The Curse Servant (The Dark Choir Book 2) (28 page)

She shook her head.

“Do you think it’s possible that withdrawal symptoms caused this episode?”

“I don’t know if it’s possible or not. But nothing like that happened to me before. I didn’t want to be there. Maybe it was those houses, all those prissy-ass rich bitches. That asshole with the suit. That whore with the dog. I just felt sick about it. I just didn’t want to be there.”

“Why were you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Hmm?”

“You don’t sound like you were very enthusiastic. Why were you volunteering for Sullivan in the first place?”

She tried to wipe the tears from her face, but new ones kept tracing tracks on her cheekbones. “It looked good to the judge. Volunteer work. Community work. Civic responsibility, whatever. I figured it wouldn’t be worse than litter patrol.”

“This was court ordered?”

“Kind of. Rolando’s challenging for full custody.” Her lips pulled back into a grimace and she sobbed. “I had to do something.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Rolando never used. So, he never understood. You know? He never understood why you can’t just decide to stop. I tried. I really did. Went to the clinic a few times. Then one of the clinics did blood work, and they told me I was HIV positive.”

I closed my eyes and tried not to look morose.

“That was the night he took Trey away. I’ve been fighting ever since. I can see Trey grow up. I can do that. I’m on medicines. That’s the disease that I can manage. The other? The addiction? I’m trying. But it’s just so much bigger than I am.”

“Amy? I want you to listen to me. Try to breathe.”

She wiped her face some more and tried to calm down enough to look me in the eyes. Her sobbing subsided, and she looked down. “If I lose Trey, I just don’t see much point in even trying anymore.”

“I’m not here to ruin your life. I’m not going to go to Rolando with any of this. Okay? In fact, I might be able to help you. I have a peculiar set of skills, and I’ve helped people fight addictions before. I’d like to help you, too. If you let me.”

She didn’t look up, didn’t shake her head or nod. She didn’t react at all.

I stood up and reached out to put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s worth a shot, right? If it’s that important.”

“How?”

I curled my finger along her shoulder and wrapped a hair around my index finger. I slid it casually into my pocket. “Karma.”

I left Amy sitting in her chair, perhaps a little more hopeful. If she was, she didn’t let it show. Mostly I got what I needed from her when it came to information on this entity. What I needed was confirmation that this wasn’t a drug hallucination. What’s more, I knew she wasn’t interested in turning this into a problem for Julian and the Mayor. Julian knew it, too. He must have had a similar conversation with her just after the attack.

It was confirmation, but not proof. Wren was convinced Elle was suffering from mental illness. Edgar looked like he was going along with Wren, but I had a feeling he was still open to my input. When it came to Edgar and Wren, though, he wasn’t the one with the hand on the helm. Wren made the decisions with the kids, and in two days, Elle was likely to enter the System. Probably never to come back out.

If she lived that long. I had a dread suspicion that this thing inside Elle was using her as a source of energy, sucking the life out of her. It was possible that Elle’s life was in danger if I couldn’t extract this thing.

Hell, maybe I could borrow Julian’s Taser. It seemed to work on Amy. Though I didn’t think I could sell that to Wren.

I smirked to myself as I reached my car, imagining suggesting electricity as our next move when something smacked into the back of my head, throwing my face into the roof of the Audi. The world shifted and my shoulder hit asphalt. My vision blurred to black just as a pair of boots stepped into my field of vision.

The last thing I remembered was the sensation of being lifted, and a splitting headache.

he headache was still there when I came to. Black fabric hung loose in front of my face, but I was comfortable enough to breathe. Comfort in breathing didn’t extend to sitting, as I was crammed between two people, my wrists tied together. By the motion and the tire noise, I could tell we were in a moving car. What felt like an hour could have been half that, but sitting with a black bag over your head not knowing if you’re going to end up with a bullet in your skull by the end of the ride makes the minutes crawl by.

When the vehicle finally stopped, one of my bookends stepped outside and pulled me fairly gently by the wrist ties out of the car and across a space of gravel. Light jazz played in the background, and the smell of food drifted on cool night air underneath my hood. I stumbled over a threshold, and the music dulled, replaced by the clacking of my shoes across a wood floor. I was led up a wide flight of circular stairs and eventually the hood was removed.

A wide-jawed man in a suit inspected my face, then reached for my hair. He jerked my head forward, rolling it left to right. He released my hair with a grunt of approval before producing a pocket knife. I sucked in a breath as he triggered a spring, releasing a long, shiny curved blade. I stood stiff as he reached for my hands, slicing the plastic zip ties holding them.

“Wait here,” he grunted as he stepped past me, closing a door to a posh sitting room lit only by a single lamp on a desk in the corner. I rubbed the back of my head and took in the room. Fine parquet flooring with two circular Persian rugs. A length of bookcases with leather-bound texts. A row of windows overlooking a wide, shallow river swelling past rocks. Beyond the river stood a line of fine mansions, and just behind two of the gables I spotted the top of the Washington Monument.

I was in the hands of the Presidium.

