The Warlock's Curse

by Hobson, M. K.

  I’m sick. It was the only explanation. He thought about the way the Exunge had slithered and burrowed under Selvaggi’s skin. What was wrong with him? Why was he hearing voices in his head? He would ask Ben. Ben would know.

  Climbing out of bed, he moved quietly across the room and into the hall. Ben would know why he was hearing voices. Ben would know what was wrong with him. As he walked past the door to Jenny’s bedroom, he saw that it was half open.

  He slowly pushed it open, careful not to make a sound.

  She was very beautiful when she slept.

  BEAUTIFUL AND HELPLESS AND AT YOUR MERCY.

  He cradled his head. The voice again, the goddamn voice. He forced himself to look away and in doing so, saw something else. Jenny’s calfskin grip. Seizing it, he fled from the room as if in a fever.

  He carried the grip to the breakfast nook and sat down. It was secured with a small lock, but he didn’t care about that. Using the sharp point of a kitchen knife, he jimmied it open, ruining it.

  He pulled out the papers and spread them on the table. There were sheaves and sheaves of notes on his patent, drafts of the filing marked up with comments and corrections in a fine lawyerly script. Will frowned. It had to be Atherton Hart’s writing. At least there was nothing incriminating there, no little love notes, no hearts or flowers or rhyming couplets. Even so, it didn’t make Will feel much better.

  Setting these aside, he got down to some more interesting documents. Investment records. When Jenny had said she had deposited the gold certificates, he’d thought she’d meant in a bank. But instead, the receipts were from Hart Financial, and they indicated that all of the money had been invested in a bewildering tangle of short-term options on the Detroit Stock Exchange. Will had no idea what any of it meant, but most of the investment orders were accompanied by more notes, this time in Jenny’s fine strong hand—intricate calculations and equations, with notations about hedge parameters, velocity and put-call parities. Will remembered how Jenny hadcorrected the equation on the board when they’d come to Detroit. Her little hand sliding across the slate, rubbing out the chalk. Will was good at mathematics, but these equations defied his understanding; he set these aside as well.

  He recognized the paper that sat on top of the next bundle. It was the telegram the landlady had given him, removed from its envelope and folded smooth.

  Received your message. Hart has been informed of your arrival. Waste no time. Hetty.

  The letters bundled with this telegram were from a Brooklyn address, scribbled on cheap pieces of scrap paper. They were all signed Hetty Green.

  Will sat back in his seat, stunned. Even he knew who Hetty Green was. She was the richest woman in America, a cutthroat financier in New York City and a famous miser. Will scanned the letters. They were all notes of friendly encouragement from an old, wise woman to a young, ambitious one. He didn’t have Jenny’s letters, but he could tell from Mrs. Green’s replies that she must have written about investing. One sentence caught Will’s eye:

  If you are looking to parlay a hundred thousand dollars into a million in the space of a few weeks, I am afraid I cannot offer you any words of advice. I have always been content with six percent interest, steady over time. That is all a Christian woman should expect.

  Will stared at the paper. A million dollars? What could Jenny be trying to do that required a million dollars? Briar’s words came back to him.

  Money makes people do terrible things.

  He sorted through the papers more quickly now, anxiety rising. He was looking particularly for anything about the Consortium that Jenny had spoken of, the organization that she had used to scare Dr. Smyth. But there was nothing in any of the papers, nothing at all.

  What he did find, at the very bottom of the pile, was their marriage license. And with it, the envelope that he had glimpsed in her purse when they were in San Francisco. It had the logo of the Hansen Timber Company in the top left-hand corner. He unfolded it and read the contents:

  Dear Mr. Sawtelle:

  I am pleased to inform you that my daughter, Jennifer Elaine Hansen, has married Mr. William Edwards. I have known Mrs. Emily Edwards since childhood, and I consider her my oldest and dearest friend. I am overjoyed that my daughter has chosen to marry her youngest son, and I wish to give the newlyweds every comfort and luxury as they begin their new life together. To this end, I direct you to immediately disburse to her $100,000, the entire balance of the emergency fund of cash you hold on my account.

