by J. P. Sloan
“Do tell.”
“You heard of Jerome Durning, of course?”
I shook my head.
“Seventh District? He’s your Representative, for Chrissakes.”
I snapped my fingers. “Right. What about him?”
“Monday morning, he’s announcing his bid for re-elect in two years.”
“Not exactly a crack of thunder across the sky, is it?”
Julian leaned forward, pointing toward the front of the tavern. “He’s announcing it from just outside those windows. Sullivan will be there. A couple from the city council. TV cameras, print. You’re following me, right?”
I reached over and lay a hand on Julian’s shoulder. “I take back everything. You’re a genius, and I love you.”
He snickered and tapped my hand. “Just tell me you’ll be here.”
“On my life, I’ll be here.”
As I moved for the hall, the package cradled in my arm, he added, “And for God’s sake, bring Francesca.”
I carried my package back out to the front bar. Ben gave me a stern look and pointed at the back bar bottles. I ignored him and settled onto a bar stool to open the package. It had no name on the return address, which was in New York City.
As I tore off the paper and opened the innocuous black cardboard box within, I found a shiny new bottle of Gideon Reserva sherry within. My fingertips chilled. I knew this sherry. I’d seen it several times in my past, but not for a good decade-and-change.
Not since Emil died.
This was his preferred spirit. Hell, it was all he drank, nursing it out of his cloudy little glass all hours of the night as he pored over some new acquisition for his Library. Holding that bottle in my hand, I could practically smell the nutty aroma, mingled with the rancid cigarette smoke that clung to his clothes. The musty bouquet of old manuscripts and moldy pages in age-cracked leather bindings. The hints of curry from the restaurant down the lane and the ever-effusive head of ale from the tavern below us.
This package was a message.
I inspected the inside of the wrapping and discovered a tiny white card with inked calligraphy.
A GIFT TO CELEBRATE OUR TEACHER. I GREATLY DESIRE TO MEET YOU. LE REYNARDIN, SATURDAY, 1PM. I’LL SAVE A TABLE. ~JEAN CLEMENT
I set the bottle of sherry gently on the bar and stared at the card.
Our teacher?
Ben called from the other end of the bar, “Taking a break from scotch?”
I shook my head slowly.
I was familiar with Le Reynardin. My father used to make business lunches at that restaurant. It was one of Manhattan’s top destinations for French cuisine, and a notorious den for soused businessmen and lawyers killing time between acts of ill conscience.
And now I was invited to one such “business” lunch, though I had zero clue what sort of business another student of Emil Desiderio would have with me. Before I came along, Emil was a world-renown Netherworker. Which meant, by force of reason, this Jean Clement studied under Emil during his less savory years.
My naked curiosity prodded me to make this sudden appointment on Saturday, though my recently cultivated sense of self-preservation screamed for me to give this individual as wide a berth as was physically possible.
Well, shit. When had I ever passed up a chance to completely screw myself?
s my cab wound up Seventh Avenue, I took in the ever-changing streets of New York. It was late Spring, and the weather had warmed enough for folk to shed their coats. Le Reynardin looked busy for a Saturday. This would be a very public meeting, and that suited me just fine.
I poked my head inside the bronze and glass door, and was greeted almost immediately by a girl in a black necktie and vest.
“Mister Lake? Dorian Lake?”
I paused and looked around at the other customers hovering around the hostess station. Eyes swiveled to me, then quickly away. I barely rated notice here. Again, that suited me.
I gave the hostess a nod, and she snapped her arms to her side with a rifle-shot of a grin.
“Mr. Clement is expecting you, if you’ll follow me?” She actually pronounced it “monsieur,” which meant this hostess was either incredibly pedantic, or Monsieur Clement was a regular here. My money was on the latter. She led me around tables and bustling wait staff until we reached a row of booths set within brick arches.
