Vintage Soul Part 7

Donovan stood for a while on the corner of 42nd Street and watched the old cathedral. There was no doubt that something was wrong. Several windows were shattered, and he saw from the larger shards that remained they had been blackened from the inside. Whether this was something Cornwell had done on purpose, prior to the breakage, or whether it had happened as the result of some out-of-control arcane explosion was impossible to tell from where he stood.

Energy crackled in the air. Something was happening, or had happened very recently, and it s.h.i.+vered over Donovan's scalp and down his spine in an electric tingle. Before advancing, he turned seven times in place and muttered a charm of protection. He had no idea what he'd be walking into, but he had no intention of finding out unprotected. He didn't fear Cornwell, but there were things Cornwell could have unleashed. Also, there was something not quite right about the entire scene. Donovan didn't know the renegade from any close a.s.sociation, so it was difficult to sort out the energies that rippled around him. He thought he sensed two distinct patterns.

There was no sense in lingering on the street. From the look of things, something had happened in the church, and it hadn't been very much before Donovan's arrival. If that were true, and whatever had happened had been loud or intrusive, there could be others arriving any moment. There would be police, and there would be locals. Even if they feared the place, they would come, and some of them, followers of Martinez, and others, wouldn't fear the place at all.

Donovan crossed the street to the front of the church. There were wards in place, glamours and cheap charms meant to cause ripples of fear and to start shadows dancing at the periphery of any intruder's vision. It was meant to frighten mundane visitors, or to distract those of incidental power. Donovan's protection charm deflected these easily, and he frowned.

The amount of energy he sensed in the cathedral wasn't in line with the level of magic he was encountering on the street. Whoever had set these protections was not particularly talented. In fact, he was downright sloppy. If Cornwell was behind them, then there was no telling what Donovan might face inside. Either someone else was involved, or Cornwell had gotten in way over his head. If he had, there was no way to gauge at what point things had gone south on him, or what forces might lurk within the shadowy cathedral.

Donovan hesitated at the door. He wished he had Cleo with him, or had thought to ask Amethyst to accompany him. He took a deep breath and crossed the threshold, quickly dodging to one side as he stepped through the door. As his eyes adjusted, he noted that there was still dust in the air from whatever had broken the windows. The light was dim, but adequate, and after a moment he was certain that no one was moving. Drawing the green crystal pendant from around his neck, he clutched it in one hand and inched forward slowly.

The carpet down the center aisle was worn, and the dust on it wasn't as thick. Someone had walked that way often. Most of the pews were clotted with debris and there was a musky, animal scent in the air that tasted of rot when he breathed. Most of the windows had blown out, and a light breeze wafted across the cathedral. It helped. Donovan wondered briefly how Cornwell, or anyone else, could have breathed in the place when the windows were still sealed.

In the rear, a hallway led back to what must have been the rectory. As Donovan approached the front row of pews, he noted that there were supplies stacked to either side of the center aisle. There were books, scrolls, vials and crates. Most of it had already gathered a light coat of dust, but there were signs that some of it had been used recently.

He snorted as he saw a pile of what looked like everyday Tupperware. With a glance at the back wall to be sure no one watched from the shadowed hall, he stepped closer. The plastic containers were labeled with the names of various common roots and powders. Donovan shook his head.

"Tupperware?" he asked no one in particular.

Turning from the supplies in the pews, he stepped forward and stood before the kneeling rail at the altar. Cobwebs dangled between the once polished wooden slats. The carpet had been scarlet, he thought, but had faded from moisture and ground in dirt to the color of dried blood.

Something lay sprawled on the floor beyond the altar, and Donovan was about to mount the short steps and have a look when the air above him exploded with sound. A high-pitched, keening cry rang out, accompanied by a rush of heavy wings. Donovan ducked left, spun, felt the wooden altar rail crumble under his weight and toppled to the side. Something sliced the air cleanly where his face had been, and without thought he etched a symbol in the air with the forefinger of his right hand and breathed a word through it.

There was a screech, a second flurry of sound, and then a heavy thump. Donovan braced himself on the floor with one hand, felt the damp, rotted carpet seep between his fingers and recoiled in disgust. He staggered upright and looked down at his attacker. It was a crow. It wasn't as large as the bird that had invaded his office, or as young. There were feathers missing here and there, and it was scrawny. It was either very old, hadn't eaten regularly, or both.

