The Warlock's Curse (44 page)

“Perhaps
he
can,” Dr. Gore said. “But what about Cowdray?”

Ben dismissed the older man’s reluctance with an impatient
gesture. “There is a way around the restriction, Will. It’s a technique known as ‘vamping.’”

“The flow of magic through the human body can never be entirely blocked. Some magical conductivity must be retained to sustain life,”
Dr. Gore continued resignedly. “This small amount of residual conductivity can be used to make a low-level magical connection with another person. In this way, someone who has taken the Panchrest can ‘vamp’ upon the body of another—direct the flow of power through the magical channels of that person’s body.”

“You use Irene’s Body” Will said, suddenly remembering how Dr. Gore always held hands with his daughter while he did magic, how it was always she who held the alembic.

“It is a very dangerous practice,” Dr. Gore said gravely. “Irene and I have worked together for many years, and I know her limits as well as is possible. But even so, the slightest miscalculation could result in Exunge building up in her body to levels from which she could not recover.” He paused. “And of course, if such a miscalculation were ever to occur, I would be powerless to bring her back.”

“That’s why the warlocks from the Agency don’t care too much about it,” Ben added. “Because the one vamped-upon so frequently dies. The practice is self-limiting.”

“But it explains how Cowdray can control my body the way he does,” Will whispered, looking at Ben. “He’s ...
vamping
on me.”

Ben inclined his head. “The magical mechanism of a curse is fundamentally similar to vamping,” he said. “But if the Panchrest was given to you—as I saw Father do—then it should not be possible for Cowdray to work so much magic through your Body as most of the magical channels of your body would have been fused in infancy.” Ben paused. “On the other hand, if you were somehow
not
given the Panchrest, as the Agency warlocks have said, then you should be dead from the amount of magic you worked.” He sighed. “Neither explanation fits, little brother.”

Will’s eyes searched the worn carpet. Ben was right. But then he realized that he didn’t care about explanations—explanations weren’t solutions. He sat back in the chair, rubbing his face vigorously before letting his hands drop with a sound of anguish.

“So what am I supposed to do?” he finally said. “How do I get
rid
of him?”

Dr. Gore said nothing. And Ben could not meet his eyes.

“I don’t know, Will,” Ben said. “I’m sorry.”

Will stared at his brother for a long time.

“What about Dreadnought Stanton? Your Sophos?” Will remembered Jenny’s dramatic reading of
The Warlock’s Curse
. “The Dreadnought Stanton books are supposed to be true life tales. He saved that farmboy, the one who was cursed. He banished the spirit that possessed him. Could he save me?”

“Nothing is impossible,” Ben said. But there was no encouragement in the words.

“There is one thing I do know,” Dr. Gore said regretfully, “and that is we cannot shield you here forever, Will. You must leave here very soon. And you must go far away.”

Will looked from Ben to Dr. Gore.

“Whatever the reason—however it has happened—you are
nothing less than an Old User in a young man’s body. And the Agency has targeted you as such.” He paused. “There are avenues open for those who have attracted the Agency’s attention in this way. I can put you in contact with people who can help you escape the country. They will send you up through Canada, and then across the Atlantic. There are places in Europe where Old Users can live in safety. Belgium, I hear, is very pleasant.”

Will looked at him incredulously. “
Belgium
?”

“There are places even the Agency cannot reach,” Ben mused.

“I’m not going to Belgium,” Will snapped. “I’m not leaving America. I have to find Jenny. I have to tell her—”

“She won’t want to see you.” Ben cut him off. “And even if you do think you know where she is, you’ll only put her in more danger. Stop thinking like a kid. You can’t afford it anymore.”

Will curled back in his chair, stung. A deep feeling of bitterness rose in him. Goddamn Cowdray. Goddamn the filthy cruel
thing
that now lived inside him.

At that moment, Irene came into the dining room, and Briar was with her. He limped at her side, leaning heavily on her, and between his broken nose and the puffy bruises on his face—
I gave him those
, Will thought miserably—and the deep inky smudges on his skin he didn’t look like he should be able to walk at all. But he was, and he was even dressed nicely in the secondhand suit Will had seen him in before. When he saw Will he smiled crookedly.

“Hey Will,” he said, his voice soft and weak, as if he had been screaming. “
Kala Christouyenna
. That’s ‘Merry Christmas’ in Greek, in case they ain’t told you.”

Will stood quickly, letting Irene guide Briar to the chair he’d been slumped in. Irene hovered over him for a moment before Briar gently pushed her away.

“C’mon, stop fussing,” he said. “That food smells good enough to kick the guts out of a badger. Let’s eat, huh?”

Irene hurried into the kitchen, followed by her father, and as steaming platters were being carried in and laid on the table, Will crouched beside Briar and spoke quietly.

“How are you?”

Briar chuckled grimly. “That thing in you has got some fight in it,” he said. “I ain’t had the stuffing knocked out of me like that since the McKees Rocks Strike in Philadelphia. And even then it took six Cossacks on horseback with billy clubs.” He shifted in the chair, groaning. “But I’ll be all right. I told you, I’m tougher than I look.”

“Thank you for helping me,” Will said. He was silent for a moment before adding, “I didn’t know you were a sangrimancer.”

