The Curse Mandate (The Dark Choir Book 3)

by J. P. Sloan

  I nodded, and he retired upstairs.

  I didn’t pour myself anything else to drink. The sherry wasn’t particularly palatable, though I doubt anything would have been at that moment.

  When the high-rise on my block shut down their lights, and I heard no more noise from upstairs, I finally pulled myself out of my chair, set the glass on the sideboard, and climbed up to my room to bury myself in my sheets.

  And I cried.

  was up, made coffee, and had sat staring at Malosi’s marker board of conspiracies and doom by the time he joined me in the workspace.

  “How’re you feeling?” he asked.

  “I’m seeing the overarching theme here,” I said without actually answering his question. I gestured with my index finger underneath the word GEOMANCY.

  “But what does it have to do with Chaos magic?” he rejoindered.

  I snatched a marker and wrote Deirdre’s name underneath the “geomancy,” along with Wickham Inn, Enoch Pratt, and Miller’s Hall.

  Malosi leaned in. “Wickham Inn? What’s that?”

  “Old building in Gettysburg. First jinx we ran into. Some poor Korean couple ran a daycare out of the joint before these mystery men decided to toss a jinx through its window.”

  “What’s that have to do with Geomancy?”

  I squinted. “Not sure. I’m just bothered by the specificity. Three old buildings, all in colonial-era towns or cities. You have a phone on you?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Yeah, but it doesn’t have maps on it. Look up Gettysburg.”

  Malosi pulled up his map application, and keyed it in.

  I muttered, “How do you type with those ball-peen hammers for thumbs?”

  “There.”

  “Zoom out.”

  He did until I spotted Baltimore and Harper’s Ferry on the same screen.

  “Damn,” I grumbled.

  “What?”

  “I was hoping they’d be in a straight line. Don’t know much about Geomancy, but I figured if we spotted a pattern, they could be on a leyline. Might have given us some clue as to where it’s all going.”

  “Does the order matter?”

  “Probably. Without knowing the pattern, it’s hard to interpret it.” I looked over to the word Chaos on the opposite end of the board. “So, why Chaos? If anyone outside of the Presidium wanted to wage war, there’s far more practical modalities they could use. And less destructive. And exactly how the hell are these people getting consistent results with these jinxes? It’s the same thing, each time. That’s almost mutually exclusive with chaos magic. And what the hell does any of it have to do with geomancy?”

  “Well,” Malosi offered, “Geomancy is based on physical locations, right? If you’re working with physical sites in nature, then you’re dealing with a chaotic system.”

  “But these aren’t caves or rivers. These are buildings. Man-made.”

  Malosi snapped his fingers. “Imposed order onto Chaos. So, you jinx the site, and you return it to a natural state.”

  “You’re suggesting these jinxes are tearing down some kind of magical structure at each of these old colonial locations?”

  “It would have to be, or else they’d just use a bazooka.”

  I nodded. “Then these old buildings have magical significance.” I tapped Deirdre’s name with my marker. “And I’ll bet she would have known what that is, if she saw the pattern. Maybe she did see the pattern, after Enoch Pratt, and that’s why they put a jinx on her?”

  “Why wouldn’t they just kill her?”

  “Good question. Maybe they tried, but the jinx didn’t cooperate.”

  Malosi shrugged. “Without concrete knowledge on chaos magic, we’re just spitballing here. You got a book on chaos in that cabinet?” He gestured to Emil’s Library.

  I peered at the cabinet and pursed my lips.

  “Maybe. I’ve only nosed around half of the books Emil left me, most of them on the more ‘mainstream’ Netherwork, if there is such a thing. I’ll take a look later.” I swiveled in my chair over to Ches’s desk, or what had been. “In the meanwhile, we have a hard-earned list of names to bird-dog.”

  I grabbed the sheet of Committee for Public Enrichment members we’d secured from Ronetta Claye.

  Malosi examined it over my shoulder.

