The Curse Servant (The Dark Choir Book 2) (3 page)

I gave Edgar a look. He was stuffing the last of the falafel into his face, his eyes steady on Carmody.

“That sounds almost improbably useful to me.”

“Probability has nothin’ to do with it, mate. It’s supply-side hermetics. I got the source, and I just found a buyer.”

“What’s the price?”

“Not so much a price as a favor.”

“You want me to curse someone, don’t you?”

His face curled into an amused sneer. “Do I look like Aleister Fucking Crowley to you? Do I look like a tourist? If I wanted to curse a poor bastard, I’d have his balls in a steaming cup of how-do-you-do in time for my afternoon shit. And don’t you dare look down on me, mate. I was laying out virgins with your dearly departed mentor while your parents were sniffing mainlines during the Reagan years. So when a person like myself has something you need… not want, need… consider paying him the common fucking courtesy of not rushing to judgment. Right?”

I was liking Carmody less and less by the second, but he had an envelope I desperately needed. It was time to tuck it in.

“I apologize. Didn’t mean to―”

“Oh, unclench your arsehole. I was just takin’ the piss. Here.”

He shoved the envelope into my chest. I took it cautiously, waiting for the inevitable condition to fall onto my head.

“So, no favor then?”

“Well, yeah. Thought I’d be friendly is all. My favor’s this. Emil had a book. An old hand-written text from Macedonia, circa 1650’s. It’s of, how should we say, extraordinary personal value to me.”

“Is this the kind of book Emil would keep under lock and key, by any chance?”

“Precisely that kind of book.”

I shoved the envelope back at Carmody. He caught it before it fell to the ground.

“Not interested.”

“You can’t be serious?”

“Look, Carmody―”

“Call me Del.”

“Del? I’ve gone through tremendous personal pains to keep Emil’s library out of anyone’s hands but my own.” I gave Edgar a sidelong glance. “No offense.”

Edgar shrugged.

Carmody rubbed the back of his head. “Look. I understand these books are valuable.”

“They’re dangerous. They’re living, breathing little pissed off things. Keeping them locked up behind wards upon wards is about the only responsible thing I do with my life. So, sorry. No deal.”

“Would it suit you to know this particular book isn’t expressly evil? It represents only the most innocuous of bastardy.”

“It’s still Netherwork.”

“This isn’t Lesser Banishing Crosses, I’ll grant you. But it’s not brain-rape, either.”

“I’m not selling.”

Carmody glared at me for a tense moment before his eyes eased over to Edgar.

“You were right about this one.”

Edgar chuckled, “Told you, man.”

“Listen, Lake,” Carmody pressed. “I get the sense you’re digging your heels out of turn. Consider what I’m offering here. And if it matters, go and find that book and decide for yourself whether it’s worth passing up this information.”

“I’d love to take you at your word, Carmody. But that hasn’t exactly played out in my favor in recent memory.”

Carmody grinned and held out envelope. “Here, then. As collateral.”

I stared at the envelope. This was bold.

“Just take the fucking thing, would you? Swain vouches for you, and that’s good enough for me.”

Obligations were always dicey in the esoteric world. I hated owing anyone anything. On the other hand, I really needed that info.

I took the envelope with a quiet exhale.

Carmody circled his finger over the envelope. “Got all the vitals inside. Her name is Quinn Gillette. Lives in Portland. She’s thoroughly versed in soul magics. And, what’s more important, managed to lose part of her soul and find it again.”

Interesting.

“Do tell?”

“Right. Stupid doughnut was making servitors, and lost one. Can you fathom that? Lost a fucking servitor. Bleeder walked off on her.”

“Servitor?” Edgar asked with a squint.

“A cognizant thoughtform,” I explained. “Usually powered by soul magic, or worse.” I turned to Carmody. “How’d she find it?”

Carmody shrugged. “Well, that’s worth a phone call, I’d imagine. Meanwhile you see if you can scare up that book for me.” He fished a business card from his blazer. It was a blank white card with a phone number scribbled in ink. “Give me a jingle when you decide you’re comfortable releasing it into the world.”

I pocketed his card and nodded. “I’ll do that.”

“And that, gents, is all the time I have for socializing today. Edgar? Always a dreadful pleasure.”

Edgar wiped his hand on his pants then shook Carmody’s.

“And Mister Lake? I dare say Emil would be very proud of you.”

“I can’t imagine how that could ever be the case.”

“Yeah. Me neither. Just putting some lipstick on the pig, so to speak. It’s been a gas, gents.”

Carmody tipped a couple fingers to his brow and trotted off, slipping between two large women with brown bags.

Edgar nudged my arm. “Falafel’s getting cold, man. Doesn’t taste right when it’s cold.”

I tucked the manila envelope under my arm and took a slow, careful bite of my falafel.

Horrid.

“Mmm.”

Edgar’s grin broke into toothy mischief.

I shook my head. “You know I hate these things?”

“Yeah.”

“Then why do you keep buying them for me?”

“I don’t know. Keeps you humble.”

