Vintage soul dc-2

by David Niall Wilson

  “Let me handle that,” Donovan cut in. There was silence on Johndrow’s end.

  “This is what you are hiring me to do,” Donovan continued. “I will have a better chance of tracing this without others blundering around muddying the waters, and despite what just happened here, I have the better chance of saving her once I’ve found her. Even if you managed to track him, what would you do? I have your letter — I know what happened with Kline.”

  “What happened with Kline is the reason I don’t feel comfortable trusting this to only one man,” Johndrow replied. “Kline’s people have resources, and I can call in my own people…”

  “Kline’s people are not trained to work in the field,” Donovan replied calmly, “and your own people aren’t trained for this type of work at all. Let’s be honest, Preston, it’s been a long time since any of your kind has needed to march into real battle. Even the elders, yourself included, are decades from the last serious conflict. This is what I do, let me handle it.”

  “I will give you two days,” Johndrow replied. “I won’t lose her through foolish trust.”

  “I understand,” Donovan replied. “I don’t want this guy succeeding any more than you do, though admittedly for selfish reasons.”

  “Keep me informed, Mr. DeChance,” Johndrow said softly. “Don’t leave me sitting at home and wondering. Idle hands, you know…”

  “I’ll be in touch,” Donovan replied. He hung up the phone and stared at the wall.

  He slid the computer’s keyboard and mouse back into place and tapped the keyboard. When prompted, he logged in and watched as the machine loaded. He smiled as mechanical drives whirred, lights flashed, and complex patterns of logical numbers whirled through machine. Men could say what they wanted about magic not existing, but they understood the concepts of ritual and reaction quite well. Their methods were slow and relatively crude, but the outcome was solid and workable. The Personal Computer was one of the finest magical achievements of the age.

  Once the logon sequence ended he opened the encryption software he used to scramble the more esoteric texts he’d scanned. The computer had more than standard firewall protections, and a number of enhancements that had nothing to do with microchips or wires. A series of symbols rotated into place on the screen, and in the center a large gold colored disk spun lazily. At each point corresponding with the correct pattern, Donovan tapped the button on his mouse, and the disk slowed, stopped, and then spun the opposite direction. After seven flip-flops, there was a sound like a key sliding into a lock, and the disk spun inward, disappearing from the screen. What appeared was a single folder, and Donovan opened this quickly.

  He flipped through the directories until he found one titled “Journals” and opened this, then chose Le Duc’s manuscript. The pages had been scanned in at very high resolution, and the program he viewed them in had singularly amazing magnification properties, as well as a translation algorithm Donovan had designed himself. Alchemy in the twenty-first century, he liked to call it. An electronic philosopher’s stone.

  The manuscript was not difficult to read. The French was archaic, but the script was clear and clean, and Le Duc had taken great pains to separate the lines evenly and to make no mistakes. Mistakes in such a text could be disastrous, at the one end causing a spell to fail with no result, and at the other sending forces crashing out of control. Le Duc had been meticulous to the end.

  The formula itself had been developed over a long period of trial and error, gathered piece by piece from a wide variety of sources. Donovan recognized several of the sources cited, and had to admit that for a fanatic, Le Duc had been very clever. It was unfortunate when such genius coupled itself with a sociopathic disregard for life or the fragile lines of balance that held the world together.

  There were six ingredients in all. Two of them were simple powders that anyone could have located. Donovan knew he could assume that these had already been collected. That left three ingredients to go. One of those, Vanessa, had already been scratched off the list. The remaining three might pose more of a problem.

  A certain crystal was required for the wand that had to be manufactured for this spell. It was one of the rarest of stones, and Donovan knew the location of the only store of it that was known. It was, coincidentally or not, held in San Valencez — very likely this unknown magician knew this well enough, and had planned his assaults to confine them to the smallest area possible. Either that or it was pure luck. In any case, Donovan did not worry immediately about the theft of the crystal. He turned his concentration on the final ingredient.

