Vintage soul dc-2

by David Niall Wilson

  “Le Duc,” Donovan said, rubbing his chin with the talisman thoughtfully. “Le Duc. I seem to remember such a book; He was a Frenchman, wasn’t he? I believe he was last seen around the time of the Crusades…”

  “Do not toy with me,” the voice boomed. Sparks shot out at odd angles from the fireplace grate. One large ember landed on the seat of Donovan’s armchair. It glowed and hissed, but did not burn the seat. With an impatient wave of his hand, Donovan cooled it. The remaining ash exploded in a soft puff of air and vanished.

  “I don’t know who you are,” he said, “but you really do need to work on your dialogue. I mean, really, what do you think this is, a Victorian Romance? Next you’ll be warning how I’ll ‘feel your wrath,’ if I don’t cooperate, right?”

  There was no immediate answer, and Donovan took a step forward.

  “My god,” he said, “you really were going to say that. Who the hell are you?”

  “Give me the book,” the voice said. This time there was no false bravado behind the words.

  “I don’t think so,” Donovan replied. “As I said, this isn’t a library, and I’m not a bookseller. If, in fact, I have the book you are looking for, I guess you are out of luck. If you’d come to my door, knocked, and asked politely I might have let you look at one of my books — or I might not — but unless you’ve got considerably more up your sleeve than an illusion of a flaming face in my fireplace, you're wasting your time, and mine.”

  Cleo suddenly dug a claw into Donovan’s ankle. He flinched, but did not look down. Something had moved deep inside the flames, something dark and not associated with the face. Donovan glared directly into the fire face, hoping that his eyes hadn’t given away what he’d seen.

  “I did not come here to look at your book, or to ask a favor,” the voice said. The tone was sibilant now, and the hissing intonation sent sparks skittering and dancing through the air. The motion of the flame gave substance to lips that had — until that moment — been totally obscured by flames. Whatever glamour it was that kept the intruder’s features hidden was failing slowly. The shadowy hint of a nose poked out from between the glowing eyes. It was impossible to make out any features, but the face the fire hinted at wavered just beyond recognition.

  “Who are you,” Donovan asked, taking a step forward.

  Whatever it was in the fire moved again; it flitted behind the flames and darted to the side.

  “Step back,” the voice commanded.

  Donovan ignored it and took another step forward. He didn’t speak, but he silently mouthed a shield charm. He didn’t know how much of the fire was illusion, and how much was the real fire with an illusion impressed upon it. If he leaped forward and the face vanished, he faced the very real danger of setting himself on fire. If, on the other hand, the fire had been put out to protect whoever stood within the illusion, then Donovan might be able to leap onto the grate and drag them out into the open.

  He hesitated, and all decisions became moot. The flames crackled and flared. The heat from the fire might have been an illusion, but if so that illusion was very real. Donovan stumbled back with a curse. Fire engulfed the eyes in the flame and soared up the inside of the chimney with a roar. The defense held. Donovan knew that his unwanted visitor was battering against the spell containing it within the fireplace. So far he had not proven strong enough, but if he continued as he was, he might cause the entire structure to explode from the contained energy.

  There was a snap, like a rubber band drawn too tight and parting. A hideous scent of sulfur permeated the air in the room, and the fire, no longer bottled up, spurted from a fissure in the center of the fireplace grate, shooting from mid-air. Donovan cursed and drew a symbol with his free hand. Where his finger passed the air glowed silver, and when he finished with a flurry, the glow formed a fine mesh of luminescence and shot across the room, directly into the path of the escaping jet of flame.

  When the mesh he’d created settled over the fiery leak, Donovan cried out. Light, feathery threads of illumination shot back to his fingers from the net he’d formed, and they glowed brighter where the two forces collided. Donovan closed his eyes and concentrated. He knew he needed to close off the breach in his defense, and that he had to do it quickly. The flames had already leaked out and dripped along the fine lines of power toward his hand. If they reached him before he was able to patch the spell, he would lose control of it entirely.