  My apologies for not being able to arrange this with you personally, but matters of immediate concern require my presence away from San Francisco over the Thanksgiving holiday.

  I remain respectfully yours,

  Mr. Dagmar Hansen, President

  Hansen Timber Company

  Will stared at the signature on the letter. It was a reasonable facsimile of Mr. Hansen’s signature. But he knew it had to be just that.

  A facsimile.

  A fake.

  That’s why Jenny had been so panicked in San Francisco.

  She hadn’t gotten the money from an inheritance or a trust. She’d stolen it. She’d embezzled it from her father. The marriage license had been a pretense, but not of the kind she’d said.

  “What are you doing?” Jenny’s voice came from behind him. She was dressed in a long white nightgown trimmed with soft lace. Her hair streamed around her shoulders. She stared at him.

  He did not speak, only held up the letter. It took her a moment to realize what he was holding, but then she saw the calfskin grip at Will’s feet. First she reddened, then she went deadly pale. Flying across the room, she snatched it out of his hand furiously.

  “How dare you go through my papers!”

  “How dare you mix me up in this swindle!” Will jumped to his feet, fury flaring in response.

  “You were happy enough to be mixed up in it when it meant you could get to Detroit!” Jenny snapped. “And it’s not a swindle. I do have an inheritance waiting for me, and that $100,000 is only a patch on it. But not even the crookedest lawyer on earth could have gotten that for us—it’s sewn up tighter than a drum. So I had to ... borrow it another way.”

  “Borrow it! Jenny, you stole it!”

  “I borrowed it!” Jenny stomped her foot. “I am going to pay him back every penny, with handsome interest!”

  “Is that what all this is?” Will gestured to the financial papers on the table. “All of these investments?”

  “I am going to make a million dollars,” Jenny hissed. “I have to, and this is the only way I can do it.”

  “For what, Jenny?” Will advanced on her, cold rage rising in him. The voice was screaming, just as it had in his dream, joyous and cruel. “What is the Consortium? Goddamn it, tell me!”

  “I can’t!” Jenny cried. “William, I can’t! If I do—”

  “Tell me!” he yelled, seizing her by the arms and shaking her. Jenny wrenched away from him.

  “Don’t you touch me, William Edwards!” She staggered across the room. Falling against the bookshelf, she seized a heavy bookend and pressed herself back into a corner, brandishing it.

  “What about Atherton Hart, Jenny?” Will spoke in a low voice as he crossed the room toward her. “I know about you sneaking off to see him every day.”

  Jenny looked at him, her knuckles white around the bookend. “What are you talking about?”

  “I followed you,” Will said softly. She was afraid of him, he saw. Why did that give him so much pleasure? “I saw things.”

  “You didn’t see anything because there wasn’t anything to see!” she screeched. “He’s my financial agent. Recommended to me— “

  “By Hetty Green,” Will completed the sentence. “An old miser you’ve been writing schoolgirl mash notes to. Even she thinks you’re a fool trying to make a million dollars out of a hundred thousand.

  And for what, Jenny?” He was close to her now, towering over her. “What is the Consortium?”

  “Stop ask
ing me that,” she said, voice trembling. “You have no right.”

  “I have every right,” Will sneered, seizing the bookend out of her hand and throwing it to the ground. It landed with a heavy thud, denting the beautifully polished hardwood floor. “I’m your husband, remember?”

  “You’re a stupid bumpkin I used to get what I wanted!” Jenny darted past him, quick as a fish. She ran across the living room and down the hall, seizing the knob of her bedroom door. “You’re not even a business partner! You’re a sneaking, two-faced son-of-a-bitch! I got you what you wanted. I paid your way here. Now leave me alone!”

  She slammed her bedroom door and Will heard it lock. Behind the door, he could hear her sink to the floor, sobbing. He went to the door and laid his forehead against it. He felt spent and remorseful.

  “Jenny,” he began.

  “Leave me alone!” she screamed through the wood.

  “Jenny, I’m sorry. I’m ... I’m worried about you.”

  “Don’t worry about me.” Jenny’s voice trembled. “I can take care of myself.”

