The Curse Servant (The Dark Choir Book 2) (8 page)

She gave me a hug and snatched the bottle of wine. “Dorian? Serious talk, though?”

“What?”

“Are you just looking for fun with her? Or do you want something long-term?”

“I have no idea, Wren. It’s way too early for that.”

“Have you seen anyone since Carmen?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Sure you’re not scared? Scared of her? I think she’s getting to you, and I’d hate for this to be a time delay rebound.” She put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed hard. “Want some advice?”

“Not really.”

“Too bad, because this is important. I want you to promise me you’re going to let her be Francesca Baker.”

“Huh?”

“Let her be who she is. Because she isn’t Carmen.”

“I know that.”

“Do you? Don’t assume she’s going to have some agenda. Don’t assume she’s going to screw you over. Just because Carmen did, doesn’t mean you get to hold that grudge over Ches. I’m serious. If it’s going to work, you’ll have to wipe the slate clean.”

She was right. My whole snit over the wine bottle was about Carmen. Ches handled it better than I’d deserved.

“I promise.”

She shoved the bottle into my hand. “Good. Now pour some wine and quit being a tool.”

After that point, the party went smoothly. Everyone talked, and no one was awkward. Everyone pretty much avoided the cassoulet. I ate those leftovers for a solid week.

By the time the sun set, the Swains had to return to Frederick. Ches and Elle exchanged some kind of secret handshake before the Swains stepped out into the street. Edgar, who had refrained from commenting on my getting the nerve to ask Ches over all evening, gave me a solid, meaningful nod on his way out.

Then I was left with that awkward moment when Ches and I had to figure out if she was going to leave or stay.

We lingered in the foyer for a moment, each of us clutching onto our wine glasses for dear life. Finally, I decided to say something.

“How do you feel? I mean―”

“Too tipsy to drive, if that’s what you mean.”

“Ah.”

“But I took the bus.”

“Oh.”

“We need music.”

“That… I can do that.”

I wrestled with my digital music remote for far longer than was warranted as Ches wandered around the house looking over my wall art and gewgaws. By the time I landed on a smooth jazz station and dialed the music down to a conversational level, she had wandered into the hallway. I found her looking over a photo of my parents hanging on the wall just across from my steel door.

“They were so young,” she mumbled.

“Yeah.”

“Was it an accident?”

“Mom was. A truck T-boned her taxi. She held on for about an hour before the internal bleeding…”

“What about your father? He wasn’t in the cab?”

“No. That’s―”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be asking this. I blame the wine.”

I gripped my glass, my fingers tapping like mad against the stem. “He shot himself. In our home office. Something he had done at work caused a lot of people to lose a lot of money.”

“Jesus.”

“That was a week before Mom’s crash.”

“One week? You were all alone. You’ve been alone that long?”

“Oh, I had people. Aunt Viv.” And Emil… but I wasn’t going to get into that.

Ches looked up into my eyes, balancing the wine glass delicately in her fingertips.

My heart raced. It wasn’t the wine. It wasn’t her Florida sunshine wholesome vibe. It wasn’t that candy-scent perfume she was wearing.

I was afraid this was all going to be just casual to her. I was suddenly terrified this was all we were going to be.

She cocked her head as her eyes traced the shape of my steel door.

“That’s a hell of a door. You have a panic room or something?”

My pulse kicked up a notch. “No. That’s just my basement.”

“Is that where you hide the bodies?” she asked with a wink.

“What, you didn’t see the fifty gallon barrels in the alley?”

She lifted her hands. “Sorry again. I’m just being a nosey bitch tonight.”

I took a deep breath and examined her face. Sure, she was a little tipsy. Very much outside of her comfort zone. But she was keeping up with me, every bob and weave. She wasn’t letting me back down or pull away.

I repeated Wren’s advice a few times in my head. She wasn’t Carmen. She wasn’t Carmen.

“Tell you what. Want to see what’s down there?”

She released an “Ooo,” as her eyebrows popped up.

“Nothing spectacular. It’s not even locked.”

I only locked the door when I left the house, but that wasn’t important at the moment. I pulled the lever and eased the door open. Reaching inside, I flipped on the light switch and started down the stairs. She followed me into the finished space of my basement. My octagonal worktable, my shelves of reagents.

Emil’s Library.

I positioned myself so she wouldn’t accidentally run into it, touch it, or really even look at it too long. She walked a slow circle around the table, pausing at the jars of myrrh, frankincense, dragonsblood, amber, dried scorpions, and all kinds of goods I had been buying from Edgar over the years.

“See? No bodies.”

“No,” she whispered. “This is way creepier.” She tapped on the jar of scorpions. “Cozy.”

“Yeah, it’s kind of cramped. Thought it’d be bigger when I moved in, but you work with what you got.”

“What do you do down here?”

“Truth?”

She nodded.

I answered, “Magic.”

“Magic?”

“Hermetic workings. Charms and hexes. That’s my business, by the way. I sell charms―”

“―and hexes. Got it.”

She turned to my table and ran her fingers over the carved inscriptions in its surface.

