Vintage Soul (25 page)

Donovan didn't move for several moments.
 
He watched carefully, letting his gaze slide along the base of the mist wall he'd created, but there were no breaks.
 
It was solid, and complete.
 
He placed the powder carefully back in his pocket and drew out another bag.
 
This one was slightly larger.
 
From within he quickly unpacked four small braziers for the compass points, which he placed, filled with scented powder,
 
and lit, each with a short invocation to the archangels, Earth, Fire, Air and Water.
 
The last was spirit, but he would not invoke that name until he was ready to open the grave.

A rustle in the air caught his attention.
 
He glanced up and saw that the crow, Asmodeus, slowly circled within the perimeter.
 
He hadn't realized the creature had bonded with him so closely in such a short time, but it was good to see him there.
 
It meant the ward was complete, and he could begin; there was no way the crow could have found him unless it had traveled dimensions.
 
The spell he'd just woven cut him off from Shady Grove, and the other graves, but it did considerably more than that.
 
It removed the small plot of ground within the circle from the dimension it normally inhabited and placed it in a sort of limbo, where he could do what he needed to do.
 
The crow had come to him in this other place, and was trapped as surely as those beyond the mist were impeded as long as the circle held.
 
When he was done, he would seal the grave, break the circle and the dimensions would snap back into place.

If someone stood in Shady Grove and stared at the spot where Father Vargas' grave had been moments before, they would see a mist that clung low and heavy on the ground, and grass.
 
Leaves would blow across the space, and if they stepped on that patch of ground, it would be solid and unmarked.
 
It might be bad if they were still standing there when Donovan released the ward, but it was a chance he had to take.
 
The spell insured privacy, and if he was going to act quickly, he'd need all of that he could manage.

He drew a dagger from his pocket next.
 
It had a large, carved obsidian hilt.
 
This was in the form of a Celtic equal-armed cross.
 
The grip was inside a circular hand guard and required the insertion of one finger through a round gap in the arm of the cross nearest the blade.
 
Donovan plunged it into the earth to one side of the grave and began to slowly draw the blade in a rectangular pattern around the exterior of the space where the coffin rested, presumably six feet down and rotting.
 
He had no way of knowing how large Father Vargas had been, so he allowed for a very large, ornate coffin.
 
It took another ten minutes, but eventually he slid the blade back across the first point where he'd jammed it into the soil.

He lifted it free, held it up before him so that he gazed at the surrounding mist through the circle and the cross, and closed his eyes.

“Father Antoine Vargas,” he said in a firm voice.
 
“Rise and face me.
 
Release the earth, as the earth releases you in turn. “

Donovan leaned in, slammed the blade dead center in the rectangle he'd drawn, and then stepped back quickly.
 
Asmodeus sensed the shift in energies and dove from the air to land with a heavy thump on Donovan's shoulder.

At first all that happened was a gentle vibration in the ground beneath his feet.
 
He watched intently, and the hilt of the dagger shook slowly, and then faster, as if some unseen hand gripped it beneath the soil and was flailing back and forth with increasing violence.
 
The dagger shimmered as its motion picked up speed, and in only a few moments it reached an odd, thrumming harmonic that matched the vibration from below.
 
Donovan stood very still, though he felt the frequency of the shivering, pulsing energy battering at his thoughts and his heartbeat.

The sod split at the point where the dagger pierced it.
 
The ground rippled outward in four directions, toward the corners of the rectangular pattern he'd drawn.
 
Soil and the grass curled back and something long and dark rose, very slowly, cresting the break in the earth like a huge spacecraft hovering just beyond the curve of the horizon.
  
Where the ground peeled back, it hardened and remained very still.

The casket was worn.
 
Whatever finish had protected it was long eaten away by moisture and worms.
 
For all that, it was amazingly intact.
 
Donovan stepped closer and placed his palms flat on the lid.
 
He spoke softly and curled his thumbs under the lip.
 
With a quick motion he lifted, and the wood parted.
 
There was a groan, and the sound of rotted planks tearing free from one another as ancient glue cracked and the wooden pegs binding the joints of the casket parted with a snap.
 
The lid flipped up and back and Donovan leaned in.

There wasn't much time.
 
He knew that his opening of the ground in this “between” spot – dragging the bit of earth and the casket out of their own dimension – would attract attention.
 
Any large release of magical force caused ripples and waves, and this was a larger than normal shift.
 
There were plenty of dangers other than human guards and thieving collectors, and most of them were deadly.

He leaned in over the casket and nearly fell back in shock.
 
There were no bones.
 
There was no body.
 
Instead, placed near the middle of the casket, and supported on all sides by ragged velvet, a large ceramic urn rested.
 
It was sealed by red wax along the seam of its lid, and the sides were decorated in very complex and well-rendered patterns, depicting the lives of the saints.
 
He hadn't expected the body to have been burned – it wasn't something The Church did, particularly not back in the days of Vargas' death. There must have been more to the story that
Windham
had failed to discover, or that he'd kept to himself for his own reasons.

In any case, there was no time to worry over it.
 
The dust he needed could be extracted from the ashes, and this actually made his task simpler.
 
He'd intended to remove the dust and seal it away immediately, but now things had changed.
 
He could simply take the urn, replace the empty casket, and be on his way.