  “At least one of these people had to know something about that curse pole,” he said. “Any thoughts on how we do this without literally going door-to-door?”

  “Not really,” I admitted.

  “Because, walking up and asking a rich white person if they’re aware that a piece of public art is responsible for the deaths of half-a-dozen demon-summoners is exactly the kind of shit that gets the cops called on a motherfucker.”

  I looked up at Malosi with a grin. “Hey. That… that’s actually a good idea.”

  “On what world is that a good idea?”

  I reached for my phone. “Curse poles killing cultists is a hard sell. But public indecency? That’s something entirely different.”

  “Public indecency?”

  “What if those glyphs were determined to be profanity in, I don’t know… Urdu or something?”

  Malosi squinted. “You ever actually seen Urdu?”

  “Not the point,” I replied as I scrolled through my call list. “We say someone registered a complaint, and it has to be looked into or else they have to tear it down. Then we gauge response. Clement taught you energy palpation, right?”

  He nodded.

  “Shouldn’t take long to beat some practitioners out of the bush.”

  “If we step around town acting like cops, we’re going to get arrested,” he countered.

  “Very true. Which is why we need the real thing with us.”

  “There’s City Councilmen on that list, Dorian. We’ll need a cop who’s willing to put his career on the line.”

  I held up my phone. “I have just the man,” I said as I dialed Ronetta Claye’s number

  Claye seemed happy to hear that we had “boots on the ground,” as she put it, looking for a solution to the Enoch Pratt situation. Apparently, they had closed off the children’s books section until we could close the hole the jinx punched into the fabric of reality somewhere between R.L. Stein and Dr. Seuss.

  She was especially gratified to hear I was interested in working with Detective Turner, whom she sent to meet Malosi and me in front of Light Street Tavern.

  When Turner arrived, he seemed far less gratified than Claye.

  “So, what’s this about?” he growled the second we were within earshot.

  “I need you to help me scam some Councilmen.”

  His eyes lifted a bit, and for an awkward moment he seemed to actually consider it without further context.

  Finally, he said, “You’re going to need to run that by me again.”

  “You know about the Charles Street killings?”

  “Yeah. That’s over to homicide.”

  “I’m convinced it’s the same people who jacked up the library.”

  His face eased out of its usual dismissive sneer. “I heard they got a suspect already. Some hoodoo bookworm.”

  “They’re after the wrong guy. He was the target. The others were collateral damage.”

  “You got proof of this, I hope?”

  I gave Malosi a smirk, then turned back to the detective. “We have a list of names, members of a public enrichment committee that gave the greenlight to a statue in a public space half a block away from the Charles Street crime scene.”

  “A statue? What’s that got to do with―”

  “Inside the statue I found a niding pole, an old Viking curse tool. It was aimed directly at Zeno’s house.”

  The dismissive sneer returned. “Viking curses, huh? You guys are a real freakin’ joke, you know that?” His eyes shifted to Malosi. “Who’s this guy, your secretary?”

  Malosi answered, “I can touch-type and I know ten-key. If you’re hiring, I can get my resume from the car.”
>
  I quipped over my shoulder, “You are so fired.”

  “Okay, smartasses,” Turner declared. “Let’s see this list.”

  I handed it over, and he squinted at the page like a man who needed glasses but was too afraid of looking old to actually go get his eyes checked. He ran a finger down the list, shaking his head intermittently.

  “No good,” he mumbled.

  “What?”

  “Harold Roth. He’s a real religious type. Wouldn’t be caught dead wigging around with you types.”

  “You’d be surprise what people do in private, detective.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” He continued. “Tony Janczak’s no good.”

  “Why?”

  “Been dead for three months.”

  “Gotcha.” I sighed and looked over the top of the page. “Is there anyone on this list you don’t specifically know about? Anyone who isn’t all that public? Maybe got appointed and no one knows why?”

  He shrugged. “Never heard of these first two names, but I ain’t exactly a City Hall insider.”

