The Curse Servant (The Dark Choir Book 2) (13 page)

hes and I played a fun game of “pretend we totally don’t have a date on Saturday night” each morning at the café. The game usually involved her bringing out my order with a bouncier smirk than normal, and me basically being awkward yet charming. I was a natural at that. Things felt right with Ches all week, which actually had me worried. I wasn’t used to feeling normal, and this new emotion was as alien as it was opiate.

But before I could enjoy my weekend, I had to survive Julian’s make-up meeting with the election staff. He held the meeting at Gordon’s, as usual. The restaurant basically kept the back room open for Julian unless they had a bar mitzvah or a graduation. That steak restaurant, two blocks from the Inner Harbor, had become the unofficial campaign headquarters for Mayor Sullivan.

That week Sooner began his media blitz, painting the television with his “The Sooner The Better” ads attacking Sullivan’s record as a liberal. Though in reality the two candidates stood on the same platform: clean up Baltimore. The fundamental difference came in the execution. Sullivan wanted to raise taxes on corporations to better fund the police and public services. Sooner wanted to relax the taxes on business and remove other obstacles to business growth in order to court major corporations to relocate headquarters to Baltimore. The money would mean jobs, which meant more income revenue, property sales, and a whole new demographic. Of course the obstacles to business growth were protecting both the poor residents of Baltimore and the health of the Chesapeake Bay, but that didn’t seem to matter to Sooner or McHenry.

Julian’s clutch of “territory managers” were in rare form, each grilling one another over which high school they attended, and God help you if you weren’t originally from Baltimore. I lingered in the back corner, nursing a nagging headache, trying not to involve myself in the actual workings of the campaign. I wasn’t entirely sure why Julian insisted I attend this meeting. He sure as hell wasn’t paying me to knock on doors or run phone banks.

One particularly amphibian-looking territory manager croaked out his dismay at the Sooner ad blitz. “So when are we going to talk about the TV spots?”

Julian pursed his lips and leaned back in his chair. “We’re waiting for polling.”

“We have six spots already in the can, Julian,” another advisor outlined. “We have Sooner on his flip-flop with the bailout funds, the parochial shutdown. If we wait too long, the midterm ads are going to start driving up the buys. What’s Sully waiting for?”

Julian’s face twisted in ambivalence. “I don’t think he’s ready to open Pandora’s Box just yet.”

“The box is open, Julian. What the hell?” the toad-faced advisor croaked.

“We don’t know if Sooner’s forward push is gaining any traction,” Julian explained. “If he’s spinning his wheels, it’s better we let him dig himself deeper and deeper. And if I can labor the off-roading metaphor any further, someone please tell me.”

“Has anyone bothered to connect the dots between McHenry and Sooner?” I asked. “Because Joe Q. Public might be interested.”

The entire table fell silent and turned to me. Especially Julian. In fact, I regretted saying anything at all. Wasn’t I supposed to be avoiding active politics?

The toad nodded. “One spot. But…”

“But what?” Julian grumbled.

“We’re afraid it’ll alienate the chamber. Developers. Small businesses, large businesses, retail.”

“I get the picture,” Julian mumbled, turning away.

The toad continued, “Sully carried a lot of business interests last election. Frankly, they won him the election. His record isn’t bad for a Democrat, either. He’s perceived as pro-business.”

I shook my head and retorted, “Sooner is in McHenry’s pocket. You’re not going to lose the business vote with a TV commercial because you’ve already lost the business vote. McHenry is one of them. Hell, he’s their crown prince, and everyone knows Sooner would be his mouthpiece in city hall.”

“That’s not how we understand the public perception,” the advisor muttered before shaking his head at me and turning to Julian. “Who is this guy, anyway?”

Julian smirked. “Dorian Lake.”

“And?”

“Grass roots coordination in West Baltimore.”

The toad chuckled. “You’re kidding.”

Julian leaned into the table and held up a hand to silence him. “The point, Dorian, is that we need to know if unzipping our fly with McHenry will actually mean anything in the voting booth.”

“It will,” I spat.

“I suppose you have polling on that?” the toad jibed with more than a little smugness.

“When’s the last time you really talked to someone in Federal Hill about Harborside Towers? Or people two blocks from where I live about this ‘Manor at Carrollton.’ I’m sure there’s more.”

The toad snickered and looked at the others for backup. “Is this guy serious? Sir, no one opposes inner city redevelopment.”

“You think so?”

“Replacing abandoned structures that have become a den of drugs and crime with clean, green spaces and attractive mixed use developments? Where can I sign up because that’s exactly what Sully did for the Inner Harbor.”

Julian shot me a look. He didn’t look pissed. He was waiting to see my response. Fuck. I was participating in active politics.

“You want to know something about the Inner Harbor? Ask someone who lives west of the MLK expressway. Seriously. It’s like someone painted an actual line down the middle of the boulevard that says ‘holy shit, you better be white and rich before you cross the street or you’re going to get arrested.’ You really want more of those lines painted through the city? Because if you’re comfortable with that, I’m working on the wrong campaign.”

He gave me a face-punchingly condescending grin. “If you think we’re ignoring race in this campaign―”

“I’m not saying that.”

“Because Sooner polls very well in West Baltimore, thanks to connections with Chief Bettis and the Food Service Workers. But I suppose you already know this?”

I held my tongue. This wasn’t a bluff I was prepared for.

The toad leaned back in his chair with several tons of smugness. “Can we finally talk about the TV spots?”

