Vintage soul dc-2

by David Niall Wilson

  A dark figure stepped from the shadows, and Donovan spun on him.

  “Martinez says you should give that package to me.” The voice was low and menacing. There was a trace of a Hispanic accent, but Donovan had no time to place it.

  “Tell Martinez I’m sorry I couldn’t stop by to chat,” he replied, circling warily toward the nearest break in the fence.

  There were voices audible in the cathedral, and a third cruiser had screeched to a halt out front. The flashing lights blinked off the cloudy, overcast sky and gave the parking lot an eerie, otherworldly aspect.

  The shadowy figure lunged. Something glittered brightly in his right hand, and Donovan dodged left. With the bundle over his shoulder he couldn’t get off a proper charm, but if he dropped it he’d never get it back together and get out of the lot with it before the police found their way through the hall and out the back door.

  Something shifted on his shoulder, and he stumbled. He started to topple, and then righted himself. He reached into his pocket with his free hand, but before he could sift through his pocket for what he needed, something dark dove through the air and caught his attacker full in the face. The man was fast. He whipped the blade he held up in a lightning arc, but he sliced only air.

  The old crow dropped on him again, this time from one side, scoring the man’s face and slicing a deep cut in his ear. He cried out. Donovan dove for the fence, ducked through a hole in the old rotten boards, and was gone. He heard the man cry out a third time. The bird cried out, as well, and for a second Donovan thought it had been hit, but moments later he heard the steady beat of wings overhead and knew it had escaped to fight another day.

  He smiled, right up until the heavy weight of the thing thumped down hard on his bundle again. As he wound his way through the dark streets and out of the barrio, he shook his head and frowned.

  “Cleo,” he informed Asmodeus darkly, “is not going to like this.”

  TWELVE

  Donovan wasted little time on the streets. If you knew where to step, and when to turn, there were back roads and alleys in San Valencez that could take you a great distance, even on foot, in a very short time. Most of the citizens of the city never found these shortcuts, and when they did, they did their best to explain them away, or forget them entirely. If they stumbled into a dark corner, or through the mouth of an alley in one part of the city, and stepped out into another, they attributed it to kidnapping, or someone having slipped them something in a drink.

  Donovan stepped into an alley three blocks from the barrio on 43 ^ rd Street and the blue and white flashing lights of the police gathered at the abandoned cathedral winked out. It was a strange sensation, like floating in an ocean of gelatin, or walking through very heavy rain. It passed quickly, but it never failed to unnerve him slightly.

  At the other end of the alley, he hesitated for just a moment and scanned the street in either direction. His neighbors were used to seeing him in strange company, but he didn’t see any reason to give them more of an eyeful than was necessary. The sight of him trundling along with a hand-made knapsack of occult bric-a-brac with an old flea-bitten crow perched on top might be enough to get them talking, and if there was too much talk he’d either have to do something about it…or move. He also didn’t want to draw attention to the alley. You could only tell it was there if you stood at the correct angle. If you looked directly at it, you saw nothing but a continuation of the wall on either side. It was the closest portal to his home, and Donovan counted on it for quick, silent getaways.

  His luck held. It was early, and there was no traffic. In a couple of hours the street would be alive with early morning commuters and delivery trucks, but for the moment, nothing moved on the street but a sheet of newspaper that blew down the sidewalk and plastered itself against the brick base of his apartment building. Donovan took a deep breath and stepped out of the alley.

  Before he’d taken more than a few steps, there was an audible snap of energy, and the dim light of the streetlights was replaced by a bright, blue-white radiance. He spun, and there, striding toward him, her eyes blazing and her hair lit by dozens of tiny blue crystals, was Amethyst. Her fists were clenched at her sides, and she moved with the speed and purpose of a bulldozer. Without the radiance in her hair, she’d blended in with the wall behind her, and he hadn’t seen her. He cursed his own laziness for not checking more carefully.

  “Wha…?” Donovan backed toward the apartment wall. He flailed for his pocket, but knew he had no time to reach it.

  Amethyst stopped directly in front of him, hands on her hips and chin tilted defiantly. She started to speak, but at that precise moment, Asmodeus decided to act. He didn’t attack this time, not having reached his advanced age through foolish acts, but exploded straight up in a flurry of black feathers and angry squawks that caught her by surprise.

  Lights came on in several windows above the street, and Donovan cursed softly. So much for a quick, quiet entrance. Taking matters into his own hands, he stepped forward and put a hand on Amethyst’s shoulder and shifted the awkward bundle to his other hand.

  “What is it?” he asked her. “What happened?”

  She wasn’t listening. She’d watched the bird take off from his bundle and instantly understood the implications. As Donovan eyed the windows of the buildings surrounding them warily, Asmodeus settled reluctantly back onto his shoulder and eyed Amethyst with distrust. The glitter of the crystals in her hair had faded to a soft shimmer.

  After another moment of silence, he turned toward his building. “Inside,” he said. “We have to talk, but let’s get off the street before someone comes out to see what’s wrong and sees you glittering like a Christmas tree.”

