Vintage soul dc-2

by David Niall Wilson

  “Yeah — not the most powerful available,” he said, “but I didn’t have much time.”

  “Why didn’t you have the elemental take them and then banish it?” she asked. “They’d have been stuck pretty well, I think, and they’d have had plenty of time to think on the error of their ways while they waited for the sun to rise high enough to hit the alley.”

  Donovan stared at her. It was a use for the spell he’d never even considered, and the simplicity of it felt like a smack in the middle of his forehead. His surprise must have shown, because she laughed again and drained her wine, gesturing to the barman for a refill.

  “Yeah, you have it all under control,” she teased. “I told you men were no good at this sort of thing.”

  Donovan shook his head bemusedly. “Whoever took the book, and Vanessa, is going to more than he has so far to complete the ritual. There are ingredients he’s going to need. That’s why I wanted to see you. One of the things he’ll need is a matched pair of Timeline crystals, and they have to be very special. They have to be a perfect harmonic pair.”

  Amethyst put down her glass and stared at him. All trace of humor had left her expression.

  “There is only one matched set like that on this continent,” she said. “It’s mine, and it’s securely locked in my vault.”

  ‘”I know,” he said softly. “Like I said, that’s why I needed to talk to you. I know your security is flawless, but I’d have said that about mine, as well…couldn’t hurt to take some extra precautions. I know how rare it is to find both a timeline crystal and to have it flawless. How much less likely is it to find a matched pair?” He shrugged.

  Amethyst was no longer paying the slightest attention to her wine. Her specialty was stone, crystals, and talismans. She had the finest collection in existence of all three of these specialties, and she was very protective of both the collection, and her secrets. Donovan has asked too much more than once and run into the stone wall of her stubborn streak, and he saw it boiling to the surface now.

  “You think he can get them from me?” It wasn’t a question, but more of an accusation, and Donovan sighed.

  “I’m not saying that, and I think you know it. I’m saying that he wants them, and that I know you may be the only source that exists in the world. He must have a plan for how he intends to get his hands on them when the time comes, or why go to the trouble to gather the other ingredients and get the dogs on his trail?”

  She didn’t look impressed with his logic, but Donovan saw she was at least considering it.

  “What else does he need?” she asked.

  Donovan gratefully changed the subject. “He needs bone marrow dust from a particularly difficult to find Priest. There’s only one grave in the area — I did some research.”

  He told her about his meeting with the collector, Windham, and what he’d learned from that exchange.

  “So, no one has tried to collect it for him yet?” Amethyst asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Donovan said. “I’m going after it myself.”

  She stared at him in shock. “Why? Donovan, if you think that’s the only source locally, why not just destroy it, or secure it somehow? Why go out into the open like that and put yourself at risk?”

  “Because,” Donovan replied, “I don’t just want to stop him from creating this potion, I want to catch him. I want my book back, and I’d like to collect the fee for bringing Vanessa back as well. I know she can take care of herself, but even the best of us gets in over their head now and then.”

  This brought another quick snort of laughter from Amethyst, and with a sigh Donovan picked up her glass and took a drink of her wine.

  “Laugh it up,” he said, returning her glass. “But promise me you’ll keep an eye out for this guy? I wish I could figure out who it is. I can’t imagine any of the major players involving themselves in something so risky, and I don’t remember anyone with a crow. That bothers me more than anything. I thought I knew everyone in the craft that called this city home, so either I was wrong, or it’s an outsider. Either way, it’s bad.”

  “The crystals are safe, Donovan. When I’m not home, my apprentice Lance handles the wards. It’s part of the fee he pays for instruction, and he’s very meticulous. As for your rogue magician, I have a thought on that.”

  Donovan wanted to ask more about her apprentice, but he remained silent as she continued. He remembered Lance Ezzel, a tall, powerful young man with bright, piercing eyes and hair that was an odd, platinum blonde — almost white. He’d been with Amethyst for several years, and seemed bright enough to go the distance. She wasn’t a patient teacher, and she was reluctant to part with her secrets at the best of times — the price for apprenticeship must have been tantamount to becoming her live-in cabana boy.