"Asmodeus," he said. He remembered what Amethyst had told him about Cornwell's familiar. If this was it, then Cornwell wasn't his man. No way was this the bird that had invaded his home and made off with Le Duc's journal.

He let his gaze slide up from the bird to the floor beyond the altar, and he stopped, standing very still. There was a body on the floor. It lay across the lines of a large circle of protection, arms stretched out to either side, and one leg bent at a nearly impossible angle.

Donovan stepped over the stunned bird. He was careful not to touch the body, or to cross the lines of the circle. The body had broken the plane those concentric lines represented, but the circle itself might still be active. He needed to study it and be sure. If he stepped in and whatever had been summoned was trapped on the other side, he might not be able to escape with his life.

There was something odd about the inert form, and Donovan frowned. He stepped closer and reached out with the toe of his boot to turn the face upward. What should have been a light enough tap to show him the fallen man's face sent the body sliding sideways and flipped it. Donovan stared.

Skin wrapped tightly around a framework of bone was all that remained of Alistair Cornwell. The empty sockets that had held the man's eyes glared up at Donovan sightlessly. Within moments, as if the stress of being moved was too much for it, the body began crumbling in on itself. First the flesh fell away, then, with a jittery vibration that might have been the wind catching something very dry and very light, the bones s.h.i.+fted and fell away to dust.

The bird fluttered weakly on the floor. The tiny gust of wind its wings stirred up caught the dust and sent it swirling up in a tiny spiral. It should not have been enough of a breeze for this; Donovan stepped back and watched carefully. The whirling cloud glinted in the illumination from a streetlight peeking in through one broken window, and then, with a sound like one of the tiny pockets of air in bubble wrap being popped, it disappeared into the shadows. Nothing remained but the circle.

Donovan examined this, and found that his fears had been unwarranted. Whatever had been contained by this circle, or kept at bay, was gone. There was a clean break in the white chalk like, as though something had been dragged across it. He frowned. Such a breach of another's protections was unthinkable. Even if the ritual had been a particularly dangerous one, the thing to do would have been to set up a second circle and contain the possible damage.

There was a small altar in the circle, and Donovan knelt to examine it. He took in the toppled bra.s.s cup, the colorful and worthless blade, and the two books, one on either side. One was older, and he picked this up first. When he realized what it was, he frowned. He thumbed through it to the point where the text ended.

He glanced down at the other book, where the cup had spilled its contents. He reached down gripped the tome gingerly by one corner and shook off the excess moisture. Walking back down to the first pew, he laid it out and glanced through it quickly. Most of the first part of the text had been obscured by a dark, blotchy stain, but he was able to make out enough to see what it was. Cornwell had tried to recreate the ritual in his own hand. Donovan read a few lines, shuddered, and glanced back at the circle. Had he done it? This was a powerful ritual. Had it just backfired, allowing the demon to drag its summoner back through the portal that was created, or was there a more sinister answer?

Donovan quickly inventoried what lay closest to the circle, and within it. Almost everything was there, the braziers, the candles, a variety of powders and the symbolic sacrificial cup and sword. There should have been more though. He turned back to the older book, flipped through the pages, and found what he wanted.

The wand was clearly pictured and not difficult to a.s.semble. a.s.suming that Cornwell had gathered the proper crystals, and the three flexible oak saplings, it would have been simple to create the instrument that was called for. Even a rank amateur would understand that there was a huge distinction between subst.i.tuting one item for another and leaving something out altogether. And if something were left out, it would not be the wand.

He turned back to the circle and began a search, moving in a spiral pattern, starting in the center and working outward. He was careful to check the corners, and the shadows. Whatever had blown the windows out of the cathedral had probably originated in or near the circle, and the wand could have been blown free. He found nothing, and after a quick look down and through the pews, he concluded that if the wand had existed, it had either been taken, or destroyed.

He turned to the rear of the cathedral and the hallway leading out and back. As he approached this, something in the aura of energy s.h.i.+fted. He stood very still for a moment, and then drew a flat piece of colored crystal from his pocket. He held this up to his eye, and studied the floor.

