The Curse Servant (The Dark Choir Book 2) (41 page)

he trip was fairly uneventful. Edgar followed me in the Jeep while Wren held Elle in my back seat. I caught glimpses of the two of them in my rearview mirror, squinting against the sun setting behind us. Wren looked tired, reaching over to rub the wooden charm around Elle’s neck to keep its energy up. Elle, on the other hand, kept staring with those glassy eyes directly back at me. When we reached my house, I helped guide Elle up the stoop and into the front room.

“Where should we put her?” Wren asked as Edgar closed and locked the front door.

“We’ll do the ritual downstairs, but for now let’s just keep her comfortable.” I pointed at my futon, and they settled her onto the cushion while I fetched one of the pillows from my bed and the yarn afghan Aunt Viv mailed me six years ago. I put on a pot of coffee while Wren hummed some kind of lullaby to Elle. Edgar joined me in the kitchen and poured us all some thick, bracing mugs of coffee.

The evening was quiet, being a Sunday night. No one was on the street, and there were no ball games to break the peace. At times the only sound in the house was the whistling of my air conditioner vents as Edgar, Wren, and I sat in the front room staring at each other. In time, both of them nodded off, despite the coffee’s best efforts. And I was left alone.

With Elle.

“You’re going to fail,” the servitor hissed through Elle’s dried lips.

“No, I’m not.”

“This vessel is doomed. Her soul is only a stain, now.”

“I’d worry about yourself.”

“Why do you force yourself onto your own fate?”

I checked the Swains. They looked like they were catching up on a week’s sleep, and probably were.

“It’s a living.”

“It’s folly.”

“I’m good at it.”

“Why can you not accept your fate?”

“Because I didn’t choose it.”

“Naturally.”

“I don’t have a lot of faith in forces I don’t control. If you don’t understand that, then I’m sorry.”

“You find misery in your craft because you know it’s a sham.”

“I get that a psychology major crafted you in her image, but I really could go without the head shrinking.”

“Nothing you do creates anything but a zero sum. On your death, you will look on your life, and you will realize you had no power.”

I leaned forward and lifted my voice just above a whisper. “Look. As much as I accept the supernatural, you are quite simply an abomination. The fumbling failure of a novice. A screw up. You tell me nothing in my life is more than breaking even? Well, you can go to Hell. I choose the life I live. And I’m done with you.”

I leaned back and closed my eyes.

Elle’s breathing dropped into a light snore after a while, and I was finally alone with my thoughts.

I finished the coffee pot in time for my phone to warn me of my schedule. I stirred Edgar awake with a nudge of my shoe. He groaned, pulled off his spectacles to rub his eyes, then hoisted himself up to join me in the kitchen.

“I have to go get Gillette.”

“You need me to come with?”

“No. Don’t want to surprise her. And I need you here with Wren in case Elle gets cagey.”

“Tell me straight, Dorian. Can she get it done?”

“I think so. She seems to think so, at least. It’s our best shot.”

“Okay, then.”

I left the Swains reclining in my front room and drove south of the city to the airport. The airport itself was flooded with people in business suits preparing for their day’s travel. I grabbed a bench on the public side of the security gates and kept a close eye on the arrivals board. A plane from Chicago was scheduled to arrive at seven-ten. That would have to be Gillette’s.

I caught eyes peering away from me here and there. Innocuous men and women in bland suits. The Presidium was keeping a close eye on this arrival, even though they had pledged Gillette’s safety. Not only had they pledged not to move against her, they had vouchsafed her safety while under the terms of the letter.

I finally spotted Gillette stomping through the gate, still wearing her trench coat. I stood up and gave her a nod. She marched up to me and paused, waiting for me to say something.

“Welcome to Maryland.”

“So, where are we doing this?”

I escorted Gillette to the parking garage. We shared an elevator ride with a stranger whom I assumed was one of the Presidium’s enforcers. When we cleared the parking garage and were finally alone on the freeway, I asked, “Is there anything you need for the extraction? Reagents? Tools?”

“I don’t use tools.”

“How does that work?”

She didn’t answer. Apparently, this wasn’t meant to be a learning exercise.

“I have the family at my work space already. If it’s alright with you, I’d like to get started immediately.”

“I’ll require some time to prepare my consciousness.”

“Um, okay. How much time?”

“Depends on how long it takes the drugs to kick in.”

“Drugs?”

“Nothing illegal, relax. Souls aren’t physical elements that can be portioned, divided, and disposed of. More like forces to be channeled. The only effective way to manipulate soul energy is in creating an affinity with their essence. This takes decades of mind alteration to be useful.”

“Noted. So, minutes? Hours?”

She rolled her eyes. “A couple hours.”

“That should work.”

“After your curse.”

“I’ll perform the curse when you’re good and altered, thank you. I want zero down time.”

“Why are you so squeamish about this?”

“Why aren’t you?”

She snickered. “Have you met Carmody?”

We arrived back at the house without incident. I escorted Gillette through the front door, where she paused as she laid eyes on the Swains. She gave Wren and Edgar only the merest of acknowledgments, but when she spotted Elle her face drew long. Her eyes lifted to mine, filling with as human an expression as I had seen from the woman. Gillette put a hand on Elle’s head and swallowed hard.

“I should get started,” she muttered, turning to me. “Where is your ritual space?”

I led her to the steel door to my basement work space. She paused to inspect the energy of my wardings, seemingly satisfied as she plodded down the stairs. I had arranged as much space as I could downstairs, moving my reagents to a corner cabinet and finally relocating the more harmless of my craft theory books back upstairs. I had even taken the precaution of locking the cabinet with Emil’s Library in case Gillette got light fingers. Gillette walked a single circle around my work table and sighed.

“Cozy.”

“It’s home.”