  “You remember that guy Cornwell? Alistair Cornwell?”

  Yanked from his thoughts of Ezzel, which were wandering toward jealousy, Donovan blinked.

  “Cornwell? Vaguely. Wasn’t he sort of a 'poseur' with delusions of personal grandeur?”

  Amethyst laughed again.

  “You’ve been spending too much time in the louder part of this club. You’re beginning to talk like the kids over there; you need to spend more time in adult company.”

  Donovan met her gaze levelly, and this time it was Amethyst who looked away. He smiled. They both needed some time, and when this business was over, he intended to make a point of finding it.

  “Anyway,” she said, blushing slightly, “Cornwell had a little power, but not much sense. He came to me several times demanding that I share things with him, or loan him crystals for his experiments. He always wore crazy robes, like he’d stepped out of some King Arthur movie and though he was Merlin.”

  “Yeah, I remember him,” Donovan said.

  “Well,” Amethyst continued, “don’t you remember his familiar then? It was a ratty old crow named Asmodeus.”

  Donovan started.

  “Yes! I remember now. The thing looked like it should have taken its last flight a few decades back, but I do remember it. He came to me once wanting a charm that would split the bird’s tongue so it could be taught to mimic speech. As I recall, he wanted to teach it to say ‘Nevermore.’ He used to carry it around on his shoulder, even out on the streets. I warned him against it, but people just saw a crazy old man in ragged clothes and a half-dead bird. In California, who’s going to notice something like that?”

  “I haven’t heard anything from, or about him in years,” Amethyst said. “I suppose he might have studied…gained some power here and there? Maybe you and I aren’t the only two he pestered. He’s been out of the local scene long enough to turn his life around and actually learn something. He did have the gift, just not the patience, or the personality, you know?”

  Donovan nodded. It made sense. All the times he’d spoken to Cornwell, the man had seemed harmless enough, but he’d always been seeking. First one spell, then another, then just ingredients, and always with questions about this and that book. Donovan was known as the leading expert in the area on ancient texts, so he’d never thought twice about the queries, but had he ever given away the existence of Le Duc’s journal? Could he be responsible for this whole mess, just because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut about old books?

  ”I don’t suppose you have any idea where I might find Mr. Cornwell?” Donovan asked.

  “Nope,” she said, finishing her second glass of wine. “I’ll ask around. I have to be going. I want to go check the wards on my vault, and to let Lance know there might be a new threat.”

  She hesitated, then stepped around the table and leaned close. She let her hair drape down over his head and teased her tongue across his earlobe. “You be careful, cowboy,” she whispered.

  Donovan took a deep breath, fought the sudden rise of heat that flushed through his nervous system, and sate very still.

  “I really don’t think there’s any danger of a break in at my place,” she added, “but I’ll put some extra
effort into security, just in case. I’m sure if Lance and I put our minds to it, we can design something new that will surprise anyone who thinks they have a plan for getting in. I almost hope he tries.”

  Donovan thought about Kline and the description of how he’d lain broken and battered on the floor. He hoped that their thief stayed far away from Amethyst and her crystals, but if not — he hoped it was Lance who was on duty when the visit took place.

  “I’ll see you soon then,” he said, giving her a hug. Amethyst turned and disappeared into the phone booth in a flash of sun-drenched quartz, and Donovan glanced at the bar a final time. He eyed the bartender, took in the stolid, uninterested expression and the noncommittal tilt of the man’s jaw, and then shrugged. Who else was he going to ask?

  “Excuse me,” Donovan said, taking a seat at the bar, “I was wondering if you’d seen a friend of mine in here recently?”

  “Depends,” the bartender said, still polishing the glass in his hand carefully. “I’ve seen you with several people today, but it’s hard to tell if they’re your friends from back here.”