He gripped the urn and lifted.
 
At first it resisted.
 
The cloth was very old, and had grown moist, despite the sealed casket.
 
It had expanded and begun to rot around the base of the urn, forming a sort of gluey substance.
 
He yanked again, and it came free.
 
There was a stench of wet, rotten cloth and damp earth.
 
Donovan placed the urn on the ground.
 
He stepped around the hole in the ground, gripped the lid, which hung precariously from its ancient hinges, and heaved it up and over so that it fell back across the casket with a dull thud.
 

The dagger remained imbedded in the ground.
 
There was no hesitation in the descent.
 
The coffin snapped back to where it belonged as if held on some great elastic strap that had just been released.
 
The earth rolled back over the top with a roar.
 
In less than the span of time it takes to draw in a quick breath, the ground was smooth and unbroken.
 
The implosion of force left Donovan momentarily stunned, but he recovered quickly. When the earth folded back to allow the coffin to rise, it had curled over, and he was able to grasp the blade firmly and slide it free.

As he did so, he took half a step back.
 
He didn't want to risk stepping through the circle and breaking the ward. He sensed forces moving about him.
 
Voices whispered just beyond the ring of mist, dark sibilant voices speaking in a myriad of forgotten tongues.
 
Something sizzled and snapped, like the strike of a bolt of lightning.
 
He dove across the re-sealed grave and reached for the urn, already forming the words in his mind that would protect him as he burst through the mist and broke the circle.

He reached down and his fingers brushed the surface of the urn, but another pair of hands was a fraction quicker.
 
They were sheathed in dark, skin-tight gloves. Donovan cried out and tried to snatch the urn, but at that moment another dark gloved hand shot through the mist.
 
This one connected solidly with Donovan's chin, and he staggered back.
 
There was a hiss like the release of steam from an iron, and the mist surrounding him was sucked suddenly from the air.
 
Donovan called out the words of protection and prayed they weren't too late.

The mist cleared, and he turned to see dark shapes hurrying away toward the back gate of the cemetery.
 
One of them held the urn clutched tightly to his chest.
 
They moved with eerie speed.
 
He poised himself to follow, recovering his balance quickly.
 
The crow, which had remained on his shoulder throughout this encounter, took off with a screech and flurry of wings.
 
Donovan cursed, came up against the stone cross that marked Vargas' now empty grave with one knee and dropped to the ground in pain.

He staggered to his feet and started to limp away from the grave, forgetting the braziers, still burning with incense and all the evidence of his presence.
 
He'd intended to be very certain there was nothing new to draw attention to the cemetery, but the sharp sound of a round being chambered drew him up short.
 
He raised his hands and turned, very slowly.

An old man stood, watching him across two graves marked only by stones set into the earth, his hand steadied on the outstretched wing of a marble angel.
 
The barrel of the gun was leveled at Donovan's chest.
 
The old man's hand shook slightly.
 
He was as frightened as his captive was irritated.

“You just stand there, real still,” the man said.
 
“I'm going to pull the radio off my belt and call my partner over here, and he's going to call the police.
 
You're going to stay right where you are until they get here.
 
This is private property, and you're trespassing.”

The man glanced down at the still smoking braziers.
 

“What did you think you were going to do? Raise the dead?”

Under other circumstances, Donovan would have laughed.
 
He kept his hands up over his head, and met the man's gaze levelly.

“You don't want to shoot me, friend,” he said softly.
 
“You don't want to shoot anyone.
 
I'm not hurting anything here.”

“I was here a few years back,” the guard replied, not lowering his weapon.
 
“I saw what folks who deal with this kind of thing,” he reached out with one booted foot and kicked over the brazier closest to him, “can do.
 
Don't tell me there's no harm in it, I know better.
 
Don't give me a reason to pull this trigger.”

Donovan cursed under his breath.
 
There was no time for this.
 
It was probably already too late to catch whoever had stolen the urn, but he might still be able to follow their back trail.
 
He still had the amulet necessary to complete the deal – unless they had one of their own.

There was a sudden rush of sound.
 
Something cried out, very close, and very loud, and instinctively Donovan hit the dirt.
 
The .45 fired, and the bullet whipped just above him.
 
There was a grunt, and a cry of surprise, but Donovan didn't stop to see what had happened.
 
He knew Asmodeus had returned, but he didn't know how much the bird had disrupted the guard's concentration.
 
He rolled to the side, leaped to his feet, and took off at a dead run for the back gate.
 
A few moments later he heard a feeble call to stop, but he ignored it. The guard had apparently come to his senses and realized he'd probably better not shoot someone for the crime of trespassing, particularly not in the back.

It was only a matter of moments until the man's partner showed up, but it didn't matter.
 
The gate was not only still unlocked, but the others who'd passed through had tossed the chain and lock aside and left one half of the huge gates hanging open.
 
Donovan cut through the gap and headed back down the path toward the old barn.
 
The crow flew just above his head and a couple of feet behind.
 
It cried out to him, but for the moment he ignored it.
 
He knew it was there, just as he'd known, when the guard was struck.
 
Twice now Asmodeus had come to his aid.
  
Donovan would have preferred Cleo's company – he was more familiar with her, and she'd been with him for so long the two of them often acted as a single entity, but the crow had a way of growing on a person.