The Curse Mandate (The Dark Choir Book 3)

by J. P. Sloan

  I looked down at my shoes.

  He continued, “And for what it’s worth, you probably had that hex coin sitting in your phone box for the better part of a year. And you never felt it. You never bothered. I know you want to be all alpha-dog, but you’re letting shit slip again. Keep this up, and you’ll lose every friend you thought you had.”

  “I’m kind of blind to that sort of thing.”

  “Best open your eyes, brother.”

  I looked up to Malosi. He wasn’t frowning. He didn’t even look inconvenienced. More than anything, he felt like a man giving a friend solid, hard advice.

  “I’ll catch up with you later.”

  I nodded, and Malosi stepped down to the street and out of view.

  I drove home to find Ches hovering inside the foyer.

  “Hey.”

  She grinned. “I have news.”

  “Dear God, I hope it’s good news. I could use a little good news for a fucking change.”

  “Well, buckle up, because I cracked the sigils.”

  stood for a moment, staring into her face.

  “The Enoch Pratt sigils? You cracked them?”

  She nodded.

  “That qualifies as good news.”

  “Thought it would.”

  I looked around. “Where’s Ricky?”

  “Upstairs. He hit a wall on the way home, so he’s sleeping it off. His coach said these would get less frequent.”

  “That’s good. Show me what you got.”

  She led me down the stairs into the workspace, where she had several books sprawled out over her desk and my table.

  “My problem was I kept looking too far back. I mean, I started with late medieval alchemical alphabets and worked backward all the way to butt-ass Egypt. Turns out, it’s not an ancient language after all.”

  “Do tell.”

  She pulled a printout from Enoch Pratt and pointed to a peculiar little symbol scrawled across the spines on the Dr. Seuss section. I leaned in to examine it.

  “Looks like a hunchback pleasuring himself.”

  “It’s an ampersand, you dork.”

  “Oh. OH! That’s not exactly Sanskrit.”

  She settled onto her stool. “I looked it up. The italicized et ligature didn’t show up in this form until the printing press changed the whole text game. That pointed me in the other direction, and from there it wasn’t that hard.”

  “So, quit teasing the lead here. What is it?”

  “It’s a syncretic glyph set conflating elements of modern scriptum, with some Enochian and Malachim symbology. I found this in an old paperback you had stuffed in one of the storage boxes.”

  She slid a photocopy of a floridly scripted page across my workbench. “It’s a Gnostic treatise from something called L’Ecole de la Nombre D’or. They were a short-lived Pythagorean Gnostic cult in Enlightenment-era France.”

  “France, huh?” I mumbled.

  Ches added, “You won’t find any of them around, anymore. They burned out right around the turn of the Nineteenth century.”

  “Define ‘burned out.’“

  “More like they vanished from records. Kind of disappeared off the face of the Earth. But that wasn’t uncommon, turns out. Of the major current cabals in Europe and Western Asia, all were either founded prior to Charlemagne, or part of the spiritualist revival of the eighteen-hundreds. The late Gnostic orders of the Enlightenment were consumed by older cabals or moved into philosophical schools.”

  I spun the printout around on the table and reviewed the glyphs once again. French Pythagoreans. The Classical Pythagoreans were students of sacred geometry and the orders of reality. But the newer Gnostic schools only used geometric principles as foundations for more complex and frankly self-serving purposes. It was a delicate period of hermetic history after the threat of execution ceased to be the driving force for the alchemical schools, but before the rise of Nationalism put actionable capital in their hands. I was more familiar with the German Enlightenment schools than French. To the best of my knowledge, the French used hermetic principles toward rules of architecture and landscaping.

  That meant―

  “Fucking geomancy!”

  Ches blinked at me furiously. “Huh?”

  “I keep running into geomancy. Deirdre wasn’t some random test jinx. I’ll bet you cash dollars she knows more about this L’Ecole de la Nombre D’or than anyone else this side of the country. And I bet someone stuffed a jinx down her throat to keep her from sharing that knowledge.”