The meeting continued for another half-hour before someone found another tape to play. I turned to Julian and gave him a quick finger-salute before stealing out the back of the room as the lights dimmed. Julian let me get all the way to the street before he caught up with me. He snatched my elbow and eased me to the side of Gordon’s, his face tight with anxiety.

“Dorian? Are you still with me?”

I guided us off the street and into a storefront, weaving between nearby racks of power suits. “You think I’m not?”

“I needed you to meet these guys.”

“Thanks for that. Can’t say I’m a better person for it.”

“Good,” he chirped.

“Huh?”

“Between you and me? I hate these guys. They’re small-minded misanthropes with Poli Sci degrees. I wanted you to see what Sullivan is working with.”

“Why? What does it matter?”

“Because you’re not just a hired gun, Dorian. You actually give a shit, God help us.”

“I haven’t been delivering lately.”

“I noticed.”

“Thing is, with karma, you’re dealing with a limited resource pool.”

He furrowed his brow. “I thought you said a person can’t run out of good karma?”

“Well, that’s true to a point. But every charm I make for Sullivan changes his disposition with the Cosmos. It weakens him, in the long term. Honest truth, I’m not sure how much good I am to you anymore.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and examined the rack of jackets for a moment, nodding slowly. “Are you resigning, here?”

I gave Julian a long examination. “You know those properties I rent out down the street?”

“I remember.”

“Guess who needs to buy them to flesh out his new mixed use parcel?”

“McHenry?”

“I don’t think he even knows yet.”

His eyes were alive again “Oh, that is just absolutely perfect.”

“I wasn’t just blowing smoke in there, Julian. My renters? They’re terrified of McHenry. Cecil Rawls? He was, too.”

Julian blinked away the mention of Cecil’s name as if I had smacked him in the face with a rotting halibut.

“So, if Sullivan wants to lose this election, the best thing he can do is to forget how many registered voters in Baltimore live below the poverty line.”

“He knows.”

“Does he?”

“That’s why we haven’t gone negative. We don’t have to. McHenry thinks he can buy an election. And yes, he’s very rich and bordering on organized crime… but politically he’s a novice.” Julian held out his hand. “So, maybe stick around a little longer? I know McHenry’s got some karma coming.”

I smiled and shook Julian’s hand. “Sure I can’t convince you to come back to the Club. I may or may not be bringing a real date Saturday night.”

“And when you say ‘real date’ you’re talking about…?”

“I don’t know. The fact that I felt like calling her ‘real’ probably says more than anything.”

Julian laughed. “Sorry. The Club is
terra non grata
until the election. Besides, it smells old.”

“Okay.” I turned back front of the store and scanned the street for onlookers.

“I’ll call you?” Julian asked as I nodded him to take an exit.

“Do it.”

I left Julian feeling like we were on the same team again, and that was enough to carry me into the evening.

That night as I reached for the latest acquisition from the corner wine boutique, I paused. One of my crystal lowballs was sitting in the corner of my sideboard. I crouched down and looked behind the sliding door to the liquor bottles. A bottle of Talisker sat right in front. It was a decent Scotch, eighteen years. I never got around to drinking it after I bought the scandalously expensive Glenrothes I kept under lock and key at the Club. Then after the debacle with Carmen, I’d switched to red wines. My tastes had shifted. Maybe it was the loss of my soul. Maybe it was some psychological coping mechanism.

I poured myself two neat fingers of the Talisker and stood by the front windows overlooking Amity as I inhaled the heady fumes. The smoky peat aroma filled my sinuses, jerking me back to a time when life was far bleaker, but far less complicated. Sipping that whiskey by the front windows stirred up a familiar feeling, if not specific emotions; that old paranoia that used to drive me into a bottle of single malt every night crept up my neck. I toyed with those old emotions with an enjoyable kind of detachment. I didn’t hate my life at the moment. All of the hidden rivalries and unfinished business had been either dealt with or at least aired out. I had a best friend whom I wasn’t neglecting. I had a girlfriend. Kind of. She felt like one. At the very least I had a date, a real date with real nerves and actual saccharin butterflies doing rainbow swirl loops in my gut.

I was even getting the old Julian back.

By the time I noticed the shadowy figure standing across the street from my house, I nearly dismissed it as a phantasm from my past. But it stayed there even after I noticed it. I froze and slowly lowered my glass. It didn’t react. It just stood there, its hands in what were probably pockets, though I couldn’t make out any actual features on its silhouette.

I ducked to the side of the window and tried to center myself. The shadows came and went these days, usually just before I got into a near-miss on the freeway, or something otherwise horrible threatened my life. They swarmed around me, flicking in and out of my periphery like tiny buzzards waiting to pick my corpse clean. Only I knew they weren’t going to wait for me to die. They didn’t wait for Emil. They took him apart, limb by limb, and left him bleeding to death on his bed.

When I mustered the courage to double-check the window, I found it was still there just across the street, staring. It was bigger than the usual shadow, the typical imps that dart in and out of tree limbs and in between cars. This looked like a human. Despite the only street light on the short block of Amity between my house and Fayette, I couldn’t make out a face.

I reached for the wall above my mantle, and the silver blade mounted there. My darquelle. It was a gift from Edgar, a blade charged with murdered blood, capable of cutting through both flesh and spiritual substrate. In this case, the blade had once belonged to Robert of Argyle, also known as Robert the Heretic. According to Edgar, this particular darquelle had shed the blood of Christian zealots in the Highlands during Cromwell’s occupation. The darquelle was the chosen tool of trade for Netherworkers around the world, and at that moment, it was my best weapon against whatever the hell was eye-fucking me through my front window.