Vintage Soul (5 page)

Donovan raised his whiskey tumbler and took a sip.
 
As he did so, the violet light from the lamp pulsed.
 
It flared more brightly for a moment, and then returned to its normal glow.
 
Donovan turned and stared at it with a slight frown.
 
He placed his glass on the table beside his seat, shooed Cleo from his lap, and stood.

He was six-foot three inches tall with broad shoulders and an athletic build.
 
His long dark hair swept back over his shoulders in waves, and when the light caught his eyes, they flashed a violet shade of their own.
 
His clothing, dark pants, a rather ornate jacket over a shirt open at the neck to reveal several chains that disappeared beneath, and dark, polished boots might have seemed eccentric or affectatious on most men, archaic on others, but not on Donovan.
 
He wore them like a second skin.
  
He didn't move quickly, but his motions were deceptively graceful.
 
The lamp pulsed a final time, and then settled back to its normal violet hue.
 
Donovan, who had crossed the room in that space of time, reached for the ornate knob of his outer door.

Behind him, Cleo leaped back to the seat of his chair and bounded up to the back cushion.
 
She seated herself and began to wash her face casually.
 
Donovan heard the thump as she came to rest, and knew she was watching.
 
It was good to know she had his back.

A soft chime rang, and Donovan opened the door before the sound could die.
 
He liked to have the advantage over visitors, and knowing they were at the door before they rang the bell was one method of achieving this.
 
This particular time, his effort was wasted.

A very thin apparition stood in the hall outside the door, and he – it – held a thick, ornate envelope in one hand.
 
At least Donovan assumed it was a hand.
 
The robes concealed the messenger's features, so that it was impossible to tell if it was a man, or a woman, or if there was anything below the billowing cloak at all.
 
Donovan thought he caught a flash where the eyes should be, but it was impossible to be certain.
 
The same was true of the point where the envelope dangled from the creature's arm.
 
If there was a hand clutching it, that hand was concealed beneath the dark material, and Donovan was fairly certain that, either way, he just didn't want to know.

“Good evening,” he said.
 
He held the door open slightly, filling the gap with his own form.
 
The messenger said nothing.
 
It wavered slightly and extended the envelope.

Donovan frowned.
 
No verbal message.
 
He reached out and accepted the envelope.
 
The second he touched the paper, whatever force had held it evaporated.
 
Donovan stepped back with a start as the
cowled
form disintegrated into a cloud of black dust.
 
It maintained the vague form of a man, just for an instant, and then whirled into a funnel that resembled a small tornado before roaring down the hall in a rush of wind.
 
Donovan's hair lifted from his shoulder, and a sensation like being pricked with ice cubes danced down his spine.
 
He glanced at the envelope, frowned again, and stepped back into his apartment, closing the door behind him.
 
As many times as he'd received such deliveries, the sensation of unease they caused never diminished.

Cleopatra regarded him cautiously from her perch atop his arm chair, but he ignored her, stepped around his desk, and sat down.
 
He dropped the envelope into the soft pool of light from the lamp and stared at it.
 
His name was carefully penned across the center of the envelope.
 
There was no name attached to the return address, but he knew it well enough.
 
The envelope was standard stationary from the Bloodstone Financial Group, and he only knew one member of the administration of that fine institution.
  
He kept most of his valuables in the institutions vault, but somehow he didn't believe this missive related to his personal account.

Donovan pushed his keyboard and mouse aside to reveal an intricately carved design on the wooden desktop that covered most of the wooden surface.
 
It was a circle within a circle, the outer of which brushed the bottom and top edges of the desk and curved just inside the lamp.
 
Between the two concentric lines, symbols had been carved.
 
Within the center circle, an eight pointed star stretched so that each of its longer points, north, south, east and west, touched the ring.
 
Smaller points bisected the joint of each of the longer tines.

He placed the envelope in the center of the circle, and then reached into a drawer to his right and pulled out four small metal braziers.
 
He placed them at the four large points of the star.
 
Next he filled each with a small measure of powder.
 
He laid a tiny, ornately decorated dagger in the circle beside the envelope, and cleared everything else from the desk.
 
He muttered a name under his breath and touched the tip of his right index finger to the powder in the first brazier.
 
It caught, blazed brightly for just a second, and then faded to a deep orange glow.
 
Tendrils of smoke rose, scenting the air with sandalwood.
 

Donovan repeated the process with the other three braziers, chanting a different name each time.
  
When all four were lit the smoke whirled, trapped between the two carved circles.
 
The symbols, and the desk, were obscured from view, and as Donovan sat back and concentrated, the envelope floated into the air as if plucked by invisible hands.
 
Donovan's hands mimicked the motion.
 
He then reached down and lifted an invisible dagger from the air.
 
The dagger in the circle rose at the same time, and he wasted no time pressing the thin blade beneath the flap of the envelope and slicing it open.
 

The dagger floated back to the desktop, and the paper within the envelope slid out, then unfolded to float about an inch above the circling smoke.
 
Donovan shifted slightly so that the violet light from the lamp caught the paper just right.
 
The first thing he noted was at the top of a list of signatures at the bottom of the letter.
 
It was signed, Preston Johndrow.
 
Beneath Johndrow's bold script were nine other signatures, including that of Joel Bloodstone himself.
 