  “You think this cabal is still active?”

  I slid the printout back to Ches. “Maybe underground. But it’s as good a lead as we’ve had yet.”

  Ches re-filed her paperwork, her eyes lifting in satisfaction. “The only hitch, there’s no evidence the L’Ecole de la Nombre D’or ever practiced Netherwork, much less Chaos magic.”

  “Well, the world’s changed a lot since Napoleon.”

  She bobbed her chin with a wisp of a grin in the corner of her mouth. Though I noted a cloud hovering in her brow. It had to be Ricky. His detox was progressing, but he was no closer to his family than before. And I wasn’t helping like she had hoped.

  Malosi’s words to me before and after our City Hall field trip echoed in my cranium. Was she dooming herself staying so close to me? Was there any choice?

  “You look pissed,” she said. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing. You did good. Real good.”

  “I know I did, but what’s going on in that head?”

  I eased away from the table. “Do you think I talk down to Reed?”

  “Are you kidding?”

  I looked down at the floor, trying to figure some way to un-ask the question.

  She dropped her folder onto her desk. “Yes, Dorian. You do. But the thing is, you talk down to everyone. He’s not an exception.”

  “I try not to. I just―”

  “I’m very sure you think you try. I don’t know, I’m used to it. Why are you worrying about this, suddenly?”

  I gave Ches a cautious glance.

  She swiveled back and forth on her stool, eyes drawn into a question.

  I said, “Just trying to keep my eyes open, is all. Listen, I’m not trying to stick you with busy work here. I appreciate this,” I added with a gesture to her dossier, “because it allows me to focus on other things. I’m spread thin, Ches. I’m trying to help Ricky, trying to run down these jinxes, trying to keep the Presidium off everyone’s back, and now I have this Parrish spook haunting me for my soul. Now the Mayor’s wife is trying to host a dinner party with me and Julian, and I’m worried about you.”

  She stood up and reached out for my arm.

  “Dorian, if it helps, I don’t think you’re all that clever.”

  I snickered, and she gripped my arm.

  “So stop worrying, already,” she added. “You won’t run me over in the driveway with your massive ego. I have my eyes open, too.” She reached for her desk, lifting a printout of the nonsense letters I’d photographed on Deirdre’s wall. “Besides, I’m still getting nowhere on this. Don’t know any codebreakers, do you?”

  I shook my head and took the printout. “Wouldn’t be much good unless they were insane to begin with. Let me take another look at this. I want you to get ready for something else.”

  “What?” she asked.

  “It’s time I stopped dicking around with Ricky. We’ve run out of time. I wanted to workshop this more, but I’m starting to think the only way we’re going to break his curse is if we work on him together.”

  She took a step back, her eyes wide. “You mean you’re taking off the handcuffs?”

  “What I mean is I think you’re closer to this curse than I am. It makes sense to put you on it. You know Ricky better than I do. You share part of his energy signature, genetically speaking. You were in the minds of the Dead Dragons when they fired the curse to begin with. And yes, you’re done riding bench.”

  She laughed once, then pulled her
face back into a dismissive grin. “Okay, I suppose that’ll work.”

  “Partners?” I asked, extending my hand.

  She reached out and slapped it. “Equals.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t take it that far…”

  “Shut up.”

  I surveyed the room with a squint. “We should give it a shot tonight.”

  Her smile waned. “That soon?”

  “He has to be on a plane in six days. That’s five extra days this curse could take to unwind itself, if we manage to lift it.”

  “Okay.”

  I urged, “Try to get some rest. Meditate and center.”

  We returned upstairs, and after touching base with Ricky, Ches took off to get ready for the working.

  I needed this to work. More than just helping Ricky, I needed to remove one of the distractions from my list of “I’m Screwed if I Don’t Solve This” problems.

  Ricky made it downstairs in time for dinner as I had just settled at my desk to review Deirdre’s graffiti. He announced he was going to make the best Shepherd’s Pie in the state of Maryland. I hoped to all High Hell that he was beta-testing menu items, because the thought of decent food at the Tavern was starting to capture my interest.

