The Curse Servant (The Dark Choir Book 2)

by Sloan, J. P.

  I fished a hunk of hematite from my stone shelf and grounded out the remaining charge from my hands and turned for the door.

  I froze, however, when I heard the latch engage and the door slide against its massive hinges.

  “Hello?” I called around the corner of the stairs.

  “Suppose you couldn’t hear me through this bleeding vault door of yours,” Carmody’s voice dribbled down the stairs.

  Gillette’s wandering eyes centered on me for a brief moment.

  “Carmody?” I responded.

  “I require your attention presently. Best haul your bollocks up here before someone gets hurt.”

  Gillette’s mouth drew back into a sneer.

  I held up a finger to my lips, then gestured with wide palms for her to stay put.

  “Lake? I am not taking the piss here. Upstairs, now.”

  Edgar’s voice called down with a tremolo, “He has a gun.”

  Fuck.

  I held up my hands, took in a breath, and started up the stairs. When I crested the steel door’s threshold, I spotted Carmody standing in my front room, his back to the windows. He gripped Wren by the hair on the back of her head, arm straight out. His other hand had a revolver trained at the center of her back. Edgar stood by the futon, his hands up by his face, his body shielding Elle.

  “And there he is,” Carmody proclaimed. “Had me worried. Thought he was going to let you bite a bullet, love.”

  “Carmody, you can’t be serious with this,” I said.

  “Can’t I?”

  “A gun?”

  “Oh, that offends you, does it? Here you are in your basement with a fully loaded curse cocked and ready to fire.”

  “Don’t do this, Carmody. You’re asking for trouble here that even you can’t weasel out of.”

  “Then let’s be brief, shall we? You salt my blood, and we’ll call it even.”

  I bit my lip. He was dead serious about this. I didn’t have any leverage on Carmody. All I had was an arrangement with Gillette. Carmody had a gun. At that moment, the gun was more compelling. Still, if I salted his blood, I’d ruin its efficacy, and I wouldn’t be able to even start over with the curse.

  “Listen to me. You drew me into this conflict between you and Gillette. You could have stayed out of the Life, left well enough alone. But you had to get greedy, didn’t you?”

  “A man has certain material needs, mate.”

  “You really thought you could start up Netherworking this close to D.C.?”

  “It’s a gamble. Safer than Portland, at any rate. Unfortunately for me, Swain here doesn’t carry human skin in his shop, so fuck me sideways.”

  “That’s a lot of lives you’re ruining over a gamble.”

  “Oh, cry me to sleep. Now if you don’t mind dispensing with the chit chat, I’d very much like to see you salt my blood and be on my way.” He tightened his grip on Wren’s hair. “Or are you such a soulless piece of shit you don’t mind watching your friends get their skulls ventilated?”

  Edgar flinched.

  I held a hand out to Edgar, trying to interrupt his impulse to jump the man.

  “Murder, Carmody. Actual hands-on murder isn’t like a curse, and you know it. A curse is coincidence in the eyes of the law. A gun? That’s something that’ll get the FBI crawling so far up your ass you’ll be shitting Quantico blue for the rest of your life in federal prison.”

  “Then let’s not force me into that uncomfortable predicament, shall we? You’re not the one who wants me. I know it. You know it. It’s Gillette who wants me, and when I’m long gone, she’ll find some other poor bastard for you to dash to pieces in her name.”

  “I don’t have time. She doesn’t have time,” I added pointing to Elle.

  “Right. Very sorry about that, but that wasn’t my doing.”

  “Perhaps not directly. But you’re the one who put the hermetic merc into McHenry’s hands.”

  “And she’s the one you should be cursing, mate. Isn’t she the one who created this particular little nightmare scenario?”

  “We all share a little blame on that account. But right this very second adding to the suffering isn’t going to―”

  A shadow loomed in the leaded glass pane of my front door, and a heavy knock rang through the house.

  Carmody’s eyes narrowed, and he pushed the gun into Wren’s back, causing her to yelp.

  Edgar looked to me in panic.

  “Who’s that, then?” Carmody growled.

  “No idea.”

  “Everyone shut your yap until it goes away.”

