The Curse Servant (The Dark Choir Book 2) (16 page)

“Dorian? You busy today?”

“Remarkably not busy. What’s up?”

“You remember that guy I introduced you to, Del Carmody?”

Oh, how could I possibly forget him? He was my ticket for getting my soul back.

“I do.”

“He called me last night, said he has something new for you. If you’re interested?”

I wasn’t sure how long I actually hung onto that question from Edgar’s point of view, but to me it was an eternity.

“Yeah. Sounds good.”

“Cool, man. He’s in York today, said to meet him in Penn Common by the monument at noon.”

“New York?”

“Pennsylvania.”

Damn. I nearly had an excuse to travel back to New York. “What the hell is in York, Pennsylvania?”

“How should I know? That’s just what he said.”

“Gotcha. Thanks, Edgar. You coming with?”

“Nah,” he sighed. “Elle’s under the weather. I’m watching her while Wren takes Eddie to soccer.”

“Jesus, Edgar. She’s an actual soccer mom now?”

“Don’t hammer that too hard, man. She’ll run you over in her Jeep.”

I knew she would, too. “At least it’s not a minivan. Give the kids a hug, or I don’t know. Give them a wet willie and tell them it’s from Dorian.”

I had plans now. Plans well north of Baltimore. That was a lot of freeway miles on a day when the shadows seemed to think they had a good crack at my carcass. Add to this particular gumbo of certain doom the fact that I was meeting with a man who had antagonized the entirety of the West Coast hermetic establishment to the point that they contracted a standing curse on his head, and I wasn’t particularly excited to make the trip.

But I didn’t have much choice, nor did I have a lot of time. I rushed down to the workroom and opened up the dark-stained wood cabinet containing Emil’s Library. I had limited time to find that Macedonian text. I eventually found it, a clutch of hand-sketches and some pretty basic curses written in a mélange of Greek and Bulgarian. They were quick and lethal. “Tidy” was how Emil would have described them. Simple death, no histrionics. Short period until the effect.

Just what Gillette would have wanted.

I took notes.

The biggest trick to such a direct lethal curse was the requirement for “vital essence.” I tended to impose this requirement on my own clients, even for simple hexes and charms. The reason was simple enough… economy. The closer you came to including the actual cosmic imprint of the target, the less work you have to perform. It could be substituted, circumvented, or even blatantly overlooked, but the laws of magic required a substitute. I had learned in my years of hermetic craft workings that skin and hair offered a reasonable alternative for real blood. The worst curses, however, were satisfied with no substitutes.

Which meant if I was going to curse Del Carmody to death, I needed his blood.

I returned the curse manual to the cabinet and leaned against it, thinking through my situation. If I found a way to extract a drop of blood from Carmody, I could murder him magically, and in doing so regain my soul. With any luck at all, my soul wouldn’t notice such a black mark chalked up against me karmically. Two, if one counted Osterhaus.

On the other hand, how could I extract Carmody’s blood without his noticing? Curses are powerful workings, but they aren’t foolproof. Were I to simply walk up to Carmody, prick him with a blood meter and walk away, he would know what would be coming. I was certain a man in his line of work would recognize such an overt move from a known Curse Merchant, and take steps to shield himself. Hell, the man had managed to dodge Gillette and her compatriots for who knew how long, what chance did I have of landing a curse on that slippery son of a bitch?

After copying my notes, I tucked the Macedonian text under my arm and locked the Library cabinet. This was a first. I had never parted with one of Emil’s books in the years since his death. The moving shadows were reminder enough that I had little time to secure my soul before they tore me limb-from-limb as they had Emil. I shook my head as I realized I was putting serious thought into cursing a man with a spell from the very book I was giving him. It was a dick move, but it was my best chance at dodging my fate. I would have to be an idiot not to try.

I looked up the directions to York and where to park, and set out on my journey into Pennsylvania. The sky was covered in a leaden blanket of low-altitude clouds, which didn’t help the heat one bit. I managed to get lost in the maze of one-way streets, and finally spotted the monument from between two buildings. After securing a questionably legal spot to park on the street, I clutched the Macedonian text and jogged two blocks to the park of Penn Common.

I was ten minutes late, but Carmody was still there, spread out on a black wrought-iron bench at the base of the pillared monument. I stood almost directly over him before he noticed me.