I tossed the falafel into a nearby trashcan. “You’re a dick. You know that, right?”

“But I’m a dick who gets you envelopes.”

I nodded. “That was sweet of you. I’m afraid we’re going to have to hug.”

He shoulder-checked me as we moved back out to Paca Street. “We still on for Saturday?”

“Are you kidding?” I sputtered. “Wren wouldn’t let me cancel if an asteroid hit Camden Yards.”

It was no joke. Edgar’s wife was five-foot-even of psychopathic Orioles fan. And as my house was reasonable walking distance from the Yards, and I didn’t mind babysitting their kids while they indulged in an afternoon of beer and baseball, my usefulness to Wren rivaled indoor plumbing.

Edgar gave me quick looks as we weaved through the midday lunch pedestrians.

“What?” I asked.

“You know what you should do? You should invite Ches over.”

Christ God Almighty.

“No.”

“No?”

“The opposite of yes.”

“Why not, man?”

“It would be weird.”

“How would it be weird? You just say, ‘Good Morning, Ches. My usual coffee flip-o-chino, and oh by the way, I’m having a thing at my house on Saturday, would you like to come?’ See? You talk. She listens. Things happen.”

“She says no.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Bad thing is that’s the not the worst thing that could happen.”

“What’s the worst thing?”

“She says yes.”

Edgar released his chuckle-sigh that usually meant he was annoyed. It was as close as Edgar got to anger, and I learned to respect it.

“It’s been a month, Dorian. You mention her at least once every time we get together.”

“For the record, you mentioned her this time.”

“Don’t you think it’s about time to put your quarters on the table?”

“What’s the rush?”

“What are you afraid of?”

I stopped on the street corner and turned to face Edgar full-on. “Remember how my last relationship went down? Right? The last thing I need in my life is another…”

“Another what?”

I couldn’t find a way to say it without sounding like a complete tool. So I said nothing.

Edgar shook his head. “You’re going to stop blaming yourself one of these days, right?”

“I know, I know. Carmen was using me.”

“There you go.”

“But that’s my point. You’ve seen my house. It’s not like I hide my profession in there. If I invite Ches over, she’s going to look around, and she’s going to pick up a thing or two. Oh, what’s this? A darquelle? It’s shiny. What does it do, again?”

“Most people don’t even believe in magic, Dorian. You’re making up reasons not to ask her.”

“What if she does?”

“That’s not it, man. What you’re really worried about is what if she says yes? What if she likes you?”

“I’m not afraid of asking her out on a date. Just not to my house.”

“You really think Ches is going to turn into another Carmen?”

“Let’s just say I’m not desperate enough to find out.”

Edgar squinted at me, and I felt like a toddler.

“This isn’t your typical Goetic nut-knockery, Dorian. It’s dating.”

“I’d prefer the nut-knockery. At least it makes sense. There are rules. You do this, you get that. Relationships? It’s just so pointlessly complicated.”

Edgar laughed. “You’re the only person I know who thinks Goetia is less complicated than asking a girl out.”

“You don’t know many Goetics, do you?”

I never faulted Edgar for trying to convert me into the Way of the One True Relationship. It worked for him, and when most guys recognize a successful formula they try to apply it to everyone else. I wasn’t necessarily opposed to the concept of a relationship, either. I just couldn’t see how I could keep my personal life and my hermetic life separate.

I was most certainly uninterested in blending them, especially after Carmen. That particular mistake cost me my soul. With any luck at all, however, Quinn Gillette would give me the first real lead on how to get it back.

hen I returned to my two-story brick row house on Amity Street, I headed down the steel-door-secured stairway leading to my basement work space. Moving my hermetic operations into my basement had proven to be a tremendous time-saver. Instead of humping it out to that old mini-storage in Catonsville, all I had to do when I punched the clock was take a flight of stairs and get to work. The downside, necessarily, was that I was effectively shitting where I ate. Esoterically speaking, this wasn’t the safest choice. Energies can be subtle, and they build up when one isn’t looking. Too much lingering focus, and a practitioner could find himself living with a giant hole in his wards, or worse.

Not to mention Emil’s Library. I had inherited my mentor’s collection of Netherwork texts shortly after his untimely demise. That wasn’t the kind of memory I wanted to conjure up in my living space, so I did my best to ignore them. But, as Carmody reminded me that morning, those books were in demand.

And they were dangerous.

I still kept them in their dark-stained walnut cabinet, now locked away in my basement instead of a cage. I felt their energy as I pulled open the double-doors. A spiral-bound notebook swung on a nail driven into one of the doors. This was as close to an index as Emil had ever managed, and it was a glorious mess of vague descriptions, sidebar notes, and seeming non-sequiturs that made finding an individual book in this cabinet a very specific kind of pain in my ass. Most of the texts were thin bundles of hand-copied verbiage without spines or even cover pages. It could take hours just to figure out if one of the books listed in Emil’s notebook was even in the cabinet. After wading through the index, I managed to find an entry that credited an Ottoman-era Bulgarian Gnostic with what Emil had described as “primer curses”.