The Curse Servant (The Dark Choir Book 2) (5 page)

sually my morning safari for presentable clothes off the floor of my bedroom put me in a rock-chewing mood by the time coffee became reality. Perhaps it was that emotional deliverance, that shining ray of celestial caffeine brought to me each morning at the café that painted Francesca as my saving angel? More likely I was succumbing to my life-long habit of prescribing ideals to otherwise mortal women, but it usually felt somewhat religious.

This morning, however, I wasn’t in a foul mood. I wasn’t even brooding. The sky was clear. The chill of morning air had yet to melt under the heat of the Mid-Atlantic summer sun, and Ches had her hair up in a ponytail again.

I was still flying a bit from my meeting with Leibnitz the day before. This was more than simple comfort with my practice. This felt righteous. I had a solid lead on finding a way to reacquire my soul, at least as solid as I had seen in the past half-year. Not to mention the party on Saturday. Aside from the ever-present sense of impending doom that usually haunted the periphery of my consciousness, it was a pretty good morning.

Ches eyed me from inside the café as I took my usual seat out underneath the canvas awning, tipping my feet up on the black wrought-iron balusters separating the eating area from the sidewalk. She emerged from the café with my usual, a large cup of Americano with a tiny pot of half-and-half. She shook her head with a grin.

“You look chipper this morning,” she chimed as she set my coffee down on the iron table.

“I had a good week.”

She sighed and leaned against the aluminum pole holding up this side of the awning. “I’m jealous.”

“Problems?”

“My brother.”

“Again?”

“Yeah. I know, I know. He’s going to lose his kids if he doesn’t do something.”

About a week ago, Ches started opening up details of her family life when it was just me and her in the mornings. Her life was like a primer in vetting hexcraft customers. I had almost a dozen ways mapped out in my head to keep her brother from losing his kids in the divorce. But I wasn’t going to bring it up at the café. It was my Holy of Holies, and I wasn’t going to drag the Life inside.

“But that’s him, right? I mean, you’re doing okay.”

She shrugged. “I suppose. Fall semester is going to make my budget suck out loud. Not looking forward to that.”

“Cutting your hours?”

“Still working mornings, though,” she muttered, her eyebrow lifting ever so slightly.

My heart slapped a quick beat against my sternum. I knew that comment was directed at me. She was dropping hints lately that she could be interested in something beyond our usual morning coffee small talk. I was getting really bad at pretending not to notice.

It could have been the coffee, which was extra strong that morning. It could have been the sunshine, or my unusual optimism of the moment. Hell, it could have been some kind of alignment of Venus and Jupiter. Whatever it was, I started talking without thinking.

“I’m having a party Saturday after the game. Some friends of mine are coming over. I’m going to cook something I’ll pretend is a family recipe, and they’re going to pretend they like it.”

She grinned. “You have friends?”

“Baffling as it may sound. So, anyway, here’s the part where I stumble over myself trying to invite you to come over while looking cool and disaffected.”

“Disaffected?”

“You know. Aloof? Manly?”

“I don’t think that’s what disaffected means.”

“Oh?”

“I think it means pissed off and dissatisfied.”

“Ah. Not exactly what I was going for.”

She crossed her arms and shot me a sharp grin. “How about smarmy and disingenuous? Because you pretty much got that nailed.”

“You coming or not?”

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

“Well, you could have just said so.” I took a long sip of coffee and wondered what was wrong with me. “If I could possibly be more awkward, you’ll let me know. Right?”

“What time?”

“Oh, any time.” Ugh. Any time? “I mean, I’ll be home all day, but everyone else will be coming over after the game. It’s kind of hard to tell when baseball games end, from what I gather.”

“Okay. Well, I’m just going to go with six o’clock. That work?”

“Sure.”

“And home is?”

“Hmm?”

She snickered. “Your address?”

I sat for an uncomfortable moment, my jaw unwilling to move. I had avoided this particular collision of my professional and private lives to date. It took effort to will the words into sound.

“Ten twenty-four Amity Street. It’s just around the corner.”

Someone inside the café barked at her, and she pulled herself away from the pole with a sniffle.

“It’s a date.”

Ches stepped inside, leaving my bewildered face mug-deep in coffee. It was. It was totally a date. How did this even happen?

I mumbled, “Fine, Edgar. We’ll play it your way,” before unfolding the paper and trying to ground myself again.

