Vintage Soul (6 page)

Cleo curled around Donovan's ankle as he stood slowly to face the flaming apparition in his fireplace.

“You could have knocked,” he said, forcing his voice to sound casual.

There was no immediate answer.
 
The fire had resumed its crackling and popping.
 
The lamp on Donovan's desk hummed very quietly and had resumed a very dim violet glow.
 
Donovan clutched his talisman more tightly.
 
Either his visitor had relaxed, for the moment, or the effort to overcome the entire home's defenses had proved too much, and the lamp was a sign of that
 
weakness.

A voice crackled out of the flames, distorted and amplified.
 
There was something hauntingly familiar about it, but Donovan could not quite place it.

“I have come for a book,” the voice said.

“Well,” Donovan replied, waving his free hand about the room, “you've come to the right place to see many books, but I'm not a lending library, or a bookseller.”

“It is a particular book,” the voice continued, “that I know you, and you alone possess.
 
I have been able to find no other copy.”

Donovan held his silence.
 
He had several books that fit this description, but saw no reason to offer information freely.

“I need the journal of Jean Claude Le Duc,” the voice demanded.
 
"You will give it to me now, if you wish to be left in peace."

The glow of the lamp had strengthened somewhat, and Donovan stood a bit straighter.
 
He knew that the longer he kept this intruder speaking, the more energy would be dissipated, and the longer the spell remained active, the better his own chances of overcoming it.
 
On top of that, the melodramatic presentation, rather than filling him with dread, as was no doubt
it's
intended purpose, was beginning to amuse him.
 
Who was he talking to, the lost son of Shakespeare?

“Le Duc,” Donovan said, rubbing his chin with the talisman thoughtfully.
 
“Le Duc.
  
I seem to remember such a book; He was a Frenchman, wasn't he?
 
I believe he was last seen around the time of the Crusades…”

“Do not toy with me,” the voice boomed.
 
Sparks
shot out at odd angles from the fireplace grate.
 
One large ember landed on the seat of Donovan's armchair.
 
It glowed and hissed, but did not burn the seat.
 
With an impatient wave of his hand, Donovan cooled it.
 
The remaining ash exploded in a soft puff of air and vanished.

“I don't know who you are,” he said, “but you really do need to work on your dialogue.
 
I mean, really, what do you think this is, a Victorian Romance?
 
Next you'll be warning how I'll ‘feel your wrath,' if I don't cooperate, right?”

There was no immediate answer, and Donovan took a step forward.

“My god,” he said, “you really
were
going to say that.
 
Who the hell are you?”

“Give me the book,” the voice said.
 
This time there was no false bravado behind the words.

“I don't think so,” Donovan replied.
 
“As I said, this isn't a library, and I'm not a bookseller.
 
If, in fact, I have the book you are looking for, I guess you are out of luck.
 
If you'd come to my door, knocked, and asked politely I might have let you look at one of my books – or I might not – but unless you've got considerably more up your sleeve than an illusion of a flaming face in my fireplace, you're wasting your time, and mine.”

Cleo suddenly dug a claw into Donovan's ankle.
 
He flinched, but did not look down.
 
Something had moved deep inside the flames, something dark and not associated with the face.
  
Donovan glared directly into the fire face, hoping that his eyes hadn't given away what he'd seen.

“I did not come here to look at your book, or to ask a favor,” the voice said.
 
The tone was sibilant now, and the hissing intonation sent sparks skittering and dancing through the air.
 
The motion of the flame gave substance to lips that had – until that moment – been totally obscured by flames.
 
Whatever glamour it was that kept the intruder's features hidden was failing slowly.
 
The shadowy hint of a nose poked out from between the glowing eyes. It was impossible to make out any features, but the face the fire hinted at wavered just beyond recognition.

“Who are you,” Donovan asked, taking a step forward.

Whatever it was in the fire moved again; it flitted behind the flames and darted to the side.

“Step back,” the voice commanded.
 

Donovan ignored it and took another step forward.
 
He didn't speak, but he silently mouthed a shield charm.
 
He didn't know how much of the fire was illusion, and how much was the real fire with an illusion impressed upon it.
 
If he leaped forward and the face vanished, he faced the very real danger of setting himself on fire.
 
If, on the other hand, the fire had been put out to protect whoever stood within the illusion, then Donovan might be able to leap onto the grate and drag them out into the open.

 
He hesitated, and all decisions became moot.
 
The flames crackled and flared.
 
