Vintage Soul (15 page)

“I'll see you soon then,” he said, giving her a hug.
 
Amethyst turned and disappeared into the phone booth in a flash of sun-drenched quartz, and Donovan glanced at the bar a final time.
 
He eyed the bartender, took in the stolid, uninterested expression and the noncommittal tilt of the man's jaw, and then shrugged.
 
Who else was he going to ask?

“Excuse me,” Donovan said, taking a seat at the bar, “I was wondering if you'd seen a friend of mine in here recently?”

“Depends,” the bartender said, still polishing the glass in his hand carefully.
 
“I've seen you with several people today, but it's hard to tell if they're your friends from back here.”

“Fair enough,” Donovan said.
 
“I was thinking of one person in particular.
 
I think I've seen him here before, but I can't remember when.
 
His name is Cornwell, Alistair Cornwell.
 
I've been trying to find him all day, but he seems to have disappeared.”

The bartender didn't look up from his work at all.

“No one is friends with that one,” he said.
 
“He isn't welcome here.”

“Then you've seen him?” Donovan asked, trying not to sound eager.

“About a week ago was the last time,” the bartender said.
 
“Had to have him eighty-sixed.”

“I don't suppose you have any idea where he'd be staying, then,” Donovan asked.

“I never talked to the guy except to mix his drinks,” the bartender said, glancing up at last, “but I hear things.
 
I always hear things.
 
Most of those things I keep to myself.
 
It's bad for business to get a reputation for telling secrets.”

Donovan sensed that no response was expected, so he waited in silence.

“This guy, though,” the bartender shook his head.
 
“Good riddance, I say.
 
If you're trying to find him, I hope he isn't really your friend.”

Donovan continued to hold his silence.

“He has that old church on the east side,” the bartender said with a shrug of his own.
 
“Out near the barrio?
 
It's been vacant for years; he bought it and fixed it up some.
 
That's what he said when he came in; anyway, you can take it for what it's worth.”

“I know the place,” Donovan said, nodding.
 
“I thought it would have fallen down or been demolished by now.”

“The city won't do it,” the barman growled.
 
“Some kind of historic monument or something.
 
They won't tear it down, and now that your buddy owns it, I suppose it will never be fixed up either.
 
Just an eyesore.”

“Maybe I'll see if I can do my civic duty,” Donovan said, leaving a ten on the bar and rising.
 
“I think I'll go pay old Alistair a visit.”

The barman
slid
the bill off the bar and into a pocket without seeming to move.

“Give him my regards,” he said.
 
“He was a lousy tipper.”

Donovan grinned, winked, and for the second time headed through the phone booth and into the alley.
 
This time it was empty, and he made his way to the streets without meeting a soul.
 
Things were looking up.

TEN

There is a line that divides the city of
San Valencez
cleanly, though it isn't marked on any legitimate map.
 
Though there is no clear indicator that you have passed from one part of the city and into the other, there are rules and borders, and the citizens of both halves of the whole abide by the former and remain on the proper side of the latter.

The barrio begins at the
42
^nd
St.
overpass, caked in dust and decorated in neon spray paint and a wide array of gang colors.
 
The Dragons, and Los Escorpiones,
Comancheros
and the East Side Kings, all have left their mark at one time or another.
 
No one gang owns the gateway, but they all guard it.

One building stands directly on the line, half on one side, and half on the other, as it has always stood. The Cathedral of St. Elian stares out over the barrio on one side with blank, sightless windows for eyes.
 
The walls are unmarked by graffiti, but ill-treated by time.
 
On the other side the sunlight glares off grimy glass so brightly it reflects a grimy parody of the outside world back at itself.

In earlier times this Cathedral was neutral ground.
 
Every Sunday families from either side of the odd, cultural line of demarcation that marked entrance to the “other side of the tracks” came to worship.
 
They sang hymns and harmonized.
 
They tithed and raised funds to buy a larger bell to be housed in the steeple, and funded missionary work.
 
Then, slowly, as the “good” side of the city drew back, leaving empty streets and vacant homes, and the “other” side grew thick with families and children, overpopulated and angry like a swarming hive of humanity, the church faltered.

Without the funding provided by more well-to-do parishioners, the upkeep of the massive building became a burden on the community, and on The Church in
Rome
.
 
Typically, The Church backed out first.
 
For years the building was home to a parade of faith- healers and evangelists, spiritualists and charlatans, and all that time the rot seeped deeper.
 
The walls crumbled a little further, and the brass bell, once so magnificent in its tower, pealing its call to worship through the lower east side of the city, hung corroded and silent.

Eventually even the street preachers avoided the Cathedral.
 
An air of decay and rot permeated the air near the building.
 
Rats and stray animals took up residence, and transients peered from the lower level windows in search of prey.
 
Anyone who thinks a city isn't a jungle needs to spend more time in the darker parts later at night.
 
There are hunters, there are predators, and anyone and anything can become the prey, given the right moment.

Then, after the cathedral had stood empty for months, thing shifted again.
 
Inside the cathedral the aisles had been swept, though haphazardly.
 