  “Fair enough,” Donovan said. “I was thinking of one person in particular. I think I’ve seen him here before, but I can’t remember when. His name is Cornwell, Alistair Cornwell. I’ve been trying to find him all day, but he seems to have disappeared.”

  The bartender didn’t look up from his work at all.

  “No one is friends with that one,” he said. “He isn’t welcome here.”

  “Then you’ve seen him?” Donovan asked, trying not to sound eager.

  “About a week ago was the last time,” the bartender said. “Had to have him eighty-sixed.”

  “I don’t suppose you have any idea where he’d be staying, then,” Donovan asked.

  “I never talked to the guy except to mix his drinks,” the bartender said, glancing up at last, “but I hear things. I always hear things. Most of those things I keep to myself. It’s bad for business to get a reputation for telling secrets.”

  Donovan sensed that no response was expected, so he waited in silence.

  “This guy, though,” the bartender shook his head. “Good riddance, I say. If you’re trying to find him, I hope he isn’t really your friend.”

  Donovan continued to hold his silence.

  “He has that old church on the east side,” the bartender said with a shrug of his own. “Out near the barrio? It’s been vacant for years; he bought it and fixed it up some. That’s what he said when he came in; anyway, you can take it for what it’s worth.”

  “I know the place,” Donovan said, nodding. “I thought it would have fallen down or been demolished by now.”

  “The city won’t do it,” the barman growled. “Some kind of historic monument or something. They won’t tear it down, and now that your buddy owns it, I suppose it will never be fixed up either. Just an eyesore.”

  “Maybe I’ll see if I can do my civic duty,” Donovan said, leaving a ten on the bar and rising. “I think I’ll go pay old Alistair a visit.”

  The barman slid the bill off the bar and into a pocket without seeming to move.

  “Give him my regards,” he said. “He was a lousy tipper.”

  Donovan grinned, winked, and for the second time headed through the phone booth and into the alley. This time it was empty, and he made his way to the streets without meeting a soul. Things were looking up.

  TEN

  There is a line that divides the city of San Valencez cleanly, though it isn’t marked on any legitimate map. Though there is no clear indicator that you have passed from one part of the city and into the other, there are rules and borders, and the citizens of both halves of the whole abide by the former and remain on the proper side of the latter.

  The barrio begins at the 42 ^ nd St. overpass, caked in dust and decorated in neon spray paint and a wide array of gang colors. The Dragons, and Los Escorpiones, Comancheros and the East Side Kings, all have left their mark at one time or another. No one gang owns the gateway, but they all guard it.

  One building stands directly on the line, half on one side, and half on the other, as it has always stood. The Cathedral of St. Elian stares out over the barrio on one side with blank, sightless windows for eyes. The walls are unmarked by graffiti, but ill-treated by time. On the other side the sunlight glares off grimy glass so brightly it reflects a grimy parody of the outside world back at itself.

  In earlier times this Cathedral was neutral ground. Every Sunday families from either side of the odd, cultural line of demarcation that marked entrance to the “other side of the tracks” came to worship. They sang hymns and harmonized. They tithed and raised funds to buy a larger bell to be housed in the steeple, and funded missionary work. Then, slowly, as the “good” side of the city drew back, leaving empty streets and vacant homes, and the “other” side grew thick with families and children, overpopulated and angry like a swarming hive of humanity, the church faltered.

  Without the funding provided by more well-to-do parishioners, the upkeep of the massive building became a burden on the community, and on The Church in Rome. Typically, The Church backed out first. For years the building was home to a parade of faith- healers and evangelists, spiritualists and charlatans, and all that time the rot seeped deeper. The walls crumbled a little further, and the brass bell, once so magnificent in its tower, pealing its call to worship through the lower east side of the city, hung corroded and silent.

  Eventually even the street preachers avoided the Cathedral. An air of decay and rot permeated the air near the building. Rats and stray animals took up residence, and transients peered from the lower level windows in search of prey. Anyone who thinks a city isn’t a jungle needs to spend more time in the darker parts later at night. There are hunters, there are predators, and anyone and anything can become the prey, given the right moment.