  Distracted, he missed the first flash of shadow against the light of the fire. Two glittering eyes launched from the fireplace and soared over his head. Donovan staggered, straightened, and concentrated. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that the shadow had wings, and was soaring about the room, narrowly avoiding walls and curtains. Each swoop took the creature lower, until finally, with a great cry, it alighted on the third shelf from the top along the wall behind Donovan and began picking frantically at the spines of the books there with its beak.

  Donovan curse and spun, grabbing for the bird, but he could not reach it, and in the second his concentration shifted, the flames roared. He whirled to face them, saw with shock that in that second of dropped attention the fire had dripped down the threads toward his outstretched fingers like molten wax. He muttered a single word and stepped forward. The droplets cascading toward him quivered, hovered in place, and then slowly retreated toward the glowing mesh.

  Donovan pressed his advantage, and within seconds he had moved a step closer to the fire, and then another, pressing the fire relentlessly back. There was no hint of the glowing eyes, or the ethereal face in that fire. All of the intruder’s strength had been diverted into that single breach in Donovan’s defenses.

  Cleo leaped to the first shelf and launched herself upward. A long swipe sent the bird fluttering upward, but as the cat passed, already spinning for a second lunge, the bird cawed in triumph and reached out with both taloned feet. Gripping the spine of a thin, leather tome, the raven launched back and up, narrowly missing a collision with the back of Donovan’s head.

  Cleo bounded off the shelves, planted her rear feet on Donovan’s shoulder and launched herself after the fleeing bird. Donovan saw what was about to happen and let out a hoarse, choked cry. He sprang forward and concentrated every bit of will power and strength he had to the tips of the fingers of his left hand. The threads swelled, became strings and then sticky, ropes of energy. He dove at the fire, ignored the danger, and pressed his seal over the escaping flames.

  Before he reached the hearth, a black flash shot past. The bird, seeming not to struggle at all with the heavy book, dove into the fire like a black arrow. Cleo flashed past Donovan in pursuit, and he drove his legs into the floor, launching after her in a headlong dive of his own. As if aware of its pursuers, the bird gave another great cry and slashed the air with its wings, narrowing itself and diving straight at the heart of the fire. It disappeared into the rift just as Donovan’s hand pressed the ropy tendrils of his charm to the invisible wall of the ward spell. There was a bright shimmer, another crackle of energy, and as Cleo bounced off the now solid ward, Donovan leaned into it, seeming to rest against solid air, and sagged weakly, sliding down to sit on the floor.

  He growled in frustration and pounded his hand on the hearth. There was no sign of the bird, the book, or the flaming face behind it all. Donovan sat for a moment, regaining his strength. Cleo shook her head, meowed plaintively, and then crawled into his lap. Donovan cradled her there, turned, and glanced up at the bookshelves behind him, already certain what he would find — or not find — when he did.

  Two books had slid out and hung precariously over the edge of the shelf. The space between them, where the journal of Jean-Claude Le Duc had been tucked safely away, was empty. Donovan rose and deposited Cleo on his armchair, then walked to the bookshelf. There were scratches in the wood where the bird had scrabbled for purchase, and there were peck marks on the spines of the two volumes on either side. Donovan frowned.

  Under normal circumstances, even an extremely talen
ted bird would not have been able to slide a book off the shelf and carry it away. It was too heavy, for one thing. It had to have been enchanted, or more than a bird to begin with. He glanced around.

  On the floor at his feet two black feathers rested. One had been trampled when he launched himself forward at the fireplace, but the other was clean. Cleo must have come closer to the mark than he’d realized with her first leap. He gave her an appreciative grin, but the cat was busy washing her left foot and paid no attention to him at all. She looked up when he lifted the feather from the floor and let out a soft yowl of disapproval.

  “I know, Cleo,” Donovan said, carrying the feather back to his desk and returning to his seat. “I don’t like it either, but what can we do?”

