The Warlock's Curse

by Hobson, M. K.

  “Welcome to Justice, Mr. Edwards,” Phleger said. “I’m glad you have come.”

  “I didn’t have much choice,” Will growled, ignoring Phleger’s outstretched hand and lifting his wrists to show the cuffs. “Where’s Jenny?”

  “Miss Hansen is here, and she is safe and comfortable,” Phleger said. He looked at Trahern. “You can remove the handcuffs, Mr. Trahern. They’re not necessary.”

  “But, Brother—”

  “Just take ‘em off,” Phleger said a bit more roughly, and Trahern hurried to comply.

  “I never do business with a man until I’ve shaked his hand,” Phleger said pointedly, extending his hand again after Trahern had removed the cuffs.

  Will rubbed his wrists, which were cold and raw, but he made no move to extend his hand. “I don’t know that I have any business with you,” he said.

  With a grunt, Phleger reached out and seized Will’s hand, crushing it. He pumped it powerfully as he took a step closer to Will, bringing them face to face.

  “Dolphus Phleger,” he said in a low voice. “And we do have business, Mr. Edwards. Very important business. I would like to explain it to you, if you will give me the chance.”

  Will took a deep breath. He nodded.

  A bright smile lightened Phleger’s face, making the slash across his cheek seem even darker. “Wonderful,” he said. “Come with me to my office. We’ll be more comfortable there.” Then, nodding to Trahern, he turned and began strolling back in the direction from which he’d come. Trahern pushed Will forward, compelling him to walk at Phleger’s side. As they walked, Phleger gestured around himself expansively.

  “Isn’t it glorious, Mr. Edwards? We completed work just before Christmas. I had planned to consecrate it on New Year’s Day, to give good Christian people a higher-minded spectacle than that sensationalist moving-picture garbage Edison Studios is premiering.” He paused, then lowered his voice with reverence. “But I have had a Vision. The Lord has commanded me that it must be consecrated more quickly. The ceremony must take place just two days from now. His will be done.”

  Will looked sidelong at him. “Seems like short notice to get ten thousand people to change their plans,” he said.

  Phleger gave him a warm smile. “Obedience to God’s command is not always convenient.” He pointed upward, toward a vague multicolored smear that seemed to make up most of the far wall. “It’s a shame you cannot see our stained glass. It was all done by Mr. Tiffany’s studio. When the sun shines through that window, it is like bathing in the light of Jesus’ own redemption.”

  “All paid for by Jenny’s money, I suppose?” Will said. “The money she stole from her father? The money Atherton Hart was helping her make into a million?”

  Phleger shook his head, sighed.

  “You don’t understand anything,” he said. “But you will.”

  Phleger’s office was finished to an even finer degree than the rest of the building, but perhaps it just seemed that way because all the lights were on and Will could actually see the room’s rich details. The wood flooring was so new that carpets had not yet been laid upon it, and it smelled of linseed oil and lacquer. A large framed painting of the man Will recognized as Brother Scharfe, founder of the Scharfian sect, hung in a place of honor above a vast desk of carved mahogany.

  Seated behind the desk, engulfed in the enormous leather chair, was the little white-haired girl Will had seen in the sanctuary. Glaring down at the desk, she was tearing papers in half with intense concentration. Trahern shoved Will into one of the large chairs that were arranged before the desk, but the little girl didn’t even look up, just kept tearing the papers slowly, as if liking the sound.

  “Why you little heathen!” Brother Phleger roared, but it was the mock roar of a cartoon lion. He seized her, lifted her, rumpling her white ruffled skirts as he spun her around with rough playfulness. She screamed and tried to bite him, but Phleger just giggled like a naughty boy and began kissing her face all over, with big dramatic smacks. “You little scamp! Those are my notes for the broadcast! I should give you such a tickling!”

  The girl writhed desperately in his clutches, and when she finally broke free she ran across the room. From the safety of that distance, she stuck her tongue out at him, pink eyes filled with hatred.

  “Get out of here,” Trahern growled at her. The girl—whom Will now realized must be “God’s Special Snowflake,” the famous Little Sanctity Snow—kicked him hard in the shin before running out the office door.

