Vintage soul

FOURTEEN

It was just growing dark when Donovan slipped back into the alley outside Club Chaos and entered the phone booth. He dialed the code and moments later stepped into The Crossroads, glancing to his right, and to his left as he entered. He didn’t really fear trouble inside the bar, but he didn’t want any more surprises.

He’d come equipped for just about anything. Charms and pendants dangled beneath his dark shirt, and he had several objects of power tucked into the various folds and pockets of his jacket. It really wasn’t cold enough for a jacket — it was warm most of the year in San Valencez — but unless he intended to play super hero and wear a utility belt, he needed the extra storage. Many of the patrons of Club Chaos wore jackets, trench coats, or cloaks, so no one paid any attention as he stepped to the bar and took a seat.

There was only one other customer along the length of polished wood. The seer seemed to have found somewhere more interesting to ply her trade. Jasper Windham sat hunched over the polished bar with his long, cadaverous fingers wrapped around the base of a large glass tumbler. Amber liquid glinted through the glass, and when he turned to acknowledge Donovan’s arrival, glass clinked.

Donovan didn’t speak immediately. Though it was not going to slip past prying eyes that he was meeting with a collector, he didn’t see any reason to be more obvious than necessary. He sat down, caught the bartender’s attention, and ordered a brandy. When he had his drink, he took a sip, and then turned to Windham.

“The offer is still open?” he asked. “You’re sure?”

Windham nodded. Then he turned and met Donovan’s gaze. “There are others in the game now. That’s what he told me, anyway. He wouldn’t give out names, and I think he’s just telling tales to convince me to hurry and get what he wants, but he’s spreading the rumor that at least three others are considering his offer. If he’s telling the truth, and one of them gets to that grave first…”

“I understand,” Donovan said. “Do you know who these others are?”

“I’m not sure I believe any others are involved,” Windham replied. “If they are, then locally we have Craven and Gavin. Besides me, they are the only two I’m aware of who would have the necessary equipment and talent to pull it off. There are others who might try, but they’d either destroy the item in question, or get themselves destroyed in the process. It doesn’t seem likely this would be trusted to anyone less than reliable.”

“Have you contacted them?” Donovan asked.

“We aren’t in the habit of sharing information among ourselves,” Windham said. He laughed then, a cold, thin, raspy sound that rattled in his throat and reminded Donovan of dried leaves blowing in a frigid wind.

“I should have guessed,” he said, taking another sip of his drink.

Windham glanced at him again. “You sure you’re up to this? Maybe that dust is safer right where it is, if you know what I mean.”

“I have an assignment,” Donovan replied. “It’s important.”

“Rumor has it,” Windham continued, returning his gaze to his drink and twirling the nearly empty glass in slow circles, “that you’re after Johndrow’s woman. Are you working for the Elders again, DeChance?”

“Don’t believe everything you hear,” Donovan replied, wondering if Vein and his cronies had been nosing about and giving away too much information.

“Makes no difference to me, either way,” Windham replied. “It’s just this; I don’t think it would be good for any of us if that bone marrow dust gets into the wrong hands. I told you there are three of us who could get it, but none of us has. There are other rumors. I hear things about journals, and formulas that should never have been written down in the first place, and I worry.”

“I’ll get the dust,” Donovan said, taking a longer drink. “Don’t worry about that. “I won’t lose it once I have it, either. I’ve already had something of mine taken, and I intend to get that back as well. Did you bring what I asked?”

The collector nodded. He took another sip of his drink, hesitated, and then he reached into a deep pocket and pulled out a small amulet dangling from a silver chain. He held it out to Donovan as if reluctant to release it.

“What is it?” Donovan asked.

“It’s charmed,” Windham answered. Then he shrugged. “I don’t know exactly what it does. The only way to contact the buyer once you have what he’s looking for is for that amulet to touch the dust. Once the object is verified, the information on delivery and payment will be made available.”

Donovan stared at the small pendant. He considered taking it back to his apartment and testing it to see if he could break the charm. If the information he needed was already in his hand, it seemed foolish to take the added risk of breaking into a graveyard.

“I don’t think I’d try that, if I were you,” Windham said, guessing his thoughts. “I’ve seen one of these before, or something very much like it. It was a different time and place, but a similar charm. A collector that I knew tried to have the charm broken because he wanted to know who he was working for. He took it to a man trained in such things. When they broke the charm, they found a curse beneath it. Very nasty, that was.”

