Negligent Rituals

I trapped a demon in an antique Chanel compact that I lifted from a rich old lady. Earlier that day, when I acquired the compact, I had no idea it would become a vessel for evil by that evening. I figured I would add it to the treasure-trove of trinkets I’ve curated from my travels. From city to city, I’ve been flown by private jet via private contracts to do one thing I excel at: defeat the evil the world doesn’t want to see. However, the contract for this exorcism didn’t belong to me.

As I stand over the body of the dead priest who battled this evil before my arrival, my focus is still on the compact pinched between my fingers that contained its new tenant. How fitting it is that the object used by a wealthy person, who became wealthy through dirty deeds, would house such evil in the end?

I pocketed the compact as a vial in the priest’s hand caught my eye. I snatched it free. Holy water. I popped the lid, dabbed some on my finger, and tasted it—the good stuff. My survey of the corpse continued until I noticed something dark peeking out from the inside pocket of his suit. There, tucked away from the world, was a little black book. I didn’t hesitate to open it since privacy seemed moot, given the circumstance.

Names and phone numbers in neat script, along with the details of his ritual practices, adorned the pages, but it was something nestled in the back pocket that made me still. A check for twenty thousand dollars, payable to the church! However, it was the name of the account holder that raised an eyebrow.

“What circles you run in, Father,” I whispered as I slid the book with the money into the side pocket of my bag. I sighed as I gauged the carnage of the scene. Given the items the priest was working with and the chosen passage from his leather-bound book, he was on the right path to properly handle the haunting beast. Unfortunately, the essential items absent from the ritual cost him his life.

I’m not a fan of cleaning up after others, but I attributed it to pay my respects to the dead who put forth an evident effort. Removing a few useful items from my bag, I dove into my own set of rituals to return the space to energetic equilibrium. Lighting a small bowl of white sage, I chanted ancient words as white smoke billowed from the rim of the bowl. It rippled over the floor, seeking out all that needed cleansing. I cast the holy water in the room's corners and crevices then sprinkled the remainder on the priest before performing last rites. Finally, my hands hovered over his body, and my eyes closed. I drew symbols of blessings in the air while whispering a prayer in an unknown language.

The warmth dissipated from the room at the closing of the ritual, my queue to exit. However, my attention returned to the vial in my hand. It seemed I had one extra step in the ritual process this time.

Minutes later, I was stamping the soles of my wet boots on the doormat of St. Marks at the end of the block. Remaining at the end of the aisle, I ignored the sanctuary’s artistic splendor while searching for a priest. When a middle-aged priest turned from his conversation with a younger associate, his gaze froze on me. Although these were poor tidings to be introduced, there was something magnetic about meeting another person with deep, spiritual roots.

We met in the middle of the aisle without a word, fixated on each other, but my heart sank as I unearthed the empty vial from my pocket. The priest’s brow drew tight as he received the vial. While he contemplated it, I pulled out the little black book with the money and offered it to him.

Realization sank in once he saw the book and my sympathetic expression. I witnessed a silent tear form in the corner of his eye, initiating the crumbling of his neutral countenance. As he wept, others in the sanctuary stilled. I folded his hand over the little black book. “I’m sorry,” I whispered before backing away.

It was his wailing that ripped through my heart, causing me to flee the sanctuary as my tears fell. My boots echoed in the entryway as I yanked open the front door of the church and dashed into the rain as an old truth crashed through me. Only two things in this world never changed: the smell of death and the sound of heartbreak.

By the time I adjusted the hood on my coat and wiped the last of my tears, someone interrupted my self-reflection. “Ms. Cane?” My reddened eyes lifted to see my driver, whose mood changed when she noticed my sadness. “Are you alright?”

I nodded. “Well enough, thank you, Ms. Evans.”

“Of course,” she said, then gestured to the black Crown Victoria. “Are you ready to go to the airport?”

I sniffed. “I need to make one stop along the way.”

Ms. Evans held open the back door. “Yes, ma’am.”

As the car pulled away from the curb, my smartphone dinged. I unlocked the screen to see a notification from my banking app. Payment for my earlier work contract cleared my account. I almost smiled at the sum. Twenty minutes later, the car stopped at the curb in front of a luxurious tower on Park Avenue, and I was uncertain if I was ready for my next encounter. The past few years of turning this gift of mine into a business taught me that demons are easier to work with than humans, especially the wealthy ones.

Ms. Evans opened the car door, and I stepped out with a huff as I pulled my hood into place.

“Good luck, Ms. Cane,” said Ms. Evans.

“Thank you.”

Two guards managed the security desk of the building. They asked me who I was visiting and for my ID. After one phoned the tenant to verify my visit, his gaze changed from inquiring to suspicious. He removed the phone from his ear.