Donovan knew Johndrow, though the two were not close.
 
He'd performed a few tasks for the council in the past, and though he was never fully comfortable in their presence, he respected their power and authority.
 
In any case, they were not wizards, and though they employed a small army in the name of security, it was not likely they would resort to a cursed letter if they intended Donovan harm.
 

He snuffed the braziers with a quick gesture of one hand.
 
He slid them aside with the tip of the dagger too cool and placed the blade itself back in the drawer.
 
Then he leaned over the desk to read.
 
It was not a long letter; the facts were laid out quickly and with a slightly shakier hand than the signature beneath them.
 
Donovan scanned the note quickly, and then read it over a second time more slowly.
 
When he reached the part about Stine's death he stopped and frowned.

Donovan knew the small wizard by reputation.
 
Whoever, or whatever, had brought off this kidnapping was no slouch.
 
Stine was not only old and powerful, but he was a stickler for detail.
 
If his defenses were breached, there were only two ways it could have happened.
 
Either someone, or something extremely well versed in stealth and combat had crashed that party, or it was an inside job.
 
No ordinary wizard – and certainly none of the death-challenged guests at the party could have breached a gnomish defense shield, even if security had been light with only Stine himself present.
 
There had been no reason to expect trouble for many years, and things had grown slack in some quarters, but not with Stine.
  
Every job was as important as the last, and the next.
 
The security firm's motto was “Nothing lost, ever.”
 
Donovan wondered if they'd be changing that now.

Cleo leaped down from the chair and padded across the floor.
 
With a quick, graceful leap she landed on the desktop beside the lamp, narrowly avoiding sending the small braziers tumbling in all directions.
 
Donovan looked up at her.

“What is it, Cleo?
 
More company?”

Donovan glanced at the lamp, and it flared so suddenly and so brilliantly that he was blinded.
 
He dropped the letter and drove back from the desk, cursing.
 
As the flash of light faded from the room, Donovan recovered and scanned it quickly.
 
Nothing seemed out of place, but he had only a fraction of a second to take it in. The room went dark.
 
The lamp hummed.
 
There was still a faint glimmer of radiance from the bulb, and for an instant it tried to rekindle and blaze, but its effort failed.

The fire, which had snapped and popped merrily only moments before was silent.
 
Warmth fled with the light, and Donovan felt as if he'd been doused in ice water.
 

As the room went dark, Donovan crab-walked to the side as quickly and silently as he could manage.
 
He drew up with his back tight to one of the book cases.
 
He remained there, immobile and silent, waiting. Sweat rolled down his collar and he repressed a shiver as cold sweat slicked his arms and chest.
 
Salty drops rolled into the corners of his eyes, burning, but he kept them open, and he remained still.

Cleo meowed mournfully across the room, but he made no move to find, or comfort her.
 
Donovan held his breath and concentrated.
 
With no light, his eyes were useless, so he closed them and concentrated his other senses.
 
His heart pounded loudly, and he worked on calming it.
 
He needed silence.
 
Cleo meowed again, and he let out a slow breath.
 
Whoever it was hadn't found or harmed the cat.

At first he heard nothing; then it came.
 
A whistling, whining sound echoed down the chimney, low at first, but rising in pitch and volume until, within moments, it was so loud he had to cover his ears against the pain.
 
With hearing cut off, he instinctively opened his eyes.

The fireplace flashed with flaming light, and Donovan dove around his desk, rolled once and spun.
 
As he rolled, he drew one of the talismans that hung about his neck free and held it in front of his face.
 
Still blind from the flash, he couldn't see it, but he knew he had the right one by touch.
  
Cleo brushed his back and curled around him, hissing at the fireplace, and Donovan blinked, trying desperately to regain his sight.

Then the whining died to a hiss, and, as his vision cleared, Donovan saw it.
 
A white, flaming face hovered just above the logs in the fireplace.
 
The face was featureless with the exception of two black pits that served as eyes.
 
The flames burning around them made them look like lumps of fiery coal.
 
As Cleo flattened herself against Donovan's back and dug her claws into the carpet, the face began to speak.

The burning coal eyes of the hovering face glared out of the fireplace, but there was no sign of further intrusion.
 
Calming himself, Donovan mentally ran over his defenses.
 
The fireplace should have been safe against such an invasion as this.
 
Donovan had placed the wards himself, and he checked them regularly.
 
He had plenty of enemies, and they possessed a variety of powers.
 
There were further magical barriers still in place between the fire and the rest of the room, but this was no time to check their efficiency, if he could avoid it.

The talisman he'd drawn from the front of his shirt and gripped tightly in his hand was a powerful one.
 
Instead of attempting to foil one or another type of magic, it was designed to reflect whatever was cast upon it, magnified.
 
It had saved his skin more than once in such an encounter, and was always the first thing he reached for.

 
Donovan had purchased the charm from a young man and his wife, who was considerably older; by centuries.
 
The talisman had been purchased from a gnomish wizard named Tobias Langston in a small shop down town.
 
The woman had been trapped in a crystal until she agreed to wed Langston, which she never would have done.
 
Only the accidental sale of this talisman to the young man had helped to free her.
 
Ironically, Langston sold the talisman because he was unable to determine its abilities.
 
Every time he cast a discovery spell on it, his mind was filled with nothing more than the desire to know what the talisman was.