The Curse Servant (The Dark Choir Book 2)

by Sloan, J. P.

  Scovill’s people jostled in their seats.

  I gave Wren a sharp glance, but she countered with her battle-axe of a jaw thrust out under her face. She was done.

  “If you think my daughter somehow deserves this, then you’re a small-minded fool. Now I’ve watched you pray and pray over her for an hour. She doesn’t look harmed by any of it, so I’m happy enough to simply ask you to leave.”

  Scovill looked over to me and back to Wren. “Ma’am, we will leave if you want us to leave. But I have nothing but the best intentions for your daughter, regardless of your religion and practice.”

  She took a deep breath and nodded. “I believe you. I’m really not trying to be a bitch, here. I just think you’re wasting your time. Nothing good is going to come from this. So, please.” She gestured for the stairway.

  Scovill stood up and gathered the plates, handing them to Edgar. He straightened his jacket and gave Edgar a pat on the arm. As they filed toward the spiral staircase leading to the store below, I offered, “I’ll see them out.”

  The summer sun was finally setting beyond the clustered spires of downtown Frederick, and the sweeps were darting from trees and gables overhead. Scovill stepped toward their minivan, crunching on the gravel drive as he looked over the scene.

  “Nice town, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “It’s quiet. Usually.”

  “This would have been smoother if you had told me everything.”

  “Trust me, Wayne. You don’t want to know everything. But thanks for trying.”

  His eyes traced over my face before he finally offered me a single handshake.

  After they pulled out of Edgar’s alley and down the street, I stepped back inside to find Edgar waiting for me at the bottom of the staircase.

  “Long day, huh?” I grumbled.

  “Yeah. So, I don’t want to be ‘that guy,’ you know. But that was a pretty big waste of time, don’t you think?”

  “On the contrary, I learned something today.”

  “You did?”

  I heard Wren stepping down the wrought iron above Edgar.

  “Like what?” she asked.

  “Like, this thing is older than Jesus. That means it’s pre-Christian.”

  Edgar shook his head. “It could have been lying.”

  “True, but in my years of practice I’ve learned a few things. One of those things is that a person can feign ignorance, but he really can’t feign knowledge.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “It didn’t bother making a distinction between a Witch and a Wiccan. We can probably rule out any European heritage there. Wicca, Stregha, Catholicism, hell even Manichaeism. None of that is going to help us.”

  Wren stepped down next to Edgar, wrapping a hand over his shoulder. “What will help us?”

  “Did you hear what it said when it identified itself?”

  “Something about Lurking?”

  “That was crap. But the interesting thing? Satariel.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It was trying to rattle the Christians by name-dropping Satariel.”

  “Who’s Satariel?”

  “Old name for Satan. Too old. Pre-Christian. In fact, and I’m going to have to check this, but I think it’s a reference to the Book of Enoch. Point being, this thing can’t even get Satan right. It covered pretty well, but this isn’t a sophisticated entity. It’s almost anachronistic.”

  Edgar cocked his head and sniffled. “So, now what?”

  Something buzzed in my brain, and I paced around that ratty green divan he could never sell while I tried to force the thought to land. “Something about Jesus.”

  Wren asked, “What about Jesus? It doesn’t believe in Jesus.”

  “Said he was hopeless.”

  “Maybe a little unfair.”

  “No. Wait.” It finally landed. “It called Jesus a Son of Solomon.”

  Edgar and Wren stared at me for a long moment.

  “Solomon,” I repeated. “I know how we’re going to get this thing.”

  Edgar sucked in a breath and hopped forward. “Key of Solomon?”

  “It’s operating in a level that’s post Second Temple Judaism, but pre-Christian.”

  “Goetia?”

  “Goetia.”

  Edgar’s eyes dropped and his face soured. “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Edgar?”

  “I don’t want him in my house.”

  “He’s the only Goetic on the Eastern Seaboard, and he happens to live in Baltimore.”