  Will stood there listening to her cry for a long time. Then he went back and gathered up her papers and put them back into the calfskin grip. As he did, a tiny slip of paper fluttered to the floor. Picking it up, Will saw that it was the paper from the fortune cookie that she’d gotten at the chop suey restaurant.

  Loss is the crucible of the spirit.

  Tucking it inside with the other papers, Will closed the grip and left it outside Jenny’s bedroom door.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Nikola Tesla

  FULL MOON

  Dear Will:

  I will arrive in Detroit at 6:15 P.M. on December 16. Please meet me at the Michigan Central Depot, under the clock tower, without fail.

  It’ll all come out all right.

  Your brother always,

  Ben

  When Will woke the next morning, Jenny was gone, the calfskin grip gone with her.

  GONE, GONE, GONE. The voice—now familiar and pervasive, hardly separable from his own thoughts anymore—echoed mockingly. AND YOU LET HER GET AWAY.

  “Mr. Tesla has taken a sudden interest in you,” said Grig as they were walking to work. He spoke with stiff formality, as if Will was a stranger, but there was concern in his eyes. Will didn’t know why Grig was concerned about him, except perhaps it was that he hadn’t shaved, even though he did have the straight razor in his pocket. He had started to shave that morning, but then he had been more fascinated by the gleam of the metal. It was a beautiful blade. Jenny had bought it for him.

  WHERE DID SHE GO? SHE PROBABLY WENT TO MEET THAT HANDSOME MAN.

  “No she didn’t,” Will muttered to the voice. “She said it was just business.”

  THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID ABOUT YOU, TOO. AND THEN SHE KISSED YOU. SHE WAS LYING TO YOU, MOONCALF. DON’T YOU KNOW THAT?

  No, I kissed her,” Will said, confused. Then he realized that Grig was looking at him and the voice in his head laughed, and Will was silent.

  Grig did not speak again until they were in Building Three, and Will had slumped into his chair, staring down at the papers on his desk. “Mr. Tesla is now very interested in having you reconstruct your Otherwhere Flume for his review. What did you say it would take you, two weeks?”

  WHAT DO YOU THINK THEY ARE DOING RIGHT NOW? CAN’T YOU JUST IMAGINE? WHAT KINDS OF SOUNDS IS SHE MAKING?

  “I don’t need two weeks,” Will said dully. He felt for the straight razor in his pocket, as if to reassure himself that it was still there.

  If Tesla wanted the Flume, he’d build it for him. To hell with Jenny. To hell with that deceitful, sneaking, lying ...

  Jumping to his feet, Will began gathering parts from the storage bins around Building Three. Throwing these together on a table he began working furiously. The ferocity of his efforts didn’t silence the voice—nothing did—but at least it gave him something to think about other than what it was saying.

  CAN’T YOU JUST IMAGINE, MOONCALF? THE TWO OF THEM NAKED, HIS HAND MOVING UP HER THIGH—

  “Shut up!” Will shrieked. The other apprentices looked up at Will’s outburst. But it was Court who finally came over.

  “Hey, Will,” he said softly. “Are you all right?”

  “It’s all your fault,” Will growled at Court, low this time. “You did this. You made me sick, with all your stories about witches and cabals. Why did you tell me about those things? Terrible things that can’t be undone!”

  Then he turned furiously back to his work. He felt, rather than saw, Court back away. He felt, rather than saw, Court cross the floor of Building Three to go talk to Grig.

  “Will,” Grig’s voice interrupted Will’s work a few minutes later. “Court says you’re sick. Perhaps you should rest a bit.”

  Taking a deep breath, Will lifted his head. He made his face smooth and pleasant. When he spoke, it was in a completely normal voice.

  “Gee, Grig, I don’t know what Court means by that,” he said. “I don’t feel sick at all.” He gestured to the work in front of him. “And look, I’m making swell progress.”

  Grig looked down at the work spread on the table before Will. His brow knit with uncertainty. “Are you sure? You’ve been behaving very strangely—”

  “I’m just swell, Grig,” Will interrupted, smiling so hard it made his cheeks ache. “It’ll all come out all right.”