I stepped to the windows and peered down to an outdoor garden soiree. Several ivory tents were illuminated by strings of white lights. A jazz trio played on a dais in the far corner beside a line of tables laden with appetizers and flutes of wine. People in evening gowns and tuxedos wandered in a kind of social Coriolis motion, laughing, chatting, and drinking.

Footsteps clacked up the stairs outside the room, and I turned in time to find the wide-jawed man opening the door for a sharp-dressed, silver-haired woman in a conservative gown carrying two flutes of champagne. The woman marched toward me with a genial grin and sharp eyes.

“Welcome, Mister Lake. I know Reginald, here, can be a bit heavy-handed, so I thought I’d offer you a palliative of sorts.”

She handed me one of the flutes and stared at me with a calm deliberation that sucked the fight out of me. I had never heard of anyone who got black-bagged by the Presidium and lived to talk about it, and always wondered what happened to them. Even though it was likely I was about to find out, I took the champagne as a good sign.

“Couldn’t hurt,” I rasped, clearing my throat. I took a sip. Not bad.

“My name is Deborah Wexler. I suspect you know whom I represent.”

My jaw stiffened in panic, though I managed to mumble, “I have a notion.”

“I only have a few minutes before I have to return to my guests, so I’ll have to make this brief. We have determined that your involvement with David Sullivan’s campaign has become unacceptable. You are to dissociate yourself from Sullivan and Bright immediately.”

The way she said that pissed me off, and the words “Just like that?” flew out of my mouth before I could stop them.

Wexler’s brow popped up as if she were stunned that I responded with anything beyond a blubbering plea for my life.

“I’m sorry?” she asked with a bemused grin.

“Just like that, you people decide to curtail my rights? I’m not allowed to participate in the democratic process, is that it?”

“Mister Lake―”

“With all due respect, Ms. Wexler, the Presidium isn’t the Constitution.” Christ. Why wouldn’t I shut up?

“Who do you think wrote the Constitution?” she snickered. “Besides, people like you and I don’t have rights, Mister Lake. We have responsibilities. Ours is to this Nation, and if you cared anything about the democratic process, you’ll recognize that it can only flourish when the people, their minds, and their fates are free from hermetic coercion.”

“Then you’ll be happy to know I haven’t crafted a charm for Sullivan in months. The man’s karma was spreading too thin, so I put it off.”

“Do you really think we care about your petty charms? No, it’s this cloud of chaos with which you clothe yourself. It’s affecting a major election, and we have decided that is no longer an option for you.”

“For the sake of argument, what say I refuse?”

Wexler laughed.

I prodded, “If you wanted to get rid of me, you would have done it long ago.”

“Don’t think that conversation hasn’t taken place. More than once.”

Shit. I knew I had rubbed the Presidium raw at times, but knowing they discussed my erasure chilled me. “Some of you must like me.”

“Some within our group hold the assertion that you don’t represent a credible threat. Considering you’ve executed a lethal Netherwork curse in public, resulting in a quarter million dollars in damages to Penn Station, some believe this assertion to be somewhat generous.”

“That situation was complicated.”

“Indeed, which is why we chose not to take action.” She crossed to the windows, looking down to her party. “Your curse was elegant. Had you not executed it in person, one might have called it masterful. Recognizing that you were attempting to prevent the sale of American souls to a Levantine Cabal, we adopted a degree of circumspection.” She turned and squinted at me. “Granted, despite your best efforts, you managed to deliver said souls directly into the hands of the Levantines.”

“No one’s perfect.” I waited for another grin from Wexler.

Instead, I got received a stern lift of the brow. “There’s fallible, and then there’s dangerously credulous. In any event, the decision is made. I suggest you adhere to it.”

“Okay, then,” I countered. “If the Presidium is so invested in the Baltimore mayoral race, then perhaps it would be interested in the fact that Sullivan’s opposition has hired a practitioner as well?”

Wexler stood silently, moving only to take a sip of champagne.

I added, “Or are you just throwing in for Sooner at this point?”

“I understand Sooner is backed by an industrial magnate. This hardly qualifies as a threat to American esoteric security.”

“You’d think that, but ask my friends whose daughter is possessed by some vicious thing this hermetic hitman sicced on her.”

She lowered her flute and frowned. So, this was news to her.

After the barest wave of ambivalence flickered across her face, she stiffened her lips and declared, “Mister Lake, our duties don’t extend to protecting you from the consequences of your own actions. Now, I do have to return to my guests.”

“Where’s Brown?”

Wexler sneered, “Where he always is. Sitting in his pathetic little whore house on a hill. In case you’re suffering from the delusion that Mister Brown is somehow your friend, you should reconsider your posture. Brown’s influence only extends so far.”

“I never doubted that.”

“You know,” Wexler continued in a softer tone, “if you could suspend your paranoia for a moment, you might see our purpose here. The Presidium was born out of the Enlightenment. Europe was emerging from a thousand years of religious war and the destruction of knowledge. It was a breeding ground for the Cabals to manipulate the Church, thrones, entire nations. Look what that produced. It may seem simple enough to reduce us to a kind of fascist umbrella, but the alternative could have been further ruin. Or the chaos you find on the West Coast.”