  Next was an extremely rare item. The spell required a pair of perfectly matched Timeline Crystals. These were used in the creation of certain higher level portals, and were cherished for their rarity, and for the complexity of preserving their potential. There was a pair in San Valencez, but it was not accessible. Not without an army, anyway, and certainly not after Donovan warned their owner of trouble to come.

  That left the final ingredient. He frowned. “The dust formed of the marrow of the spinal cord of a priest who has performed both last rites and exorcism.”

  This was a truly problematic ingredient. It would only be stockpiled by a necromancer, and there were less than a handful of these unsavory wizards in existence. It was possible to retrieve the powder without the aid of necromancy, but grave digging posed problems of its own, and the circumstances of the priest’s life and death needed to be rather singular. Of the existing necromancers, Donovan could think of neither an easy mark for extortion, nor one likely to give this sort of assistance to any other. Necromancers were more comfortable with their once-dead companions.

  That left the more direct approach. If he could locate a priest that fit the description in the formula, the thief could extract the powder himself. It wouldn’t’ be easy. The Last Rites were not rare, but there had been few sanctioned exorcists over the past century, and a crackpot wouldn’t do. There was also the fact that relics recovered from such graves were rare, powerful and valuable. That meant that every collector in existence would cherish them and the older graves from days when exorcism was more common, would have been sought out and violated long ago.

  In modern times, the ritual was still practiced, though rarely. If he moved quickly enough, Donovan knew he’d be able to localize possible gravesites for a source of the powder. Maybe, with his connections and the additional electronic resources he commanded, he could find such a grave more quickly than their unknown thief could manage it. It was hard to believe that others would band together with anyone proposing to cast such a spell as the Perpetuum Vitae, because it benefited only he or she who cast it. It wasn’t the kind of magic one shared, and if he was forced to work on his own, or with secretive mercenary assistance, then Donovan’s new enemy was at a disadvantage. No one who heard what was going on would want the spell to succeed.

  There was no time to lose. Donovan rose, gathered a few objects from the shelves that he tucked into his pocket, and double-checked the security wards. Before he left, he picked Cleo up unceremoniously and plopped her into the center of the symbol on his desk. The cat meowed at him, possibly in complaint, possibly just in irritation, but he paid no attention.

  “I need your help, Cleo,” he said softly. “You need to find Amethyst. Tell her I missed her, and then warn her about what happened here. Tell her I’ll be in contact soon.”

  Cleo returned his gaze unblinkingly. Donovan closed his eyes and raised one hand. In an intricate and graceful scrawl, he drew symbols in the air. These gathered substance, like silver mist, or smoke, and when he drew his finger down with a final slash and spoke aloud, reciting in ancient Egyptian, the mist whirled in a circular motion around Cleo, who sat very still, never breaking eye contact. The mist spun faster, thickened into a milky white wall, and then, with a sudden release of energy that sounded like the popping of a huge bubble, it was gone.

  No trace of Cleo remained on the desktop. Donovan turned, opened the door, and stepped out
into the night. The sun was just dipping beneath the horizon, and he knew Club Chaos would soon be opening their doors.

  SIX

  Vanessa swam lazily up through darkness toward consciousness. Her thoughts were a cloudy fog of half-memories and unlikely images. She remembered the party. She remembered the beat of the music, flowing through the walls and the floor and shimmering through the air. She remembered Preston’s speech before he shared the bottle he’d been so proud of, the wine with Byron’s blood. Had it been too strong? Had she taken her share, admittedly larger than the others had received, walked blithely away, and passed out?

  No. There was more, she knew there was more, but she couldn’t bring it to the surface of her mind. She opened her eyes and the room before her spun. She blinked, tried again, and managed to focus weakly. The walls were dark and gray; cold polished stone where there should have been deep, rich paneling. The air was dank, and she was hungry — hungry like she hadn’t been in years. She was also alone.