  “Fuck that, he’s not coming here.”

  Wren jumped between me and Edgar, and nearly out of her own skin. “What the shit are you two talking about?”

  I looked past Wren and into Edgar’s eyes. “He’s the only one.”

  “I can’t have Goetia in this building. It’s just fucking dark, man.”

  “I recognize that.”

  Wren pushed us apart and fluttered her hands in exasperation. “Someone needs to start educating me right now.”

  “Goetia,” I explained. “The summoning, binding, and coercion of dark forces using a series of hermetic sigils and rituals said to be divined by King Solomon himself as part of his gifting of Wisdom.”

  “We’re talking about the Old Testament?” she muttered.

  “Kind of after that. It’s a very specific hermetic practice.”

  “Can you do it?”

  I coughed my best effort at a laugh. “Wren, Goetia is kind of like brain surgery. There’s a hell of a lot to know, and a hell of a lot that can go wrong if you don’t know what you’re doing. You basically have to do Goetia full time or not at all. Besides, Goetia is Netherwork.”

  She scowled. “And here come your Presidium friends again.” Her eyes worked circles on the floor. “But you said there’s someone in Baltimore?”

  Edgar grunted, “Not him.”

  Wren peered over at Edgar, then to me. “Who is this guy?”

  I answered, “Frater Zeno. He has a temple of students he more or less keeps busy.”

  Edgar turned back to the staircase, mumbling, “Fuck. I really hate that guy.”

  Wren put both hands on my shoulders. “What’s wrong with this Zeno?”

  “He’s arguably insane.”

  “Crazy? Like, believes in demons crazy? Or keeps his shit in jars crazy?”

  “More like teaches Goetia by survival of the fittest crazy.”

  She sucked in a deep breath.

  “He’s the only Goetic the Presidium allows to operate on this side of the Mississippi, Wren.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I have no idea. I suspect it’s because he’s the genuine article, and even the Presidium isn’t willing to fuck with the forces he wields.”

  Edgar barked from upstairs, “Really hate that guy.”

  Wren looked up into my eyes, tears brimming in hers. “Can he get rid of this thing?”

  “I thought you were banking on schizophrenia?”

  Wren smirked. “I am, but a deal’s a deal, right? Call this guy. Do it tonight. If it saves Elle, I’ll put a saddle on the demon myself.”

  n my way home I found a voice mail on my phone that arrived when I was with Scovill’s people. I recognized the number. Ches. It was five seconds of silence before her ragged voice muttered, “I’m okay, Dorian. Just thought you should know.”

  That put the day into perspective. No matter how huge an ass Zeno could be, at least I would have Ches’ voice in my phone.

  I made the call to Zeno. I had his lodge in my contacts book thanks to a specific favor I did for one of his students several years back. The phone rang six times before a nondescript voice mail message urged me in robotic tones to leave my message. I kept it short. Name and number, and some sense of urgency.

  I hadn’t hung up for a full minute before I received a call back. Son of a bitch was screening calls.

  “Hello?”

  “This is Fra
ter Zeno.”

  “Good evening. I don’t know if you remember me. I helped one of your students―”

  “I remember you.”

  I didn’t find that particularly comforting. “I have a situation you may be able to help me with.”

  “I believe we’ve already paid you.”

  “No, I mean, not as payment. I have a problem. I need your help.”

  “We don’t do that,” he blurted.

  “Sorry?”

  “Help. We don’t help people.”

  “You don’t help people?”

  “Poor return on investment.”

  I paced a quick circle in the room. “I have the means to pay you.”

  It could have been paper rustling on his end, or he could have actively sighed into the phone. “We are comfortably funded. Thank you for your interest.”

  “Wait.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? I mean, I helped you out once.”

  “And we paid you.”

  Son of a bitch. “Yes, but don’t you have any sense of reciprocity?”

  “Which was why we paid you.”