  Donovan stared at the feather for a moment, and then sat up straighter. He placed it in the center of his desk, where the letter from Johndrow had rested only a few moments before, and set to work. Within moments he’d set the wards and placed his spell. It was a long shot, but some essence of the bird, and its master, should still be lingering either in the room, or the fireplace.

  The feather rose, spun lazily in the air, and then pointed at the fireplace. Donovan rose, stepped around the desk, and gazed in the direction the feather pointed. He saw nothing, but stepped forward to the grate and glanced back over his shoulder. The feather jerked once, and then twisted a few degrees to Donovan’s right. It pointed at the upper right corner of the fireplace grate. Donovan saw nothing on the metal grate itself, nor had anything dropped to the floor as the bird passed. He frowned.

  He placed his hand on the brick wall beside the fireplace and whispered the incantation that released the security spell. The warmth from the dancing fire increased, and Donovan stepped closer. He didn’t see Cleo, who had leaped up onto the desk chair and sat, paws on the surface of the desk, watching the feather twitch in lazily in the air. Cleo’s tail whipped back and forth in time, and her muscles quivered.

  Donovan leaned down. There was something tucked in behind the grate that held the logs in the fireplace. It was dark and flat, like a piece of cloth, or paper. There was just enough room on the side of the fire for him to reach one arm around behind, but he had to be very careful not to get too close to the flames. He knew his hair could catch in an instant, and he wasn’t used to dealing with the open flame.

  Just as his groping fingers neared the object behind the fire, Cleo leaped. There was a surprised yowl as the protections Donovan had set on the circle repelled her, sending her crashing to the side, knocking Johndrow’s letter, the pendulum on its stand, and two of the small braziers askew as she scrabbled for purchase on the desktop.

  Donovan spun, narrowly missed whipping his hair into the fire, and gasped. When the braziers tipped, the circle fragmented. Released from the circle, but not from the enchantment, the feather shot across the room at dizzying speed. Donovan rolled aside as it passed, narrowly missing his cheek. The feather passed through the fire, burst into flame, and drove into the object behind the grate with such force that it shattered in a flash. Donovan made a grab for the object, but he was too late. It was nothing but a small heap of ash by the time his fingers reached it. He brushed this out without much hope and collected it on a scrap of paper, but it was difficult to tell if the ashes came from burned paper, leather, cloth, or flesh, and he knew at least part of what he’d gathered was the remnant of the feather itself.

  “Damn it, Cleo,” he complained, clambering back to his feet. “That might have been important.”

  Cleo glared at him from the corner of his desk. She was seated in the exact spot where the small pendulum usually dangled on its stand. She looked indignant, and Donovan, despite his irritation, laughed. He bent down, picked up the pendulum, and examined it carefully. Nothing seemed broken, and once he’d straightened the metal stand a bit, it was as good as new. He shooed Cleo off the desk and returned the instrument to its proper place.

  He leaned down to retrieve Johndrow’s letter, remembering what he’d been doing when things had gone south, and before he could stand straight again, he stopped, still as stone. He thought of the missing vampire, Vanessa, and then of the contents of the stolen book. He’d read it only once, and it had been many years in the past, but the minute the pieces fell into place in his mind, he knew he was correct.

  “Oh my god,” he said softly. “The Perpetuum Vitae Serum; he’s after Le Duc’s formula.”

  He scooped up the letter, scanned its contents again, and then dropped it on his desk. Next he strode back over to the bookshelves and slid a large, leather bound tome from a shelf at shoulder height. He carried it back to his desk, opened it, and began to skim the index quickly.

  It didn’t take long to find what he was looking for. It was a reference to Jean-Claude Le Duc’s life. In fact, it was the very reference that had sent Donovan off in search of the journal that had just been stolen. It was short, but there was enough detail to confirm his fears.

