The Warlock's Curse

by Hobson, M. K.

  “Jenny—” Will began softly.

  “He seemed to know your mother.” She continued as if he hadn’t spoken, hitting every word with precision. “I don’t know how. He said she must be the Russian’s brat. I don’t know what that means. He asked about something called the Anodyne. I told him I didn’t know what that was.” She paused, a tenseness in her jaw indicating the terrible force of whatever it was she was holding under restraint. “It made him angry that I didn’t know.”

  Will didn’t speak. Court had read in The Goês’ Confession that scientific alteration to the magical structure of the Earth had been wrought with something called Lyakhov’s Anodyne. But how could Cowdray know about that?

  Jenny drew a deep quavering breath. “He hates you, William,” she continued very quietly. “I’ve never known someone with so much hate in him. He kept asking me which would hurt you more, if he killed me or left me alive. He decided leaving me alive would be worse. He took steps to ensure that it would be.”

  Will could only stare at the floor, numb and distant. He clutched the little velvet box in his hand, holding on to it for dear life. Organ music hummed softly in his ears.

  “But I am glad that I’m alive,” she finally concluded. It sounded as if she were trying to convince herself of it. “He likes to hurt people’s bodies. But he likes to hurt their minds more. That’s something else you should know about him.”

  “I don’t want to know anything about him,” Will murmured. “I want to kill him.”

  He felt Jenny staring at him. When he looked up to meet her gaze, he saw that there was a queer kind of disgust in her eyes.

  “Well, you can’t. You’re stuck with him.” Her hand slid to her belly unconsciously. “Just like I am.”

  She paused.

  “It’s strange how I feel like I used to know so many things,” Jenny said. The words were wistful, but the tone was not. “I was sure of everything. But now I’m not sure of anything at all. It feels dangerous to be sure of anything.”

  She paused again.

  “But I am sure of one thing. I know it wasn’t you. You’re my friend. You’ll always be my friend.”

  Will looked at her. Moving very slowly and carefully, he stood. He saw her tense, saw fear enter her eyes. But then she lifted her chin and glared at him defiantly—she would not be cowed by him, or her memory of him. He lifted a hand.

  “It’s all right,” he said softly. “Please.”

  He did not try to move near to her, but rather stretched his arm out as far as it would go. He was careful not to touch her as he laid the velvet box in her palm. For some reason, he remembered how Brother Phleger had told him not to touch the snuffbox. As if doing so would be very dangerous.

  Then he stepped back from her, returning to the narrow bed and sitting down, back straight, hands clasped between his knees. He watched as she opened the little box. When she saw what was inside it, she drew a tiny breath. And then she smiled, her face softening. Will exhaled, his whole body suddenly warm. That was Jenny, he thought, feeling as though he might weep. There she was.

  “I remember this,” she murmured, touching the silver with her fingertip.

  “We won’t see each other anymore, Jenny,” Will said. “I know we won’t. It’s better that way.” He paused, then added, “But if you ever do think about me, will you please try to think about me like that? Like the way things were then?”

  She closed the box quietly. She didn’t say anything else. She turned, and was gone.

  When she had left, Trahern came to the door and looked at Will. His eyes, so very pale, were filled with something ugly and insinuating. Shaking his head, he barked a laugh as he closed the door and locked it once more.

  Slowly, Will lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the organ music. He did not feel better or worse. He just felt heavy and tired, as if he’d walked a hundred miles.

  And then he remembered something that made his heart race. He remembered that there was one more thing in his pocket.

  Ben’s letter.

  He took it out and unfolded it. There was new writing on it.

  I know where you are.

  Whatever happens, say nothing. There is more to this than you know. Trust me.

  Your brother always,

  Ben

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Professor Coeus

  FIVE DAYS UNTIL THE NEW MOON

  Many hours later, Will woke to the sound of Brother Phleger’s voice.

  This is a message to all the faithful. It is perhaps the most urgent call you will ever receive.

  The words were charged with such intensity that Will sat bolt upright. After a disoriented moment, he realized that the sound was coming from the Teslaphone.