“It’ll be adequate.” She reached into her trench coat and produced a tiny black pouch, which she unzipped to reveal two syringes and a vial of liquid.

“They let you on the plane with that?” I quipped.

“Travel kit for diabetics.”

She pulled off her trench coat, revealing a sleeveless shirt and surprisingly muscular arms. She folded her coat and handed it to me distractedly.

I took her coat. “Need anything? A chair?”

“No. Just time.”

She stared at me until I realized I had been dismissed.

I ascended the stairs and dropped her coat onto a chair in the kitchen. Edgar and Wren looked on nervously as I poured myself some orange juice and took a seat.

Wren blurted, “Well?”

“She has to get ready.”

“For what?”

“The extraction. What else? Said it would take a couple hours.”

Wren wilted slightly and returned to the couch.

By eight-thirty we were all bobbing in and out of the room, walking off nervous energy. When my phone rang I nearly jumped out of my skin. It was Ches.

“Something wrong?” I answered.

“Just a warning. Child Protective Services stopped by.”

“Oh, shit.”

“I did what I could. They weren’t happy Elle wasn’t here, but I don’t think they’re calling in the sheriff just yet.”

“This was Carmody. What did you tell them?”

“I told them everyone was at Hershey Park.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. Best I could do with, like, no warning. Eddie backed me up, too. Said he was afraid of heights. He’s a pretty good kid.”

“Yes, he is. Okay. Give me a call if cops arrive.”

“Have you started yet?”

“No.” I lowered my voice. “Gillette’s here. Apparently she has to chase the dragon before we can start.”

“Anyone ever tell you that you have a really strange way of talking?”

“Never once. Gotta go.”

I broke the news to the Swains, who seemed to take it in stride. Like me, they were far more focused on the actual immediate goal. Carmody had to have called that in yesterday; it would have taken CPS a day to respond. I wondered how many more surprises Carmody had lined up for me.

My foyer clock struck nine o’clock, and I fought the urge to check on Gillette. The last thing I needed to do was to start this whole process over. Edgar offered to get doughnuts, but when we all agreed he just stood at the door, unable to actually leave. I couldn’t blame him.

Finally, somewhere between nine and nine-thirty, I heard a voice call from downstairs. I pulled open the steel door, and Gillette repeated, “It is time.”

I turned to the Swains, both on their feet, and gave them a slow blink.

“Last chance to talk me out of this, guys.”

Edgar looked to Wren, who just lifted her chin an inch.

It was decided.

I stepped through my kitchen and opened the side alley door to pluck a glass mason jar from the outside window with its week’s worth of collected rain water. A stray seed pod from the trash tree in my neighbor’s front landscape floated along the surface, as did a couple mosquito nymphs. They were welcome additions to this ritual. Mosquitos were dreadful creatures that never asked permission to drain the life from their prey. They were a fine component for invasive magic.

I pulled the door closed behind me as I marched down the stairs. Gillette sat in the corner, propping her back up against the concrete block wall. Her eyes moved in quick, sudden jerks. Her energy was disorganized, spearing out into the room without focus or shape. I re-centered myself and stepped through the cloud of energy hosing out of Gillette’s chakras to pull a canvas box from underneath my work table.

One by one I set the reagents and tools onto the table. One burial shroud, vacuumed. Spider silk. A quarter ounce of twelve karat gold. My old iron smelting pot and a slug of coal powder. A liquid ounce of tar. One quill. And finally the tiny specimen of blood that Amy had drawn from Carmody. Laid before me were the ingredients for a Nether Curse, a twisting of the natural laws intended to bring the doom or downfall of another against their will and the will of the Cosmos. This act carried with it a penalty by way of the insulted Cosmos, typically in the form of damnation. Damnation itself was a subjective term, but in the case of educated practitioners, it meant selling your soul to whatever power had the interest and ability to execute your Curse across the Veil.

However, I was not in possession of a soul at the moment, so I felt very little otherworldly compulsion as I lit the charcoal slug to heat up my cauldron. When the iron was hot, I dropped in the gold which melted immediately. I spread out the burial cloth across my work table, pinning it at the intersecting nodes of the Golden Spiral engraved on the table’s surface. From this point on, I had to sharpen my focus to a razor’s edge. No other intent could enter into my mind. No extraneous thoughts, no emotions. This was the true Hermetic Art. Self-mastery.

I dipped the quill into the molten gold and started scribing the curse onto the cloth. The gold flowed unevenly along the course linen weave, but I broadened the length and height of my script to accommodate. I walked a circle around the table, scribing the verbiage of the curse in a widdershins spiral. I had chosen an old Brythonic dialect to scribe the curse, due in part to Carmody’s seeming roots to the British Isles, but also by virtue of old Celtic magic and its indirect paths to calamity. It was as lazy as it was vicious, which suited Carmody nicely.

The greatest pull on my concentration was Gillette, still sitting in her in-between state of inebriation and intensity. I felt her eyes on me, boring through me as I concluded the scribing. My fingers cramped when I dropped the quill back underneath the table. I wondered for a moment how much time I had consumed in the process, but quickly pushed it aside. Time always seemed relative in the ritual space.

Next came the tar. I poured it into the cauldron over the leftover gold, stirring it with a stainless steel rod. A tiny nautilus of gold laced into the black tar as the odor filled the work space. I charged the tar with my intent. I ruminated on Carmody, picturing his face, hearing his voice with its tight-lipped inflection, feeling the anger that rose when I thought about Julian and the wreck of his meteoric career. It was a fight to keep that emotion pure, free of diversions into guilt and betrayal. The problem with Nether Curses was that they had to draw strength from emotion. Most Netherworkers fell prey to their own emotions, often stitching their own karma into the very curse they were firing. I couldn’t afford that, even assuming I would find my soul again someday.