Vintage Soul

by David Niall Wilson

  “It is very old,” Johndrow said softly. “Very powerful. Very … subtle. I don’t believe that it will bring you immortality, but…if I am correct, it will lengthen your stay on this plane considerably. A century? Perhaps more?”

  He slipped around behind Vanessa and drew her close against him. He rested his chin on her shoulder and added. “I think you will find the taste…intoxicating.”

  Donovan shivered and tucked the flask very carefully into one of the many deep pockets of his jacket. As he did so, he whispered a small charm of protection to prevent breakage. It was a treasure beyond anything he’d expected.

  “There are those,” Vanessa said, peeling free of Johndrow as those to either side snuffed the candles, and plunged them into shadow, “who say that a vampire has no soul. They say it is forfeited at the time of our transformation, and that we walk this world as hollow shells without spirit.”

  Donovan didn’t answer. He felt her take his arm and turn him gently toward the door, leading him from the room. As they stepped into the hallway, she leaned very close and ran her tongue up the side of his throat to the lobe of his ear. She whispered then, words meant for him alone.

  “I do not believe this. Our souls are liquefied and run through our veins. They become very thin, and each time we refresh the blood a part of something new joins itself with what remains of the soul and refreshes it. You have a part of me now, a part of my soul. It is a very fine vintage…drink it in good health, and think of me.”

  Then they were stepping into Johndrow’s outer room, and one of Stine’s security gnomes stepped forward to greet them.

  “See Mr. DeChance to the garage,” Johndrow said. “Have the driver take him wherever he’d like to go.”

  “Just outside will be fine,” Donovan said, suddenly very weary, and ready to be home. “I can get where I am going more quickly on my own.”

  They watched as he turned away and followed the short, gnarled woman into the hall. When they were out of site, his guide turned.

  “I thought you might like the last piece of the puzzle,” she said softly.

  Donovan frowned, wondering what she meant. She took three steps down the hall and stopped, and then turned seven times. A shimmering pattern emerged on the wall and Donovan gasped in surprise.

  “We didn’t know it was there,” she explained. It was apparently built in without Mr. Johndrow’s knowledge -- and whoever did it sold that information to Ezzel. He was out of here and gone before Johndrow even reached the hall. It leads to the garage below, among other places. We’ve sealed it properly, and now we control access.”

  Donovan shook his head in disbelief. He’d thought Ezzel must have used some amazingly powerful enchantment to invade this place, and the answer was now as obvious as it was simple. Someone had been planning to rob Johndrow all along. The penthouse had never been fully secure.

  The small woman stepped aside, and Donovan entered the opening, which shimmered closed behind him. He stepped out of the familiar alley across from his brownstone, and smiled wearily. The portal closed silently behind him and he crossed to his door, the flask rolling gently over his hip, the promise of it burning like fire.

  EPILOGUE

  When Donovan entered his apartment, he noticed several things. There was a fire burning. Cleo was curled up on his desk, eying the old crow, Asmodeus, who was perched on one of the upper bookshelves and glaring back down at the cat, and Amethyst sat in his armchair waiting for him. She was reading a book, which she put aside with a smile.

  He stepped closer to her, and she stood. As she did so, she let her arms drop, and the silk robe she wore slid over her shoulders and dropped to the chair. She approached him, long red hair tumbling free over her soft skin and her eyes sparkling. There were crystals glittering in her hair and as he stared at them he somehow lost track of seconds, and she was in his arms, pressing her warm lips to his. He blinked and drew her close.

  “Wait…” he said softly.

  She pulled back, pouting, and he turned to the bar along the wall. He drew out the small flask and placed it reverently on the bar, and then he chose two clear crystal snifters from the rack. He unwound the gold wire carefully and pulled it free of the wax seal, which he sliced evenly with the tip of one fingernail. Then, very slowly and carefully, he slid the cork from the top of the flask.

  Amethyst watched him in silence. He poured the liquid equally into the two large snifters. He laid the empty flask aside, turned, and offered her one glass. She smiled at him almost quizzically, then accepted it and sniffed.

  “My god,” she whispered. “What is this?”

