Chapter Two
Donovan DeChance sat by his fire and stared into the flames, lost in thought. He was a tall, striking man with long dark hair that washed back over his shoulders. His eyes — at first glance — seemed black, but they flashed violet if he turned his head just the right way. At that moment, he was idly stroking Cleopatra, his Egyptian Mau, and worrying over a problem that had haunted him for years. It seemed no more likely to be solved in that moment than it had in any of the other thousands he's spent pondering it, but he persisted.
The main room of his home was a combination library, den, living room and office. The walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves so tall that there were rolling ladders attached to each to make the uppermost shelves accessible. Along the base of the shelves were crates filled with more books, manuscripts, scrolls and documents. The contents of those crates overflowed onto the floor and flowed out to cover every horizontal space in the room with the exceptions of the chair he was sitting in, his desk, and the altar in the corner.
On the table beside him a tumbler of whiskey waited beside the slip of paper that had sparked his mood. It was a delivery notice — three more crates to arrive within the next couple of days. He knew he could find room for them along one of the walls, or behind his couch, but that wasn't the problem. Soon, something would have to give, and he wasn't ready to abandon his bedroom, or the few hideaways remaining to him.
When the phone rang he stared at it, at first unable to draw his thoughts back into the moment. He seldom got unexpected calls. For a moment he considered letting the answering machine handle it. He glanced at the crates and stacks of books and sighed heavily.
"Soon," he said, lifting Cleopatra carefully off his lap and standing. "Soon we will figure this out, Cleo, or you will find yourself sleeping four feet in the air on papyrus scrolls."
Cleo yawned, stretched and rubbed against his leg as he stepped to his desk and reached for the phone. Even the phone was old. It was black with an elegantly curved handset, and it looked out of place beside the wide, flat-screen computer monitor and the CPU.
"Yes?" Donovan said.
"It's Cord. I have information I think you'll be interested in."
Donovan frowned. He glanced at the fire, and at his chair, then back down at the phone. He considered chancing it and trusting his security, then sighed heavily.
"Not on the phone," he said. "Club Chaos. Ten o'clock."
"You're buying," Cord said.
The line went dead, and Donovan hung up. Cord was one of a string of informants and less-than-reputable denizens of the San Valencez underground who reported to Donovan regularly. The darker half of the city rested in a delicate balance, powers vying for control on all sides, new players dropping into the game unannounced, and Donovan couldn't afford not to remain current. He dealt in information and knowledge. His life often depended on knowing just a little bit more about things than anyone else involved in them, and so, instead of sitting and sipping whiskey as he tried once more to solve the conundrum of too many books and too few shelves, he turned toward the city.
"You'll have to watch the place for me, Cleo," he said. "I'm not expecting company, but we never know, do we?"
The cat stared up at him and licked its lips. The connection between the two was a deep one. If Donovan closed his eyes, he could watch himself through Cleo's eyes. He often wondered what the cat saw in those moments, but, once again, it was a subject for another time and place.
Donovan stepped to one of the few shelves in the room that was not completely overflowing with books and studied a small rack. Charms and pendants dangled from metal hooks. There were vials filled with powder, rags and pouches, and an array of stones lined up in careful symmetry. He never went to Club Chaos without proper preparation, particularly when Cord was involved. The man was much smarter than he let on, and Donovan wasn't naive enough to think he was the only beneficiary of that intelligence.
He studied the pendants carefully. He settled on an equal-armed cross in deep amethyst. It was set in an intricate pattern of silver with tiny carved characters along each band. He slipped this over his neck and dropped it beneath his shirt. He took a second group of green crystals that dangled from strong, thin chains joined by a loop at one end and dropped them into his hip pocket. He studied the rest of the shelf carefully, and then turned away. It was going to be a quick trip, and there wasn't any particular threat. He had his usual protections, and on any normal day they were enough. He just liked to have something up his sleeve for emergencies.