  “Not the point.”

  “Do you have a point?” he sniped.

  I was seconds away from throwing my phone through the front window without opening it. “Zeno, there’s an entity possessing a child. A friend of mine. Edgar Swain.”

  “I thought Edgar Swain was an adult.”

  “He is. It’s his child.” What an ass. “This thing is basically camping out inside her body, and I can’t get it out.”

  “Call a priest.”

  “I tried that. I’ve ruled out European self-identities. And I’m reasonably convinced this thing is a Principality circa Second Temple period.”

  After a long silence, Zeno replied, “That would be unlikely. Principalities governed territorial stretches of the Levant. Finding one in an individual child would be a gross misuse of its power. Even with the encroachment of Christianity and Islam forfeiting many Principalities in the Tigris and Euphrates cradle, you’re probably looking at a Legionnaire at the highest.”

  “Great. Well, I need it removed.”

  “Best of luck.”

  “Zeno? I’m not above begging. Okay, maybe I am, because I don’t think it would help anyway. But you’re probably the one person I can call who can get this done.”

  “That wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “So what do I have to do to make this worth your while?”

  Zeno left me with a long, torturous moment of silence before responding, “If I can’t take the thing away, then I simply don’t see any reason for involving myself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The entity.”

  “Take it away?” I asked.

  “I assume you plan to bind it for your own purposes.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  He let slip a dry snicker. “I don’t do that, either.”

  “Well look, Zeno. I have no interest in keeping this thing in a little jar on my shelf. If you want the fucker, you’re welcome to it. As long as you can remove it without injuring the girl.”

  “Oh. You don’t want it?”

  “No.”

  “When can we meet?”

  I rubbed the bridge of my nose. I was going to hit the Scotch after this call, I could tell.

  I made arrangements to meet Zeno and his Goetic hit squad at the Swains the next day. I called Edgar to double-check the timing, which was a good thing since Eddie had outworn his host’s welcome, and they needed to find a place to keep him while his sister was suffering through this.

  After draining a lowball and collapsing on my bed for the night, I awoke to the sound of road construction. Summer in Baltimore. I spotted the fat envelope on my roll top desk as I made my way to the kitchen for some breakfast. The damn thing was still there, tempting me with an embarrassingly healthy offering price for those four row houses. McHenry was good for it, I knew that. He was nothing if not a shrewd professional. My tools were esoteric; his were financial. We were both practiced at our tools.

  And he was right about my financial outlook. The charm-and-hex crowd wasn’t as robust as it once was. I was leaning on Julian for my income, and that was about to dry up… one way or another.

  I wanted to see Abe, listen to his voice, have him talk me out of this. I thought about him, Tyrel, and the other tenants as I struggled through a ham omelet. I would have to get used to making my own breakfasts.

  After I powered down the eggs, I jumped into the car and made a quick run down the block to the properties. They were in good condition, Abe had seen to that. Between the two of us, we had restored much of the exteriors, patched old wood and painted. Some of the roofing was ragged, but that wasn’t visible from the street. No, they were reasonably attractive and livable as opposed to the stark contrast across the street. That same clutch of shirtless men held court on the stoop across from Abe. I kept driving along Fayette, taking a visual inventory of the properties McHenry was purchasing in order to level for the new development. He wasn’t entirely wrong about them. Most were derelicts, empty since the economic decline in the eighties. None of the original glass panes remained, even at the highest levels of what was once a brick-clad stamp factory. These shells of buildings were now home to squatters and probably a significant population of vermin. From a purely, viciously mercenary point of view, tearing these old buildings down brick-by-brick and building new would solve a host of problems.

  But what would be solved, really? The homeless staying in these buildings would be relocated. The police would sweep the buildings; perhaps even bus the squatters to shelters. But they would scatter once again as would the rats and roaches that would scurry into the populated city blocks nearby. The real damage would be felt in the city taxes. With new mixed-use properties come higher property values. If McHenry found a way to proceed with his project without requiring my properties, I would see my taxes triple in the space of a year. I would have to sell, and then I would be stuck holding a handful of properties no one could figure a use for.