Windham didn’t have to go on. In such an instance, there would be no time to protect one’s self, or, even if you did find a way to do so, no way to prevent whatever other action the curse might entail. It wasn’t a chance Donovan wanted to take.

“Just touch that to the dust,” Windham repeated. “You’ll know what to do next.”

Donovan nodded. He tucked the amulet away in an inside pocket, and stood, draining his glass and wishing suddenly he had time for more than one. A bottle, maybe.

He pulled out his wallet and laid a bill on the table. In that same motion, he deposited an envelope in Windham’s lap. Again, no one was watching, and if they had been watching, they would have expected to see money change hands. Donovan had been known to use collectors in the past, and everyone was familiar with Windham. Still, Donovan erred on the side of caution. He turned and exited the bar without another word. He reached the street and headed east. The Shady Grove cemetery was outside of town at the halfway point between San Valencez and Lavender, California. It was several miles, and he had no time to make it on foot, but there were other ways.

He checked the street for prying eyes, found it vacant, and stopped in front of a dark stairway leading down from street level toward a brick wall. There was no apparent reason for this stairway, but he knew it well. He turned three times, took three steps down, climbed back two, and then descended. At the wall he stopped, and a door shimmered into view. He etched a symbol into the dust clotted on the glass pane that centered this door, and it opened with a mechanical sound reminiscent of large tumblers sliding into place — very large. The sound echoed. Donovan stepped through the doorway, and was gone. Where he’d passed, the brick wall stood solid, and grimy.

Johndrow listened as the phone rang for the tenth time, and then slowly lowered the receiver back into its cradle. It was his third attempt in as many minutes to reach DeChance. He wanted an update on Vanessa’s abduction, and he wanted to warn DeChance about Vein. Ever since the hotheaded young one had left, Johndrow had grown more and more certain he’d made a mistake in allowing it. He wanted to believe that all parties involved would keep Vanessa’s welfare in the forefront of their minds, but it was growing harder to believe it as true. He also wanted to feel as if he was a part of it all, as if he were doing more than sitting back on his heels and waiting while others fought his fight.

He knew Vein hadn’t been swayed by their talk, and in reality, he was glad the young ones had gone on the hunt; just sorry they’d gone alone. Maybe they were right. Maybe he was just getting old and complacent, and they didn’t need outside assistance to settle a matter like this. The blood bond was strong enough that Vein could probably track it to its source, and they were not without resources of their own, albeit darker and less magical in most cases than what DeChance offered.

He thought about calling Joel, but decided against it. There was nothing either of them could do, and if he got started talking about Vanessa he might never stop. He needed to keep his head clear, and he needed to be ready to act if the need arose. Until then, he needed to be able to do something much more difficult. He needed to wait.

A knock sounded lightly on his door.

“Enter,” he called out.

A thin young man stepped through the door. He kept his eyes downcast, but his voice was firm.

“There is a message for you, sir,” he said.

“Send them in,” Johndrow said.

“There is no messenger,” the young man replied. “Only this.”

He held out a dark bundle, and Johndrow, frowning, nodded toward his desk.

“Open it on there,” he said.

The young man complied, and they both stared. What hope Johndrow had faded, and he drew in his breath so sharply it sounded like a hiss.

On his desk, wrapped in a long, dark jacket, were five pairs of very dark sunglasses. Johndrow stepped forward, reached out, and then pulled his hand back. He didn’t need to touch them; he knew who had worn them last.

“Who brought these?” he asked sharply.

“It wasn’t a man, or a woman,” the boy replied. “The bundle was dropped from the eaves by a bird. A raven, I believe. When we retrieved it, it was tied with a red ribbon, and this note was attached.”

He held out a white note-card sized piece of paper, and Johndrow took it, flipping it over so that he could read the single word lettered across its back.

“Johndrow.”

“There was nothing more?” he asked.

The young one shook his head. “Nothing, sir. What shall we do?”

“There is nothing we can do,” Johndrow said. He swore under his breath and crushed the card in his hand. “Nothing but wait.”

The young man’s eyes glittered, but he held his silence, and a moment later he turned on his heel and left the room. Johndrow watched his retreating back for a moment, then glanced down at the sunglasses and shuddered.

“Where are you, DeChance?” he asked the night. “Where in hell have you gone?”