Small lines, like gossamer, floated in the air and trailed off down the hallway. Someone had pa.s.sed through there recently a someone with a great deal more talent and power than Cornwell had possessed. There was no way to tell what this other might have carried with them. Donovan stepped into the hall and something along the wall caught his eye.

He leaned down and plucked a single black feather from the dust. It gleamed blue-black, and he knew that, despite how it would look to the casual observer, this feather had not come from the ragged, decrepit old crow in the next room.

Donovan thought back to the winged intruder in his study, and his frown deepened. He could not imagine why, but he knew now that the wand had been taken. He'd have to look for a connection in Le Duc's journal when he returned to his office. For now, he had some quick cleanup to take care of, and not much time to do it.

He heard the distant wail of a siren. It could be that the locals had finally broken through their innate dislike and fear of the police and made the call the authorities. If the windows had just blown out, the sound might have alerted someone on patrol. It was possible that the sirens might not be headed his way at all. In any case, Donovan didn't want to be caught in the old cathedral. It would be awkward trying to talk his way out of such a situation, and even more awkward trying to charm them long enough to escape. Better not to be seen at all.

He walked quickly back inside and headed toward the pews. He couldn't leave all of Cornwell's supplies lying about. Some of what he'd gathered was dangerous in the wrong hands, and it was going to look d.a.m.ned strange to the police as it was.

He quickly sorted through the books and scrolls. Most of it was garbage, things that could be purchased in any mundane used bookstore, but there were bits and pieces of genuine material in the lot, and he wished he had enough time to go through it all carefully.

The powders and ingredients were easier. These he dumped on the floor and kicked away beneath the pews. Without the proper ritual and words to transform them, they were nothing more than herbs, dust and powder. No one would think twice about a homeless person leaving behind an empty pile of Tupperware.

The sirens grew louder, and he hurried. He gathered up all the crystals, books, parchments and odds and ends he could carry and hurried toward the rear of the church. When they arrived, they'd come to the front. If he hurried, he could be off and down the street before then. They wouldn't figure out what it was that had caused the explosion. They also wouldn't find any trace of the inhabitant. They'd get vague stories from the locals, but none that would help. They wouldn't be looking for a pile of dust, so there was no concern that they'd stumble across something important.

As he worked, the old crow tottered to its feet and glared at him. Donovan ignored it. The bird was a familiar, and though it looked ratty and time-worn, it would possess the intelligence to understand he wasn't the threat. Whoever had entered the cathedral and put an end to its master, that someone wasn't Donovan.

It watched balefully as he tied the parchments and books together into a bundle and wrapped them in an old cloak. There was no time to sort through it, so he packed anything and everything into the bundle that seemed potentially harmful, working quickly.

The sirens were just down the street, and there was no time left. He'd done what he could. With a last glance around the cathedral, he slung the bundled package over his shoulder and hurried toward the rear hall. Blue and white lights flashed on the street outside. A door slammed. Donovan ducked into the back hall. He saw dim light ahead, and knew it was the rear door. If the earlier intruder had been able to make it out that way, there was no reason to believe he couldn't follow.

There was a fluttering sound behind him, and he cursed. The bundle hampered his movements, and he was unable to turn before the bird reached him. It didn't attack this time, however. With a soft, forlorn caw, the battered creature landed on the bundle Donovan carried and hunkered down, digging in with its talons.

"Shoo!" Donovan said, trying not to raise his voice. "Get off there. Go on back. I don't have time for this."

He heard voices. The sound of radio static shattered the near silence, and the screech of tires on pavement announced the arrival of a second police cruiser. Donovan cursed again and ran the last few yards to the rear door. He stepped out into a shadowed parking lot. It was overgrown with vines and surrounded on three sides by a broken down fence. There were holes in this where others had crawled through before, and he studied them hurriedly, trying to choose which would best suit his needs.

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 flas.h.i.+ng 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 s.h.i.+fted 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 43rd Street and the blue and white flas.h.i.+ng 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 pa.s.sed 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 s.h.i.+fted 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 s.h.i.+mmer.

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 s.p.a.ce, 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 h.e.l.l 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 a.s.sault 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 that 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 a 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 a 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 a 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, s.h.i.+fted 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.