A gray-suited man with a mop of salt-and-pepper hair combed directly back over his high brows stood up with a genial grin. The hostess paused a half-second before turning back for the front of the restaurant, leaving me alone with whom I assumed was Jean Clement. He was remarkably tall, not strictly in a physical sense but also in an odd manner of spine-straightened gravitas that towered over me. His skin was a shade toward olive, his features well-manicured. Dapper son of a bitch.
“Dorian Lake,” he declared with a smile full of bleached-white teeth. “I am so happy to make your acquaintance, at last.”
His voice was generously seasoned with the cracked peppercorns of a French accent, but not so much that his words didn’t come off without a fine spit-polish. He extended his hand, and as I shook it he gestured quickly to his booth. As we sat, he reached immediately for the salt shaker on the table, tossed half a dash into his palm, and rubbed it into his hands briefly.
“Jean Clement, I presume,” I finally replied.
He lingered as he swept the fallen salt from the table. “I would apologize for this impolite gesture, but I believe that people such as we are beyond facile ploys for pleasantry.”
I offered a nod and pulled my sachet of salt out of my pocket, wiggling it in the air just beside my ear.
Clement laughed and snatched a glass of water to take a long sip as his eyes took me in.
I cleared my hands, pocketed my sachet, and leaned forward. “I got the sherry, obviously.”
“The old man reeked of that swill.”
“It is dreadful, isn’t it? So, you knew Emil during his Netherworking days?”
Clement folded his fingers. “Most people did. You appear to be the sole exception.” Before I could respond, he added, “Emil’s associates, at least those still alive, are all familiar with his Magnum Opus.”
I sneered. “His Magnum Opus, huh? Crap. Guess I belly-flopped that one.”
“In what way, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Well, I don’t know. I’m not exactly a world-famous practitioner, some Great High Most Superlative or anything. I figure I’m probably as far from Emil’s standards as he could have imagined.”
Clement’s smile drifted. “I can’t agree with that. You were meant to be his compass. His chance for redemption. A legacy of something beyond Netherwork. The reason he turned his back on the rest of us who had devoted our lives to his tutelage. You were his soul, Mister Lake.”
“Now I feel like a total jackass.”
“You shouldn’t. It was Emil’s choice.”
We sat in awkward silence for a moment.
I finally asked, “What’s your practice?”
“I’m largely retired, at this point. I made a living through international brokerage during the nineties, but I found myself… conflicted.”
“International brokerage? I assume we’re not talking about light sweet crude or pork bellies, here.”
With a smirk, he replied, “I am intermittently involved with a consortium of practitioners who refer to themselves as the Free Market. We’ve found our means to trade with the Old World in recent years. Despite their best efforts, the Presidium hasn’t completely sealed our ports, Mister Lake. The old cabals still hunger for access. In my years I’ve amassed a gallery of items unique and relevant to the Craft. I fill my hours tending to them.”
“You’re a Collector?”
“More of an avocation. I find it suits my appetite for calm.”
“So, toward sending a wrecking ball through these facile pleasantries,” I offered, “Why have you summoned me here?”
This brought what sounded like a genuine chu
ckle out of Clement, and he unfolded his fingers.
“I appreciate that. Fine, let us deal directly then. Emil bequeathed to you a compendium of his rare texts. I would like to purchase them from you.”
I smiled and leaned back in my chair. “Emil’s Library. That’s what this is about?”
“Several of these texts have significant sentimental value to me.”
“Twenty-two.”
He blinked and eased forward. “Thousand?”
“No, you’re number twenty-two. The twenty-second person to try and buy the Library off me. And for the record, it’s way more valuable than twenty-two thousand dollars.”
“Agreed, which is why I’m prepared to add a zero to the end of that figure.”
I hung my head and laughed.
“Four hundred, then,” he prodded.
“Why do you want Emil’s Library?”
“As I said, I’ve spent hours upon hours with these books. They have particular value for me.”
I waved a hand. “I thought we were cutting the crap, here?”