  Another knock, and a low, thunderous voice called through the door, “Yo, Mister Lake! You home?”

  I recognized the voice. Tyrel.

  “It’s a tenant,” I whispered.

  Carmody rolled his eyes and leaned back to look through the front window.

  “Right. Get rid of him.” He added as I stepped toward the foyer, “I don’t have to warn you about kinky business, right?”

  I nodded and cracked open the door to the chain.

  Tyrel stood on the stoop in a snappy shirt and slacks, his head freshly shaven.

  “Hey, Mister Lake.”

  “Tyrel?”

  He waved a stack of papers in front of me. “You said to come to you if we had questions. I’m on my way to the bank, and I have questions. You got a minute?”

  I squinted and took a deep breath. “Actually, I have some friends over.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “No, it’s okay. Just old friends who stop by, you know. Like your neighbors across the street.”

  Tyrel’s eyes narrowed, and he glanced over to my front windows.

  I continued, “I’d be happy to chat later, though.”

  Tyrel clenched his jaw and gave me a prodding look.

  I moved my eyes deliberately to the side of the house.

  “Thanks for understanding.”

  Tyrel nodded. “Uh, oh. Yeah. Not a problem, Mister Lake.”

  “I’ll see you soon?”

  “Sure thing. Have a good time with your friends.”

  Tyrel trotted back to the street, turning casually toward my alley.

  I closed the door slowly and neatly, and turned to Carmody.

  “Done.”

  “And you’re stalling, mate. The blood. Now.”

  I lifted my hands. “Alright, alright. You win, dammit. I’ll do it.”

  “That’s a smart chap.”

  I marched to the basement stairs and added over my shoulder, “I can trust you not to get gun-stupid while I’m downstairs?”

  “Despite my course appearance, Lake, I am actually a perfect gentleman when you get to know me.”

  “Right.”

  I descended the stairs, and found Gillette hovering by the bottom step. I gestured for her to step aside, but she wouldn’t budge.

  “He doesn’t know you’re here,” I whispered into her ear as I squeezed past her.

  “You lose that blood, I won’t lift a finger for that girl,” she whispered back.

  “Yeah, well right now I’m more worried about bullets than servitors.”

  “Your call.”

  I gripped the mason jar of rose liquid and turned back for the stairs. “I know.”

  Gillette moved aside.

  I climbed back upstairs slowly, trying not to spill a drop of the liquid. Carmody’s eyes lit up as I arrived in sight. His posture stiffened, however, as I turned to the hall.

  “Where are you going, then?”

  “Salt’s in the kitchen, Einstein.”

  I gestured with my head, and Carmody tightened his grip on Wren’s hair even further. She released a sputtering exhale.

  “You,” he barked at Edgar, “stay in front of me.”

  Edgar looked over his shoulder at Elle, who was lying on the couch, eyes closed, seemingly oblivious. I hoped she was asleep. Finally he wilted and moved in front of Wren, his hands still held up to his ears.

  I turned to the kitchen and paus
ed. The door to the alley was ajar.

  I let Edgar catch up with me. This was my gamble. Edgar had to keep it cool. There was no way to communicate with him, no time to warn him. I just had to leave up to the Cosmos.

  Three steps into the kitchen, I spotted Tyrel in my periphery, but didn’t move my head. I set the jar on the table and moved to a cabinet across the kitchen from Tyrel.

  Edgar stepped behind me, turning his shoulders to watch me, and doing so turning his back to Tyrel.

  I fished a canister of kosher salt from the top shelf of my pantry cabinet and paused. Carmody wasn’t inside the kitchen. He and Wren were parked in the doorway. I moved back to the table and put my back to Carmody, blocking his line of sight with the blood water.

  I chanced a peek to Edgar, who stared at me with panicked bewilderment. With as modest a shift of my eyes as I could manage, I looked behind him at Tyrel, then back to Edgar.

  Edgar’s posture stiffened, and he shuffled several feet to the side.

  I exhaled, and picked up the box of salt, being sure to keep it close in front of me. Carmody would have to enter the kitchen to watch.

  Pausing for a moment, I listened for movement. Nothing.

  I took a chance and poured a handful of salt onto the table, allowing some to spill to the side.