Cleopatra hopped up onto his desk and watched him with wide, baleful eyes. He stepped over and scratched her between her ears. She arched her back and pressed into his touch. Donovan smiled.
"Keep your eyes open, Cleo," he said. "I don't want any surprises when I get back."
Donovan glanced at the phone. He considered calling Amethyst. He knew she'd probably meet him if he asked her, and he'd feel better if someone else at least knew where he was. He shook his head, frowned, and turned away from the phone. He had no idea where his sudden paranoia was coming from, but he'd learned over a long life to trust his instincts, and though he didn't sense any particular danger in meeting with Cord, something felt wrong. No reason to drag anyone else into it, whatever it might be.
He stepped out of his door, locked it carefully, closed his eyes and set the wards. He felt ancient forces converge as he mouthed the incantations. The ornate wooden door grew unfocused, shimmered for a moment, and as he stepped away it took on the aspect of a more mundane frame — painted dingy white and stained from too many hand prints and boot toes over the years. Donovan had stayed in those rooms a very long time, and he'd made a number of "upgrades" — he liked to keep them to himself. He owned the entire building, though it would have been difficult to trace it back to him. It allowed him to make hidden modifications, and to come and go as he pleased, while appearing to those around him to be just another tenant.
He avoided the elevators and took the stairs to the first floor. Once there, he turned toward the back of the building. There was a maintenance exit that led to an alley behind the building, and he slipped through it quietly into the muggy southern California night. He stood very still in the shadows and waited. If anyone had been watching for him to exit, they'd follow. If anyone outside was waiting for him, he wanted to know they were there before making a move.
All that stirred were scraps of paper in the breeze. The alley opened on the street at one end; at the other was a solid brick wall. Donovan turned away from the street. When he reached the rear wall, he walked along it slowly, counting bricks. He touched the thirty-third from the right, on the eighth row from the bottom. The brick shimmered. Donovan stepped back and watched as the tombstone shaped outline of a doorway formed on the surface of the wall. Three stone steps led down into the darkness beyond the doorway, and he took them quickly, running down all three, back up two, and then stepping back down and pushing on the wooden door ahead of him. It swung inward, and he stepped through, leaving the alley behind.
The door closed behind him with a click, and he stood in a corridor with stone walls stretching out to the right and left. Along the walls doors were lined up at even intervals, stretching off beyond his sight. The air was cool and dank and there was an odd, smoky scent in the air.
Torches shone at intervals along the corridor, but there was no indication of how long they'd burned, or who might have lit them. Donovan had discovered references to the corridor in a crumbling diary written by an early Californian explorer. It matched notes in ancient European texts, and at least one carefully preserved Asian scroll. All indicated a set of corridors, a nexus providing a central entrance and exit to a series of portals. The network was vast, and if everything he'd read was correct, all of those doorways might not open onto Earth. Fortunately, all of those he'd managed to open did.
There were lesser portals known to many of the denizens of San Valencez, but to his knowledge, Donovan was the only on
e to discover this older route, and he kept his secrets very close. Sometimes a secret was the difference between life and death.
When he'd discovered this first entrance, he'd purchased the building closest to it. The wall and the brick were an illusion — the steps that led down to the portals each had their own wards. His opened with a simple mathematical solution contrived of climbing and descending the correct number of stairs in the proper order. Others required more intricate keys and rituals. It was a mystery he'd only begun to unravel, but it had proven very useful. He believed that there had once been keys, possibly formed of crystal, but their location was lost to time
The corridor was ancient and powerful, and he never stepped into it without a twinge of nerves. Whatever power had created the portals and the corridor that joined them had stood for centuries, perhaps longer. The thought of how far they might stretch, and of who — or what- might share that corridor at any given time was sobering. It was also possible for magic — over time — to fade, or warp. He didn't think he wanted to be in the corridor when that happened.
Donovan walked slowly away from the doorway that led to his alley. As he walked, he counted the doorways on his right. He'd found that if he tried to watch the doorways on both sides, it threw off the count in some arcane manner. Fourteen doors down he stopped, turned to his left, and crossed to the portal directly opposite. He opened the latch and stepped onto a short stone stair that led up into the alley outside Club Chaos.
