Vintage Soul (4 page)

Ligaya reached out and laid her hand gently on Joel's.
 
“They don't like to be called gnomes, dear, you know that.
 
Considering how much is riding on our contract…?”

“What are they then?” Nystrom cut in, “Height challenged?
 
Charisma challenged?
 
They certainly aren't human.”

Corwyn slowly pulled his spectacles off and began cleaning them, doing his best to take on the indifferent air that Nystrom pulled off so effortlessly – and failing.
 
He fumbled the glasses back onto his nose and glared at Joel.
 

“I don't care what we call them, or for that matter, what they want to be called.
 
My point is, it wasn't my place that was attacked, was it?”

“Not this time,” Johndrow said softly.
 
“How do we know it's an isolated attack?
 
We have no idea who, or what, pulled this off.
 
We have no idea where Vanessa has been taken, or why.
 
We have no way to know, in other words, that this threat was to her in particular, or to any one of us, rather than a sign of things to come.
 
It may have just been a warning shot.”

“Warning of what, exactly?” Grimshaw cut in.
 
“Not to be quarrelsome, but we seem to be particularly short on facts to have called a meeting over this.
 
Wouldn't our time have been better spent tightening security and trying to find out who this mysterious intruder might have been?
 
As powerful as he – or she,” he nodded to Ligaya with a smile, “might be, they are not beyond detection.
 
The list of those with the power and intelligence to pull such a thing off is a short one.”

“There is no time,” Johndrow replied wearily.
 
“Vanessa may already have passed to final death.
 
I believe we've been together long enough for the blood bond to form, but I can't be certain.
 
I have not felt her pass.
 
If she is out there in trouble, we owe it to her as one of our own to find her and bring her back.”

“A tall order,” Nystrom observed.

“That is why I suggest we put it in capable hands and tend to our own defense,” Joel interjected.
 
“There is one we can call at such times, and though we have not needed his services for a very long time, I believe that extraordinary circumstances call for extraordinary measures.”

“You mean DeChance,
Preston
?” Lydia Hollinshead asked.
 
She
pursed
her lips and steepled her hands, delicate elbows perched on the surface of the table.
 
Lydia
never spoke without striking a pose, and it was such long habit that none paid her odd habit the slightest mind.
 

“Yes,” Johndrow replied.
 
“DeChance, of course.
 
I took the liberty of checking to be certain he's in town.”

“And he is,” Joel cut in.
 
“I agree with
Preston
.
  
This is serious business, and not something we can afford to ignore.
 
We are all far too busy to complicate our lives by constantly watching over our shoulders, and I for one have no time or resources to devote to this full time. DeChance has served us well in the past, and as long as we meet his price, I see no reason not to trust him. Besides,” Joel scanned their faces, “which of you believes they know more about the sort of power we are talking about here than Mr. DeChance?”
“What about the gnomes?” Nystrom asked.
  
“We've already paid them quite a lot – couldn't they be persuaded to look into this?”

“Possibly,” Ligaya replied, taking over for her husband.
 
They all knew she was the bank's liaison with the security firm, so none objected when she interrupted. “But it isn't their specialty. They protect things.
 
They covet things, and when they cannot have them for themselves, they help others to covet more safely.
 
They aren't detectives, and they aren't good on the offensive.
 
Whoever we are up against already bested them once, and without much difficulty, it seems.
 
I, for one, don't feel safe in letting them handle this without help.
 
Particularly,” she glared at Nystrom, “if you continue to insult them.”

“And they aren't cheap,” Grimshaw cut in.
 
“DeChance has his price, but it's always been fair, and it's certainly less than the – um – security wizards? -- would ask to go so far beyond their normal tasking.
 
I say we bring DeChance in and be done with it.
 
Security will be over-taxed answering our additional concerns for the immediate future, no sense straining them to the breaking point.”

There were murmurs of assent, and Johndrow took advantage of the moment.
 

“Then, unless there are further concerns, I recommend that we draft a letter immediately and send it by messenger.
 
The more quickly DeChance can get on this, the less likely it is that whoever we're after will have time to simply vanish into thin air.”

“Again,” Grimshaw added.

“Well,” Joel, said, “We have time.
 
The wards will not lift from this room for another twenty minutes.
 
He stood, pulled a bottle out from some alcove beneath his seat at the head of the table and placed it in front of him.
 
“There are glasses on the small shelves beneath the table.
 
Please help yourself.
 
The letter itself should not take long, because we don't know enough to drag it out.
 
Short and simple.”

There were no more questions, or concerns.
 
The moment Johndrow pressed pen to paper, the others in the room withdrew into their own little worlds, already planning upgrades to their personal security, or trips out of the country.
 
All things considered, it had been one of the shortest and least difficult meetings the group had ever conducted, and Johndrow was pleased.
 
He knew he didn't have the resources to hunt Vanessa down in time, and he was fairly certain that he didn't have the power to do anything about it if he did.
 
He'd met DeChance only once, but it had been enough to impress him.

He signed the letter, passed the paper and pen to Joel, who then slid it in front of Ligaya, who signed and sent it around the table.
 