  The real truth was McHenry had thrown me a life raft inside that envelope. Even if I had a long chat with Abe about this, I doubted he could find a more compelling argument than selling to McHenry. My stomach twisted as I thought about breaking the news to the tenants.

  These were all my problems. At the moment I had to focus on the Swains’ problem. Zeno would be the highest level of practitioner I could throw at the problem, and I had done my homework. Even if I hadn’t nailed the exact period of origin, this thing would likely succumb to Zeno’s bindings. Then this would all be over, and I could deal with McHenry.

  After finding some mediocre coffee in a gas station on my way up I-70, I made it to the Swains with time to spare. Wren was babysitting some day trippers who were nosing through Edgar’s collection of wall art. I meandered through the shop, trying to blend in until the others finished their rifling and took their exit.

  Wren approached me with tired eyes. “They’re on their way?”

  I nodded. “They’re probably going to need a space to set up a circle.”

  “Can’t they do it in her room?”

  “Probably not. These guys are hard core ceremonialists. Everything they do will require lots of planning and time. Everything in its place.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I could never work like that. Magic is too organic for me.”

  “I never viewed it as magic. It’s always been just another mechanic of the known universe.”

  “I’ll get Edgar down here to help move some furniture.”

  “You’re going to close for this, right?” I asked nodding to the front doors.

  She gave me an eye-roll and went upstairs. Edgar descended in time for three young men to step into the shop, all lugging large briefcases. I recognized Zeno leading the other two in his khakis and a gray cardigan. In summer, he wore a cardigan. His glasses were large, square, and thick, causing his eyes to bulge a little more than t
hey should have over his horse-like nose. His hair hung in a kind of stringy Fauntleroy, really selling the social awkwardness that sprayed off his body with the force of a fire hose. The other two didn’t look a day over twenty. One of them had acne.

  Zeno stepped right past Edgar and stopped in front of me, setting down a briefcase and offering me a hand to shake. I shook his clammy hand and tried to smile.

  “Thanks for coming, Frater.”

  He sniffled and looked past my shoulder at the store. “Is this the space?”

  “It can be. More room down here than upstairs.”

  He nodded and snapped his fingers. The other two dropped their cases and clicked them open. Edgar stepped around me and stood in front of Zeno, who gave him two seconds of his notice.

  “You’re Swain?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can you move that couch?”

  Edgar gave me a can you believe this guy look, and I pulled him aside to help shift the green divan to the other side of the antiques before he actually socked Zeno in the nose. We cleared a few more pieces that looked delicate, and I urged Edgar to lock the doors and flip the Open sign to Closed. I unfolded two Asian screens and set them to shield the back of the store from the street.

  Edgar gave me a pat on the shoulder. “It’s Friday. Shouldn’t be a lot of street business.”

  “Can’t be too careful. Especially if it gets loud.”

  “We had a little trouble last night. She started screaming. Couldn’t tell if it was the creature or Elle. Really hoping it wasn’t Elle.”

  “I hate that this is happening to you, Edgar. You’re the last person who deserves this.”

  “Deserve has nothing to do with it. Just get this thing out.”

  Zeno stepped toward us as the others began measuring the cleared space with a set of gilded tools. They made marks on the floor with chalk and sketched what looked like a large, squat compass. Zeno cleared his throat and stuffed his hands in his pockets.

  “I should see the girl.”

  Edgar nodded. “She’s upstairs.”

  He stepped aside as Edgar led us up the wrought-iron spiral into their living room. Wren stood outside Elle’s door, arms folded. She gave Zeno a long, evaluating glance which he didn’t seem to notice. He simply waited without a word until she stepped aside. Edgar pushed the door open, and Zeno took one quick peek inside.