The Templar's Curse by Sarwat Chadda (classic books to read TXT) 📕

satchel over her shoulder and went through the gate into an overgrown front garden. A grey-bearded guy wearing a green Army jacket and tatty straw hat looked up from his deckchair. “Nice bike. Norton Commando, isn’t it?”

“Thanks. Took us six months to get it running.”

“You did a good job. Makes you want to go far, far away and never look back.” He shaded his eyes as he looked up at her. It was midday in early September and the sun was high and bright. “A noble steed to take you off on a great quest.”

She dangled her keys off her finger, the keyring was a piece of metal with the Templar seal hammered into it. “You may be more right than you know.”

“You looking for a place to crash? First night’s free.”

“After that?”

He grinned. “You know how to cook? I mean something other than pasta? Bloody sick to death of bloody pasta.”

“I do a mean chickpea curry.”

“Yum. You can stay.” He adjusted his hat and leaned back into the deckchair.

There was no electricity, no gas and no water. The utilities had been cut off a while back. They’d managed without. Large plastic containers of water lined the hallway, and a woman was rolling a gas canister into the makeshift kitchen. The doors were gone and replaced with flags, tie-dyed bedsheets, even carpets had been hung across each entrance. The floorboards creaked and the banister had been removed making the journey up... cautious.

Each room was a mini-apartment with mattress or camp bed, plenty of cushions and whatever furniture that could be found out of dumpsters and cheap junkshops. Plenty had been reassembled out of mismatching legs, padding and boards. There was a bookcase on the landing, the shelves stacked with books, cans and packets of... pasta. There was a sign. “Take and replace. No more pasta!”

Billi stopped beside a young woman reading on the top stair. “Hi. I’m looking for someone. A boy —”

The woman looked her up and down and raised an eyebrow. “That’s a shame.”

“His name’s —”

She shook her head. “No names here, sweetie. They’re tools of the patriarchy.”

“Riiight.” She needed another angle. “You know anyone who does Tarot?”

“Top floor. First one on the right. The boy’s a true seer.”

Billi nodded and continued up till she reached the third floor and saw, first on the right, a doorway covered with a black sheet painted with the All-Seeing Eye.

Alright. Here we go. Be prepared. He’s gonna say something stupid. He’s looking to get a reaction, don’t let him. You gave him his chance and he threw it away. He owes you, but he won’t see it like that. So take a deep breath…

She took a deep breath.

… unclench those fists...

She unclenched her fists.

… and promise yourself you won’t punch him in his stupid face.

“I… promise.” And with that she pulled the door-sheet open. “Faustus?”

He lay face down on a mattress upon the bare wooden floor, snoring despite the sunlight blazing through the cracked window. It gave his bare skin a golden sheen, from his shoulders down to his hips below which, thankfully, he’d covered himself in a sheet, just his feet dangled out from the bottom.

He’d grown his hair since she’d last seen him. Now long black ringlets curled over his shoulders when once it had been a short crop. And his left arm bore more tattoos. Last time there’d been two bands around his bicep, one decorated with Nordic runes, the other with Celtic Ogham. He now had three more bands around his forearm: Arabic, Sanskrit and one made of Egyptian hieroglyphs.

The rest of the room? A dump that even a university student would be ashamed of. Clothes littered the floor, there was a TV in the corner and a pile of books up against the wall. Someone had decorated with a potted plant to give the room some life but no one had watered it and now it sagged, dressed in curled-up, yellowing leaves. A mouse looked up from the plate of half-finished spaghetti sauce. It carried on nibbling. As least someone here wasn’t tired of pasta.

Billi nudged Faustus’s bare foot. “Oi. Wake up.”

“Go away.”

“It’s me, Billi. SanGreal.”

He tensed. Now that wasn’t a good sign. Sure, they’d ended on bad terms, the worst, but that was over a year ago. Some people just weren’t cut out to be Templars. She’d forgiven, she’d forgotten. Why hadn’t he?

“Piss off,” he muttered. “I’m not interested.”

Billi pushed a pile of clothes off a stool and sat down. “How do you know? Mind-reading ain’t one of your gifts. And nor is prophecy, if I remember correctly. You gone back to swindling people with your Tarot deck?”

“I give them what they want. A happy ending.”

“Happy endings? Do they really exist?” She pulled out the folder she’d been given by Lionel out of her satchel. “This is just your thing. A spooky.”

Now he sat up, glaring at her. “I said piss off! I’m not interested!”

“Glad you’re finally paying attention. Here, take a look.” She tossed the folder on the bed. “A suicide. Happened ten years ago and there have been eye-witnesses to seeing a —”

“Enough.” Faustus rubbed his face vigorously, then shook his loose locks aside and glared at her with his deep brown eyes framed by the thickest, blackest eyelashes that made it look like he wore permanent kohl. “I don’t take your orders anymore, SanGreal.”

Joe Faustus. The one that got away. The Templars were warriors, but they were always on the lookout for those with more… peculiar talents. The fight against the Unholy wasn’t always physical. Some battles were fought on the psychic, or spiritual, plane. For that the Order needed soldiers who were ‘gifted’. The Oracles.

Mind-reading, prophecies, astral projection, ESP, and more. Each Oracle had a specialism and a smattering of ability in other talents, and Faustus was the best at dealing with restless spirits. He was a medium.

It would have got him burnt at the stake once upon a time. The Templars would have hunted him down themselves, just like the