  I swiveled for the front of the tavern. “Well, just so happens I have one of those.”

  I led everyone inside the bar, and Malosi held Turner up at the bar while I maneuvered to Julian’s office.

  Julian looked up from his computer with a long face.

  “Hey,” he whispered.

  “You all right?” I asked.

  “Hungover. Mostly. What’s up?”

  “Got a couple things. One, we’re going to need a new kitchen manager.”

  He scowled. “Ricky’s out?”

  “He and Ches went back to Oregon.”

  Julian pushed away from his desk and stood up. “Wow. I’m sorry, Dorian.”

  “It’s done, I suppose. Anyway, we should get on that.”

  “A couple of the new hires have experience. I’ll talk to them. What’s the other thing?”

  I handed Julian the list. “Take a look at these names.”

  “Okay.” He gave the page a once-over. “Public Enrichment Committee? What’s your interest in them?”

  “Anyone on that list stand out as someone who doesn’t, well… doesn’t stand out? Names you’ve never heard of?”

  He gave it further scrutiny. “You know Janczak’s been dead now for a few months.”

  “I’ve heard.”

  “Well, you got the superintendent at the Baltimore Arts College. Makes sense. Two clergy. I guess they don’t want Mapplethorpe hung in Mt. Vernon. Former staff, former staff… consolation prizes from the election, I’ll bet. One corpse. That leaves four.”

  “Turner says Roth’s the pious type.”

  Julian smirked. “And how. Why, is religion pertinent here?”

  “Could be. I’m just trying to narrow things down.”

  “Well, if that’s the case you’re going to have to forget about Hershfeld, too. He’s in the Knights of Columbus, and he’s at St. Paul’s three times a week. That leaves two. Narrow enough for you?”

  He circled the first and fourth names on the list. Petra de Haviland and Marcus Pompa.

  I took the list from Julian with a nod. “No info on these two?”

  “No clue. But then, I wasn’t always up to speed on the minor committees. Or the major ones, if it didn’t have to do with the political office.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No, thank you!”

  I looked up at him. “Huh?”

  “I’ve been trying to be useful for a while now.”

  “Are you kidding me? This place is only running because of you.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “What are you hung over about?”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “Ah,” I muttered. “Cleve?”

  “I’ll see you later, Dorian.”

  I stood for a second, then took my dismissal and returned to Malosi and Turner.

  “We good?” Malosi asked.

  “Yeah. Got two names we should check out first.”

  Turner shook his head. “What are you talking about?”

  “So, here’s the play. We tell these people someone’s lodged a complaint about the statue. Say it was something indecent or hate-speechy. We get a sense of whether these people are legit or if they’re, as you put it, hoodoo bookworm types.”

  Turner’s eyes glazed a touch, then he shook his head. “I’m out. Good luck.”

  As he turned to leave, I added, “Deputy Mayor Claye was pleased to hear we were finally cooperating on this.”

  He paused, then sighed.

  I added, “Listen, we really just need you to flash your badge. We can do the rest.”

  “This is a waste of time.”

  “Hey, look at it this way. You get to take all the credit if we stumble across a genuine criminal. If all we do is fluff some old hens’ feathers, then you have zero exposure.”

  He faced me. “All right, all right. Let’s get this over with. But you’re buying my lunch, goddamnit.”

  I held up my hands and agreed.

  Turner insisted on driving, which suited me as I didn’t want my car spotted and remembered should we have found a genuine problem. We agreed to start with Marcus Pompa. A quick records search on Malosi’s phone showed he was a retired professor of art history who now lived on an inlet of the Back River. His house was smaller than his neighbors’, but the water ran right up to his back deck. He had a well-manicured garden for a front lawn. This was a man in considerable control of his environment, and he definitely had an eye for beauty.

  Turner took the lead as we stepped through a single-hinged garden gate and took the circular brick-paved path around a fountain to the front door of his white clapboard home. The detective rang the bell, and it wasn’t a minute before a voice called from the side of the house.