“Oy, Dorian Lake, my new best friend!” He pulled himself upright and reached up to shake my hand. “How’s the Life treating you?”

I shook his hand, bracing myself as he used me to pull himself to his feet. “Well enough.” I released his hand, thinking more about how much pressure would be required to break his skin. My eyes made tiny motions around the park searching for rough concrete edges or exposed nails as he swept beside me, urging me to walk down a sidewalk.

“Cherry little snatch of papers you’re sporting there.”

“You’re lucky I found this. Got sandwiched inside another book.”

“It’ll do nicely.” He held out his hand, and with a great deal of internal debate, I set the text into his palm.

Carmody thumbed it over and nodded.

“So, you give Gillette a jingle?”

“I did.”

“And how’d you come off, then?”

“She wasn’t as helpful as I had hoped.”

He clicked his tongue and shrugged. “Well, that was a possibility, I’m afraid. Self-important little bint, that one. Sorry about that, mate. Wish I could’ve helped.”

“We’re still in-process. I think she just has to get a fuzzy feeling about me before she’ll help me.”

Carmody looked up to a nearby tree and whistled at a robin.

There was a moment when his head was cocked up at the bird that I considered “tripping” into him, knocking him forward in hopes he’d bloody a hand or a knee. The moment passed as he spun on his heel and flashed me a sharp smile.

“So. Curse is it, then?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Gillette wants you to cram a curse directly up my asshole, or the orifice of your choosing, depending on how bleeding magnanimous she’s feeling today.”

I froze, trying to feel my way through this turn in conversation.

“Don’t worry, mate. I’m not offended. In fact, it’s all part of my clever plan.”

“So there’s a reason you broomed me right into Gillette’s tender graces, after all?”

“Figured you’d be curious about that. Gillette, as you may well know, has a raging hunger for my imminent demise.”

“I got that.”

“To date, ineffectively. Not for a lack of trying, mind you. I’ve had to skirt that bitch for years. It’s to the point of obsession with her. Mind you, she’s a capable practitioner. Vicious. Brilliant. Her sense of fashion leaves a bit to be desired―”

“There’s a plan, you said?”

Carmody’s grin thinned. “I heard about you last year when I relocated underneath the petticoats of the Presidium. Gillette’s a handful, but no one questions she’s the Queen of Hell in the Northwest. I figure the best place to hide is the one place she’s too afraid to lay tread. Wasn’t long before I ran into an old client of yours. Some musk ox of a businessman in Jersey, said you dealt in karma. Knew how to push buttons, make things happen ahead of schedule.” He stepped forward to lower his voice. “Precisely the kind of service I require.”

“So why didn’t you just make an appointment?”

“See, I knew you were the squeamish type. Trust me, I was gobsmacked when I heard about you and Osterhaus, that pointless fuck. Almost thought twice about approaching you. Then I met Edgar Swain. He swears on you like the bleeding Gospel of Christ. Still, I knew I couldn’t sic you on Gillette without warning. And she’d see through you if you tried to wing it. No offense, but you have a shit poker face, mate.”

“So you gambled on my integrity?”

“Integrity, cowardice, I don’t know what you’d call it. Whatever drives you to insane limits in order to avoid getting your hands dirty.”

“Hell of gamble, Carmody. I thought hard about it.”

“How hard, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Let’s just say I’m a drop of blood short of getting my soul back.”

His smile thinned to the point of grimace. “That a fact?”

“This honesty thing is contagious.”

“Well, allow me to complicate the situation then.” Carmody reached into his pocket, and for a split second, I considered jumping for the bushes. He produced a small vial from his pocket and held it up to the gray light of the overcast day. The vial contained a dark red liquid. “See this?”

“I see it.”

“You know what this is, then?”

“Is it Gillette’s?”

“No, I wasn’t born that lucky. It’s mine.”

“Your blood? You carry around a vial of your own blood? Not exactly playing it safe.”

“Well, I don’t carry it around all the fuckin’ time, you git. Just today. Just for you.”

I blinked several times before words came to me. “You’re giving me your own blood?”

“I figure if you’re at all capable, you’ll be able to drop the Sword of Fuckin’ Damocles directly on my head.” He stepped forward and held it out.