  “Jean-Claude Le Duc,” it read, “spent his entire life in search of a single spell. Rumor has it that he succeeded in developing a potion that would grant the recipient eternal life, but that he died trying to acquire all the proper ingredients. Among the things he gathered were certain crystal formations, ashes from the grave of a particular type of priest, and several more standard items. The final ingredient proved his undoing, as it apparently involves draining the blood of a vampire of a certain age. Le Duc was killed by vampires in 1832, and was not brought back as one of the undead, as far as any record can be found. His journal contains his studies, but to date no one has attempted this particular magic to our knowledge.”

  There was more, but Donovan had read enough. Cleo leaped up to the desk again, more delicately this time, and sat, regarding him.

  “This is a bad one, girl,” he said. “It may be the worst yet. I’d better get started, eh?”

  As Cleo batted at the cord, Donovan took up the phone and dialed Johndrow’s number. It was shaping up to be a very long night.

  FIVE

  Donovan reached Johndrow’s assistant on the third ring, and was patched straight through. His call was obviously expected, and though Johndrow kept his voice calm, tension crackled at the edges of his words. It was the first such breach in the other’s icy persona that Donovan had ever detected, and he knew from this that things had not improved since the note had been penned. He almost wished he didn’t have to deliver worse news of his own.

  “You’ll look into it then?” Johndrow said immediately. “I knew you would, but I was worried you’d be tied up with something else, or …”

  “I would look into it even if you hadn’t asked me,” Donovan replied, measuring his words carefully. “I’ve had a visitor of my own. I think there’s more to this than a simple kidnapping.”

  “What do you mean?” Johndrow asked. “I had a hard enough time convincing certain of the elders that Vanessa didn’t take off on her own. How could you already know something?”

  “Because,” Donovan said, “whoever took her was here, as well.”

  There was a momentary silence, and then Johndrow asked. “You were robbed while you were away?”

  “No,” Donovan replied. “I was here, right in the room, when it happened. All that was taken was a single book. I didn’t get a good shot at the intruder, though Cleo tore a few tail feathers out of his familiar. It was a crow, a very large one, maybe a raven. I’ve never seen it before.”

  There was silence on the line again, and Donovan knew that Johndrow was considering the wisdom of putting his faith into someone who’d already come face to face with the one he sought — and had not come out on top. It was a natural reaction, but still irritating.

  “It took all he had to get a breach large enough for his bird to enter,” Donovan said. “If I’d been ready for him, we’d have caught the thing and put an end to it. As it is, he made it in through the fireplace, and he escaped with an old journal.”

  “A journal?” Johndrow said. “What does
a journal have to do with Vanessa? How do you know it’s the same person at all?”

  “It wasn’t just any journal,” Donovan answered. “It belonged to a French alchemist named Jean Claude Le Duc. He was a very single minded man — the volume is not a thick one. It is concentrated on the formula for a single spell, and Le Duc never lived to see that spell put into use.”

  “What spell?” Johndrow asked. “That name is familiar, but I can’t quite place it.”

  “It should be familiar,” Donovan said. “The formula is for the Perpetuum Vitae potion, and the ingredient that caused Le Duc’s death?”

  There was a hiss on Johndrow’s end of the line. “The blood drained from a vampire,” he whispered. “From a very old vampire.”

  “Vanessa fits that description,” Donovan said, softening his tone. “She’s in more danger than you realized.”

  “But surely,” Johndrow said, “There are other difficult items on that list. Could he have gathered them all without drawing attention to himself?”

  “It might have been a problem to find that out,” Donovan replied, “if technology hadn’t become so advanced. I scan all of the books I acquire into my computer before putting them on the shelves. It allows me to preserve very old and fragile texts, and to protect against an emergency. I have a copy of the formula, and I don’t believe he’s quite got everything he needs. We have some time, though not a great deal of it. The blood must be extracted immediately preceding the mixing process, so we can expect he is keeping Vanessa — alive — until he’s ready.”

  “What does he need?” Johndrow asked. “If I knew…”