  A shuffling of feet behind me let me know he was agitated.

  “Here, Lake. What did I say about kinky business?”

  “What?”

  “I want to see it.”

  “Then come see it. Christ.”

  Wren grunted, and feet stepped forward.

  I heard a thin yelp from Wren, and turned just in time to see Carmody’s gun hand slip into view of the kitchen. Wren’s eyes were planted on Tyrel, now just inches from the two of them.

  I turned with a handful of salt, gripping Carmody’s blood with my other hand.

  “Here, Carmody. You don’t trust me?” I dropped the salt into the jar. The weak energy signature in the diluted blood flickered into an electric saline death. “There. You win.”

  Tyrel’s arm dropped down on Carmody’s gun hand, and he slammed his shoulders into Carmody’s ribs.

  Wren twisted in Carmody’s grip, shrieking as she wrenched her hair free.

  Tyrel and Carmody careened across the kitchen, smashing into a door jamb on their way to the floor. I backed away and watched as the gun emerged from the two-man pile with two sets of hands gripping it. Tyrel had slipped the meat of his thumb over the hammer, though he grunted as Carmody lifted his knee repeatedly into his side.

  Edgar slid past my legs and clamped his fingers over the revolver chamber. He wrestled with the gun with a series of quick jerks, but couldn’t pry it from Carmody’s hand. He shook his head with enough violence to send his spectacles flying across the floor, and with a ferocious baring of teeth, bit down hard onto Carmody’s wrist.

  Carmody yelped, and finally the gun released. Edgar pulled away and rolled back into the refrigerator, the gun in his hands.

  Tyrel pulled his sledgehammer hands around to Carmody and gave him two quick jabs, sending his head back onto the kitchen tile with loud claps. Carmody went limp, and after looming over him for a minute, Tyrel stood up, panting.

  I put a hand on Tyrel’s shoulder. “Thanks, T. You’re getting a God damn fruit basket for Christmas.”

  He gave me a satisfied nod.

  I checked Edgar, still cradling the gun like a live grenade. He was trembling, refusing to look up from the floor. It was going to take a moment before he’d return to us, I imagined.

  And Wren? She stood near the kitchen table, oddly stiff. She stared down at Carmody with intensity. It wasn’t until she lunged forward that I spotted the chef’s knife in her hand. I flung myself across the table and reached for her arm as she slashed down at Carmody’s face. I jerked her arm back, and the knife stopped just short of his nose. Tyrel reached in and helped me hold Wren, who was growling like an animal.

  “Get off me!” she snarled. “I’m gonna kill him!”

  “Wren, no. This isn’t your way.”

  “He did this! He has to pay!”

  “He will,” I whispered. “But you can’t kill someone. Not anyone. The price is just too high, Wren.”

  She loosened in our grip, and Tyrel let her go. I fished the knife out of her hand and handed it over to Tyrel. Tears streamed down her face as she grimaced.

  “Why, Dorian? Why can’t we ever win?”

  “We will.” I guided Wren to her feet and looked down at Carmody’s unconscious frame.

  Tyrel shifted uncomfortably nearby. I saw where this was going, and Tyrel needed to leave before he became an accessory to something.

  “T?” I muttered. “Not to sound ungrateful or anything, but you might want to bounce.”

  He nodded and gave me a solid slap on the shoulder before slipping out the kitchen door.

  Wren looked up at me in perfect grief. “What about Elle?”

  Edgar mumbled, “Get more blood. We can still do the Curse.”

  I looked over to Edgar, now fumbling across the floor for his glasses.

  “I don’t need it anymore,” I answered, then turned to the front room. “Isn’t that right, Quinn?”

  Gillette stood in the kitchen doorway, surveying the scene spread before her. Her eyes hovered in jerking motions, but her face was focused tight on Carmody’s frame on the floor.

  She replied, “Are you changing our arrangement again?”

  “Yes, I am. You take the servitor out of Elle, and we hand Carmody over to you.”

  She crouched down and stared at Carmody’s face.

  “Come on, Gillette. This is what you really wanted. You were settling for a curse, but given the choice, wouldn’t you rather take him home with you? Get really creative?”

  Gillette looked Carmody over, then stood back up. “Agreed.”