Some of the pews had been wiped clean, though only to store stacked books and rolled manuscripts.
 
The inside of the glass on the windows had been spray-painted black, blocking out the world.
 
The rectory had been cleared, and a thin, wild-eyed man slipped in and out from time to time, barely visible in his passing as if something blocked him from sight, or distracted anyone trying to watch him.

Grandmothers whispered that he was a priest.
 
They believed that
Mother
Church
was coming home to the cathedral, and that the bell would sing one Sunday morning, calling them back to worship.
 
The men whispered, spat and made the sign
to ward
them against the evil eye – and they watched, wondering who was moving in on what, and whether they should be angry, frightened, or trying to form allegiances.

The gangs rolled past in silence.
 
Sometimes Los Escorpiones slouched on the street corner, or dangled from the windows of other abandoned buildings nearby to keep a watch on the doors, and the man who used them.
  
It was noted by both the men, and the grandmothers, that the gangs stayed clear of the cathedral itself, and this caused further speculation, but no one ventured near enough to get a clear answer.

Late at night, strange lights flickered behind the darkened windows.
 
Smoke rose from the ancient chimney, and it was oddly scented.
 
No one knew exactly what the smell was, but it made them uneasy.
 
The smoke dropped to ground level and whirled around their ankles, slipped under their doors and found its way through the cracks in shutters and cracked panes of glass.

There was a voice, too.
 
At first it seemed like many voices, because it was never the same.
 
The language changed.
 
The intonation changed.
 
Sometimes there was rhythm, and sometimes it might have been the mad cackling of a crazy man.
 
The more they listened, though, the more certain all became that all the sounds and all the voices were really only one, and though they knew it must be the thin, wild-eyed man with disheveled hair – the guy who looked at first glance like a homeless crazy man, and then like some kind of angry spirit, it was hard to believe such a small man could make that God-awful racket.
 
Harder still to understand why the sight of him made their blood run cold, or why they couldn't sleep peacefully if they saw the lights dancing in that old stone building, or heard the sounds.

Inside, seated cross-legged on one of the half-cleared pews, Alistair Cornwell glared at the book in his hand and concentrated.
 
It was an incomplete copy of a very old
grimoire
, and he was doing his best to re-create what was missing from other sources.
 
He knew that complete copies of the incantation existed, but they were expensive, and there were only a few places they could be obtained, none of which would have welcomed his business.

He'd gotten this partial tome from one of the collectors, a grubby little worm of a man known only as Chance.
 
It was an apt name, because when you bought things from him, you were certainly taking a chance on quality.
 
The book had been described as “almost complete,” but the last three pages of the most important incantation it held were missing, and Chance had no idea what happened to them.
 
In fact, he wasn't willing to divulge his source for the part of the manuscript he
did
possess.
 
Cornwell had concluded that it was stolen, and that the pages were lost.

Worse still, with his own shaky reputation, and the fact he'd bought a probable “hot”
grimoire
, he couldn't ask anyone about the incantation, or even mention he intended to try it.
 
Doing so could implicate him in whatever theft had brought him the book in the first place, and admission that he was going to attempt magic beyond anything he'd ever pulled off in the past, without proper safeguards, would result in … unpleasantness.

He'd already scraped up the matted, half rotted carpet from the large, flat bit of floor behind the altar.
 
It was no easy task.
 
The rug was ancient, and it had been rained on, urinated on, and pounded into place by the passing of thousands of feet.
 
The circle Cornwell cut was large, nearly twice the circumference he needed to work with.
 
He'd brushed dry dust over the expanse of wood and swept it away, and then cleaned it thoroughly.
 
He treated the wood with scented oil and, following the detailed instructions at the beginning of the incantation, he polished the surface until it gleamed, covering every inch of it in slow circles with a soft rag.
 
He repeated this for seventeen nights straight, one night in a clockwise motion, and the next in a counter clockwise pattern.
 
He hoped that the number was actually 17.
 
It appeared to be the European digit with the slash through the center of the upright stroke, but the paper was old, and the text was smudged.
 
It could have been a 19.

This was the kind of imprecision that had landed Alistair in such dire circumstances, working on the edge of the barrio by candle light.
 
He knew he should have verified the number.
 
He knew, in fact, that he should have an innate understanding of the ritual itself, which would have rendered him capable of figuring out on his own which number was more significant to the operation at hand, and why the patterns followed one upon the next as they did.
 
It was too late for that.
 
It had been too late for many years.

He'd spent time as an apprentice, and for many years he'd progressed rapidly.
 
It hadn't been enough, of course.
 
There were restrictions, things he wasn't allowed to try, powers he wasn't “ready” to wield, secrets that were barred from him and locked away behind walls and wards and charms he could never break.
 
Shortcuts had presented themselves, and Alistair, invariably, took them.
 
He couldn't stand the thought of waiting, year after year, to be found worthy of things he knew he was ready for now.
 
The title of “apprentice” didn't sit well on his heart…he was destined to greater things.
 
That's how he saw it, anyway.
 
Others disagreed, and he'd been banished.