  “I bought the little savage off some sharecroppers in Arkansas,” Phleger commented, watching her go. “Haven’t got her quite tamed yet. Damn good on the organ, though.”

  Trahern made a soft noise of inscrutable implication, then went to take a watchful position by the door. Phleger continued to stand for a moment, looking down at Will.

  “Are you hungry, Mr. Edwards?” Phleger asked, voice dripping with concern. “Would you like some hot coffee, perhaps?”

  “No.”

  Phleger nodded approval. “A young man of action. No time for niceties. Good. That’s the kind I like to do business with.”

  Then he went to a very large safe that seemed to take up almost an entire wall. It was as heavy as any bank vault, gleaming black and scrolled with gold. The massive door bore the emblem of a red cross. Laying his hand on the safe, Brother Phleger bowed his head and murmured something—a prayer, Will thought, for he heard the word amen—and then he carefully turned the dial of the safe, shielding the action from Will’s eyes with his large body.

  He reached into the safe and took something out. Sitting at his desk, he placed the object before himself, holding it with two thick fingers on either side, as if he were afraid it might wriggle away. When Will leaned forward to look at it, Phleger made a warning noise and pulled back slightly. Will felt Trahern tense behind him.

  “Do not attempt to touch it, Mr. Edwards,” Phleger warned. “Not yet.”

  “What is it?”

  “This is a snuffbox,” Phleger said. “Do you know what snuff is? Powdered tobacco. Our forefathers used to take it in pinches. Nasty stuff. But the snuff is not what interests us. Rather, it is the box itself.”

  He drew in a long breath, stroking the box’s top with his thumb.

  “It really is a beautiful little thing,” he said. “Crafted in the seventeenth century, chased silver. Very nice, as snuffboxes go. But it is more than an object of antique fascination, Mr. Edwards. Much more.”

  “You sure use a lot of words for someone who wants to get down to business,” Will growled.

  Phleger’s eyes widened, but he seemed to take pleasure in Will’s curtness. He smiled. “Then I will speak more plain.” His voice dropped by one dark shade. “This box has hell inside it, Mr. Edwards. An eternal hell of tormented souls. And I want you to help me unlock it.”

  Will stared at him.

  “It is, of course, a synthetic hell,” Phleger commented. “Though I don’t suppose that matters to the poor souls who have been trapped inside it for the past two hundred and twenty years—more than that, really, because within this unholy realm, each year seems ten thousand. It was created by Aebedel Cowdray, the warlock whose spirit now curses your body. He stole the souls of living men and consigned them to this hell so that their unimaginable suffering could fuel his damned practice of sangrimancy. It is Cowdray’s dark masterwork, a monstrous magical artifact of incredible power. And its power has been building, untapped, since Cowdray’s death.

  “The box has been secretly guarded since the late seventeenth century by a parish in Massachusetts, an admirably observant sect. They always prayed that they might find a way to free the tortured souls within, but the dark magic Cowdray used to create it was an impenetrable mystery.” Phleger paused. “We recently absorbed this church into our own Scharfian Fellowship, and the box came into our possession. We redoubled the efforts to discover how the artifact could be cleansed of its evil. And, praise the Lord, he sent us help.”
/>   Here, he made a gesture to Trahern.

  “I find that I really would like some coffee,” he said. “And bring some for Mr. Edwards as well. He looks pale.”

  As Trahern was opening the door, Phleger added, “Oh, and you might bring the other thing we discussed. I believe this is a good time for it.”

  When Trahern was gone, Brother Phleger leaned further over the desk, his large body hulking over the snuffbox. Clasping his hands together, he rested his forehead on them in an attitude of prayer.

  “Yes, the Lord sent us help. Help in the form of a man—a creature of sin who has spent his entire scholarly career studying the magical history of Aebedel Cowdray. But good works may be the path to Grace! He is the only one who knows the secret of how the box may be unlocked. How the eternal suffering of the poor souls within might be ended.” Phleger lifted his eyes, peering at Will over his clasped hands. “He is called Professor Coeus. He told us that we must find you—a Kendall descendent who labored under Cowdray’s curse. He said we must take your blood while the curse was active, during the five days surrounding the full moon, for your blood could be used to force Cowdray’s spirit to unlock the snuffbox.”

