Vintage Soul (11 page)

“I'm listening,”
Windham
said.
 
His whispery voice was almost lost in the soft jazz.
 
It dropped into the conversation like a ghost lyric behind the saxophone.

“I think he's looking for bone marrow dust,” Donovan said, getting straight to the point.
 
“But not just any dust.
 
This would be from a very particular bone, and a very difficult donor.
 
I'm not going to give you any more details until I know where we stand, but I bet I've said enough.”

Something flickered across
Windham
's expression, just for a moment, and then he sat still and silent as stone again.
  
Donovan sipped his whiskey, and waited.

“I might have heard something,”
Windham
said at last, turning back to his beer.
 
He spoke quickly and kept his head down, muffling his words further with the proximity of the polished wood bar, and punctuating his words with quick sips of cold beer.
 
“No one contacted me directly, you understand, but there is a general call out on the street, if you know where to find such requests– very handsome wages, I might add – for such an item.
 
It's difficult, and the last I'd heard no one has attempted to fill the order. Whoever does won't have to work for some time to come, but the risks…”

“Assuming we're talking about the same item,” Donovan said, “how many sources would there be – locally?”

Windham glanced at him, trying to read his intentions, then replied with a shrug.

“One.” He said, dropping some of the secrecy.
 
“There is only one such grave within a hundred miles.
 
It's in the older section of the
Shady
Grove
Cemetery
, between here and Lavender.
 
I'm sure you're familiar with the location.”

Donovan nodded.
 
There had been all sorts of strange occurrences at the particular graveyard
Windham
had named.

“That place is pretty well guarded,” he said.
 
“I can see how the job could be complicated.”

“Are you looking, too?”
Windham
asked.

“I'm looking, but not for someone to do the work,” Donovan replied.
 
“I want to see to it that the one who is seeking it doesn't come into possession of this particular item.”

“He won't get it from me,”
Windham
said with a shrug.
 
“I doubt he'll find a collector in the city who'd go for it.
 
There's too much chance of getting caught, and the records for that section of the graveyard are sketchy.
 
It might take hours just to find the right grave, and what if someone took him long ago?
 
There's no way to tell without digging him up, unless you're a necromancer, and no one wants to attract attention.”

“That's understandable,” Donovan replied.
 
“You're certain these bones … meet the criteria?”

“Absolutely,”
Windham
said without hesitation.
 
“On that much the records are solid.
 
The grave belongs to Father Antoine Vargas.
 
He was one of the first priests to serve at the Cathedral of San Marcos, by the Sea.
 
I'm sure you know the place?”

“I've seen it,” Donovan said.

“Father Antoine was, apparently, very sensitive to demons.
  
He was retired at an early age by the church for performing exorcisms.
 
This would make him unsuitable, except that the first few of these ceremonies were sanctioned by The Church.
 
The records I found show that he was unaccountably successful in these rituals, though the church never acknowledged it.
 
He made quite a stir in other parts of the city at the time.”

Donovan nodded thoughtfully.
 
“Why is it so difficult to find his grave, then?”

“He was not in favor with the church for the last decade of his life.
 
Apparently, despite the success rate his exorcisms claimed, The Church didn't like the idea that there could be such a concentrated, acknowledged burst of evil in one place.
 
He was replaced with another and given a small cottage by the beach and enough money to live off of, which it seems he used little of before one of his rituals finally claimed him.
 
The grave was paid for by parishioners – not by the church – and it is marked only with a flat stone.
 
The inscription, according to my sources, reads simply ‘Gone to God.'

“Of course, locating the grave is the least of the problems,”
Windham
sighed.
 
It was obvious he would have loved to accept this particular assignment, and Donovan had to fight back the frown that threatened to crease his brow.

“You said the price for this job was high,” he said, controlling his voice.
 
“How open is the call?”

Windham glanced up at him sharply.

“You aren't thinking about horning in on the business?” he asked.
 
His voice had grown suddenly shrewd, and sharp.

Donovan laughed and took another sip of his whiskey.
 
He turned fully in his seat to face the thin, cadaverous man beside him.

“Not a chance,” he said flatly.
 
“I like what I do just fine.
 
I have only two reasons for being here.
 
The first is to see that this thief doesn't acquire what he needs to complete a particular ritual, and the second, if possible, is to find out who he is.
 
If I had what he needed, he'd have to come to me again, wouldn't he?”

“I suppose he would, at that,”
Windham
said, nodding thoughtfully.
 
“I'm not going after this one, in any case.
 
Security is tight on that graveyard, and though there are always ways around it, most of them are too costly and difficult to make it worth my while.
 
I'd have to cut someone else in…”

He glanced at Donovan shrewdly.

“It won't be for sale when I'm done,” Donovan growled.

It was
Windham
's turn to laugh.
 
“Can't blame me for thinking about it.
 
I'll keep checking, but last I heard, most of the collector's felt the same as I do.
 
It's too risky.
 