“So be it. That Library represents the single most valuable collection of rare texts not in the possession of an affiliated organization or cabal. ‘Rare’ being something of an understatement.”
“Agreed.”
“They deserve to be used, not stored away under lock and key.”
I sneered. “I beg to differ. The knowledge in those books is unmitigated evil. Nothing good comes from that Library.”
“Good, Mister Lake? That’s something of an artificial dictum, don’t you think? How would you define ‘good,’ beyond that which you find benefits the self?”
“Well, that’s a whole other conversation I think… but the answer remains no.”
Clement leaned back in his chair, a smirk lifting onto his face.
“I can tell I can’t tempt you with a higher dollar figure. And you seem reluctant to discuss the true, intangible value of these texts. Then perhaps we should discuss Emil?”
I reached for the water. “Okay, then. How did he find you?”
“To the contrary,” Clement replied while waving for the server. “I found him. He was legendary. Many dreamed of being accepted as his pupil.”
The server arrived, and Clement ordered wine for the table.
I said, “He was a different man then, I suppose. The Emil I knew was basically a hermit. An irritable, unlikable hermit.”
“In more circumspect hermetic circles, such character traits can actually add to one’s gravitas.”
“Oh, Emil had gravitas coming out of his ass.”
The server returned with a bottle held out for Clement’s inspection. He nodded and the server poured him a taste.
“You drink wine, Mister Lake?”
“Occasionally, but I’m getting the sense this is going to be a short lunch.”
Clement frowned. “Why is that? No time to reminisce?”
I grinned. “If that was the point of this visit, then I’d be happy to. But that’s not why I’m here. Inevitably, we’ll circle around to my selling you Emil’s books, and we’d both feel frustrated. And when wine lubricates my sass, bad things happen to me. So, what say we call it a wash?”
“I feel, perhaps, you’re being a bit uncharitable.”
“Well, I’m sorry about that. But the fact is… I don’t know you, Monsieur Clement. We lack context.”
His brows shot up. “Context?” With a snicker, he nodded. “Very well. Perhaps one day we shall finally share context?”
“Perhaps.”
He stood, and I followed suit.
“And then,” he added, “we may discuss the old man’s obsession with Ann-Margret?”
“What’s to discuss? She was the original bombshell.” I fished my business card holder from my pocket, and pulled a card to hand it over. “And because I’m not a total ass, here’s my number.”
He took my card with a nod, then asked, “One more try?”
“Answer’s still no, Jean.”
He held up his hands in surrender. “Then, until next time. I’ll have my driver take you to the station.”
“Oh, that’s okay,” I muttered. “I’ll grab a cab.”
“Nonsense. I insist.”
He took his seat and pulled a long sip of wine, focusing on the tablecloth, the silverware, anything but me.
And with that, I was dismissed. I stepped back through the restaurant and onto the street. A silver sedan pulled up to greet me. Clement’s driver stepped out and trotted around to open my door. I shoved my hands into my pocket and gave the driver a tired nod.
And I froze.
As did the driver.
The two of us stood in silence for a painful moment, neither able to muster a reasonable greeting. Finally, after a line of cars began to form behind the sedan, Reed Malosi waved me into the back seat as he grunted, “Really hoped I’d never see you again.”
o, Penn State… how’s tricks?”
Malosi gave me a stern brow in his rearview mirror as he wove us through three lanes of traffic toward the train station.
Wilting under the tension, I added, “Kind of circling the mountain career-wise, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, well, I’m doing all right.” He steered us another block before adding, “My resume is kind of specific, you know.”
“I do, actually. How did you end up working for Clement?”
“One of Osterhaus’s contacts in New York. I worked a security desk job on Second for about a month before I started getting, I don’t know… the itch.”
I tried to stifle a grin, without much success. Part of the allure of the Life was the secret knowledge, that parallel existence we seemed to possess. After working for a practitioner, even one as miserable as Osterhaus, it must have been mind-crushingly dull sitting at a desk with a badge and a Tazer. He needed the Life. Somehow, that made me feel happy.