  As he peeled potatoes, the front door rang. I couldn’t stifle the usual gut clench when someone knocked on my door unexpectedly. It was rarely ever good news. I inched the door open on its chain, and stood gape-jawed as Abraham Carter nodded at me from my front stoop.

  “Abe?”

  “Mistuh Lake?”

  I unchained the door quickly and reached out to shake his hand. He was clean-shaven, the first time I’d ever seen him without his white woolen beard. The effect shaved two decades off his appearance. He wore a nice polo shirt and khakis, as if he’d just stepped off a golf course.

  “How’ve you been, Abe?”

  “Oh, just fine, suh. Got me a house in Glen Burnie. Doin’ fine.”

  “That’s great.”

  He grinned, then turned to the side to motion for someone lurking near what looked like a brand new Subaru. A young woman stepped out of the car, eyes narrow, lips pulled tight. She paused half-way to the stoop to straighten her simple but appealing dress. Her natural hair was pulled into a plume at the top of her head with a rubber band. Despite her youth, her face seemed worn and haunted, creases bracketing the corners of her eyes and mouth. It wasn’t until she stepped up next to Abe that I recognized who she was.

  “Minerva?” I gasped.

  A grin flickered across her lips.

  Abe nodded and laid a gentle hand on her back.

  “She wanted to see you, Mistuh Lake.”

  “Wow. Come in!”

  I ushered them into the house. Abe navigated her into the foyer with guiding hands as she took tiny, careful steps.

  “How is she doing?” I asked in a low tone, as if she couldn’t hear me just a few feet away.

  Abe pulled off his ball cap and folded it neatly in his hands. “Oh, she’s doin’ much better. They givin’ her a limited release, with medications. She can stay overnight at home time to time.”

  “That’s incredible news.”

  Abe turned Minerva away from the darquelle mounted on the wall near the door. Her eyes pulled away and landed on me.

  I took a careful step forward.

  “Do you remember me, Minerva?”

  She nodded once.

  Abe prodded her with his elbow. “Go on.”

  She cleared her throat three times before her voice finally came out.

  “I wanna… thank you.”

  “What did―”

  She held out her arms stiff at the shoulders, and took several slow steps forward, eyes nearly to the ground. I braced, and gave Abe a look.

  As she stepped into me, she wrapped her arms around me, and rested her head on my chest.

  I hugged her back, fighting a frog in my throat.

  When she pulled away, I nodded to the kitchen. “Can you stay for dinner? I’m pretty sure we have enough to go around. And if we don’t, I’ll go to the store.”

  Abe shook his head as Minerva stepped away to meander around the room. “We’re on our way to see Ethyl.”

  “Ah. I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you guys. What’s it like being in the old neighborhood again?”

  He shrugged. “Nothin’ left, really. Just those new buildin’s. Can’t say it feels like much of anything, to be honest with ya.”

  “Times change, I suppose.”

  “They do, at that.”

  Abe leaned to the side and called behind me, “You put that down, now.”

  Minerva stood at my desk, holding a page in front of her face, turning it sideways.

  Abe rushed forward to remove it from her fingers. “You can’t go messin’ with people’s things.”

  Minerva shook her head. “But he can’t read it.”

  “What, child?” Abe squawked.

  I stepped forward as Abe handed me the paper with another apology.

  It was the photo of the letters on Deirdre’s wall.

  “Well, you’re right, Minerva. I can’t read it.” A notion blossomed inside my skull. “Can… you read it, Minerva?”

  She tilted her head to the side and looked over the top of the paper.

  “Deirdre,” she mumbled.

  I shouted, “Yes! But, how did you―”

  She tapped six letters in what seemed to be a random order.

  I set the paper back down onto the desk and gave Minerva a felt-tip pen.

  “Can you translate this for me?” I asked.

  She looked up at me, then to her father.

  Abe shrugged.

  Minerva bent down and began scratching out letters in ones and twos, leaving behind a fresh jumble of fewer letters. Her finger ran lines left, up, right, and down.