  Brothers and Sisters, beloved sons and daughters redeemed by the all-sufficient grace of Jesus Christ our Savior—I have received a Vision. A Vision from most Holy God Almighty, with whom we walk in faith.

  Will was aware of his own breathing, shallow and quick. Golden afternoon sunlight streamed down through a high barred window, making a perfect square on the floor. He stared at it as he listened.

  The Lord has directed me that the Consecration of our Great Temple in Justice, Illinois must happen not on New Year’s Day, as I originally decreed it should be. Rather, it must happen tomorrow night ... tomorrow night, brothers and sisters, on the 28th day of December, at the very hour of midnight!

  Here, Brother Phleger’s voice began to rise.

  This is a call, my beloved ones! A call that each servant of Christ should be proud to answer! It is a once-in-a-lifetime chance to demonstrate your obedience to His Holy Will! Will you show your faith? Will you prove your ever-submissive obedience to his Holy command?

  Phleger’s voice was becoming louder and louder, rising to an impassioned crescendo. Will pressed his hands to his ears against it.

  Will you lay aside your worldly concerns? Will you come today, this very hour, this very moment?

  Then Phleger’s voice dropped almost to a whisper, and even across the crackly speaker of the Teslaphone, Will could hear the preacher breathing hard.

  Come now, my brothers and sisters. Come immediately. Bring friends, your families, loved ones. Climb on board trains, automobiles, horse-drawn carts if you must! Come now, that your name might be written in the book of Glory alongside all the true servants of the Lord Jesus Christ.

  There was a long moment of silence. It sounded as if Brother Phleger might have collapsed in a fit of religious ecstasy.

  And then, the broadcast repeated.

  This is a message to all the faithful. It is perhaps the most urgent call you will ever receive.

  The broadcast kept repeating, and Will had to listen through it twelve times before Trahern came for him.

  “Professor Coeus made it on the afternoon train.” Trahern glanced at the Teslaphone. “He could hardly get a ticket; everything to Chicago is sold out, thanks to the brother’s impassioned appeal—Praise the Lord.”

  Will you lay aside your worldly concerns? Will you come today, this very hour, this very moment?

  “He and the good brother are waiting for you in the office,” Trahern said. “Come on.”

  As they walked to the office, they passed through the vast sanctuary that Will remembered from the night before. Then, it had been a cavernous realm of shadows and ghosts, but by day it glowed with brilliantly colored light that streamed through acres of stained glass. An enormous electrical organ with no fewer than four tiers of keys hulked against one wall. The space was even bigger than Will could have imagined.

  And already, it was filling with people.

  A thousand, at least, had arrived already. How could they have gotten there so quickly? They sat in the new polished pews, having brought their traveling bags with them, women and men murmuring prayerfully among themselves. A few knelt in the aisles, bathed in soft, colored light, oblivious to all earthly concerns.

  When Will entered Phleger’s office,
he saw that two men were already waiting for him. Phleger was seated at his desk, bent over a mountain of papers, clearly in a frenzy of preparation for the moved-up Consecration ceremony. Another man—Will guessed this was Professor Coeus—stood behind him, his back to the door. He had his hands clasped behind him, and was looking up at the picture of Brother Scharfe. He was tall and slender, with walnut-brown hair. He wore a suit of no distinction. He did not even have to turn for Will to realize who he really was.

  Ben.

  Will clenched his jaw so tightly he thought his teeth might crack.

  Trust me, Ben had written. But if Ben was the man Phleger knew as “Professor Coeus,” that meant he’d been working with the Scharfians since they found the box. It meant he was the one who’d told them about the curse, about Aebedel Cowdray—about everything. But Ben hadn’t told him any of it.

  Ben turned then, his face held with smooth indifference. There was nothing on it that showed he recognized Will at all. He remained standing with his hands behind his back, his bearing stiff and formal. He looked different—older, heavier, weightier. He commanded respect. Before, his rumpled suit had made him look like a bank clerk. Now, its very shoddiness seemed to assert a kind of arrogant superiority—the mark of a man with far more important things on his mind than well pressed trousers.