  Vanessa drew on the strength of centuries and focused her mind. When she moved, there was a clink of metal. She glanced down and found that her wrists, and her ankles, were manacled. The chains that were attached to these bonds disappeared into small recesses in the stone wall to the left of the cot she lay upon. She sat up, sending the chains rippling over the side of the hard, thin mattress pool on the floor.

  The room was empty. Other than the cot a long, empty table, and a massive wooden door on the far wall, nothing broke the stark emptiness of the cell. That was what it was. For all its size — the walls stretched what must have been twenty feet to an arched ceiling. Was she in a tower? It seemed so, but she hadn’t seen such a tower since castles had been in vogue.

  As she sat, taking in her surroundings, the last of the cobwebs cleared from her mind. Whatever had happened, it wasn’t because of the effect of a mixture of blood and wine. She vaguely remembered having stepped into the kitchen. There had been a younger guest, perhaps a century, though for some reason it had been difficult to be certain. He had asked to see more of the house, and though she knew he was only flirting, and that she would have to extricate herself fairly quickly, the urge to tease him had been impossible to ignore. She’d stepped through the kitchen and into the hall. Kline was there, standing beside the elevator, and she’d been about to speak to him when something hit her from behind.

  The blow wasn’t a physical one. Her mind had simply blanked. She had no idea what had happened to Kline. She vaguely recalled the face of the young one she’d been with, but she couldn’t remember who he was, or why he’d been invited. She knew that she’d never seen this tower before.

  The chains clinked again, and Vanessa stared down at them contemptuously. Whoever had put her in this room was a fool. She rose, gripped the chain where it snapped onto a ring on one manacle, and yanked at it with incredible strength. The metal, rather than snapping, gave slightly under the pressure. Vanessa frowned. She tried again, twisting this time to break the link closest to her wrist, but again the chain proved flexible. It spun with her twist, and when it snapped back into place the jolt threw her across the cot and into the stone wall.

  Real fear stole through her for the first time. She tore frantically at the chains, pressed her feet into the wall and dragged at them, but they did nothing more than flex slightly. They were enchanted, and whatever effort she made to remove or snap them reversed painfully, until she was crying out with rage and pain.

  The door opened and a man stepped into the room. He stayed carefully out of reach near the door, and smiled at her. Vanessa stopped struggling, slid off the cot in a single fluid motion and stood. She returned his gaze evenly. She was frightened, but she wasn’t going to give her captor the satisfaction of seeing it in her expression.

  She still wore the evening gown she’d turned heads with at Preston’s party, and the seemingly impossibly high heels were still strapped around her slender ankles. She stood very still and gauged the distance between them against the length of her chains.

  He was not undead. She knew this the second he entered the room. His blood pumped hot and inviting through veins very much alive. It was rich blood, and old. She scented power and tasted strength.

  Vanessa took advantage of the silence to study him. He was at least six feet tall, had long, silver blonde hair and gray eyes. He was slender and moved with casual grace. She thought he was used to giving orders and being obeyed. She’d seen the same haughty arrogance in others. Most of them were dead. She saw just the hint of the guise he’d worn when he tricked her into the hallway. Whoever he was, he’d slipped past Kline’s defenses and spirited her right out of Johndrow’s supposedly secure penthouse.

  “So,” he said at last, stepping a bit closer, “you are awake at last. It’s a pity we have to meet under such circumstances. I’ve heard stories for years of your beauty, but never had the opportunity to verify it for myself. The rumors did you little justice.”

  “You brought me here to admire me?” she asked, turning toward him, but making no move to approach. “Surely it would have been easier to contact my husband and arrange to meet. He is a very social creature.”

  “And not,” the man countered, “overly bright. He should check his guest lists more carefully.”

  “You weren’t on that list,” she replied with certainty.