“What is this, Greek?”

“Good eye.”

“I took a couple years of Greek as an undergrad. What does it say?”

“It’s an incantation. A line from Pythagoras of Samos. It says ‘Above the cloud with its shadow is the star with its light.’ It’s a declaration of cosmic dichotomy. One of the fundamentals of classical hermetic… what?”

She grinned at me and shook her head. “I’ve just never met anyone like you before.” She leaned back, her eyes dancing with something new. There was an interest there I hadn’t seen before.

This was going very well.

Ultimately, she sobered up and fatigue set in. I offered to drive her home, but we both recognized I wasn’t in a position to sit behind the wheel. Instead I escorted her to the bus stop and waited with her. She gave me a peck on the cheek when we saw the bus round the corner of Fayette.

“Say, what are you doing next Saturday?” I blurted before the air brakes squealed.

“Nothing special. What you got?”

“I’m a member of a club up by Druid Hill. I’d like to take you. It’s my home away from home.”

She rolled her chin a little before nodding. “Sounds fun. What kind of music do they play?”

“Not that kind of club.”

“So, what’s the dress code?”

The bus doors opened, and the driver looked like she didn’t have much patience for long goodbyes.

“Evening gown too much to ask?”

She winced a little, then shook her head. “I’ll find something,” she added before squeezing my hand and stepping into the bus.

I took a long, slow stroll back to the house. It wasn’t until I was at the stoop that I realized I had left my phone on my desk. It was ringing.

I rushed to unlock the door, and managed to catch it before it rolled to voice mail.

Private number.

“Hello?”

Cecil Rawls’ voice vibrated through the phone, “Dorian? Have you spoken to Bright yet?”

“No, can’t reach him. He’s out of town.”

“You may have less time than we thought.”

I dropped into my chair. “What happened?”

“Copies of the photos landed at the Charm City Spectator. It’s a short run rag out of Canton, but people are already talking about it.”

“Fuck. Okay. I’ll try again.”

“I’m taking a risk, here.”

I took a deep breath and nodded. “I recognize that, Cecil. Thank you.”

“I’m saying this is it. This is as far as I can go with this. You won’t hear from me again.”

Before I could say “Understood,” he hung up.

So much for my weekend.

ello?”

“It’s Julian.”

I checked the clock radio by my bed. Six in the morning. What a bastard.

“Yeah. You back yet?”

“We’re driving in this morning. I have six voicemails demanding I call you, so I’m thinking this is important?”

“Yep. Campaign-ending important.”

“It’s always when I leave town.”

“I’ll keep my day open for you.”

“I can’t get into this right this very second, but what’s the five-word version?”

“Uh… Amy Mancuso. Me. You. Photos.”

After a long pause he replied, “We’re in Philly now. I’ll call you in four hours.”

“Roger.”

My Sunday got busy, all of a sudden. I pulled myself out of bed and slushed through the laundry on the floor on my way to making breakfast. Ches never worked Sunday mornings, so instead of hiking over to the café, I warmed up some cassoulet and made my way down to the basement. I rifled through Emil’s library for that stupid Macedonian-Bulgarian-Ottoman text for Carmody. Dealing with those tomes was never easy. The energies bound within and around those books were almost blindingly distracting. The old stories of books driving men insane were based on the hornet’s nest of infernal intent that swarmed around such texts. And it wasn’t even intentional. The knowledge contained within was simply that potent.

I paused when I stumbled across a text written by Asok the Sharqui in the late seventeenth century. Emil had jotted down the words
thoughtforms, darql craft, servitors, soul traps
in the margin. This was the book I needed to bone up on before I made my meeting with Gillette. I plunged headlong into the Indian heretic’s treatise on soul manipulation, not knowing precisely what to expect. The man had been a cultural Muslim during the Moghul Empire, but claimed a Rajput ancestry. The blend of political and religious conflict during his lifetime had driven him outside of the more conventional pursuits of near-Eastern mysticism, pushing him into what could only be described as “utterly sinister” practices, even by modern standards. His ultimate goal of slicing his soul into representations of traditional deities was interrupted by an ill-timed wave of plague, taking his life and those of his followers. Though not before the last managed to put to parchment his theories, means, and observations in his attempts. The document fell into the hands of Muslim landlords a century later, and ultimately rested in the hands of a Vatican emissary just prior to the First World War. Said emissary, regrettably, contracted a rapidly progressing case of tuberculosis during his voyage from Tyre to Italy. The ship made it to Rome intact. The text landed in the hands of whoever taught Emil his craft.

I recognized Emil’s handwriting on every other page, his translation of the original. The translation was colored predictably with his resentment of Euro-centric colonial ideals. After three hours of plodding through Emil’s butchering of Urdu, I surrendered and returned upstairs to check my phone.

I had a voicemail from Leibnitz. He had acquired the necessary reagent from his target, and wanted to hand it over as soon as was humanly possible. I figured a man of his focus and seemingly sparing constitution deserved as much quick attention as I could afford. I showered, dressed, and made my way to the street in front of Grey & Lisle.