Arepo (Cure of Souls Series Book One)

New York, New York

Sotheby’s Auction House

Julian Thomas stood at the back of the room and watched the drama unfold.

A highly publicized, illuminated manuscript from 1465 was projected onto two screens flanking the auctioneer. Its images showed Pontius Pilate, convicted for his crimes against Jesus Christ, standing trial in chains before Emperor Tiberius. The scenes were from a play, Mystére de la Vengeance, by Eustache Maracadé.

In the auction house’s crowded room, necks craned to peer around cellphones held aloft to capture the sale on video.

Sir, may I take your coat?

No. Julian recoiled from the auction attendant and tightly clutched the frayed lapels of his wool coat.

Very well, Sir. On which lot are you bidding?

Lot 22.

The attendant nodded. Once this lot has sold, seats should open up front. Lot 22 is next. Good luck.

The bidding on Lot 21, the medieval manuscript, began at $4.5 million. The room was abuzz, but only three parties remained after the frenetic bidding reached six million. The final bidder won the auction to much fanfare. The applause died, whispers circulated that the prize belonged to the Getty Museum, and the chairs began to empty.

Julian nervously patted the right pocket of his coat.

He subconsciously traced the outline in his pocket and prayed his sacrifice would be rewarded and his sins forgiven. He removed his coat, adjusted it so the weighted pocket was nestled in his lap, and settled into an aisle chair in the seventh row.

Lot 22 would not draw the attention the medieval manuscript had just demanded. Still, Julian worried about the well-dressed, and probably well-funded, groups in the first three rows of chairs.

He had scraped together all he could but still fell short of the anticipated auction price of $25,000 to $35,000. So, he broke yet another commandment. Thou shall not steal. He had slipped into his church’s office during the Wednesday evening service, when staffing was limited, and walked out with $13,000 from its coffers.

His guilt and the $37,274 in his pocket burned like brimstone in his belly.

A new auctioneer took the podium, and the two bordering screens again sprang to life. Lot 22 was displayed brilliantly to the now nearly empty auction gallery. The lot was listed as fourteen manuscript pages from a sixteenth-century grimoire, or book of magic.

The well-dressed groups in the front of the room shared whispers and stiffened in their straight-backed chairs. Julian dug his fingers into the wool on his lap.

The auctioneer began.

Lot 22 is a wonderful collection of spells, conjurations, and maledictions. The fourteen pages are in good condition, with light stippling and some discoloration. But, they are a fine example of the occult phenomenon that took hold of sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Europe.

I’d like to start the bidding at $15,000.

Julian smiled. The starting price was lower than he expected. Maybe he could purchase the pages and still make amends with his church.

He thought about the lot number of the grimoire pages. In Biblical studies, 22 is a significant number. Each of the three cycles of the Canon Wheel—Genesis through Songs of Solomon, Isaiah through Acts, and Romans through Revelations—includes 22 books. And, there are 22 letters in the Hebrew alphabet. Jesus’s death followed Abraham’s birth by exactly 2,200 years. Julian hoped this meant that providence was on his side.

His smile faded when the people in the first three rows raised their paddles nearly in unison.

Thank you, the auctioneer said. "I have $15,000. Do I have $16,000?

Again the paddles rose quickly.

Now $16,000, do I have $17,000?

All paddles went up without hesitation.

Very well. Do I have $20,000?

The three groups now settled into a rhythm.

Twenty-one thousand? Thank you.

The auctioneer indicated the woman sitting in the front row and flanked by two distinguished-looking men.

I now have $21,000, do I have $22,000?

The group in the third row shook their heads.

I have $21,000, is there a bid of $22,000?

Julian bit his lip and prayed for patience. He did not want to tip his hat too soon. He stayed his hand, and watched the man in the second row raise his paddle.

Twenty-two thousand now, from the gentleman.

The auctioneer looked to the woman up front. Madame, will you bid $23,000?

She nodded.

Excellent. Sir, do I have $24,000?

Twenty-five thousand dollars! the man declared.

Just like that, Julian’s hope of repaying the church vanished. He breathed deeply and dropped his head, but his eyes darted up when the woman in the first row immediately responded.