  “No,” he admitted with a slow smile, “I was not. However, appearances can be deceiving. Your lover’s security was quite good — the best in the business, I’m told, but they were not looking for your guests, were they? They were looking for something, or someone, unexpected.”

  Vanessa remained silent.

  “No guesses? Well, I’ll tell you then. That old friend of yours, Margot, is that her name? She took a new lover recently. But of course, you knew that — the two of them were invited to the party. He wasn’t long ‘in the blood,’ but he was certainly good for her ego. I believe that’s how she put it, anyway. It was a shame to end his existence so soon — so early in his second life. Less than a hundred years since his death, and now he’s gone. Margot never knew the difference.

  “It’s not an easy charm, but for a certain amount of time, while a spirit lingers between worlds, their shape, identity, even personality can be stolen. Did you know that? Kline must have known it, but for some reason, he didn’t check. I admit that he disappointed me. It was arrogant of him to attempt the security for your party by himself, and even more foolish to assume that your guests were beyond reproach. I wonder if Margot has found the remains, or if she’s had the courage to tell Johndrow about it. Do you think he’ll kill her?”

  The man raised a long, slender eyebrow and glanced at Vanessa with what appeared to be real interest. The conversational tone of his voice chilled her more than his words. He was supremely confident, and if remorse was part of his makeup, he had hidden it well.

  “He will kill you,” she said softly. “The elders will not stand for this. You may have gotten past Kline, and you may have sent one of the young ones to his final death, but you will not find Preston so simple to brush aside.”

  The man actually laughed at this. His voice tinkled like broken glass; it was empty of mirth and dripped contempt.

  “Do you really think so?” he asked. The sarcasm in his tone sounded brittle, like his laughter. Vanessa didn’t want to know what would show through if it shattered.

  The man glanced over his shoulder, and then scanned the room, feigning nervous fright. “Do you think they’re onto me yet? I’d better go and check my security. Maybe…” He hesitated, dropped his charade, and fixed her with an icy stare, “I should call Kline’s people.”

  Vanessa held herself in check. Anger nearly drove thought from her mind, but he was still out of reach. Then, as if reading her mind, or answering her silent request, he stepped forward.

  “Who are you?” she asked. Her voice was low, and she fought to keep the anger out of her tone.

  “That’s not really important,” he said. “You won�
��t be around to learn what it means, I’m afraid. I have plans for you, my dear, and I’m afraid they don’t include further longevity, at least not for yourself.”

  He had taken three slow steps toward her as he spoke. His movements were slow and languid. Vanessa didn’t know if he was stupid, or if his arrogance was justified, but she knew that she would have to find out. He might not give her a second chance. Cocking her head seductively, she put one hand on her hip and leaned on it just enough that her gown slit to show the full length of one slender leg.

  “Are you sure there isn’t some other arrangement we could come to?” she asked. She tried to give her voice a coy lilt, but was afraid it came out too high pitched and a little shrill.

  The man smiled and took another step toward her. “Interesting,” he said. “I suppose you have something in mind?”

  Vanessa coiled and sprang with all the preternatural speed and strength the centuries had granted her. The chain trailed behind her like the tail of a kite, and though heavy, it did not appear to slow her attack. The man backpedaled and nearly lost his balance. Vanessa flew headlong, hands extended like talons. She gripped the edge of his robe, just as she hit the end of the chain and it drew her up short with a horrible snap of bone. Her right wrist shattered, but she clung to him with her left. Crying out in rage she dragged that robe toward her, but he was seconds too quick. With a gasp, he spoke, and the word hovered between them.

  A clattering sound filled the room, and Vanessa was jerked backward. Her captor’s robe tore, and she held that bit of cloth in her hand, but the chains retracted into the wall, slowly and relentlessly. Vanessa gritted her teeth against the pain and drove forward, fighting her bonds. It was no use. She slid back, step after inexorable step and the man, back on his feet and with his composure regained, followed her. He kept just out of reach and smirked as she snarled and scratched the air, trying to reach him.