  “Cognac,” he replied, taking a sip and wrapping his arm around her shoulder. He turned her slowly until she was pointed at the door to his bedroom. “Cognac and vintage soul.”

  EXCERPT FROM – HEART OF A DRAGON

  Book I of the DeChance Chronicles – Available in eBook & Unabridged Audio

  Chapter One

  The park was quiet. Clouds scudded across the last remnant of the sunset, obscuring the muted reds and golds that clung to the skyline. The hum of street lamps kicking to life brought dim, yellowed illumination to the night, but it did little to ease the menace of the encroaching shadows. Instead it shaped them and drew them out in elongated patterns on the rolling hills and small forested patches of Santini Park. The hint of a storm crackled in the evening air, bringing the heavy, water and ozone scent of thunderstorm and the soft flicker, far off over the ocean, of lightning fingers stretching down toward the rolling waves.

  On the East side of the park, other shadows moved. They slipped from alleys, slid from between parked cars and out of the darkened doorways of decayed apartment buildings and dingy warehouses. Eyes, teeth, jewelry and blades glimmered softly in the dying light. They crossed the street stealthily, entered the park in silence, and disappeared into its depths. No words were spoken, but there was fluidity to their combined motion, and purpose. They entered like a horde of vermin and disappeared into the darkness.

  Moments later the silence was shattered by the thrumming roar of a single engine. It wasn't the purr of a sports car, or the roar of V-8 power, but the steady throb of a large V-twin, powerful and throaty. The echo of that sound resonated through the park, caromed off buildings and reverberated in the depths of alleys. The sound multiplied and grew, challenging the distant voice of the thunder for dominance of the night. The first bike slid down Holley St. and into sight at the edge of the park. Its single headlight sliced through the blackness. The rider rolled to a stop, the bike's polished tank and chrome reflecting the weak light of the street lights. He pushed the kickstand down and stepped off. He left the engine running.

  Black hair swept over his shoulders, tied back with a silver clasp that caught the light when he moved. The clasp was a spider, long legs twined about his pony-tail tightly. His eyes were small chips of blue ice. His chest was bare beneath a cut-sleeve denim vest, faded and criss-crossed with stains and patches, chains and memories. He was lean and strong, long muscled legs beneath tight jeans ending in scuffed engineer boots ringed by a leather strap, decorated with chipped conches. From his belt a long knife swung, slapping lightly against his thigh.

  He stood for a long time, bike leaning on its stand, the engine throbbing. He swept the park with a cold gaze that seemed able to cut through the shadows. Nothing moved but leaves sliding quickly across the grass, caught in the grip of the approaching storm. There was no sound but the bike, and the whisper of wind through the trees.

  Snake waited another moment. He wanted to see them, to know they were there, and where, but he also knew that wasn't going to happen. They'd drawn him here, and there was no choice but to get on with it. He reached over and killed his engine.

  He raised his arm and waved it in a slow arc. The sudden silence that had fallen when the engine died was broken by the soft throb of more engines. They ground to life and then rose to a sudden roar. The darkness was criss-crossed by brilliant slices of light, dispersi
ng as the bright headlight beams sliced through it, and reforming as each passed, single file. They parked in diagonals, lining the edge of the park. There were dozens of them, each pausing for a moment, canting to one side to catch on its kick stand, then falling to silence.

  The storm crept slowly closer, just off the coast and heading inland. The lightning flashes grew in brilliance and frequency. Snake stepped forward onto the soft turf of the park common, and the others filled in behind him, row upon row, tattered jeans, dark eyes, their weapons, belts, and leather gleaming with steel and silver. Each wore a sleeveless denim vest with the club's colors, blue and green dragons, whirling in a tight 69, devouring their own tails. The top bar simply stated the obvious: "Dragons MC". The bottom rocker, lined in blue, read "San Valences, CA."

  A tall, dark-skinned man stepped up beside Snake and scanned the shadows. Vasquez was leathered and worn, years of sweat and road-dust sun baked into his skin; his arms were corded with muscle born of hard labor. His eyes were deep brown, nearly black, and his hair blew free and shaggy about his shoulders.

  "They're out there, Snake," he said softly. "I smell them."