Chapter Three
The sky was dark with clouds. Drizzle misted the air and dripped down the glass windows of shops and diners. Neon signs blinked, flashing their multi-colored messages to shadow people on the streets. Donovan walked to the end of the alley and glanced up and down Hawthorne before ducking back into the shadows beside Club Chaos. There were other entrances, but they wouldn't take him where he needed to go.
There are cities within cities. What we know and believe we know about places and events is based on our observations, and experiences. The alley beside Club Chaos looked like any other alley; it was dark and littered with debris blown in by the wind. One thing set it off. Near the center, there was a phone booth. There was nothing remarkable about it, and unless you really thought about it, even the most logical question might not occur. Why was it there?
There was no reason for a phone to be located in a dark alley. It was unlikely that those passing on the street would see if it they needed it. It was even less likely they would leave the safety of the street lights and rummage in their pockets for money to make a call there in the shadows, particularly in a time when everyone from school children to the elderly had a cell phone.
Donovan glanced over his shoulder toward the street and saw that he was alone. He ducked into the booth, tucked the receiver under his chin, and dialed 360.
The phone booth was the entrance to the many facets of Club Chaos. There were levels upon levels to the place, each serving a different segment of the city's population. Live music played on most levels. There was jazz, reggae, rock and even swing in one of the older sections. Donovan wasn't interested in the night life, or the parties. Not this time, anyway.
When the booth spun, he stepped into a dark room lined with candle-lit tables. A polished wooden bar ran along one wall. There were no bright lights. There were no mirrors. It was a quiet place where sound didn't carry. Donovan closed his eyes for a moment, and then opened them to acclimate his sight.
A lone figure sat at the bar. He was tall and thin with long gray hair that spread out around his head like a nimbus of dirty string. He didn't look up from the tumbler of whiskey in front of him, but Donovan recognized Cord immediately. He crossed the room and took the stool beside him.
"Whiskey," he said to the bartender, "on ice with a little water."
Cord remained silent until Donovan had his drink and the bartender retreated. It didn't take long. They called this bar "The Crossroads," lying as it did somewhere near the heart of Club Chaos, but they might as well have named it "Discretion."
"So," Donovan said at last, glancing at Cord out of the corner of his eye. "You said that you had information?"
"You brought money?" Cord asked.
Donovan frowned.
"I never pay before I know what I'm getting. You've dealt with me before."
Cord slid his gaze sideways. The man's face was angles and slits. His eyes barely seemed to be open, and his mouth was set in a grim line. The informant's skin seemed to be stretched taut over a pointed chin and high cheekbones. There was no way to read his emotions, assuming they existed. He stared at Donovan for a moment in silence, and then turned back to his drink. He spun the tumbler slowly on the damp napkin it rested on and started to talk.
"There are things happening in the Barrio."
"Martinez?" Donovan asked quickly.
"Not Martinez. Anya Cabrera."
Donovan frowned.
"Anya has always been active in the Barrio. That's hardly a great secret."
"She has expanded her operations," Cord said. He turned to meet Donovan's gaze. "She has taken up with Los Escorpiones. They now participate in her rituals, and they are spreading their influence, challenging for territory."
"Voodoo is a very old practice," Donovan said slowly. "While I don't claim to understand those who find comfort in it, it's not inherently dangerous, unless there's something more?"
"Oh, there's more," Cord said.
The man fell silent. Donovan waited a moment for the rest of the information, and then realized they'd reached the turning point. Nothing more would be forthcoming without payment, and the only question remaining was — how much, and would the information be worth the price? He considered what he knew about Anya Cabrera. As long as he could remember she'd held court in one or another of the dark corners of the city. She had a shop that was open by day, selling candles and amulets, hexes and wards. Most of it was pointless and powerless, but she was a shrewd woman. Enough power trickled through her door to keep clients coming and going in a steady stream.