  “Can I help you?”

  Pompa waddled around the side of his garden with the gate of a man barely able to walk without a cane. He was extremely elderly, skin covered in brown patches, hands worn down likely from years of gardening.

  Turner pulled his badge and held it up for Pompa as he eased slowly toward us.

  “Detective Turner, Baltimore Police Special Investigations Unit. Are you Marcus Pompa?”

  He nodded.

  “These gentlemen want a word with you.”

  And with that, he turned and waited by the front gate. A real charmer, that Turner.

  Pompa looked over to Malosi, then to me.

  I stepped forward. “Good morning, Mr. Pompa.”

  He stepped forward and extended a hand.

  I shook it gingerly for fear of snapping his bones, and found no specific energies on his person. Just the normal ebb and flow of a living being.

  “Mr. Pompa,” I continued, “I understand you sit on the Committee for Public Enrichment?”

  He nodded, eyes wary.

  “Sir, we’ve received a complaint regarding a piece of public art that was erected a month ago, just off the twelve-hundred block of Charles Street. A kind of, what do you call it? Modern art? Sailboat and animals.”

  His face pulled back into the sneer of someone who had just bitten into an apple and discovered that it was, in fact, a dog turd.

  “That monstrosity?” he groaned. “It’s a scandal.”

  “So, my taste in art isn’t completely sideways?”

  “Joel and I were adamant, it didn’t belong on public property. But the rest have no concept of composition, nor the eye for aesthetics that God gave a radish.”

  “Do you know who the artist is?”

  His eyes narrowed.

  I prodded, “We need to address some concerns.”

  “What concerns?”

  “There was script found on the interior of the statue that, well… it’s basically hate speech.”

  He bobbed his head. “I don’t recall any writing.”

  “It was symbolic.”

  “Then how was it hate speech?”

  This was going well.

  “It was runi
c. Runes. Old Norse runes. Kind of thing,” I added, “you find in White Supremacist groups.”

  He took a step back. “I have nothing whatsoever to do with that!”

  I got him.

  “That’s good to hear, but we do need to speak with the artist.”

  He lifted his hands in a shrug. “It was a student art project. A small studio in Canton received a modest endowment. I couldn’t tell you the name of the studio, if it’s still open at all.”

  I turned to Malosi. He gave me a barely-perceptible shake of his head.

  I had to agree. There was nothing going on here but an old man whose only crime was not fighting hard enough to preserve the good taste of our public spaces.

  “Mister Pompa,” I declared with a smile. “Thank you for your time. We’ll look into this studio.”

  He smiled and released a breath, obviously relieved that he was not, in fact, being accused of anti-Semitism.

  Back in the car, Turner gave me a begrudging nod. “You happy with that geezer?”

  “He’s clean,” I replied.

  “On to number two,” he declared. “Then lunch. I’m thinking crab cakes.”

  The de Haviland address put us uptown not far from Zeno’s lodge. A series of stately row houses lines the boulevard, wrought iron fencing adding elegance if not a sense of security. Massive bay windows loomed over the street, with fine chandeliers glimmering beyond lace curtains. The cars parked on the street were compact, luxurious, and mostly German.

  Turner whistled at the house as we stepped out of his car. “Hell of a spread.”

  “What’s the story on these people?” I asked Malosi.

  He glanced down to his phone, then up at me with a shrug. “Nothing.”

  “No records?”

  “There’s four de Havilands listed in Baltimore City, and none of them are named Petra.”

  I turned to the house and centered my energy. Time to palpate.

  Turner brushed past me, interrupting my focus, and tried the front gate. It was locked.

  Malosi marched up and pushed a tiny call button by the latch. A chime sounded, followed by a creaky voice.

  “Who is it?”

  Turner bent over to speak directly into the speaker. “Detective Grant Turner, Baltimore Special Investigations Unit. I’m looking for Petra de Haviland.”