  “But you didn’t find me,” said Will softly. “And now it’s almost a whole month until the moon is full again.” His stomach turned at the thought of Cowdray returning, seizing control of his body.

  Phleger shook his head regretfully. “No, we did not find you. You did rather ruin our plans, running off the way you did—” He stopped abruptly, his face becoming grave as he seemed to remember how much more Will had ruined. “But the Lord works in mysterious ways. For He has blessed you with an extraordinary—a miraculous—ability. You can channel Cowdray’s power even when the moon is not full. You used it to banish an entire Trine of Agency warlocks, I am told.”

  “I don’t know how I did that,” Will said in a dull voice.

  “It doesn’t matter if you know it or not,” Phleger said. “Professor Coeus knows. He knows everything. He will tell us what we must do. He will be here in the morning.”

  There was a long silence, during which Trahern returned with a tray bearing two cups of steaming coffee. He was not alone. Two people followed him. Hart—and Jenny.

  As Trahern set down the coffee, Will had to clutch the sides of the chair to keep from leaping to his feet.

  Jenny clung to Hart’s arm, pressing herself against him. She looked tiny, snuggled deeply into her fur coat. Her face was set with strange bitterness.

  “Jenny,” he breathed, her name catching in his throat. But she did not look at him.

  “I thought you might like to say hello,” Phleger said. “As I have promised you, she is safe and well. And she agrees with our plan. Don’t you, Jenny?”

  “They can help Claire, William,” she said, her voice hard and distant. “That’s all I ever wanted to do.”

  “How can unlocking the snuffbox possibly help Claire?” Will turned his eyes back to Phleger, not able to bear the pain of looking at Jenny any longer. “And what about the million dollars Jenny was raising, why did you—”

  “By sacrificing the unholy works of this fiend upon the altar of our faith, the Lord will reward us with more righteous power than all Satan’s forces combined!” Phleger interjected loudly, rapturously. He turned moist eyes onto Jenny. “Imagine it, dear child. All the poor suffering victims of the Black Flu—healed in an instant. Your sister Claire made healthy and whole. We can do it, if this young man will help us. Don’t you think he should?”

  Jenny did not answer, rather she just made a sound. A strange sound, a throaty growl. Hart laid a comforting hand over hers.

  “She’s still very tired,” Phleger said, deep compassion making his voice sound oily. “Take her out, Mr. Hart. She needs to rest.”

  When they were gone, Will did leap out of his chair, a cry of rage on his lips. Trahern crossed the room in two steps, grabbing Will’s arm and twisting it behind his back. Phleger watched Will calmly.

  “Hart said that if I didn’t help you’d hurt Jenny,” Will breathed, gasping as Trahern pushed his arm higher. “How does that fit in with this plan of Christian charity you’ve outlined?”

  Phleger’s face became thoughtful, and sad. “Even you must be able to see, Mr. Edwards, that one little life cannot be privileged over the lives of so many who now suffer. Yes, we could use the child in Jenny’s body. But hurting her—forcing her—would be monstrous. That doesn’t mean, however, that we would refuse if she ... offered herself. She loves her sister. And just as our Lord Jesus Christ, the lamb of God, offered himself as an all-sufficient sacrifice for the redemption of mankind’s sins—”

  Will cut off the words with a horrible noise, a strangled cry of pain and anguish.

  “Do not ask her to make that choice,” Phleger concluded. “Do not give her that cross to bear. Bear it for her. You owe her that much.”

  Will released a long breath, his body slumping in defeat. As he did, Trahern loosened the grip on his arm.

  Phleger leaned back, drawing the box closer to him as he did. He closed his eyes in an attitude of reverie. “Sometimes I can feel the souls inside it, screaming. This box is an unholy evil that must be purged. It is a crime of unimaginable vastness that must be avenged.” He opened his eyes quickly, and fixed Will with a piercing gaze. “Help us, Mr. Edwards. Help us in this great holy crusade. Help Jenny’s sister, and all of those like her. Help the tormented souls in that box obtain their release from the anguish they’ve labored under for so many countless aeons.”