  Then, after the cathedral had stood empty for months, thing shifted again. Inside the cathedral the aisles had been swept, though haphazardly. Some of the pews had been wiped clean, though only to store stacked books and rolled manuscripts. The inside of the glass on the windows had been spray-painted black, blocking out the world. The rectory had been cleared, and a thin, wild-eyed man slipped in and out from time to time, barely visible in his passing as if something blocked him from sight, or distracted anyone trying to watch him.

  Grandmothers whispered that he was a priest. They believed that MotherChurch was coming home to the cathedral, and that the bell would sing one Sunday morning, calling them back to worship. The men whispered, spat and made the sign to ward them against the evil eye — and they watched, wondering who was moving in on what, and whether they should be angry, frightened, or trying to form allegiances.

  The gangs rolled past in silence. Sometimes Los Escorpiones slouched on the street corner, or dangled from the windows of other abandoned buildings nearby to keep a watch on the doors, and the man who used them. It was noted by both the men, and the grandmothers, that the gangs stayed clear of the cathedral itself, and this caused further speculation, but no one ventured near enough to get a clear answer.

  Late at night, strange lights flickered behind the darkened windows. Smoke rose from the ancient chimney, and it was oddly scented. No one knew exactly what the smell was, but it made them uneasy. The smoke dropped to ground level and whirled around their ankles, slipped under their doors and found its way through the cracks in shutters and cracked panes of glass.

  There was a voice, too. At first it seemed like many voices, because it was never the same. The language changed. The intonation changed. Sometimes there was rhythm, and sometimes it might have been the mad cackling of a crazy man. The more they listened, though, the more certain all became that all the sounds and all the voices were really only one, and though they knew it must be the thin, wild-eyed man with disheveled hair — the guy who looked at first glance like a homeless crazy man, and then like some kind of angry spirit, it was hard to believe such a small man could make that God-awful
racket. Harder still to understand why the sight of him made their blood run cold, or why they couldn’t sleep peacefully if they saw the lights dancing in that old stone building, or heard the sounds.

  Inside, seated cross-legged on one of the half-cleared pews, Alistair Cornwell glared at the book in his hand and concentrated. It was an incomplete copy of a very old grimoire, and he was doing his best to re-create what was missing from other sources. He knew that complete copies of the incantation existed, but they were expensive, and there were only a few places they could be obtained, none of which would have welcomed his business.

  He’d gotten this partial tome from one of the collectors, a grubby little worm of a man known only as Chance. It was an apt name, because when you bought things from him, you were certainly taking a chance on quality. The book had been described as “almost complete,” but the last three pages of the most important incantation it held were missing, and Chance had no idea what happened to them. In fact, he wasn’t willing to divulge his source for the part of the manuscript he did possess. Cornwell had concluded that it was stolen, and that the pages were lost.

  Worse still, with his own shaky reputation, and the fact he’d bought a probable “hot” grimoire, he couldn’t ask anyone about the incantation, or even mention he intended to try it. Doing so could implicate him in whatever theft had brought him the book in the first place, and admission that he was going to attempt magic beyond anything he’d ever pulled off in the past, without proper safeguards, would result in… unpleasantness.

  He’d already scraped up the matted, half rotted carpet from the large, flat bit of floor behind the altar. It was no easy task. The rug was ancient, and it had been rained on, urinated on, and pounded into place by the passing of thousands of feet. The circle Cornwell cut was large, nearly twice the circumference he needed to work with. He’d brushed dry dust over the expanse of wood and swept it away, and then cleaned it thoroughly. He treated the wood with scented oil and, following the detailed instructions at the beginning of the incantation, he polished the surface until it gleamed, covering every inch of it in slow circles with a soft rag. He repeated this for seventeen nights straight, one night in a clockwise motion, and the next in a counter clockwise pattern. He hoped that the number was actually 17. It appeared to be the European digit with the slash through the center of the upright stroke, but the paper was old, and the text was smudged. It could have been a 19.