The Warlock's Curse (41 page)

“I followed you. I was worried about you. You said we should come here.” She paused. “You locked the door.”

“Why would I do that?” Then he said, “I’m so hungry, Jenny.”

“So am I,” she said. “We haven’t eaten for five days. I drank water out of the tap.”

“I don’t understand what’s going on,” Will said.

“You locked the door,” Jenny said again, in a queer tremulous monotone. “But it wasn’t you, William. It wasn’t you. You were sick.”

Will didn’t answer. He went to the basin in the corner of the room and turned the spigot. He gulped the cold water greedily, then put his head under the stream.

“You haven’t eaten either?” he asked. The cold water on his head wasn’t helping him think any more clearly. “Why didn’t you go get food?”

“You locked the door,” Jenny said again. “You have the key in your pocket.”

“Why didn’t you just fish it out?” Will reached into his pocket, and his fingers found the key with the bakelite fob on it. As he crossed the room to give it to her, he saw that one side of her face was swollen and purple-yellow.

“Jenny,” he whispered. “You’re hurt.”

And then he saw that the bruises weren’t her only injuries. Her arms were covered with dozens of shallow cuts. Razor cuts. His breathing quickened, and he reached for her, and she screamed. Her eyes went blank with panic and she scrambled away from him. As she did, the fur coat she’d been holding closed around herself fell open. She was stark naked beneath it. And her body was covered with ... signs. Sigils, magical charms, drawn in blood.

Will staggered back from her, heart racing. He steadied himself against the wall farthest from her. Jenny had pressed herself into a corner with her back to him. She had curled her body into a tight ball, head covered by her arms. Will stared at her back, rising and falling with quick shallow breaths, for a long time.

“Jenny,” he said softly. “What happened?”

“You were sick,” Jenny said, her voice muffled and dull, and he realized that she was just saying the same things over and over. “You were sick. But you’re better now, William. It’s going to be all right.”

Will didn’t move. He suddenly remembered the key in his hand. He threw it to her. It skittered on the floor, coming to rest beside her leg. She made no move to take it for a long time. Finally she uncurled slightly, looking down to see if it was really there. When she saw that it was, she snaked out a hand and snatched it, clasping it close to her chest, curling over it as if it were a small animal in need of protection.

“Are you all right, Jenny?”

Her shoulders twitched—with bitter laughter or a desperate sob, he didn’t know which. In one swift movement she jumped to her feet and ran to the door. As she slid past him, it aroused a tingling echo in his memory, something dark and cruelly sweet, whispering to him in the back of his mind, the light of the full moon illuminating falling snow ...

Will braced himself against the wall against a sudden rush of dizziness. He was sure he was going to vomit or pass out, but he did not, he just stood there, holding himself up.

Jenny paused by the door, watching him fearfully. She was clutching the key so hard her knuckles were white. It was as if she was waiting for him. Waiting for him to do something.

“Should I go with you?” His voice sounded plaintive even to his own ears; he was so confused and he didn’t want to be in this place. He knew it was a bad place. Bad things had happened here and he did not want to stay here with them.

“No,” Jenny said softly. “No, William. You have to rest. You have to stay here and rest. I will go and get food. I’ll get lots of food. I’ll get lots of food and come back.”

“All right, Jenny,” he whispered. “You go.”

It was as if she had required his permission to actually move. Even then, her hand touched the doorknob hesitantly. She brought the key to the lock, but did not put it in. He could see that she was turning a question over in her mind, some deep uncertainty playing itself out on her face. Then, instead of putting the key in the door, she seized the doorknob. She turned it with a jerking movement. The door opened, creaking.

Jenny’s face drained of color, and he almost thought she would collapse.

“You never really locked it.” Her voice was a strangled whisper. “It was never locked.”

And then she was gone, slamming the door behind her. He heard her footsteps moving swiftly down the hall, then breaking into a panicked run.

Will barely made it to the bed. There was blood on the sheets. There was a lot of blood on the sheets. But there was nothing he could do about that. He fell onto the bed. And despite his hunger, despite everything, his body crumpled into sleep.

Will was woken by rough hands pulling off the thin blanket that covered him. A destroyed face, half of it swallowed by swollen slimy black flesh, thrust itself close to his.

“Rent’s due,” the night-man said, feeling through Will’s pockets, turning all of them inside out. Finding the straight razor, he withdrew it—but when he saw the blood crusted on the blade, he shoved it quickly back into Will’s pocket. He straightened, the heavy brace on his leg making him stand at a queer angle. “You got the money?”

“I don’t think so,” Will said softly.

“That girl you had up here ... she threw money at me when you two came in here, so I didn’t bother you about it. But it’s been more than a week now, and what she gave me don’t cover it.” He paused. “What happened to that girl, anyway?” His tone was both harsh and insinuating. “The two of you were making a hell of a racket.”

“What happened?” Will staggered to his feet, seizing the man by his worn lapels. “What did you hear?”

But the night-man was quick, and much stronger than he looked. Breaking Will’s grip, he threw him to the floor.

“People do what they like at the Hotel Acheron,” the man sneered down at him. “I don’t make it a point of listening too close.”

Then, seizing Will by the back of his coat, the night-man lifted him and threw him out the door. Will tumbled, and the man followed, grabbing him again, throwing him down the stairs this time.

Will landed in an aching heap.

One last lift, and the night-man threw Will down the cement front stairs and into the street. Will rolled against the cold pavement, landing on his back, looking up at the waning moon. It was a bright cold night, snow swirling.

“Merry Christmas, you bum!” the night-man yelled, kicking the door shut behind him.

Will did not move for a while, the chill of melting snow seeping up through his coat. He squinted against the brightness.

