Vintage Soul (18 page)

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 shifted 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 brass 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 assemble.
 
Assuming 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 substituting 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 shifted.
 
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 passed through there recently – 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 damned 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.