  “Do you see it now?” she asked.

  “Again?”

  I followed her finger more carefully this time, as it paused on letters in turn that spelled the word “LENFANT.”

  I straightened up and repeated the word out loud, “Lenfant.”

  Minerva smiled up at me. “You can read!”

  Abe seemed to sense the intense unease that had settled over my shoulders, as he wound around me to guide Minerva back toward the front door.

  “We should get goin’ now.”

  “Wait,” I rasped. “Thank you, Minerva.”

  She smiled, ducked her head, and faced the front door.

  I saw the two out, closing the door softly as they took their leave.

  Something inside Deirdre’s jinx-cooked brain just found a way to reach through the chaos and send me a lifeline. She was the one person I knew who could have possibly known anything about the Nombre D’or. And here she was, reaching through the jinx to send me a single word.

  Lenfant.

  I tapped my finger on the desktop, staring at the page.

  “Who was that?” Ricky’s voice called from the doorway to the kitchen.

  “Hmm? Oh. Old friends.”

  “Well, pie’s in the oven.”

  “Yeah. Say, you have a computer?”

  “Don’t you?”

  I stuffed my hands into my pockets. “Well, see, thing is―”

  “I have a computer.”

  “Can we look something up?”

  Ricky led me up to his room, which was surprisingly tidy. He pulled a laptop out of his backpack and fired it up.

  “What’s the word?” he asked.

  “I need to look something up.”

  “Seriously, how do you not own a computer?”

  “They kind of freak me out.”

  Ricky wiggled his head in bafflement, then picked up his laptop and brandished it at me like a torch. “The power of Gates compels you!”

  “After what I went through recently, that’s not very funny.”

  “What are we looking up?”

  “The word ‘Lenfant.’ It’s French.”

  Ricky brought up a translat
or, and typed in the word.

  “Child,” he said. “L’Enfant.”

  “Yeah, I know. But what does it mean?”

  He brought up the word on his web browser, and cocked his head.

  “Or, it’s a spot in D.C.”

  “Oh. Holy shit. L’Enfant Plaza.” I rubbed the bridge of my nose. “She’s talking about L’Enfant Plaza. Does she want to me to go there? Did something happen there?”

  Ricky sighed. “Who with the what?”

  “Sorry. Talking out loud. I usually mumble like this into a book.”

  “Bet you were super-popular in high school.”

  “Shut up.”

  Ricky pulled up a map of D.C. and hovered his arrow over L’Enfant Plaza, a tiny park nestled against the Potomac across from the Jefferson Memorial.

  “Wait!” I grunted. “Zoom out.”

  He did so, and I urged him to keep going until I could see all of Maryland, and most of Virginia.

  I tapped his screen right on top of Gettysburg, then again over Baltimore.

  “Planning a trip?” he asked.

  “Just playing Monday Morning geomancer.”

  Ricky snickered. “What’s all that about?”

  I slapped him on the back. “Ever been to D.C.?”

  “No.”

  “Would you like to?”

  icky pulled the Shepherd’s Pie out of the oven early, and we hit the road in a hurry. Washington was only an hour south, but I had to get Ricky back before Ches returned.

  The drive in was smooth and uneventful. I circled the Smithsonian block a couple times, searching for street parking. Finally, I landed a spot near the USDA building, just a couple blocks away from L’Enfant Plaza.

  Ricky and I crossed the street and stood on the edge of an otherwise unremarkable traffic roundabout.

  “Looked a lot more interesting from the map,” Ricky mumbled.

  “Agreed. But there has to be something here.”

  Ricky turned around. “Think she meant those shops?”

  “Doesn’t feel right.”

  “Maybe if you told me what we’re looking for?”

  “I would if I knew.”

  He nodded, then strolled around a bit as I stared at the center of the roundabout. What was here? I half-expected to find another piece of public art with a niding pole rammed down the middle, but the scene before appeared less like a cog in a scheme of Netherworking and more like a giant waste of time.