  By late afternoon, Will had completed the new Otherwhere Flume. It was a day of unbroken and intense effort, his fingers flying with greater dexterity than he’d ever imagined them capable of, their accuracy and swiftness seeming almost unnatural. When he was done he went to Grig’s desk and set the Flume down before him with a thump.

  “Done,” he barked. Grig looked up at him slowly, then at the Flume. It had been built to Will’s new specifications, and was far more elegant and impressive than his cigar-box prototype.

  “I will call Mr. Tesla and let him know,” said Grig softly.

  Will said nothing in reply, just turned on his heel and returned to his desk. He threw himself down on his chair. But something was missing. Rising, he went to Roher’s empty desk. He wheeled Roher’s chair to his desk, shoving his own chair aside. Then he said down and started rocking back and forth.

  Squeaking.

  Yes. That was better.

  Mr. Tesla arrived about an hour later.

  When he arrived in Building Three, everyone leapt to their feet. All the other apprentices stood stock-straight, some hastily slicking back their hair, others straightening their ties or tucking in their shirts. But Will just continued rocking back and forth in his chair.

  Will and Jenny Edwards, sitting in a tree ...

  Nikola Tesla was in his early fifties. He was very tall and trim, and every article of his clothing was as crisp and precise as a wiring diagram. His hair was templed with gray and he wore a small, neatly groomed moustache. He did not even glance at the other apprentices, but walked straight to Will’s desk, Grig at his elbow.

  “I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Edwards.” His voice was soft and melodic, spiced with the sounds of the Black Sea. “I am glad that you wrote to me about Mr. Roher. There is no greater tragedy than a brilliant young mind wasted in debauchery. You clearly understand the vital importance of discipline and focus.” He paused, scrutinizing Will with clear, blue-gray eyes. “You will go far here at Tesla Industries.”

  “I doubt it.” Will smiled up at him. Tesla’s brows lifted with surprise. Grig hurriedly placed Will’s newly-built Otherwhere Flume on the desk before him.

  “Here it is, Mr. Tesla,” he said.

  Tesla did not reach for the device, nor did he do anything but look at it.

  “Grig says that you have somehow overcome the Connection Drop Problem,” he said. “I am eager to understand how.”

  Will pushed the Otherwhere Flume closer to him, and said with supreme indifference:

  “Figure it out for yourself. It’s all right there.”

  “Mr. Ed
wards!” Grig gasped, but Tesla lifted a fine-boned hand to silence him. Then he reached into his pocket and withdrew a pristine white handkerchief. Unfolding it, he used it to pick up the device. He turned it over and over, slowly. He stared at it for a long time, his eyes luminescent.

  “Yes,” he murmured finally. “Yes, I see. Of course. It makes perfect sense.”

  “Does it?” Will said. “That’s good. I’m glad something does.”

  Then Will stood up and walked out of the door of Building Three, not even looking back to meet the astonished gazes that followed him.

  He walked past the gatehouse toward Grand River Avenue, pulling his coat tight around him. Winter twilight was gathering cold and purple. He put his head down against the frigid wind. He walked faster.

  He was supposed to meet Ben at the Michigan Central Depot. The Michigan Central Depot was right across the street from the Hotel Acheron. The hotel where people didn’t care if you screamed.

  Will walked downtown. He needed to walk. It was the only thing keeping him from flying into a million pieces. But when his feet stopped, he saw that they had carried him someplace unexpected. They had carried him, as unswerving as metal filings to a magnet, down Griswold Street, to the tall white building in the financial district where Atherton Hart’s offices were.

  He pushed open the brass and glass door. Steam heat enveloped him. He got in the elevator, and let the elevator man take him all the way to the top, to the 23rd floor.

  The offices of Hart Financial occupied the entire penthouse. The silken carpets were brilliantly colored, the wood paneling dark and polished to a high gloss. Will approached the massive reception desk, behind which sat a neatly dressed receptionist. She looked up with a pleasant smile as he approached, but when she saw his face, her smile vanished abruptly.

  “Hello,” Will said to her. “I’m looking for my wife.”

  The receptionist blinked at him. “Excuse me,” she said. “I’m sorry, but who are you looking for?”

  “My wife,” Will repeated. “Her name is Mrs. William Edwards.”