The Warlock's Curse (47 page)

Will cut off the words with a horrible noise, a strangled cry of pain and anguish.

“Do not ask her to make that choice,” Phleger concluded. “Do not give her that cross to bear. Bear it for her. You owe her that much.”

Will released a long breath, his body slumping in defeat. As he did, Trahern loosened the grip on his arm.

Phleger leaned back, drawing the box closer to him as he did. He closed his eyes in an attitude of reverie. “Sometimes I can feel the souls inside it, screaming. This box is an unholy evil that must be purged. It is a crime of unimaginable vastness that must be avenged.” He opened his eyes quickly, and fixed Will with a piercing gaze. “Help us, Mr. Edwards. Help us in this great holy crusade. Help Jenny’s sister, and all of those like her. Help the tormented souls in that box obtain their release from the anguish they’ve labored under for so many countless aeons.”

When Will said nothing, Phleger stood and put the box back in the safe. He closed the heavy steel door, turned the dial. Then he picked up his cup of coffee and sipped at it delicately.

“Take some time to pray on it, Mr. Edwards,” he said, warming his hands with the cup. “Professor Coeus will be here in the morning. We will talk more then.”

After this interview, Trahern escorted Will to a “cell”—a word he clearly used in its penitentiary rather than religious sense—and locked him in. The cell reminded Will of Claire’s room at the asylum—bare, sparse and clinical. Just as in Claire’s room, there was a Teslaphone, playing soft organ music, but it was installed behind a wooden grate in the wall, and could not be turned off.

The room contained few furnishings—little more than a narrow bed and a simple pine desk and chair. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Will rested his face in his hands. His face felt very hot, and he rubbed it slowly.

Phleger told a good story. A good story, told in the smooth persuasive language of a preacher. But applying his rigorous scientific mind to what Phleger had said, Will began to see all the holes, and all the questions he wished he’d asked piled on top of each other. Hart had said that the Consortium had intended to capture him on the night of the full moon ... but that would mean they’d
known
he would inherit the curse. And how could they have possibly known that? Were they just going to kidnap him on the off chance that he had? That didn’t seem like much of a goddamn plan.

And furthermore, if their intentions were so Christian and just, why not just ask him? Why hadn’t they come to him
before
the full moon and presented their case? Why had they waited? And what about the million dollars Jenny was trying to raise for them? Phleger had never answered his question about that.

Hissing frustration through his teeth, Will rolled back onto the narrow bed, flinging his arm over his eyes. As he did, something pressed against his leg. Feeling the pockets of his trousers, he remembered that no one had thought to search him. They had not taken his razor. That was good, Will thought. But what could he do with it? While the thought of slashing Trahern’s face—or better, Hart’s—gave him a kind of savage pleasure, he realized that even if he managed to escape it would do him no good. They had Jenny, and if he was gone, they’d use her, just as Phleger had said. Ask her to sacrifice herself for her sister, and for the greatest good. Having just experienced Phleger’s overpowering rhetorical skills, Will had little doubt the preacher could persuade her. Make her think it was her idea. He wouldn’t force her, no. But he would make her agree.

There was something else in his pocket as well, he realized. The little purple velvet box. Clicking it open, he stared at the shining silver dollar. Jenny had looked so small, clinging to Hart’s arm.

A key scraped in the lock. Will sat up, closing his hand quickly, hiding the box as the door jerked open. Trahern looked at Will up and down, frowning.

“Yes, he’s awake,” said Trahern, to someone behind him. “But I don’t think Brother Phleger would like it.”

“I don’t care what Brother Phleger likes.” Jenny’s voice was harsher than Will had ever heard it—harsher even than when she’d threatened Dr. Smyth at the asylum. “He may be your boss, Trahern, but I’m the one paying your salary. Don’t forget it.”

The steel edge to her voice was sufficient to make Trahern redden and step back. And then Jenny came briskly into the room, coming to stand just near the door, which Trahern left half open. She stood with her hands clasped sternly beneath her breastbone, and Will hardly recognized her.

She was beautiful, of course, beautiful as she’d always been—but it was as if the soft, sweet girl he’d known had been replaced with a woman carved of stone. She had cut off all her loose edges. Anything untucked, unsmoothed, had been restrained with perfect severity. Even the loose curl that had always fascinated him was firmly pinned back, as tightly as if it were being punished.

She looked around the room angrily, as if she too were reminded of Claire’s prison. She frowned at the Teslaphone, at the weak strains of silky organ music.

“I have to tell you what happened,” she said crisply, as if delivering a report. “There’s a lot you should know. Maybe it can help you. Cowdray asked me things. He asked me about you, first. He asked me about your family, and I told him. I told him everything he wanted to know.”

“Jenny—” Will began softly.

“He seemed to know your mother.” She continued as if he hadn’t spoken, hitting every word with precision. “I don’t know how. He said she must be the Russian’s brat. I don’t know what that means. He asked about something called the Anodyne. I told him I didn’t know what that was.” She paused, a tenseness in her jaw indicating the terrible force of whatever it was she was holding under restraint. “It made him angry that I didn’t know.”