  “Good morning, Mr. Edwards,” Phleger said, standing to welcome him. “Allow me to introduce you to Professor Coeus.”

  Ben made no gesture of greeting, just continued to peer at Will with supercilious contempt.

  “He must be prepared,” Ben said in a loud clipped tone. He didn’t even sound like himself. He spoke—like Father or Uncle Royce—with a note of command that assumed compliance. “I will speak with him privately.”

  Phleger nodded, gathering up a stack of papers and squaring them neatly. “The office is at your disposal, Professor. I’ve got members of the international press waiting to speak with me. They, too, have been arriving in droves, clamoring for information about our holy work. His will be done!”

  Will managed to hold his tongue for a few seconds after Phleger had gone—trailing Trahern behind him like a shadow—and the door was closed behind them. Finally, though, he could remain silent no longer.

  “You bastard,” he whispered.

  “Will, stop and listen to me.”

  “You lying bastard,” Will continued, as if his brother had not spoken. He crossed the room in a furious rush and seized Ben by his lapels, forcing him back against the wall. Putting his face close, he hissed, “How much of what you made me believe was a lie? Were they all lies? All of them?”

  “I didn’t lie to you,” Ben said. His green eyes regarded Will steadily as he spoke. “I just didn’t tell you everything. I am a researcher. And a Jefferson Chair. And a secret agent for the Stanton Institute.”

  He let the words hang. Slowly, Will released him and stepped back, breathing hard, heart pounding.

  “Now listen to me, and listen carefully. Use your fine mind, not your hot head. There’s a lot I have to tell you if we’re going to survive this.”

  Will growled, turning away abruptly.

  “I know what Phleger has told you about me. And much of it is true,” Ben began. “My name actually is Coeus—Benedictus Coeus. It’s the professional name I took when I was hired by the Institute. And I am an expert on Aebedel Cowdray. I have studied him for years—that’s why the Institute gave me this assignment.” He paused. “But as I’m sure you’ve already guessed, if Phleger finds out who I really am, or what my real relationship is to you, we’re all dead. You, me ... and Jenny.”

  “Phleger wouldn’t have even known about Jenny if it hadn’t been for you,” Will spat. “Hart told me that you saw her. Examined her. Was it you who told Phleger that the blood of her child—my child—could be used to unlock the box?”

  “Phleger didn’t need me to tell him!” Ben spat back. “A child conceived when a curse is active bears the cursed blood, that’s fundamental magical theory—and Phleger knows enough about magic to know that!” He paused, his expression pained. “It’s Atherton Hart who doesn’t. He bought a goddamn dime-store pregnancy charm and worked it on her to find out. By the time they called me in, Phleger already knew. Hart had already told him.”

  Fury rose in Will’s chest. That fool. That damn fool.

  “Now listen,” Ben said again, more sharply. “I was assigned by the Institute to infiltrate the Scharfian Fellowship and get the snuffbox away from Phleger. We cannot allow him to unlock it. I’m sure he told you that he wanted to free the tortured souls—just like he told Jenny that he wanted her money to save her sister. And when he said those things, they were the truth—at that moment.” Ben paused. “But the real truth, the bigger truth, is that every action he’s taken has been toward a more ambitious and infinitely more dangerous goal.”

  “What do you mean, the real truth?” Will interjected. “How can he be telling the truth and lying at the same time?”

  “That question is the very foundation of credomancy,” said Ben.

  Will raked a hand through his hair. “Then you’re saying Phleger is—a credomancer?”

  Stepping behind the desk, Ben sank heavily into the leather chair. He rubbed his face with his hands.

  “No, Will. He’s not a credomancer—but he’s the most sophisticated practitioner of credomancy I’ve ever encountered. He’s nothing less than a magical savant.”

  Will made an exasperated gesture. “How can he practice credomancy, but not be a credomancer?”

