The Warlock's Curse

by Hobson, M. K.

  someone did someone else wrong. Gran’dad said the only way to break a curse like that is if both sides forgive each other. Truly and completely.”

  “Forgive each other?” Will said. “Forgive Cowdray?”

  “Truly and completely forgive,” Briar reiterated. “And he’s got to truly and completely forgive you.”

  “Well then,” Will muttered, “I guess I’d better learn to speak Belgian.”

  The table was soon piled with food: chicken and rice soup, stuffed cabbage, beet salad and fried potatoes, and roasted pork, rich savory mounds of it. Before eating, the Gores stood together before the little shrine on the eastern wall—Irene dipping her finger into the olive oil in the lamp and crossing her forehead with it—speaking a low, reverent prayer:

  The poor shall eat and be filled, and they that seek the Lord shall praise Him; their hearts shall live forever and ever.

  And as Will stuffed himself, feeling strength return to him, the last words of the prayer continued to echo in his mind.

  Lord, have mercy. Lord, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.

  After dinner, there was strong Greek coffee and a sweet bread decorated with walnuts that Dr. Gore called christopsomo. But stuffed with food and uncomfortable new knowledge, Will did not feel like further celebration. He pushed himself away from the table without a word. No one tried to stop him.

  He climbed the narrow stairs to return to the bedroom he’d woken up in. But as he came into the room, he realized that something had changed. The room was now very cold. Air was blowing in through the window. The window that had been closed when he’d woken up.

  Something caught Will’s eye. On the pillow of his bed was a handwritten note, stabbed through with a knife. The note bore just one, terrible line:

  Come immediately, and come alone, or Jenny will die. AH.

  Atherton Hart.

  Will trembled with sudden fury. It was just as he had suspected—just as he had known. Jenny had gone to Hart. But how had Hart found him here? How had he gotten in through the Gores’ wardings?

  If Atherton Hart could get in here, anyone could. And even though Will knew leaving the house meant risking another encounter with the warlock assassins, he knew that hiding from them was just forestalling the inevitable. They were going to come after him anyway, eventually. Unless he fled the country. Learned to speak Belgian.

  And he wasn’t going to do that.

  The Gores didn’t deserve to be put in danger by him. Nor Harley, nor Ben. Will couldn’t ask any of them for help—none of them could help him anyway. Whatever lay in his future, he had to face it alone. Worse than alone.

  Ripping the note from the pillow, he left the knife. He had a better blade. It had been given to him by the woman he loved, the woman he’d hurt. He had to help her.

  And if Atherton Hart had done anything to her, Will swore, he would use that blade to slash the man’s throat.

  Will climbed out the window, and was gone.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Rush to Justice

  The creamy white terra-cotta of the office building on Griswold glowed in the cold purple light of late afternoon. And even though it was Christmas day, and the streets were still and deserted, Will knew that the front door would be open.

  He crossed the silent lobby, footsteps echoing. The elevators were not running, so he had to take the stairs. But the meal at the Gores’ had strengthened him; Will’s muscles warmed as he took the steps two at a time.

  The stairs did not bring him to the reception area, but rather to a small hall just off it. The offices had a hushed, deserted feel. The door of Hart’s office stood open, revealing the large silent space beyond.

  The lights were not on; the only illumination came from the afternoon sunlight streaming through the tall windows.

  Atherton Hart sat behind the large mahogany desk. A half-open bottle of whiskey and a revolver sat before him. He stared steadily at Will, not speaking as Will stopped to stand in the doorway. Instead, he poured himself another glass of whiskey, and downed it in a swallow.

  “I should kill you, you son of a bitch,” Hart said.

  “Funny,” Will answered. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

  Hart slammed down the glass. “I’m not the one who hurt her,” he barked. “I’m not the one who—”

  “Where is she?”

  “Do you really think I’d let you see her?” Hart’s lip curled in disgust. “She said it wasn’t you. She swore it wasn’t you. But I don’t believe it.”

  “Then why am I here?”