“I kind of guess I wasn’t much help at all, really,” Briar said. “And sure I’m a sangrimancer. I ain’t ashamed of it. Why do you think I took to organizing the magical factories as my specialty?” He paused. “They’re my people, Will. Your people too now, I reckon. Seeing as this makes you kind of a warlock, just like the rest of us.”

Will clenched his teeth. “No offense, but I’m not a warlock and I’m not going to be. I’m going to get rid of this thing somehow.”

“My gran’dad once told me a story about a cursed man,” Briar shrugged. “The curse was like yours; some kind of family feud,
someone did someone else wrong. Gran’dad said the only way to break a curse like that is if both sides forgive each other. Truly and completely.”

“
Forgive
each other?” Will said. “Forgive
Cowdray
?”

“Truly and completely forgive,” Briar reiterated. “And he’s got to truly and completely forgive you.”

“Well then,” Will muttered, “I guess I’d better learn to speak Belgian.”

The table was soon piled with food: chicken and rice soup, stuffed cabbage, beet salad and fried potatoes, and roasted pork, rich savory mounds of it. Before eating, the Gores stood together before the little shrine on the eastern wall—Irene dipping her finger into the olive oil in the lamp and crossing her forehead with it—speaking a low, reverent prayer:

The poor shall eat and be filled, and they that seek the Lord shall praise Him; their hearts shall live forever and ever.

And as Will stuffed himself, feeling strength return to him, the last words of the prayer continued to echo in his mind.

Lord, have mercy. Lord, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.

After dinner, there was strong Greek coffee and a sweet bread decorated with walnuts that Dr. Gore called
christopsomo
. But stuffed with food and uncomfortable new knowledge, Will did not feel like further celebration. He pushed himself away from the table without a word. No one tried to stop him.

He climbed the narrow stairs to return to the bedroom he’d woken up in. But as he came into the room, he realized that something had changed. The room was now very cold. Air was blowing in through the window. The window that had been closed when he’d woken up.

Something caught Will’s eye. On the pillow of his bed was a handwritten note, stabbed through with a knife. The note bore just one, terrible line:

Come immediately, and come alone, or Jenny will die. AH.

Atherton Hart.

Will trembled with sudden fury. It was just as he had suspected—just as he had
known
. Jenny had gone to Hart. But how had Hart found him here? How had he gotten in through the Gores’ wardings?

If Atherton Hart could get in here, anyone could. And even though Will knew leaving the house meant risking another encounter with the warlock assassins, he knew that hiding from them was just forestalling the inevitable. They were going to come after him anyway, eventually. Unless he fled the country. Learned to speak
Belgian
.

And he wasn’t going to do that.

The Gores didn’t deserve to be put in danger by him. Nor Harley, nor Ben. Will couldn’t ask any of them for help—none of them could help him anyway. Whatever lay in his future, he had to face it alone.
Worse
than alone.

Ripping the note from the pillow, he left the knife. He had a better blade. It had been given to him by the woman he loved, the woman he’d hurt. He had to help her.

And if Atherton Hart had done anything to her, Will swore, he would use that blade to slash the man’s throat.

Will climbed out the window, and was gone.

Chapter Twenty-One

Rush to Justice

T
he creamy white terra-cotta of the office building on Griswold glowed in the cold purple light of late afternoon. And even though it was Christmas day, and the streets were still and deserted, Will knew that the front door would be open.

He crossed the silent lobby, footsteps echoing. The elevators were not running, so he had to take the stairs. But the meal at the Gores’ had strengthened him; Will’s muscles warmed as he took the steps two at a time.

The stairs did not bring him to the reception area, but rather to a small hall just off it. The offices had a hushed, deserted feel. The door of Hart’s office stood open, revealing the large silent space beyond.

The lights were not on; the only illumination came from the afternoon sunlight streaming through the tall windows.

Atherton Hart sat behind the large mahogany desk. A half-open bottle of whiskey and a revolver sat before him. He stared steadily at Will, not speaking as Will stopped to stand in the doorway. Instead, he poured himself another glass of whiskey, and downed it in a swallow.

“I should kill you, you son of a bitch,” Hart said.

“Funny,” Will answered. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

Hart slammed down the glass. “I’m not the one who hurt her,” he barked. “I’m not the one who—”

“Where is she?”

“Do you really think I’d let you see her?” Hart’s lip curled in disgust. “She said it wasn’t you. She swore it wasn’t you. But I don’t believe it.”

“Then why am I here?”

“Because I need you,” Hart said. He did not hurry to take the revolver, rather laid his hand on it as casually as if he were picking up a pen. Pulling back the hammer with his thumb, he leveled it at Will. “You’re the only one who can save her.”

Fists clenched, Will did not move as Hart held the gun on him. And Hart’s aim did not waver as he lifted the receiver on the sleek black enameled desk telephone. He asked the operator for a number in Chicago.

“Yes, he showed up,” were the first words he spoke. “I’ve got him.” Then, a long pause as Hart listened to the voice on the other end of the line. Grunting acknowledgement, Hart replaced the receiver on the hook and stood.

“Come on,” he said, gesturing with the gun. “We’ve got a train to catch.”