“Is Clement teaching you?”
“A little,” he answered, pulling us right in front of the Penn Station plaza, slipping us into a line of cars.
“Does he let you practice?”
Reed turned in his seat and gave me a stony lift of his brow. “A little.”
“Well,” I declared as I extended my hand. “I’m actually happy to see you, Reed. Seems you’re in good hands.”
“Where are you going?” he asked, staring at my hand.
“I’ll just hop out.”
“Can’t. I have to let you out.”
I leaned back and smiled, then fished my hand to the door handle. Nope. Locked.
“Like I said,” he grumbled, turning forward. “I’ll cut you loose when we get up to the station.”
“Just trying to save us some awkwardness.”
“He’s afraid,” Reed said just loud enough for me to hear.
“Hmm?”
“He’s scared, Dorian. I think he wants someone to talk to, but he’s too proud.”
I leaned forward. “What makes you think that?”
“He’s not like Osterhaus. He’s a hell of a lot like you, actually. Only, more polish, less asshole.”
“Thanks.”
“So, if he’s asking you for something small? It’s probably something bigger. All I’m saying.”
“I don’t know, Reed. He’s not exactly asking to borrow a cup of sugar, here.”
Malosi advanced us two more car lengths before pulling to the curb. I noted as he hopped out to open my door that there was very little need to have insisted I exit at this particular spot. As I stepped onto the walk in front of Penn Station, Malosi closed the door and straightened his jacket.
“He has my number,” I told him. “If he feels like some real-talk, he can call. But you can tell him I said Emil’s Library is staying where it is.”
I turned to make my dramatic exit.
“Stay safe, Dorian,” he called.
I looked back to Malosi. He paused halfway into the car and looked into my face, eyes firm. He got into the car, closed the door, and cut off a c
ab swerving back into the street.
My train ride back to Baltimore was a blur. I spent the trip inside my own head. Jean Clement, a former student of Emil’s, appears out of nowhere and offers quite urgently to buy the Library from me. This wasn’t anything new, apart from the fact that this was the first person who could be said to have a legitimate claim on some of these books. But I’d held the line when it came to selling those books. Hell, even Edgar had learned not to badger me too hard about that Library. Of the whole encounter with Clement, I could say it was interesting to have met the man, but he didn’t make much of an impression on me.
Reed Malosi, on the other hand, put a hook right in the center of my brain. What did Malosi know about Clement’s intentions? Was this truly some cry for comfort from a Netherworker too well-polished to ask outright? Or was there something specific going on in Clement’s little world? Maybe Clement was staring down the barrel of his own brutal demise at the hands of the shadows?
How long would it be until I was staring down the same barrel?
When I finally returned to my red brick two-story on Amity, there were still a couple hours left of daylight, a moment’s peace to gather my thoughts. I paused at my doorway to check my wards. With Ches coming and going as my full-time student, I had to make certain arrangements, one of which being that she now had a key to my house. Another accommodation was to alter the wardings on my threshold.
Wardings are a specific kind of charm, a tiny pinch in the natural ebb and flow of Cosmic energies. They’re defensive charms specifically anchored to a geographic area or an individual. Portable wardings, usually called talismans, are nowhere near as powerful as a fixed house warding. There was a reason Deirdre the Dowser managed to pay the bills each month. Geomancy is a very real, if underestimated, branch of esoteric thought.
I ran a hand along the jamb just beside the doorbell. My warding rolled beneath my palm in its usual hills and valleys, except for that tiny thread of vivid, thrilling energy sweeping back and forth between my fingers.
Ches was here.
I unlocked my door and tried not to think too much about her energy, still buzzing in my palm. After I dropped my valise next to my roll top desk and checked a stack of hand-scribbled phone messages she had apparently taken in the last few hours, I strode for the hallway and the reinforced steel door leading to my basement work space.