“Miss, the tenant has not requested to see you,” he stated.

“I understand. Please tell her I wouldn’t be here if the contract she issued for this evening hadn’t failed,” I said. That statement got me ushered into the elevator without delay.

I checked my manicure during the smooth ride to the forty-fourth floor. Finally, the door opened with a charming sound, and a well-poised older gentleman in long pajamas enveloped by a satin collared robe awaited me at the threshold.

I nodded at the disgruntled butler. “Good evening.”

“Ms. Cane, I’m afraid it’s so late that you might as well say good morning,” he huffed before pivoting. “Follow me.”

I trailed the butler in silence down a hallway stacked with original artwork on its walls, a few of which I recognized from my college studies. As I followed my guide, passing painting after painting, the presence of dark energy was unmistakable. It crawled along with the corners of the walls, trailing the ceiling as I moved through the penthouse, forming shadows of eyes as it watched me. I switched my bag to my other shoulder and unbuckled it for easy access to my tools.

Finally, he stopped at the corner of the hallway and gestured further down. “Madame is expecting you behind the third door on the right.” The butler stormed off in the direction we came, huffing under his breath about being roused at such an ungodly hour. Upon turning the corner, I noticed a younger man in formal butler attire posted at the door I would soon enter.

As I approached, his smile widened. “Good evening, Ms. Cane. I’m Mr. Jefferies.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Jefferies,” I returned before pointing in the direction of the older butler. “I’m afraid I’ve upset your colleague.”

“Oh, don’t mind Mr. Brooks,” Mr. Jefferies said. “He claims to be losing sleep, but truthfully, if he slept any more than he does, he might as well be dead!” We both snickered. “May I offer you a cup of tea? I’m brewing a fresh pot.”

“Thank you, but I won’t be here long enough to enjoy it.”

“Very well, right this way,” he said as he opened the door. Before I could say thank you, the door slammed shut behind me. I jumped.

“Don’t mind Mr. Brooks,” a voice said, “He’s not accustomed to his sleep being interrupted.”

I recalled the older butler as I scanned the impressive study before acknowledging the hostess. The wall behind her was made of stained glass, intricate in design, and godly in subject matter. The dim light in the room revealed a hallway that ran along the backside of the glass wall. Mr. Jefferies strode by without acknowledging us. It wasn’t until then that I finally assessed the hostess, Caroline Grant. The Grant family is an American dynasty of wealth that originated during the Industrial Revolution. But as their wealth grew, so did their misfortunes.

“Do you know who I am?” Caroline asked.

“I do,” I said.

“Good. I’m not one for small talk.”

“Neither am I.”

Caroline gestured to the nearest chair, and she took the seat across from me. Awkward silence ruled the room.

“Should I start?” I finally said.

“Please,” she settled in her seat.

“The priest you contracted for tonight did not survive the violent tenant that occupied the building.”

“But you did,” she spat out. “How is that possible? You’re just a—”

“A girl?” I said. “I’m young enough, but I’m not that young.”

“You could be my granddaughter.”

I thought for a moment. “That certainly would’ve made life easier.” I smiled. Eventually, she did, too.

“Where is… the tenant, now?” she asked. I removed the Chanel compact from my bag and set it on the coffee table between us. Caroline stared at it, then at me. “You’re joking?” I shook my head. “Where did you learn how to do this?”

We chatted briefly about my expertise. I was careful to reveal as little horror as possible as Caroline peppered me with questions. Then we arrived at the reason why she invited me up to her penthouse, and her shoulders sagged when she sighed.

“My family has always had to deal with this since we came to America,” she admitted. “The darkness, the personal misfortune. It never ends.”

“Do you want it to?”

Caroline Grant stared through me with great emotion filling her eyes as she trembled. “More than anything.” Mr. Jefferies strode through the hallway behind the glass wall, again.

I glanced at him as I pulled a business card from my bag and set it on the table. “This is Max.” I rose from my seat and adjusted the strap on my bag. “He will get you started.”

Caroline jumped to her feet. “What do you mean? You won’t handle this now?”

It was my turn to release a weary sigh. “I just exorcized two demons tonight, one of which wasn’t my job. I will not meddle with a family curse within the same day.” Our eyes locked. “Especially so close to the witching hour.” Caroline gulped, gave herself the sign of the cross, then nodded. I headed for the door. “Call Max in the morning.”

“And then?” she asked. Mr. Jefferies walked by the glass wall again, but this time his head turned in my direction as he carried a tray set for tea.

My focus remained on him until he disappeared from view. “I’ll begin by questioning your staff, starting with your night shift butler, Mr. Jefferies.”

Caroline froze. “Ms. Cane, Mr. Brooks is my only butler.”