  She glanced away from the crow and met his gaze. She followed him inside, and moments later they were in the small lobby of his building. They stepped into the third elevator from the left, and when the door had closed behind them, Donovan keyed an intricate set of digits into the number pad on the wall. They ascended rapidly, and in silence.

  Amethyst hadn’t said a word, but the tension in the air between them was palpable. Something was very wrong, and Donovan willed the lift to hurry them upward. He needed to get to his own space, to his books, his computer, and to Cleo. Then he needed to sort out what he’d just been through, figure out why their mystery thief would want a haphazard, half-baked magician’s home-made wand, and, by the way, just what in hell was wrong with Amethyst, and was any of her anger directed at him?

  This possibility had occurred to him the moment he saw the flare of crystals she wore. She wasn’t dressed for vampires this time. The blue crystals were intended as protection against enchantment. He knew she wore them only when she expected trouble, and she’d worn them to visit him. It wasn’t a good sign.

  Once they were inside his suite, he felt better. He set the wards behind them and tossed the bundle of Cornwell’s possessions onto his dining room table. He’d momentarily forgotten the crow, and when the bundle struck the table, Asmodeus leaped up in a cawing, outraged rush of wings. He landed on one of the bookshelves, and at that precise moment, Cleo leaped.

  The bird hadn’t yet seen the cat, and was glaring down at Donovan, who leaped forward, ignoring the impending crash with his bookshelf, and snagged Cleo out of the air with one hand. Turning his back to take the brunt of impact, he curled the clawing, spitting animal to his chest. He hit hard and slid down the shelves, his spine catching on every shelf as he dropped. Cleo struggled wildly, but he clung to her and called out to Amethyst for help.

  She stood, stunned, watching him until he came to rest hard on the floor. He’d hit hard, and the impact nearly knocked the breath from him. Cleo gave another burst of energy, and this galvanized Amethyst, who reached down and grabbed her from Donovan’s groping hands before she could squirm free and launch another assault on the bookshelf. The cat still struggled, but by now the crow had seen her. It glided across the room and came to rest near the very peak of the tall, ornate mantle th
at fronted the fireplace. It would be difficult, even for the large, agile Cleo, to reach him there.

  Amethyst dropped the cat and held out her hand to Donovan, who watched it in confusion for a moment before reaching out, taking hold, and allowing himself to be pulled upright. His tailbone ached and his spine felt as though he’d been flogged. It did nothing for his mood.

  “Christ,” he said, pressing his fist into his lower back and arching.

  His words brought his guest back to the moment.

  “They’re gone,” she said.

  He stared at her. “Who is gone? What are you talking about?”

  “The time line crystals — the matched pair. They’re gone.”

  He stared at her and straightened. For the moment the pain in his back, and Cleo’s slowly stalking form moving toward the fireplace were blanked from his mind.

  “How is that possible? Where was Lance?”

  Amethyst shook her head, and he stepped closer, put an arm around her shoulder, and led her to his couch. He helped her sit down, stepped to the wet bar on the far side of the fireplace, and made them both a drink. On his way past, he swept his arm across his desk and dislodged Cleo, who yowled at him angrily and hissed up at Asmodeus. He wasn’t really worried that she could reach the bird, but he wanted her to know he didn’t approve. The crow looked ruffled, but unperturbed.

  When she’d had a sip of strong brandy, Amethyst spoke.

  “I’m sorry. I came here the moment I was certain Lance was going to be fine. He was attacked. Somehow this… thief… broke into my place. He overpowered Lance and made off with the crystals.”

  “But, what about your protections?” he asked.

  “Intact,” she said softly. He watched her take another drink, and frowned.

  “What do you mean, ‘intact,’” he asked. “I thought you said that the crystals were taken?”

  “They were. They are gone, but the wards that protected them were left in place. Nothing has been disturbed, including the entrance charms. Whoever we’re dealing with is very powerful, and very clever. Somehow they entered without setting off the security, took the crystals without breaking the wards, and left Lance unconscious on the floor with a lump the size of a crystal ball on his head. I found him that way, unconscious and stunned. He may have a concussion, but I gave him something for the pain, and he’s resting.”

  “And there was no sign of forced entry?” he asked. “Lance saw nothing, heard nothing?”

  Amethyst glanced around at his computer, and at some of the other electronic devices in the room, and shook her head. “I don’t keep video surveillance, as you know. I don’t have a computer, or a television. Still, there are other ways.

  “I have a series of crystals imbedded in the walls that act as repositories of events. When someone moves in front of them, or when someone speaks, vibrations record themselves, for a time, in the crystal. It doesn’t last very long — but long enough.

  “I checked the crystals after I saw to Lance. There is something there, but I can’t make it out. Just prior to my arrival there was a shadowy image flickering about the room. It moved too quickly for its image to be fully captured. For a few minutes that’s all there was to see. When the image cleared, all I could see was Lance, sprawled on the floor. Otherwise, the room is empty.”

  “If there was no clear sign of a break-in,” he asked, “and the wards that protected the crystals are still in place, how did you find out that they were missing?”