  “Because a credomancer must have some degree of self-consciousness. Phleger is no more self-conscious than an amoeba. There isn’t an ounce of hypocrisy in him, not the slightest bit of calculation or guile. He believes every word he says at the moment he says it, and that’s what makes him so powerful—and so dangerous.” Ben paused, leaning back in the chair and looking up at Will. “You’ve heard him speak of his Visions, haven’t you? They are how he rationalizes his conscious actions—by attributing them entirely to his God. He does not want what he wants—he makes God want it for him.”

  “And what does he want God to want for him?” said Will, resting both hands on the desk so he could look more closely into his brother’s face.

  “What Phleger wants—really wants, though God has not yet told him this—is to use the power inside the box to change the entire structure of American society,” Ben said.

  Will narrowed his eyes. “What?”

  “His Vision—his Great Vision—is of a sanctified America where the human ability to channel magic has been wiped out for good, through the implementation of mandatory Panchrest immunization. I can’t even begin to explain what kind of havoc that would unleash ... but he intends to make this Vision into a reality. And that’s why, tomorrow night, at the conclusion of the Consecration ceremony, he will announce his bid to become President of the United States.”

  Will straightened, bringing a hand up over his mouth. He turned, took a step away from the desk.

  “The money Jenny raised is manna from Heaven for his campaign war-chest,” his brother’s voice came at his back. “But while a million dollars is a lot of manna, it’s not just money Phleger needs. It’s power. Enough power to destroy the one individual who stands between him and the achievement of his Great Vision.” Ben paused. “Dreadnought Stanton.”

  Will turned back and stared at his brother blankly. Ben took a deep breath.

  “As a credomancer, Dreadnought Stanton gains power when people believe in him, when they are inspired by his grandiose achievements. Over the past thirty years, as he has continued to find new ways to capture the public imagination, he has steadily gained in strength.”

  Ben rested his chin on his steepled fingertips.

  “But the popular imagination is a finite resource—and the very large share that Dreadnought Stanton commands is a share that Brother Phleger can never fully access. Without it, he can never achieve his Great Vision. So he’s got to capture it. Capture
it, sanctify it, and place it in the service of the Lord Almighty.” Ben paused. “Dreadnought Stanton is a distraction. While that distraction exists, Phleger has no chance of turning those minds to Christ. So the distraction must be ... eradicated.”

  “Are you saying he intends to—kill Dreadnought Stanton?” Will forced the words through clenched teeth.

  “Well, facilitate his demise, at any rate,” Ben said. “Phleger’s faith would never allow him to commit cold-blooded murder. But holy vengeance is just as bloody.” Ben lifted an eyebrow. “I have no doubt that Phleger would rationalize the act beautifully. It would not be murder, rather it would be chastisement in the name of all Holy God—”

  “I get it,” Will cut him off sharply. “Enough.”

  “If Dreadnought Stanton were dead, all of the Institute’s power would come up for grabs—and no one would be in a better position to seize it than Brother Phleger.” Ben gazed down thoughtfully at the work-strewn desk before him. “Really, it would be simplicity itself—all he’d have to do is preach a sermon of condolence to a grieving nation. Adding, at the end, a twist of the knife about how, despite his well-publicized heroism, Dreadnought Stanton had clearly been judged by the Lord Almighty as nothing better than a sinful warlock.”

  Will absorbed this silently. He could just hear Phleger speaking those very words, the sermon crackling across Teslaphone speakers from coast to coast. He looked up at Ben. “But how does he intend to kill Dreadnought Stanton?”

  “That’s another bit of untutored brilliance.” Lifting his eyes, Ben smiled grimly. “Dreadnought Stanton’s whole mythology is built on his quests to retrieve powerful and malign magical artifacts, right? That’s the central plot of just about every one of his books. As a magical artifact, the snuffbox is as powerful and malign as they come. Phleger believes that my Sophos will try to reclaim it—must try to reclaim it. And when he does, Phleger will use the power in it to kill him.”

  “Well, if you already know that, just tell your Sophos not to come!” Will threw up his hands. “He doesn’t have to come for the snuffbox!”