It can’t be Christmas already,
he thought. That would mean eight days had gone.

Why hadn’t Jenny come back for him?

Rolling onto his knees, he climbed to his feet slowly and unsteadily. The cold seemed to reach all the way down into his gut. He wrapped his arms around himself and walked. Probably Jenny was back at the apartment.

He stumbled through the cold streets, feet slipping on ice. He didn’t even have the nickel he needed to get on a streetcar. He was starving, weak as a newborn lamb. All the restaurants along Woodward Avenue were closed, but he could smell festive dinners being laid on tables in faroff homes, and just the smell made him feel weaker.

He could not walk, he kept stumbling and falling. Finally, he didn’t want to try anymore. The next time he fell, instead of trying to get up he just sat there, head down over his knees.

He had been sitting like this for a while when a concerned voice broke into his thoughts. “Is something the matter, son?”

A kindly-looking old man with a luxurious white beard looked down at him. He wore a warm overcoat and his arms were full of presents wrapped in gold and silver paper. For no reason that he could understand, Will burst into tears. Helpless, childish tears.

“My goodness, that’s no way to spend Christmas Eve!” The man clucked his tongue. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m trying to get home,” Will sniffed, wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve, “And I don’t have any money.”

The man quickly dug in his pocket and retrieved a handful of small change. He pressed the coins into Will’s hand; they were still warm from his body.

“You go on home, I’m sure people are waiting for you.” The old man put down his packages and helped Will to his feet. “It’ll all come out all right. You’ll see.”

“Ben?” Will whispered. But the old man had picked up his presents and was walking away.

Will got off at the streetcar stop nearest Winslow and walked to the apartment building. Seeing lights blazing from the sitting room in the front, he snuck quietly along the side alley and up the back stairs. When he got to the apartment, he saw that the door was standing half open. He stumbled through it.

“Jenny?” he called, softly.

But Jenny did not answer. And when he saw the apartment, he prayed she wasn’t there.

The apartment had not just been ransacked, it had been destroyed. Furniture was broken and the pieces scattered. The suitcases Jenny had packed had been slashed open, their contents strewn carelessly. Cold air streamed in through broken windows.

Will moved through the wreckage carefully, glass and shattered wood crunching under his feet as he moved. Weariness and hunger vanished; his whole body was suddenly awake and alert and anxious.

There were three men waiting for him in his bedroom. Three men—and a woman. But it wasn’t Jenny. It was Mrs. Kosanovic, the landlady, probably drawn upstairs by the sounds of destruction. She lay on the floor, hog-tied and gagged and blindfolded. Will’s heart thudded.

The men reminded Will of the men who had come to take Roher. But these men wore black suits, and instead of a badge, each man had a red orchid in his lapel.

One of the men—diminutive, with large dark eyes and a small moustache—had Jenny’s calfskin grip at his feet. He was reading her papers.

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Edwards,” the man said without looking up.

“Who are you?” Will said, taking a step toward him. “What are you doing—”

Quick as thinking, the other two men, who had been standing at the first man’s flank, rushed forward and seized Will, pushing him back against the wall. One of them got a thick arm against Will’s throat and held him there.

“Get him a chair,” the first man said. “If there are any left.”

A chair was fetched, and Will was put into it, each of the two men standing beside and behind him, resting a heavy hand on his shoulder, holding him down.

The man who had spoken laid the papers aside. He rose and came to stand before Will.

“My name is Bernays,” he said. “And my boss is not happy with you. Not happy at
all
.”

Will stared at him, waiting for him to explain, but Bernays seemed in no hurry. Rather, he looked down at Will contemplatively.

“You’re so
young
,” he observed. “Your body should not be able to withstand that much magic, not without an allergic reaction severe enough to kill you immediately. You should be dead. Why aren’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Will said again. “I didn’t ... do any magic.” But then he remembered the charms he’d seen on Jenny’s Body the charms sketched in blood, and his head spun. “I don’t think I did.”

“We know you did magic,” Bernays said. “That is not in dispute. It is our job to know when huge amounts of magic are released. And it is our job to track down the warlocks who release them.”

Will blinked, remembering what Court had told him.

“The Settlement,” he said. “Killing Old Users. The Agency. You’re ... you’re from the
Agency
.”

“Very good, Mr. Edwards.” Bernays’ eyes flared. “You’ve been doing your reading. But you might want to choose your material with more care.
The Goês’ Confession
is a piece of seditious trash, and we work very hard to keep such falsehoods from propagating.”

He took a step toward Will.

“The information in that book is neither accurate nor fair. We are a kinder, gentler Agency now. Now, we offer the warlocks who have had the misfortune to come to the attention of our boss a choice.”

He made a strange ornate gesture, the flourish of a stage magician producing a dove from a silk hat. But instead of a dove or a silk hat, Bernays suddenly held a small phial—and a silver knife.

“You will see that I hold two objects, Mr. Edwards,” he said. “In my left hand—well, I hardly need tell you what this is.” He turned over the sharp silver blade, and it gleamed in the low light. “In my right hand ... that requires only slightly more explanation. Do you know what’s in this phial?”

Will shook his head.

“This is the Panchrest,” Bernays said. “Drink it now, and you will no longer be able to channel magic. And you will no longer be of any interest to us.”

“But I’ve already had the Panchrest,” Will hissed. “I had it when I was a child.”

Bernays looked at him with astonishment.

“What an
incredibly
stupid thing to say.” He grinned. “And here I’d heard you were supposed to be a genius or something. Haven’t you the slightest capacity for self-preservation? In any case, I know that you have
not
had the Panchrest. My boss has it on absolute authority that you have not.”