  “I didn’t, at first,” she admitted. “I don’t know why, but with all that’s been going on, I felt as though I needed to get an inventory — just to be certain. I expected to see that everything was in its proper place. It was, except for the crystals. Their case was there, just as always, but when I opened it, it was empty.”

  He stared at her.

  “That isn’t possible,” he said at last. “There are a number of ways those crystals could have been taken; but none of them could have worked without leaving some sort of trace. You’re sure that it’s the same case, that there’s no sign of a transference spell?”

  “I’m not an amateur,” she said, taking a longer deeper pull on the brandy. “Don’t you think I know what I saw? I’m telling you I have no idea how the crystals were taken.”

  Donovan stared into his brandy and concentrated. He ran over the details she’d presented him slowly, shifted them one way, and then another. Something was bothering him, but he couldn’t nail it down.

  “You have the crow,” she said, breaking his train of thought.

  He glanced up, saw that, for the moment, the bird was safe on its mantel top perch, and he nodded.

  “It’s not the bird that was here before,” he said. “Cornwell is dead. Whoever killed him broke a magic circle in the middle of a summoning.”

  Amethyst stared at him incredulously.

  “In the middle? You’re sure?”

  He nodded.

  “There was a break in both the inner and outer circles, as if someone drew their foot across it deliberately. The church was all but destroyed. I took what I could, and I got out of there.”

  “What about Martinez?” she asked. “I can’t imagine something like this happening right under his nose.”

  “One of his people showed up as I was leaving,” Donovan said. “If it weren’t for my new feathered friend up there,” he nodded at Asmodeus, “I might not have gotten off so easily. I think all they were after was Cornwell’s possessions. I’m pretty sure that Martinez wouldn’t have broken that circle, and if he did, why send someone else back later for the things he wanted from the church? Why not just take them?

  “And there’s more. I found this.”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out the blue-black raven feather. He held it out to her, and she took it, holding it carefully as if it posed some odd threat of its own. She glanced up at Asmodeus, but Donovan shook his head.

  “Different bird altogether,” he said. “The other was much larger, and younger.”

  Asmodeus let out a caw at this, and for the first time since arriving home, Donovan smiled.

  “You’re no spring chicken,” he said, glancing up.

  “Chicken.” The bird repeated.

  Donovan blinked.

  “You talk?”

  “Talk.” The bird agreed.

  Amethyst started to laugh.

  “It seems that Cornwell managed that spell after all. I guess ol’ Moldy up there just didn’t want to talk to him.”

  Donovan heard her, but his mind had drifted again. He kept thinking about the closed case, and the missing crystals. Time was running out for Vanessa much more quickly than he’d thought, and he needed answers. He looked at it from every angle he could conceive, but came up with nothing. Still, something about it bothered him; something was there, just out of reach, something important.

  “That only leaves the bone marrow dust,” he said at last. “If whoever is behind all of this manages to retrieve that, or find someone else to do it, then we may be too late to stop him.”

  “If he has something that can snatch those crystals from me, despite, my precautions, what makes you think he needs anyone to retrieve the bone marrow powder? Isn’t it possible he can just snatch it from the casket without opening it?”

  He looked at her, and then shook his head, frowning.

  “I don’t think so. I don’t know what it is, exactly, but there is something in your theft we’re overlooking. It’s itching at the back of my mind, but I can’t seem to pry it free. We are both familiar with what is, and is not possible. This is ritual magic, and there are no spells for transportation of objects that I know of. Look around. I think it’s more likely that whoever it is wants us to believe he can perform acts we know are impossible. The more off-balance he keeps us, the more chance he has of finishing his ritual. If he does, and it works, nothing we do will make much difference.”

  He swept his arm in the direction of the books on his shelf.

  �
�I have nearly every occult text known to exist in the last three centuries, in one form or another. I don’t’ claim to be familiar with all of it, but I can tell you this — if that sort of magic had ever existed, it would still exist. Someone would have found the record of it, recorded it, and reproduced the effect, and then someone else would have found a way to guard against it. Fewer and fewer new secrets are discovered, because to get beyond all that’s been tried in the past takes so much time.”

  “I’d like to believe that’s true,” she replied, “but I wouldn’t bet my life on it. That’s what you’re doing, you know. You’re betting Vanessa’s life on it.” She frowned, thought about what she’d just said, “Well, her existence, anyway. I guess life is the wrong term in this case?”

  Donovan shrugged, and she continued. “If you’re wrong? If someone has figured out something new, something we aren’t prepared to defend against, then we may be too late already. Whoever it is has been at least one step ahead of us all along — snatching a vampire out from under Kline’s security — not to mention breaking Kline himself like a rag doll, then breaking in here, killing Cornwell, and stealing my crystals. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for completing any one of those tasks, but whoever this is took them all on, and so far he hasn’t left a trace.”

  Donovan sighed. He was about to rise and refill his drink when the phone rang. He walked to the desk and answered it. He frowned, and then answered.

  “Tonight? You’ve talked with him? Good. Get back in contact and tell him you have someone to do it.”

  He listened a moment longer, then hung up the phone.

  “That was Windham,” he said. “He’s gotten me the information on the buyer for the bone marrow dust. The offer is still open, and so far, no one has taken up the challenge.”