  Snake nodded, not speaking. He breathed slowly and gathered his energy. He sensed them too, shifting through the shadows. Los Escorpiones. The thought of the young, violent Latinos made his skin crawl, but he knew he could show no sign of fear or weakness. The others could spare a moment to think of how their hearts were growing chilly and empty, or how their lives were riding on the actions of a few short moments. Snake had no such freedom. If he faltered, their courage would break, and they would be finished. Leadership always came with a price.

  Along the line Snake heard the shuffle of booted feet, the soft clatter of weapons, and slowly the growing murmur of nervous voices. It was time. They were charged and ready and he couldn't afford to hesitate and let that moment pass.

  He threw his head back suddenly face turned to the churning clouds of the approaching storm and screamed. His fists were clenched, arms curled up and back toward his chest and the sound rose, unfettered, from deep within his soul. At that moment the lines broke and the Dragons surged forward. Pent up rage, fear, and adrenaline burst in a flood of screams, merging their voices and their hearts with the energy of Snake's bellowed challenge.

  As they thundered down the sloping field, shadows melted free of darker shadows and Los Escorpiones were on them. The storm broke at that moment, as if the heavens sensed the coming clash and wanted their rightful share of the fight. The lightning flashes were so closely spaced that the landscape became a strobed parody of battle, like a scene from a poorly written zombie movie.

  The darkness was split by cries of anger and pain. Each flash showed pale, drawn features and flashing metal. Gunshots rang out, lost in rolls of booming thunder and echoed beyond them. Warriors crashed together, weapons drawn, lips curled back in the fury of battle and the terror of death. The scent of blood and screams of anguish washed away in sudden torrents of rain; the grass soaked blood and water into its heart and the sky was striped and marbled with the anger of the Gods.

  The storm grew in fury; they slid and slipped on mud and the gore of the fallen, and they fought. Blades ripped soft skin and hard tendons. Gunshots, half-wild in the heat of the battle and the clutches of the storm, ripped through hearts and heads, spattering the ground, trees, and combatants with bits and pieces of those they'd called brother.

  Vasquez towered over his opponents, a mountain of flesh and bone they tried again and again to scale. They clung to his shoulders and he shook them off. His blade ripped through limbs and organs with wild, uncontrolled abandon. Bodies flew from him, tossed, reeling from heavy blows, and his dark eyes shone, alive with reflected lightning and deep-seated rage.

  There were too many. For each he knocked aside, two more slid from the shadows. And they were fast. It wasn't the speed of youth; Vasquez was fast. It was inhuman speed. They shot out of the shadows and tried to climb him like a tree, swarming like rats over something dead and rotting.

  Vasquez bellowed in rage, kicking and slashing, leaving a trail of Escorpiones strewn across the park, but it wasn't enough. Those he left broken and sliced rose again as if nothing had touched them and launched at his throat.

  About ten yards away, locked in furious combat with a young, lean Latino, Snake saw Vasquez going down. He cried out, called for help from the others, but there was none to be had. Snake brought his knee up suddenly, slammed it into the boy's chin and snapped back his head. The Escorpione fell, but as Snake turned and leaped toward Vasquez, another rose from the shadows, and another. Too many.

  He wheeled and pistoned his fist into the jaw of the first that lunged at him and sent him skidding across the muddy field. Then he reached for the second and cursed as a sharp blade raked his forearm. He pulled back and kicked instead, knocking the boy's legs from beneath him. Snake pounced, grabbed his opponent's long hair and yanked back hard. He slid his blade in between ribs, out, and back. He let the boy fall and turned. Something was wrong. They were too fast. When they fell, they didn't stay down. It was crazy, and he had no time to figure it out. He fought for his life.

  The wind picked up suddenly. Rain whipped into their eyes and blurred one body to the next and each face to the shadows. Snake couldn't see Vasquez any longer, though there was a rolling, flailing pile of bodies a few feet to his right. He spun toward them, caught a form moving up on his left and swung to grip the man's throat, only to find it was a Dragon he held. They met one another's gaze for a long moment, leader and follower, and then he released and turned away.