I took a step back. “Horseshit. What is this?”

“Swear to whatever God you believe in, I’m telling the truth. It’s my blood, and there’s no trick.”

“Why would you do this?”

“Because it’s the only way a person like you will ever trust a person like me.”

He took another step forward and pushed it into my hand.

My fingers wrapped around the vial, and he gave me space.

I held up the blood, inspecting it like a jeweler with a fist-sized hunk of diamond.

“So, now you can curse me, Lake. There’s absolutely nothing stopping you.”

“Except…”

“Except what?”

“I haven’t decided if I’m going to do it or not.”

He held up a finger and waved it at me. “It’s your one chance to lay your mittens on your soul. You play Gillette’s little magical hitman, I go tits up and floating in the Bay, and you’re back in control of your own fate.”

Carmody stared at me from under his hat.

I brandished the vial. “You don’t think I’ll do it?”

“I think you’re not ready to murder someone. And I think beneath this finely crafted veneer of sarcasm is a genuinely decent man who still thinks the good guys ought to beat the bad guys when the show’s over and the credits roll. I think Gillette has given you nothing but ultimatums, knowing her. I’ve given you nothing but the one way to really screw me. So, now… who do you trust?”

Who did I trust? It was a fine question. As idiotic a bluff as it was, it was still a move. I had to see where he was taking this.

“I suppose we’ll both put a little faith in my integrity,” I said as I pocketed the vial.

“You’ll help me out with Gillette, then?”

“I’ll be honest, Carmody. I tend to use vital essence even for my hexcraft.”

“Bit of an overkill, isn’t it?”

“I have a barn of satisfied customers who say it’s not.”

“Fair enough. But if you’re planning on lifting some piece of Gillette off her person, I have to level with you, mate. You’re not going to limp away from that.”

“Then there’s that whole issue of her knowing how to get my soul out of spiritual hock.”

“There’s got to be others.”

“Maybe, but how long do I have to look for them?”

“So, give me time then. Remember, I walked away from the Life to pursue a career in information brokerage. I have sources. I’m the fucking Google of North American witchcraft.”

“I don’t think I can afford your rates, Carmody. No offense.”

“Don’t think of it like that. This is us trying to help one another. You hex Gillette for me, and I find you another stud to ride onto the track.” He stared at me with sharp eyes over his stubble-strewn grin. “You have my blood, in any case. Consider it your insurance.”

“I’ll think about it.” I turned to walk back to my car.

“Oh yes, lovely,” he called out. “You think about it then. While you are, chew a little on this. I have information for you right here, right now. Information about your little political entanglements.”

“Good for you,” I answered without stopping.

I was nearly back to the statue when Carmody trotted up behind me. “Your little friend, McHenry? He knows you’re on Sullivan’s unofficial payroll.”

“No shit.”

“So you know that. What you don’t know is that he’s called in a specialist to deal with you.”

I stopped. “What kind of specialist?”

“Our kind, if you take my meaning.”

“McHenry’s called in his own hermeticist?”

“Right.”

“I suppose Sooner could stand a charm or two.” I looked over at Carmody. “Who is it?”

“No clue. This is scuttlebutt. Prime grade scuttlebutt, but it’s secondhand, nonetheless.”

“So it’s a big, fat maybe?”

“It’s the truth. I can tell the difference in these things.”

I studied Carmody’s face. There was no way to tell if he was being forthcoming, or if he was leading me on. I had to make a judgment call.

“I’ll look into what kind of hex I can cast from a continent away, without any of Gillette’s vital essence. It’ll take some time. These things don’t really work that well from a distance.”

He cracked a yellow-toothed grin. “Brilliant.”

“Meantime, you go do your thing. If you find someone who can find my soul, then I’ll have a hex ready to go.”

He thrust out a hand. I shook it without mirth, though he did more than enough shaking for the two of us.

“My new best friend! I told you, didn’t I?”

“Yeah. Well, see you.”

I strode back down the sidewalk and exited the park. A wind picked up over York and rustled the treetops. Something darted through the alley across the street from my parking space, and I tried not to give it the courtesy of looking. They were still active. Maybe it was Carmody they were hungry for? It would have been a nice thought to cling to as I drove back across the Mason-Dixon line, but I knew it was sterile optimism.