Twenty-seven!

Very good, the auctioneer replied. I now have $27,000 with the lady in the first row. The bid is with you, Sir?

The man turned to the companion on his right and whispered. Dejected, he turned back to the auctioneer and shook his head.

Very well, then. Still at $27,000. Are there any further bids in the room?

Julian saw the woman in the front row turn with a beaming smile to her compatriots.

I have $27,000 going once . . .

Thirty thousand dollars. Julian raised his paddle.

The woman and her two friends pivoted in their chairs. Her smile had vanished. Several standing bystanders took seats in the gallery.

Ah, we have a new bidder. Thank you, Sir. The auctioneer smiled. I have $30,000 now for the book of magic. Do I have another bid?

He scanned the room, but his eyes knowingly fell on the trio in the front row.

They huddled and whispered. They glanced at Julian more than once.

Madame, do you have a bid? the auctioneer prompted. He now left the question open-ended so as not to repress the price.

The trio broke its huddle, and the woman spoke.

Thirty-five thousand dollars!

Julian felt the blood drain from his face. His breath rattled. He scrubbed his sweaty palms on the wool in his lap.

Sir, I have $35,000. The bid is yours.

Thirty-seven thousand five hundred dollars! Julian gulped inwardly. Surely Sotheby’s would forgive a minor $226 discrepancy.

The trio again spun to gape at him.

Thank you. I have $37,500. Madame?

The trio frantically strategized. Julian bent his head and silently prayed.

I have $37,500 from the gentleman in the middle of the room. Are there any further bids?

The trio of bidders continued to huddle.

Thirty-seven thousand five hundred dollars, going once.

Julian smiled and slowly raised his head.

Thirty-seven thousand five hundred dollars, going twice.

Still silence.

If there are no further bids, I will conclude the sale at $37,500.

Julian straightened, raised his eyes to Heaven, and thanked the Lord.

Very well, then. The textbook of magic is sold for . . .

Forty thousand dollars! the lady in the front row cried out.

The gallery gasped. Julian’s face slackened. His mouth fell open. Forty, the number of completion and fulfillment in the Bible.

I now have $40,000. Sir, the bid is yours.

The auctioneer looked to Julian, as did the trio up front.

Julian could not respond. His mouth worked up and down, but no words took shape. The auctioneer closed his eyes and nodded.

I have $40,000 going once. He scanned the room, but his eyes never again met Julian’s.

Forty thousand dollars, going twice.

The auctioneer lifted the gavel.

That’s $40,000 for the book of magic, sold to the lady in the front row. The gavel fell.

As the gallery broke into applause, the clack of wood against wood brought tears to Julian’s eyes. He watched the trio in the front celebrate and accept congratulations. The woman’s face was triumphant. Julian overheard a name.

Folger.

Of course. The Folger Shakespeare Museum. It owned the remaining portion of the grimoire.

As Julian rose from his chair, so did his spirits. The pages would not disappear into a private collection. His lips moved silently, muttering a prayer, as he shrugged into his coat. He could return the money to his church, and there may still be a chance to put his hands on Lot 22.

That is, if he lived long enough to do so.

Chapter 2

Denver, Colorado

Detective Oren Pope pulled his unmarked, city-owned Ford Interceptor Utility vehicle to the curb of Emporia Court in northeast Denver. The uniforms had the street cordoned off, and the CSU team was being debriefed outside the victim’s front door. His partner’s car was down the block, but Pope did not see Max within the huddled crowd in front of the victim’s house. The detective opened his glove box and removed a container of Vicks VapoRub. He opened it and then dabbed some of the ointment in each nostril. Max had already warned him about the condition of the body.

Pope slipped out of the sedan and tugged on some latex gloves as he made his way up the walk. He skirted the CSU team and showed his gold badge to the young uniformed officer at the door.

Is Detective Prebys inside? Pope asked.

Yes, Sir.

Looks like you got lucky today. At least you get some fresh air, Pope added.

I was inside earlier. I can still smell it.

It’ll take weeks before those particles of rotting flesh dislodge themselves from your olfactory nodes.

Weeks?