  At that moment, Vasquez roared free of the mass of flesh that held him, flinging bodies to either side and swinging his huge fists like hammers, all thought of weapons forgotten in the heat of the moment. Escorpiones fell away like dust, and still it wasn't enough. As Snake cried out to the huge biker, his arm outstretched toward that wild, untamed face, the night exploded once again.

  It wasn't lightning. A single gunshot and Vasquez's throat erupted. Blood spurted and splashed; his huge hands gripped the hole uselessly, his eyes shocked, voice silenced. The Escorpiones who'd swarmed over the big man only moments before scrambled back, wild eyed, not certain at first who held the gun, or who'd been shot.

  "No!" Snake screamed, he leaped for his fallen brother, just failing to catch the massive body as it crashed to the ground. Rain and mud and gore coated Snake's hands and his jeans as Vasquez slumped at his feet. In the distance, the muted wail of sirens sounded, and Snake became aware, slowly, that it wasn't over.

  He leaned in quickly to check for a pulse, but the ruined mess that had been Vasquez's throat relieved him of that hope. No way was the big man alive. Lightning flashed again, and Snake looked up, caught the rising, urgent whine of the sirens and shook the tears from his eyes. The Escorpiones were scrambling back, the approaching police driving them even more urgently than the scent of Dragon blood. Snake knew he had only moments to act.

  He leaned down, turned Vasquez quickly, dragged the denim vest from the man's shoulders, and clutched it tightly in his hand. He turned and shook it at the sky. He screamed again then, in torment, and in rage, screamed to be heard above the voice of storm and sirens. The sound echoed, endless and powerful.

  The Dragons knew that sound. It began the battle, and it ended it. Already they were turning from the last remnants of their private skirmishes, dragging their tortured and injured bodies through the mud, cursing and slipping, fighting to reach their bikes and the streets before the police arrived.

  Snake hesitated. He didn't want to leave Vasquez like this. He didn't want to abandon the remnant of his friend to the city and the police and the reporters who would swarm over the park come morning. He wanted to spin back the hands of time and free himself of the pain, end the guilt and the huge, empty, gut-grinding pain of the reality at his feet.

  He shook his head a final time, glanced down at Vasquez's inert form, then spun and raced to his bike. It would serve no purpos
e to be taken in and questioned. He had a greater responsibility, and though it ate at his soul, he would stand up to it; with honor.

  The bikes were sluggish in the rain. Some of them wouldn't start at all, and were pushed down side-streets, obscured by rain and darkness. Snake kicked once, twice, and his engine ground to life. He gunned it, felt the throb of the big V-Twin, and wanted to just pop the clutch and slam himself and the bike, pain and responsibility be damned, into a building. He worked the throttle, revved the engine carefully to dry the distributor, and spun it in a quick skid that nearly bounced him off the curb before the tires caught. He roared up the street and slid down thirty-eighth as the cops hit the main drag at Laurel and Thirty-Sixth. They would find what they really wanted. No one moving and nothing but another mess to clean up. They didn't want to cuff and question in the rain. They didn't give a spit in the wind for the lives of any involved. Vasquez' bike remained, canted to one side and forgotten beside those of five or six of his brothers.

  Turning toward The Barrio, Snake gunned it and shot recklessly through the storm.

  ~ * ~

  In his dreams, Salvatore Domingo Sanchez shook. The wind whipped against the thin outer walls of his shed mercilessly, threatening to rip the tired old structure from its foundation and send it spinning away into the storm, which loomed like the maw of some huge, malevolent beast. That is how his nightmare started.

  Then he was walking down a beach, soft sand beneath his bare feet, sifting through his toes and the salt-spray of the ocean teasing his senses. It was dark, no moon, and no stars. There was only the beach and the roar of the waves crashing on the stones further out to guide him along the shore.

  Circles of glowing light loomed through the darkness, huge and imposing. They did not flicker, as torches might, or pierce the darkness in long beams, like those of flashlights, or headlights. They glowed, hoarding their illumination, using it only to draw his gaze and thoughts into their depths. They were eyes. Salvatore shuddered as the outlines became clearer, and though he wished with all his heart to turn and to run, he could do nothing but pad slowly down that unknown beach.