Will didn’t speak. Court had read in
The Goês’ Confession
that scientific alteration to the magical structure of the Earth had been wrought with something called Lyakhov’s Anodyne. But how could Cowdray know about that?

Jenny drew a deep quavering breath. “He hates you, William,” she continued very quietly. “I’ve never known someone with so much hate in him. He kept asking me which would hurt you more, if he killed me or left me alive. He decided leaving me alive would be worse. He took steps to ensure that it would be.”

Will could only stare at the floor, numb and distant. He clutched the little velvet box in his hand, holding on to it for dear life. Organ music hummed softly in his ears.

“But I am glad that I’m alive,” she finally concluded. It sounded as if she were trying to convince herself of it. “He likes to hurt people’s bodies. But he likes to hurt their minds more. That’s something else you should know about him.”

“I don’t want to know anything about him,” Will murmured. “I want to kill him.”

He felt Jenny staring at him. When he looked up to meet her gaze, he saw that there was a queer kind of disgust in her eyes.

“Well, you can’t. You’re stuck with him.” Her hand slid to her belly unconsciously. “Just like I am.”

She paused.

“It’s strange how I feel like I used to know so many things,” Jenny said. The words were wistful, but the tone was not. “I was sure of everything. But now I’m not sure of anything at all. It feels dangerous to be sure of anything.”

She paused again.

“But I am sure of one thing. I know it wasn’t you. You’re my friend. You’ll always be my friend.”

Will looked at her. Moving very slowly and carefully, he stood. He saw her tense, saw fear enter her eyes. But then she lifted her chin and glared at him defiantly—she would not be cowed by him, or her memory of him. He lifted a hand.

“It’s all right,” he said softly. “Please.”

He did not try to move near to her, but rather stretched his arm out as far as it would go. He was careful not to touch her as he laid the velvet box in her palm. For some reason, he remembered how Brother Phleger had told him not to touch the snuffbox. As if doing so would be very dangerous.

Then he stepped back from her, returning to the narrow bed and sitting down, back straight, hands clasped between his knees. He watched as she opened the little box. When she saw what was inside it, she drew a tiny breath. And then she smiled, her face softening. Will exhaled, his whole body suddenly warm.
That
was Jenny, he thought, feeling as though he might weep.
There
she was.

“I remember this,” she murmured, touching the silver with her fingertip.

“We won’t see each other anymore, Jenny,” Will said. “I know we won’t. It’s better that way.” He paused, then added, “But if you ever do think about me, will you please try to think about me like that? Like the way things were then?”

She closed the box quietly. She didn’t say anything else. She turned, and was gone.

When she had left, Trahern came to the door and looked at Will. His eyes, so very pale, were filled with something ugly and insinuating. Shaking his head, he barked a laugh as he closed the door and locked it once more.

Slowly, Will lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the organ music. He did not feel better or worse. He just felt heavy and tired, as if he’d walked a hundred miles.

And then he remembered something that made his heart race. He remembered that there was one more thing in his pocket.

Ben’s letter.

He took it out and unfolded it. There was new writing on it.

I know where you are.

Whatever happens, say nothing. There is more to this than you know. Trust me.

Your brother always,

Ben

Chapter Twenty-Three

Professor Coeus

F
IVE DAYS UNTIL THE NEW MOON

M
any hours later, Will woke to the sound of Brother Phleger’s voice.

This is a message to all the faithful. It is perhaps the most urgent call you will ever receive.

The words were charged with such intensity that Will sat bolt upright. After a disoriented moment, he realized that the sound was coming from the Teslaphone.

Brothers and Sisters, beloved sons and daughters redeemed by the all-sufficient grace of Jesus Christ our Savior—I have received a Vision. A Vision from most Holy God Almighty, with whom we walk in faith.

Will was aware of his own breathing, shallow and quick. Golden afternoon sunlight streamed down through a high barred window, making a perfect square on the floor. He stared at it as he listened.

The Lord has directed me that the Consecration of our Great Temple in Justice, Illinois must happen not on New Year’s Day, as I originally decreed it should be. Rather, it must happen tomorrow night ... tomorrow night, brothers and sisters, on the 28th day of December, at the very hour of midnight!

Here, Brother Phleger’s voice began to rise.

This is a call, my beloved ones! A call that each servant of Christ should be proud to answer! It is a once-in-a-lifetime chance to demonstrate your obedience to His Holy Will! Will you show your faith? Will you prove your ever-submissive obedience to his Holy command?

Phleger’s voice was becoming louder and louder, rising to an impassioned crescendo. Will pressed his hands to his ears against it.

Will you lay aside your worldly concerns? Will you come today, this very hour, this very moment?

Then Phleger’s voice dropped almost to a whisper, and even across the crackly speaker of the Teslaphone, Will could hear the preacher breathing hard.

Come now, my brothers and sisters. Come immediately. Bring friends, your families, loved ones. Climb on board trains, automobiles, horse-drawn carts if you must! Come now, that your name might be written in the book of Glory alongside all the true servants of the Lord Jesus Christ.

There was a long moment of silence. It sounded as if Brother Phleger might have collapsed in a fit of religious ecstasy.

And then, the broadcast repeated.

This is a message to all the faithful. It is perhaps the most urgent call you will ever receive.