A brown envelope slipped out onto my lap. I jostled my coffee, managing not to spill it all over my khakis. The envelope had no address. It was blank, light, simply bound by one of those string-and-wheel gizmos that were all the rage with the Baby Boomers. I felt the envelope for any strange lumps or devices, and once I was satisfied the only danger its contents posed were in the form of paper, I unwound the string and opened it.

Within the envelope I found five glossy photos of Julian and myself guiding a disheveled and panicky Amy Mancuso to his car.

What was this, a warning? I remembered the blue Chrysler that sped away from the adjoining parking lot. It must have been a private investigator, possibly one of Sooner’s political gravediggers. The election season was just gaining real speed. The yard signs and billboards were already up. The first of the television ads would be airing soon. And as much as Sooner liked to bill himself as a responsible alternative to Sullivan, a man free of political entrenchment… he was, in truth, the puppet of Joey McHenry.

I had dealt with McHenry once before, and I was very certain he didn’t relish that particular experience. Nevertheless, he was an industry magnate. I was a hermetic practitioner. In any fair scheme of things, our two worlds shouldn’t have ever intersected. But they had. They intersected in the person of Julian Bright.

I thumbed through the photos, trying to keep them well hidden in my lap. They were clear. Our faces were clear, at any rate. As was Ms. Mancuso’s expression of fear and confusion. If these photos were removed from any sensible context, they could prove devastating to Sullivan’s reelection campaign. Questions would be asked, and we didn’t have any real answers. Sullivan would have to ask Julian who I was. I had met the Mayor once before, but I was positive he wouldn’t remember me. For all he knew, I was a grass-roots organizer, whatever that meant. Being a devout Catholic, Sullivan wouldn’t hear “hex crafter” and “payroll” in the same sentence with any kind of joy. Julian would have to come clean, and it would cost him his job. It would be embarrassing for me, but nothing I couldn’t overcome. No, this wasn’t meant for me. This was meant for Julian.

So why was it slipped into my morning paper?

“Can I bring anything?”

I sucked in a breath and slid the sports section over the envelope as Ches rounded my shoulder.

“I’m good,” I replied waving my coffee in front of my face.

“No, I mean your party. Do you want me to bring anything?”

“Nah. I’ve got it covered. Family recipe, remember?”

She put a hand on my shoulder and stood there, looking at it. It was the first time she had ever actually touched me.

“I’ll have you know I’m completely rearranging my social calendar for this, so your family recipe had better be dynamite.”

“You have a social calendar?”

“Yeah. It’s a Post-it on my fridge that says ‘Get a Life.’“

I tried to laugh, but my mind was on the photos in my lap.

And I was having such a good morning.

tried to call Julian when I got home, but his voice mail announced he had taken a day trip to North Carolina with the Mayor. I left a simple “It’s Dorian; call me” message and leaned back in my chair at the roll top desk overlooking Amity. I had to make a decision, and quickly. Less for Julian’s benefit, but more for the virtue that I was letting politics derail my search for my soul.

Or was it the other way around?

I knew how Julian would answer that question. I needed to reevaluate my priorities. The steady income was nice. Unspeakably nice. I had taken care of substantial unfinished business in my personal and professional life thanks to Julian’s monthly checks. I’d cleared my debts. I’d installed the steel door to my basement. I’d even managed to fully update the rental properties that had gone neglected for far too long. My tenants seemed happy, especially Abraham Carter, my superintendent. When old Abe stopped showing up at my stoop with his hat in his hand about some damned busted air unit or a leaking gutter, I knew I had finally achieved the level of passably acceptable landlord.

But the constant demand for my attention was draining. I had a soul to find, damn it. And when I managed to carve out some time to look for it, I received an earful of shit from Julian about it. I really wanted to like Julian, and the money was making that harder and harder every week.

Just as I was about to give up and pour myself some wine, my phone rang. Private number.

“Hello?”

A deep, resonant man’s voice stated, “You received my photos.”

Aha. “I did.”

“Good.”

“I take it you’re my friend in the blue Chrysler?” I knew a power play when I felt it. I tried to knock this fellow off his stride before he got too much momentum.

“What? No.”

Oh well. It was worth a shot. “What do you want from me? These photos don’t mean anything.”

“To you, maybe. To the Deputy Mayor? The Mayor? I think you know what these photos could do if they go to press.”

“I do.”

The man sighed. “Which is why I sent them to you instead.”

“Come again?”

“I want to meet. In public.”

I wasn’t sure if I was quite ready for a Deep Throat scenario with a man I didn’t know, but ignoring this was clearly a more dangerous option. “Where and when?”