off his hat as he turned and stepped onto my porch.

  “Good morning, Mister Lake,” Abe said as he ran a hand through his wooly hair, smiling with a gleaming white bridge of new teeth.

  “How are you feeling, Abe?”

  “Feelin’ good. Just wanted you to know that I got a call from my daughter last night. She says they’re movin’ her to a nice place up in New York.”

  “That’s good news, Abe.”

  “She says someone paid her forward for six months.”

  I shrugged and said, “Merry Christmas, Abe.”

  “I wanted you to know how much I appreciated this. She’s going to have a chance, and it’s because of you. You’re a good man, Mister Lake.”

  I winced and lifted a finger. “No, I’m just trying to do the right thing. But I am most certainly not a good man.”

  Abe looked down to his feet and sniffled.

  “How are the new water heaters working out?” I asked, trying to change the subject. “Any complaints from the residents?”

  “No, sir. They’re all happy with it. I think I saw an ice dam in one of the gutters, though.”

  “Check that out tomorrow, then.”

  “Yes, sir.” He looked up cautiously at my face. “You have a Merry Christmas, Mister Lake.”

  “You too, Abe.”

  I slapped his shoulder and ushered him to the walk. The air was crisp and frigid. The sun was already beginning to set. I needed to hurry.

  After a good hot shower and plenty of time to arrange my wardrobe, I got ready for the party at Druid Hill that night. I chose a modest black on black ensemble, but before I stepped out of the door I pulled a fuzzy Santa cap on my head. A spray of light glistened from the darquelle sitting on my mantel. I admired it for a moment. With a cleansing breath, I turned to the front door, set the security code, locked it behind me, and stepped out into the night.

  I spotted something moving across the street. It seemed small and dark. Probably an alley cat. It was gone before I could see it directly. When I turned to my car, a figure cowered by the door. It moved toward me, and I stepped back, wishing I had my darquelle.

  “Dorian?” the shape rasped.

  “What?”

  The figure stepped into the light of the streetlamp, and I sucked in a breath.

  “Carmen?”

  Her hair was cut to shoulder length, slicing at awkward angles in a state of disarray. Her eyes were sunken, one of them sporting a round bruise and a cut across her cheek. Her lips were dry and cracked.

  “Dorian, I−”

  “What happened to you?” I said with a low, even tone.

  “I’m in trouble, Dorian.” She stood holding herself, tears filling her eyes. “There are people after me.”

  “How’s the baby?” I asked without giving her a chance to wind up her speech.

  She stood stricken for a moment, her eyes narrow and searching before finally dropping to my feet. “Oh. I lost the baby.”

  “Sure you did.”

  “It’s not a joke, Dorian.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  We stood in silence as she struggled to continue her thou
ghts. “I’m in real danger. These people, they’re monsters. I think they might try to kill me.”

  Her eyes erupted into tears as her lip trembled. I glared at the scene being played before me. Her hunch, her broken voice, her whimpering. I was sure that the injuries were real, but the woman was a fraud.

  “There are worse things.”

  “Like what?” she spat with indignation.

  “Selling your soul for an infant that never existed, for one.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “Whose child was it, then? It wasn’t Malosi’s.”

  Her eyes hardened, and she straightened a little.

  I pressed on, “He had that taken care of.” I made a scissoring motion with my fingers.

  She sniffled hard and shook her head. “Think he would have told me.”

  “Yeah. Well, good luck.” I turned to walk around her.

  She grabbed my arm, her eyes long and histrionic, but they lacked the conviction she had mustered when I first set eyes on her.

  “Please, Dorian. I know I lied to you. I know that. And I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry? I sold my soul for you. Sold. My. Soul. And now it’s gone.”

  “Gone?” she asked, her brow wrinkled in confusion. “How?”

  “Osterhaus, of course. I’m damned because of you. So you’ll excuse me if I don’t give two shakes of piss who slits your throat tonight.” I looked down at her hand. “You mind? I’m late for an event.”

  She released my arm with wide eyes, her mouth agape. “Dorian?”

  “Good luck with whatever drama you’ve stumbled into. But I’m done with you.” I turned my back to her and stepped toward my car. I heard full-throated sobbing behind me and shook my head.

  “You knew,” I said without turning back. “You knew you were going to repay your contract.”

  She screamed my name as I stepped into the Audi. I started the car, pulled out onto the street, and drove away. And I never looked back.

  I reached the Druid Hill Club fashionably late. The valets had parked several along the side of the property. More than usual. This party was drawing in all of the irregular attendees. In the run-up to the holidays, it seemed that the Club was receiving a new life. Just like before, perhaps more so, it had become the heart of the secret society of Baltimore.

  The valet gave me a nod as he took my key. He even remembered my name. Inside, I handed my coat to Kim, who didn’t ask for my membership card. She was all smiles, and there was something extra in her look. Something salty and searing. I couldn’t stifle a smile as I walked into the main room of the club. I hadn’t felt desirable in a long time.