  “Because I need you,” Hart said. He did not hurry to take the revolver, rather laid his hand on it as casually as if he were picking up a pen. Pulling back the hammer with his thumb, he leveled it at Will. “You’re the only one who can save her.”

  Fists clenched, Will did not move as Hart held the gun on him. And Hart’s aim did not waver as he lifted the receiver on the sleek black enameled desk telephone. He asked the operator for a number in Chicago.

  “Yes, he showed up,” were the first words he spoke. “I’ve got him.” Then, a long pause as Hart listened to the voice on the other end of the line. Grunting acknowledgement, Hart replaced the receiver on the hook and stood.

  “Come on,” he said, gesturing with the gun. “We’ve got a train to catch.”

  Hart kept the gun in the pocket of his cashmere overcoat and pressed it into the small of Will’s back as they walked down Fort Street to Third, where the old Union Depot stood.

  “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” Will made no move to resist Hart, and he did not intend to. Hart knew where Jenny was. For that reason, if for no other, Will needed him. And Hart had not taken the time to search him, so Will still had the razor in his pocket. He had options.

  The heavy sandstone walls of the Union Depot glowed cold and blood-red. They boarded a train bound for Chicago. Hart had purchased a private compartment, and after he had shoved Will into one of the seats, he closed the door and locked it. Then, taking the seat across from Will, he withdrew the gun from his pocket and rested it on his knee, pointed toward him, his finger on the trigger.

  “I’m not going to fight you,” said Will, looking not at the gun but into Hart’s amber eyes. “I will do anything you say if it will help Jenny.”

  Hart snorted. “You lying son-of-a-bitch,” he muttered. “If you wanted to help Jenny, you would have stayed away from her. Kept that thing inside you away from her.”

  “You know?” Will narrowed his eyes. “About Cowdray?”

  “Of course I know,” Hart snapped. “Jenny showed up on my doorstep a week ago, half dead. I know everything you did to her.”

  Will’s heart lurched painfully in his chest. He swallowed hard. He did not want to hear it from this man. He didn’t want to know.

  “Where are you taking me?” he asked finally.

  “I’m taking you to the Consortium,” Hart said. “They want you. If they don’t get you, they’ll hurt her even worse.”

  “Why do they want to hurt her?”

  “They don’t want to hurt her,” Hart spat. “But unless they have you, they’ll have to. They’ll have no choice.”

  “What do you mean they’ll have to? Why will they have to?”

  Hart stared at him in silence, the only sound the rattle of the train swaying over bright steel tracks. Outside, the sun was setting, and long slanting rays made the air golden.

  “You hang around with warlocks,” Hart finally said. “How much do you know about magic?”

  “I don’t want to know anything,” Will said bitterly. Hart hmphed.

  “Well, I’d advise that you learn. And quickly. Because that’s why the Consortium wants you. For your cursed blood. For Aebedel Cowdray.”

  “What would they want with Aebedel Cowdray?”

  Hart just stared at him, hatred in his eyes. He said nothing more.

  “Why are they going to hurt Jenny?” Will asked, after a very long silence.

&nbs
p; He did not think Hart was going to answer, but finally he did.

  “They were supposed to capture you before the full moon,” he said. “The Consortium had men waiting for you. But you weren’t where they thought you’d be.”

  Will looked away, frowning. The sun had finally set, sliding down behind dark hills. The waning moon glowed like a half-smile. “But how could they have known?” he said. “How could they have known to wait for me? No one knew I had inherited the curse. I didn’t even know.”

  “The Consortium has ways of knowing things,” Hart said.

  “Who are they?” Will barked, annoyed by the cryptic statement. “What do they want?”

  “The Consortium wants to make the world a better place,” Hart said flatly, as if quoting a marketing pamphlet. “That’s all you need to know.”

  “That’s not even the tiniest bit of what I need to know!” Will hissed. “Jenny was mixed up with them, and so are you. What do they want with her?”

  “The Consortium needed to raise money, and Jenny was helping them,” Hart said. “And I was helping her.” He paused, his voice softening. “Not that she needed my help. She’s brilliant. I’ve never encountered a mind like hers.”