Cord wouldn't have called him if things hadn't changed. Donovan slid his hand into his jacket and drew a fifty from an inner pocket. His jacket was probably his single greatest asset. He'd designed it, adding pockets and hidden slits in the lining over the years. It was armed with small scrolls, scraps of parchment, pendants and charms. He also kept it well stocked with a variety of money in various denominations. Some of it was very old, some of it was from places far away. Most of it was green and folding and worked just fine in Club Chaos. He laid the bill on the bar, but closer to his own drink than to Cord's. He didn't turn to watch the man, nor did he worry that the money would be snatched. He waited, and after a moment Cord began to speak.
"The Loa walk a fine line between this world and their own," he said. "They enter when the wards are set and the moment is right. They walk and they talk through the living, and then they depart. That is how it has always been."
Donovan said nothing. He knew all of this, and knew that Cord was only building to his point.
"Anya Cabrera is summoning the Loa," Cord said, "but they are not departing as they should. Some have remained days, possibly weeks. Each time she holds her ritual, the portals remain open longer; the veils have grown thin. She controls them — the living, and the spirits who inhabit them. She plans a war."
"You have seen this?" Donovan asked.
Cord nodded. "Last night in Santini Park, there was a battle. You may have heard?"
Donovan nodded. He'd known there was to be trouble — two local gangs — but it hadn't seemed of importance. There were many such groups in the city, and quite a number in the Barrio. Power was a tenuous thing, and always under contention. Donovan kept tabs on such activity, but rarely found a reason to get involved.
"Anya Cabrera was in Santini Park?" Donovan asked, at last.
"Not in person," Cord said. "But she was also not far distant, and before the battle, there was a ritual. Some of those who fought were the possessed."
Donovan thought about this for a moment. When he didn't respond, Cord continued.
"Several of The Dragons fell. One of them was Vasquez. If the storm hadn't broken when it did, it would have been worse. Anya Cabrera intends to run any power from the Barrio that is not under her control. The boundaries between the Barrio and the rest of the city are already tenuous. This could be a problem."
Donovan nodded. He withdrew a second fifty from his pocket.
"Vasquez? You're sure? The one they call El Gigante?"
Cord nodded. He didn't look up as Donovan passed over the money. "If anything changes, I'll be in contact."
Donovan remained seated as Cord slipped off his stool and faded into the shadows. There was only one exit from the room, and it led into the phone booth. There were chambers in the back, and darker alcoves where larger groups could sit and speak in silence. No matter how loudly you conversed at The Crossroads, the sound didn't carry. The bartender continued quietly polishing beer glasses and watching the door. Probably, if one looked carefully enough, there were other exits. Donovan had never questioned it; he appreciated the privacy afforded, and was pretty sure he didn't want to tangle with whoever provided it.
After giving Cord time to make his departure, Donovan rose and left the bar. The alley was as empty as it had been when he arrived. He straightened his jacket and stepped out into the street, turning uptown toward home and blending into the growing evening crowds.
During the day, Donovan avoided the streets as much as possible. His striking appearance and slightly antiquated wardrobe tended to attract too much attention with the sun high in the sky. At night, a different city emerged. Those who were out and about had their own agendas, and their own concerns. They had no time to worry about a tall, lone figure walking quickly away into the city. Donovan didn't feel like taking the portals… he wanted to think.
His knowledge of Anya Cabrera, and of voodoo, was rusty. There had been no reason to pay attention to the old woman for some time; the more active power in the Barrio was an old man named Martinez, and Martinez was content to remain within comfortable borders. San Valencez was a large, sprawling city with many levels of apartments and ghettos surrounded by outlying suburbs. The Barrio was only a small, southern quarter, home to poor Latino families and bordered by the territories of two gangs — The Dragons, and Los Escorpiones. The form of Voodoo practiced by Anya Cabrera had a very small following in the city, but it was concentrated in and around the Barrio.
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