By the time the ward lifted and the short, fierce-eyed gnomish security woman opened the door, the letter was sealed, and Ligaya laid it in her hands without a word.
 
The woman glanced at the name, nodded curtly, and was simply…gone.

Johndrow watched in silence as the others filed out of the room and off down the corridor to the elevators.
 
He lingered, and Joel walked him to the door.

“Don't worry old friend,” Joel said.
 
“We'll find her.
 
If it can be done, he can do it.”

“I know,” Johndrow replied.
 
“I know.
 
He turned to Joel.
 
“Will you hunt with me tonight?
 
If I don't tear the throat out of something, I'm going to be quite insane, and it has been a very long time since I spent a night on the street.”

Joel glanced sidelong at Ligaya, who nodded with a worried smile.

“Certainly,” Joel said.
 
“It has been too long.”

Johndrow nodded and started down the corridor.
 
Joel handed his jacket to Ligaya and followed.
 
Moments later, as she stood watching them, the jacket clutched in her arms, the elevator door closed, and they dropped slowly to the ground floor.

Ligaya stared at the elevator doors a moment longer, then turned abruptly and headed deeper into the bank complex.
 
“Be safe," she whispered.
 
“And be back soon.”

In a small office on the 18
^th
floor, the small, gnomish woman held the letter and its envelope to the lit end of a black candle.
 
Smoke curled up from the dancing flame and filled the room, making breathing difficult.
 
She paid no attention to this, concentrating her will on the point where paper met fire.
 
As the envelope caught, she whispered two words.

“Donovan DeChance.”

The paper caught, burned in an instant to black, dusty ash, and before it fell, she blew on it.
 
The ash formed itself into a cloud, took substance and form and spread.
 
A dark wraith-like form stood staring back at her, then turned, and with a soft “pop” was gone.

Donovan DeChance sat in a comfortable chair, beside a very warm fire and stared out over the city skyline, thinking.
 
On his lap a sleek, silver-white cat with dark leopard-like spots purred contentedly, her feet
asprawl
and her tail dangling over the arm of the chair.
 
The cat was a large creature, an Egyptian Mau named Cleopatra, and while Donovan watched the glitter of the stars, she watched the firelight dance through the ice cubes in the whiskey tumbler he held, contemplating her chances in an attack.

The room was an organized jumble.
 
Heavy wooden bookshelves lined the walls from the floor to just below the ten foot ceiling.
 
A rolling ladder clung to the face of the shelves, about halfway down one wall, but its progress was impeded on either side by cartons and stacks of more books waiting to be shelved.
 
They would wait a long time, as not an inch of empty space could be found on any of the shelves.
 
It was a problem, and Donovan knew he'd have to address it soon, or be pushed out the front door of his own home by the sheer volume of clutter.

 
A short altar stood in an alcove in one corner of the room.
 
This, too, was cluttered.
 
It held an ornate, silver goblet in the form of a robed woman with demons clutching her feet, a crystal ball on a wooden stand carved of a single branch of olive wood, a book open somewhere near the middle and marked with a heavy gold-colored ribbon, a small brazier black with ashes, and a dagger.
 
The dagger was long and curved.
 
Its handle glittered with jewels and was trimmed in four metals, gold, silver, copper and platinum.
 
These were woven equally into a pattern that circled the hilt in concentric rings.

Charts and maps dangled and jutted from the shelves.
 
A few of these were rolled, or folded, but still others were attached to the wood by tacks or small nails.
 
One shelf held an assortment of divination equipment, Tarot cards, joss sticks for reading the I
Ching
, a small geomancy box and a leather bag of stone runes.
 
In a small jeweled case a set of animal bones rested at odd angles.
 

Still another shelf had a small rack attached beneath it where talismans, crystals, pendants and charms dangled.
 
There did not seem to be any particular order to them, and there was no index or label to differentiate one from the other.
 
Their chains and thongs were tangled together, snarled hopelessly and all-but-forgotten.

Two doorways opened out of this main room, which served as office, library, and sitting room.
 
One was the hallway that led to the two bedrooms and the bath in the rear of the apartment, the other led to his small kitchen.
 
Both were separated from the main room by heavy wooden doors, and both were closed.
 
A third door, larger and more ornate, led to the hallway beyond and, in turn, to the world below and beyond.

There was little light.
 
A few feet to the side of where he sat in his arm chair stood a battered old desk.
 
It was the one uncluttered horizontal surface in the room.
 
On it sat a computer, a telephone, a pendulum dangling from a small metal stand, and a single lamp. The lamp was old.
 
Its base was carved metal in the form of a tree.
 
The tree had ten branches, and from each of these a small and very ancient coin dangled.
 
A rod ran up the center to a spiked finial, which screwed down to hold the fragile slag-glass shade in place.
 
The glass itself was thick and lustrous.
 
It was violet, giving off an odd, soothing radiance similar to that of a weak black light.
 
Around the rim of the shade, formed of inlaid bits of colored glass, ran the twenty-two letters of the Hebrew alphabet.
 

The lamp, as most of the other objects in the room, had been a gift received in return for services rendered.
 
Also, as was true of most of the other objects, it served more than its obvious purpose.