  When Will said nothing, Phleger stood and put the box back in the safe. He closed the heavy steel door, turned the dial. Then he picked up his cup of coffee and sipped at it delicately.

  “Take some time to pray on it, Mr. Edwards,” he said, warming his hands with the cup. “Professor Coeus will be here in the morning. We will talk more then.”

  After this interview, Trahern escorted Will to a “cell”—a word he clearly used in its penitentiary rather than religious sense—and locked him in. The cell reminded Will of Claire’s room at the asylum—bare, sparse and clinical. Just as in Claire’s room, there was a Teslaphone, playing soft organ music, but it was installed behind a wooden grate in the wall, and could not be turned off.

  The room contained few furnishings—little more than a narrow bed and a simple pine desk and chair. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Will rested his face in his hands. His face felt very hot, and he rubbed it slowly.

  Phleger told a good story. A good story, told in the smooth persuasive language of a preacher. But applying his rigorous scientific mind to what Phleger had said, Will began to see all the holes, and all the questions he wished he’d asked piled on top of each other. Hart had said that the Consortium had intended to capture him on the night of the full moon ... but that would mean they’d known he would inherit the curse. And how could they have possibly known that? Were they just going to kidnap him on the off chance that he had? That didn’t seem like much of a goddamn plan.

  And furthermore, if their intentions were so Christian and just, why not just ask him? Why hadn’t they come to him before the full moon and presented their case? Why had they waited? And what about the million dollars Jenny was trying to raise for them? Phleger had never answered his question about that.

  Hissing frustration through his teeth, Will rolled back onto the narrow bed, flinging his arm over his eyes. As he did, something pressed against his leg. Feeling the pockets of his trousers, he remembered that no one had thought to search him. They had not taken his razor. That was good, Will thought. But what could he do with it? While the thought of slashing Trahern’s face—or better, Hart’s—gave him a kind of savage pleasure, he realized that even if he managed to escape it would do him no good. They had Jenny, and if he was gone, they’d use her, just as Phleger had said. Ask her to sacrifice herself for her sister, and for the greatest good. Having just experienced Phleger’s overpowering rhetorical skills, Will had little doubt the preacher c
ould persuade her. Make her think it was her idea. He wouldn’t force her, no. But he would make her agree.

  There was something else in his pocket as well, he realized. The little purple velvet box. Clicking it open, he stared at the shining silver dollar. Jenny had looked so small, clinging to Hart’s arm.

  A key scraped in the lock. Will sat up, closing his hand quickly, hiding the box as the door jerked open. Trahern looked at Will up and down, frowning.

  “Yes, he’s awake,” said Trahern, to someone behind him. “But I don’t think Brother Phleger would like it.”

  “I don’t care what Brother Phleger likes.” Jenny’s voice was harsher than Will had ever heard it—harsher even than when she’d threatened Dr. Smyth at the asylum. “He may be your boss, Trahern, but I’m the one paying your salary. Don’t forget it.”

  The steel edge to her voice was sufficient to make Trahern redden and step back. And then Jenny came briskly into the room, coming to stand just near the door, which Trahern left half open. She stood with her hands clasped sternly beneath her breastbone, and Will hardly recognized her.

  She was beautiful, of course, beautiful as she’d always been—but it was as if the soft, sweet girl he’d known had been replaced with a woman carved of stone. She had cut off all her loose edges. Anything untucked, unsmoothed, had been restrained with perfect severity. Even the loose curl that had always fascinated him was firmly pinned back, as tightly as if it were being punished.

  She looked around the room angrily, as if she too were reminded of Claire’s prison. She frowned at the Teslaphone, at the weak strains of silky organ music.

  “I have to tell you what happened,” she said crisply, as if delivering a report. “There’s a lot you should know. Maybe it can help you. Cowdray asked me things. He asked me about you, first. He asked me about your family, and I told him. I told him everything he wanted to know.”