  Will must have made a sound of anguish at the tenderness in Hart’s voice, for the man looked up, his eyes suddenly becoming hard. “Yes, she’s brilliant. And in the time I have worked with her, I have come to care for her very much. Which is more than you can say.”

  “You don’t know anything,” Will said.

  “I know that you broke her.” Hart’s voice was flat. “Almost broke her. Even you couldn’t break her all the way, thank God. She’s stronger than you, stronger than Cowdray. But you both gave it your best try, didn’t you?”

  Will stared at him, his jaw held so tightly that it ached.

  “When she came to my office after she escaped the hotel, I called a doctor to take care of her physical wounds. And then I called someone else. The Consortium’s magical advisor, a man named Professor Coeus. I wanted to understand what else it was you’d done. You drew charms all over her Body in her own blood. Do you know what they were?”

  “No,” Will said. “I don’t know.”

  “Some were to hold her down, bind her.” Hart spoke the words in a clipped, businesslike tone. “I’m sure those were necessary, because she probably put up a good fight.” His voice grew harsher with every word. “Some of them were to cause her pain. Because causing her pain was apparently very amusing to you.” Now Hart’s breathing began to quicken with fury. “But the rest ... oh, the rest! They were to make her want you. After everything else you did. You worked magic on her to make her believe she wanted it.”

  Will closed his eyes. Anguish screamed between his ears, keening and sharp as the sound of the train’s steel wheels. He couldn’t have. He couldn’t have done that ... to Jenny.

  Hart was silent. When Will opened his eyes again, he saw that Hart’s hand was gripping the gun so tightly that his knuckles were white.

  “I would give this gun to you right now if I thought you’d do the right thing with it,” Hart said softly. “Nothing would give me greater satisfaction than to see your brains splattered on that upholstery behind you. But if you weren’t strong enough to keep Cowdray from doing what he did, then I’m sure you’re not strong enough to do that, either.”

  “Why don’t you do it for me?” Will murmured. In that terrible moment, it was a request, not a question.

  “Because if they can’t use your cursed blood, they’ll use the next best thing.” Hart paused, finger twitching on the trigger. “The blood of your unborn child. Conceived while Cowdray was in your body.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The New Faith Seat of Praise

  They did not speak again, but Will could not have even if he wanted to. He sat with a trembling hand over his mouth, holding in the urge to scream. The world reeled around him, blank and unreal.

  Your unborn child. Conceived while Cowdray was in your body.

  And when they arrived at the Union Depot in Chicago near midnight, Will could barely walk, only shuffle like a drunkard, his whole body leaden and heavy. Hart held his arm with painful firmness, almost having to hold him up as they walked.

  Outside the station, piles of dirty snow were frozen hard in the gutters. At the curb, a black truck painted with the words “Dept. of Police, Oak Lawn” idled. The driver and a passenger sat in the open cab, heavily bundled and muffled against the cold. As Will and Hart approached, one of them got out and opened the back of the truck. Hart shook his hand firmly.

  “Mr. Trahern,” he said.

  “So this is him?” Trahern looked at Will’s face for a long moment. He had pale eyes that made Will feel as if the man was looking past him, through him. “He doesn’t look like much.”

  “He isn’t.” Hart bit the words. “Let’s go.”

  Trahern held the doors as Will and Hart climbed inside. There were two rows of hard wooden seats and a place where shackles could be locked. Trahern climbed in after them, pulled the back doors shut, and knocked three times on the truck’s steel roof. The truck pulled away from the curb.

  Trahern looked at Will. “You didn’t tie his wrists?”

  Hart lifted an eyebrow. “I don’t keep rope in the office.” Then he showed Trahern his revolver. “He didn’t put up a fight.”

  “Where we’re going I don’t like to take chances.” Trahern took a pair of cuffs from his belt. As he leaned in close to snap the icy metal around Will’s wrists, Will smelled raw onions and cheap aftershave.