You’re lucky it wasn’t a floater, or a burner.

The young officer stuck his head outside and breathed deeply.

Pope drifted toward the voices and the odor coming from the back of the house. So much for the Vicks.

He keenly assessed his surroundings. The victim’s house was well-appointed and neatly organized. It was nice, just as he expected, considering the neighborhood. The surfaces and the corners were clean. A pen rested parallel to a small tablet of paper beside a telephone. A DVD and CD collection stood alphabetized on the shelves of an entertainment center. Small pillows sat in a perfect line across the sofa. It felt too clean, sterile. Something was missing.

Hey, Partner. Max Prebys stood near the body in the center of the kitchen floor.

It’s too clean, Max.

Only you would walk into this cesspool and call it clean. You must live in a sty.

Pull out the body, clean up the blood and other fluids, and you could eat off the counters, Pope said as he knelt to examine the body.

That’s a disgusting thought, Prebys muttered.

Has the M.E. seen the body?

Prebys nodded. Yup. He’s waiting on us to release the scene so he can take the road kill.

Road kill? Nice. Pope shook his head.

Come on, with the bloating, what’s the first thing you think of?

Pope had to admit his partner was right. There was an opossum on the side of the road near his house that looked very similar to poor Mr. Ellis here on his kitchen floor.

I’m guessing about two weeks, Pope said.

The M.E. agrees, considering the bloating and fragility of the skin.

And, are we certain of identification?

As far as we can tell. Hair color and height seem to match. Wallet was in his pocket. Credits cards and ID match Addison Ellis. Finger prints won’t help, but dental should put it to rest.

Pope nodded. He leaned as close as he dared to the handle of the knife protruding from Ellis’s chest.

Doc says the blade must be caught on a rib, otherwise it should have dislodged with the bloating.

Interesting handle. Ever see anything like it?

Nope. Certainly not a kitchen knife.

If it’s unique, it may lead us somewhere. We should bag all the kitchen utensils for comparison, Pope suggested.

Already been ordered.

Pope stood and looked around the kitchen.

No sign of struggle. Forced entry?

Not that we can tell. Obviously, the skin’s not going to help, but the doc said he’ll look deeper for bruising and what not. CSU is still working the yard, windows, and doors.

Not a robbery either, Prebys added. Did you see the size of that TV? I don’t have a wall big enough for that beast.

I still say something feels wrong about this place. Too nice. Too clean, said Pope.

You’re right. Follow me. Prebys waved for Pope to follow.

There was a small hallway, with two adjacent rooms and a bathroom between. Pope peered into the small bedroom. It looked much like the rest of the house. Well-appointed and neatly decorated. The bathroom door was open, as well. It was small, but modern in design and perfectly clean. In spite of the decomposition clinging to everything, the smell of bleach in the small room tickled Pope’s nose through the Vicks.

In there. Prebys pointed to the third room. Take note of the steel door and deadbolt. It locks from the outside.

To keep someone in, not out, Pope agreed.

Pope stepped into the small room. It would have been a boy’s paradise. There were gaming consoles of every make and model, with hundreds of accompanying games, attached to another beast of a television. Toys and board games lined shelves running the length of the room, and there was a partially completed model of an aircraft carrier on a table in a corner.

Did this guy have a kid? Pope asked.

Not as far as we can tell. Not married. Bedroom closet and dresser hold clothes for one.

Maybe he had partial custody, Pope suggested.

Maybe.

I just realized this place has no pictures. Nothing on the wall. Nothing beside the bed.

Prebys looked around. You’re right. It kind of looks like it’s staged. Maybe he was selling. Real estate agents tell you to pull out the personal touches. That way, prospective buyers can picture themselves in the home.

Maybe. Let’s see if it’s on the market. Pope crossed the room. Obviously, we’ll need all this stuff fingerprinted. Pope revolved slowly in a tight circle in the middle of the room.

There should be a window in here. Front of the house. I’m certain two windows can be seen from the street.

Pope shook his head. Something is very wrong here, Max.

Chapter 3

New York, New York

Julian shifted on the leather chair in the lobby of the Park Hyatt Hotel so that he could watch the front door.

He had been there