The Curse Servant (The Dark Choir Book 2) (23 page)

Scovill took a deep, cleansing breath and gathered his people beside him.

Elle chuckled. “Light-headed, preacher?”

Scovill tried not to betray his exhaustion, but I saw his eyes flutter.

“Light-headed because you’re pouring all of your essence into your Crowns. Poor discipline, isn’t it, Lake? At this rate, they’ll pass out before I even feel annoyed.”

Scovill gave me a quick look, and Elle sucked in a breath before releasing a gleeful cackle.

“They don’t know, do they?”

I tried to collect Scovill’s people. “We’ll look into getting some sandwiches or something.”

“You didn’t tell them what you are, did you? Oh, you dirty, little liar. Preacher? You think this man is God-fearing?”

Scovill lifted a hand and turned to Elle. “Be silent, in the name of Christ the Redeemer.”

“I will not. Nor should you. You’ve been lied to. Did he even tell you this child’s parents are witches? Do you think it was difficult for me to enter this vessel? She is unbaptized. An unbeliever.”

I stepped in front of Scovill. “They aren’t witches.”

“Take a look, preacher. You’ll find the pentagram hung on the wall. Just over the balcony door. The sign of the Devil himself. Yes, these are witches you’ve fallen in league with. I own this child as it was properly given to me. You should ask this child’s father what he has locked up in the room downstairs. I wager you’d find the answer disturbing. And you, Lake. You are far worse. Preacher, do you want to know what he is? He is a Curse Merchant. He kills with magic.”

Scovill pulled me aside. I shot Elle a look as we moved into the hallway.

He wiped his face with a handkerchief before sighing, “Is it true?”

“The Swains aren’t witches.”

“But are they believers?”

“They believe in the Divine. They didn’t ask for this, nor should we give up on Elle just because that thing inside her is trying to shake your confidence.”

“Did she say ‘Curse Merchant’?”

I shrugged. “News to me.”

The group filed back into the living area, and Edgar and I worked to make some roast beef sandwiches and tea. Wren fidgeted on the couch for a while before retiring to Elle’s bedroom with a wet towel.

One of the women looked up and slowly put down her sandwich, tapping Scovill’s shoulder. I followed her eyes and found one of Wren’s pentacles. It was a nice one. Nickel, perhaps silver, mounted on a black velvet matte. Right over the door to the balcony, just as Elle had said.

Scovill cleared his throat and set aside his plate. “I feel like we’re working at cross aims, Mister Lake.”

“That’s not what you think it is,” I explained.

“Then what is it?”

Wren’s voice shot across the room from the hallway. “It’s a pentacle. It’s a warding against unwanted energies. It represents the five elements and serves to bind evil intent and create a sealed environment for workings. It’s not a goat’s head. It doesn’t represent Satan. And I’m not a witch, but I am Wiccan. My husband collects cursed objects and keeps them under lock and key so they don’t fall into the wrong hands. My daughter doesn’t really believe in any of it. She’s basically an atheist, and I’m okay with that.”

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 Frater 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.”