  “Where are we going?” Will asked, shoulders slumped as he let his bound wrists hang between his knees.

  “Little town,” Trahern said, glancing at Hart. “Outside Chicago.”

  “It’s called Justice,” Hart added softly.

  Justice.

  It sounded familiar, Will thought dully. But perhaps it was only his guilty conscience that made it seem so.

  The drive to Justice took another hour, and the ride was bitterly cold. Staring out the tiny back window, Will could see snow blowing in small hard pellets. Hart held his cashmere overcoat tightly around himself and breathed out clouds of white. When the truck finally stopped, Will’s fingers were stiff and his whole body was numb. When Trahern opened the back doors, they stepped out into deep snow.

  Wherever this place was, it was very far away from any kind of civilization. The truck had parked in the middle of a large area bulldozed flat by heavy gasoline machines that still hulked in the distance, blanketed with snow. Tall black trees ringed the perimeter, cast in sharp relief by the waning moon, hanging low above dark distant hills.

  The men crunched across the snow in the direction of something looming and dark: an enormous hulking building. Clearly, construction on it had only recently been completed—moonlight shone on piles of leftover lumber covered with snow-dusted canvas. But electric light blazed from the building’s windows, powered by lines strung to slender poles that receded into the dark distance. It was strange that there would be electricity all the way out here, in the middle of nowhere. But shifting his eyes, Will saw something even stranger.

  A Tesla Tower—and a broadcasting one, he could tell, judging by the small building that squatted at its base.

  Looking away from the tower, Will brought his eyes back to the main building. The skeleton of a steeple was outlined against the night sky. Atop it was an enormous cross.

  They entered through one of a dozen doors that stretched across the building’s front—clearly designed to allow hundreds of people to pass at once—and came through a long wide room that reminded Will of a theater lobby. At the lobby’s far end, a pair of doors twenty feet tall stood open just slightly, but that was enough to allow the men to pass abreast.

  Beyond the doors was a cavernous space—a sanctuary. So this was a church, as the cross had suggested. But Will had never imagined a church could be so enormous. Thick support columns carved of fine white marble soared into an inky
void. The place smelled of sweet new wood and varnish, candle wax and sacred oil. The main lights were not switched on, and the only illumination came from a handful of electric bulbs set in decorative gold sconces.

  Will and Trahern remained near the large doors while Hart and the man who had been driving the truck crossed the vast space. Will could barely see the group of men they went to speak to, who stood clustered around the distant altar.

  As they waited, something pale and small flitted at the corner of Will’s vision. He looked harder, trying to see what it was. And there it was again, a tiny white form in ruffles and lace, darting between two dim marble columns. Will watched as a small girl, no older than six or seven, leaned slowly out from behind the column where she was hiding. Her skin was fish-belly white, as white as the platinum ringlets that curled wildly around her face. When she saw Will looking at her, she darted back behind the column and did not come out again.

  “What is this place?” Will asked.

  “This is the New Faith Seat of Praise,” Trahern said. “The biggest house of worship ever built in the whole United States. There’s seating for ten thousand in here.”

  Will knit his brow. Who would build a church like this in the middle of nowhere? But then, in a flash, Will remembered where he’d heard of the little town called Justice. It had been in Claire’s room, back in Stockton. On the Teslaphone broadcast.

  Coming to you live, from Justice, Illinois ...

  That explained why there was a broadcasting Tesla Tower outside. But while it answered one question, it raised so many more. Why would Hart bring him here? And why was Brother Phleger—the charismatic Scharfian preacher whose blot-marked face Will had seen on a hundred handbills on a hundred walls around Detroit, on a thousand tiny missionary pamphlets—now walking toward him?

  Brother Phleger was square and heavily built, like a well-tailored wrestler. He wore a warm, heavy coat with a collar of thick fur. As Phleger came near, Trahern seized Will’s arm, drew him close, and held him firm.

  Brother Phleger was strong and good looking, despite the famous sickle-shaped mark that slashed his face from eye to chin. He looked like the kind of man who ate potatoes without salt. He thrust his hand forward.