We figure he'll have to go out of state, maybe out of the country to get what he needs, and that could take a long time.”

“He doesn't strike me as very patient,” Donovan said.
 
“My guess is that if he can't get someone else to collect this for him, he'll go himself.
 
He's certainly got the skill.
 
I don't suppose you'd just tell me who it is and save me the trouble?”

Windham drained his beer and stood.

“I'd love to help you,” he said, “but the call that went out is anonymous.
 
The instructions are clear, and payment is secured through a third party – one I won't be naming – but I doubt even he knows the face of the buyer.
 
I guess your new friend knows you're coming.”

“I'd be disappointed if he thought otherwise,” Donovan said.
 
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, folded wad of bills.
 
He peeled two off the end and held them between his thumb and forefinger.

“If you hear anything more about this, I want to know.
 
If someone else takes the challenge, even if they fail, or if your contacts happen to notice a particular order going through channels out of state, I want to know about it.
 
Don't wait, send a messenger.
 
If the information is good, I'll double the usual fee.”

“I told you,”
Windham
said softly, slipping the bills from between Donovan's fingers and sliding them into the pocket of his trench coat.
 
“I don't deal in information.”

“Still,” Donovan flashed a smile that wasn't quite a smile, and
Windham
nodded.

Donovan watched as the thin man turned away and scuttled to the door.
  
It spun and he was gone.
 
No one looked up at his passing.

Donovan turned back to the bar and paid for the two drinks.
 
He had what he needed, now it was time to put it to use before his window of opportunity – and Vanessa's – closed.

He turned to the door, but before he could step away from the bar, it swung open.
 
A pale figure in a dark sports coat, mirrored glasses that mocked the shadows, and dark hair stepped from the booth.
 
He was followed in quick succession by four others, each so much like the last that they might have been pressed from the same mold.

Donovan spared them only a glance, and then headed for the door.

“DeChance?” the thin, dark man said.
 
It was inflected like a question, but Donovan knew better.

Donovan glanced up and, as he drew nearer to the man who'd spoken, he saw it was a vampire.
 
More correctly, it was five of them.
 
They all appeared to be in their early to mid twenties, but Donovan knew better than to make age assumptions in such a situation.
 
He stopped and smiled as politely as he could manage while sizing them.

“I'm Donovan DeChance, yes,” he said at last.
 
“You are?”

“Just call me Vein,” the slender young vampire said.
 
“That's what everyone calls me.”

“Vain?”

“You heard me.”
 
The vampire stepped closer, but Donovan held his ground.
 
None of these had the aura of age that Johndrow and the elders possessed, and he suspected most of them were not long in “the blood.”
 

“How can I help you…Vein?” Donovan asked.

“We know you've been hired to find Vanessa,” Vein replied coldly.
 
“We don't think much of that decision.
 
We've decided to take the matter into our own hands, and we've come to find out what you know.”

“Does Johndrow know you're here?”

Vein hesitated, and Donovan had his answer.
 
“I didn't think so,” he said.
 
“Well, since he hired me – and you didn't – and I don't know who the hell you are, vanity aside, I don't see how I can help you.”

“Oh, you'll help me,” Vein replied.
 
“If you don't tell me what I want to know there are other ways I can get the information – and there are other uses for one of your…vitality.”

Donovan chuckled.
 
“You're kidding me, right?
 
First off, son, even Johndrow knows better than to confront me like this.
 
You are out of your league. In fact, what are you, a hundred?
 
A little more?
 
You aren't even old enough to address me without calling me sir.”

Vein took a step forward, and the others spread out at his shoulders, glaring at Donovan from beneath their own dark shades.
 

“What are you guys, The Men in Black?” Donovan asked dryly.
 
“Area 51 isn't too far…head down Highway 5 and cut across on Interstate 10 – you can't miss it.”

“You're a funny man,” Vein said.
 
“I didn't know that about you.”

“This is a lot of fun,” Donovan said, steeling himself, “but I really do have to get going.
 
I have a job to do, as you well know, and I doubt very seriously if the Council of Elders would appreciate you wasting their money by getting in my way.
 
If you'll excuse me?”

The five who had spread out closed in around him and Donovan slid his hand into his pocket, wrapping his fingers around the crystal pendant coiled there.
 
He hadn't expected such an encounter, and hadn't really prepared for it, but he always carried basic defenses.

A shadow flickered across the wall behind the five.
 
Donovan followed the motion with his eyes, but didn't move his head.
 
It happened again, and he breathed more easily.
 
Vein and the others hadn't noticed, but behind them, to either side of the strange entrance to The Crossroads, hulking, shadowy figures had materialized.
 
They might have stepped from the wall their entrance was so sudden, and so silent.
 
Donovan wanted to know how they did it, but he knew better than to inquire into it too closely.
 
It wasn't any of his business, and in situations like the one confronting him, it was a godsend.
 
There would be no ‘altercation' in the club today, or any day.
 
It was part of the club's appeal.