  I reached down to give Wren a hand. She dried her face on her sleeve and took my hand. Then, with a sudden, fierce motion she pulled her foot up and smashed it across Carmody’s jaw.

  “There,” she panted. “I feel better.”

  Edgar helped me fasten Carmody’s wrists and ankles with some plastic zip-ties I kept in a drawer, and tied him to one of the kitchen chairs. Carmody was secured, and the outsiders were out the door. I was left with the Swains and Gillette.

  And one servitor about to become homeless.

  led everyone down into the work room, Edgar carrying Elle in his arms. I spread them out around the tight space, ensuring Gillette had enough room to do her work. I cleared the curse materials from the table and helped Edgar sit Elle on its surface. It wasn’t large enough for her to lie down, so I stood behind her and held her shoulders steady as she bobbed and swayed. Edgar lifted the charm from around her neck, and returned to Wren’s side, holding her hand.

  Gillette gave everyone a solid hand gesture to stay where they were, which was utterly unnecessary. I kept my focus tight as she turned to Elle. She was pliant in my hands; I could guide her forward or backward as Gillette made several waves of her hand to the sides of Elle’s face. Gillette’s energy snaked out of her body, rushing across the work table in waves. If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect it was the typical energy pattern of an untrained novice who hadn’t learned yet how to center properly. But as the energy pushed and pulled into and out of Elle’s body, I recognized the gentle pressure it was putting at the base of her mainline.

  A subtly cyclonic motion formed in the room, pulling up at the center of Elle’s crown chakra. This was slow, deliberate work, and I respected it. Emil had drilled into my brain the value of slow pressure when it came to sharp-edged magics. And as I observed and palpated Gillette’s procedure, I recognized that this was a working for which I was utterly unqualified. It was no wonder Ches had utterly ruined this thing simply by creating it.

  The ebb and flow of the extraction energy was nearly mesmerizing. My grip on Elle’s shoulders loosened, and she twisted on the table and swung a foot at Gille
tte. The servitor was indeed awake and aware, and the gravity of the moment had settled on whatever passed for its mind. Gillette parried the kick with preternatural ease as if she had read the shift in energy before the kick was thrown. I re-secured my grip on Elle’s shoulders, receiving a pointed glare from Gillette.

  A rumbling gurgle bubbled up from Elle’s throat as the energy in the room tightened. Tiny fingers slashed out against my arms, but I held them fast. The gurgle blossomed into a scream. I gave the Swains a warning look. To their credit, they were holding their ground.

  Gillette reached out and planted her palm on Elle’s forehead, her face adopting a menacing glare.

  “The trap?” she grunted.

  “Hmm?”

  “You wanted this thing?”

  “It’s time?”

  “Quickly.”

  I nodded Edgar over to take Elle in his hands while I withdrew to the bottom of my worktable. I had an old perfume bottle handy, a trinket I’d picked up on one of my travels. I had never actually planned on trapping a soul in the damned thing. It was just one of those things practitioners owned. And yet here I was, ready to drop a living servitor directly into the tiny blown glass vial.

  “Anything I need to do with this?” I asked Gillette, brandishing the bottle near my face.

  “Is it consecrated?”

  I wiggled the bottle again.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Never mind. It was just a thought.”

  Gillette sighed. “Do you have any quicksilver? Sandalwood?”

  “Sandalwood I got. Mercury is toxic, so no go on that one. Look, if it’s an issue, just kill the thing.”

  “No, no,” she growled. “You wanted it, we can do this. I can hold it for now.” Gillette looked over her shoulder at my racks of reagents, now stacked one on top of another to make room for the guests. “Clear the glass with frankincense.”

  I jumped to the rack and ran a finger along the clear mason jars until I found the tiny nuggets of resin I was looking for.

  “Got it.” I fished out a single tiny crumb of frankincense and dropped it into the bottle, following that with some grapeseed oil. I spun the oil along the interior of the bottle, the nugget of resin swirling it top to bottom. I could feel the Veil thickening around the glass. Satisfied it was thoroughly cleared of latent energies and now fortified against spiritual permeability, I emptied the oil and the resin into the leftover slag inside my cauldron. “Now what?”