The heat from the fire might have been an illusion, but if so that illusion was very real.
 
Donovan stumbled back with a curse.
 
Fire engulfed the eyes in the flame and soared up the inside of the chimney with a roar.
 
The defense held.
 
Donovan knew that his unwanted visitor was battering against the spell containing it within the fireplace.
 
So far he had not proven strong enough, but if he continued as he was, he might cause the entire structure to explode from the contained energy.

There was a snap, like a rubber band drawn too tight and parting.
 
A hideous scent of sulfur permeated the air in the room, and the fire, no longer bottled up, spurted from a fissure in the center of the fireplace grate, shooting from mid-air.
 
Donovan cursed and drew a symbol with his free hand.
 
Where his finger passed the air glowed silver, and when he finished with a flurry, the glow formed a fine mesh of luminescence and shot across the room, directly into the path of the escaping jet of flame.

When the mesh he'd created settled over the fiery leak, Donovan cried out.
 
Light, feathery threads of illumination shot back to his fingers from the net he'd formed, and they glowed brighter where the two forces collided.
 
Donovan closed his eyes and concentrated.
 
He knew he needed to close off the breach in his defense, and that he had to do it quickly.
 
The flames had already leaked out and dripped along the fine lines of power toward his hand.
 
If they reached him before he was able to patch the spell, he would lose control of it entirely.

Distracted, he missed the first flash of shadow against the light of the fire.
 
Two glittering eyes launched from the fireplace and soared over his head.
 
Donovan staggered, straightened, and concentrated.
 
Out of the corner of his eye he saw that the shadow had wings, and was soaring about the room, narrowly avoiding walls and curtains.
 
Each swoop took the creature lower, until finally, with a great cry, it alighted on the third shelf from the top along the wall behind Donovan and began picking frantically at the spines of the books there with its beak.

Donovan curse and spun, grabbing for the bird, but he could not reach it, and in the second his concentration shifted, the flames roared.
 
He whirled to face them, saw with shock that in that second of dropped attention the fire had dripped down the threads toward his outstretched fingers like molten wax.
  
He muttered a single word and stepped forward.
 
The droplets cascading toward him quivered, hovered in place, and then slowly retreated toward the glowing mesh.
 

Donovan pressed his advantage, and within seconds he had moved a step closer to the fire, and then another, pressing the fire relentlessly back.
 
There was no hint of the glowing eyes, or the ethereal face in that fire.
 
All of the intruder's strength had been diverted into that single breach in Donovan's defenses.

Cleo leaped to the first shelf and launched herself upward.
 
A long swipe sent the bird fluttering upward, but as the cat passed, already spinning for a second lunge, the bird cawed in triumph and reached out with both
taloned
feet.
 
Gripping the spine of a thin, leather tome, the raven launched back and up, narrowly missing a collision with the back of Donovan's head.

Cleo bounded off the shelves, planted her rear feet on Donovan's shoulder and launched herself after the fleeing bird.
 
Donovan saw what was about to happen and let out a hoarse, choked cry.
 
He sprang forward and concentrated every bit of will power and strength he had to the tips of the fingers of his left hand.
 
The threads swelled, became strings and then sticky, ropes of energy.
 
He dove at the fire, ignored the danger, and pressed his seal over the escaping flames.

Before he reached the hearth, a black flash shot past.
 
The bird, seeming not to struggle at all with the heavy book, dove into the fire like a black arrow.
 
Cleo flashed past Donovan in pursuit, and he drove his legs into the floor, launching after her in a headlong dive of his own.
  
As if aware of its pursuers, the bird gave another great cry and slashed the air with its wings, narrowing itself and diving straight at the heart of the fire.
 
It disappeared into the rift just as Donovan's hand pressed the ropy tendrils of his charm to the invisible wall of the ward spell.
 
There was a bright shimmer, another crackle of energy, and as Cleo bounced off the now solid ward, Donovan leaned into it, seeming to rest against solid air, and sagged weakly, sliding down to sit on the floor.

He growled in frustration and pounded his hand on the hearth.
 
There was no sign of the bird, the book, or the flaming face behind it all.
 
Donovan sat for a moment, regaining his strength.
 
Cleo shook her head, meowed plaintively, and then crawled into his lap.
 
Donovan cradled her there, turned, and glanced up at the bookshelves behind him, already certain what he would find – or not find – when he did.

Two books had slid out and hung precariously over the edge of the shelf.
 
The space between them, where the journal of Jean-Claude Le Duc had been tucked safely away, was empty.
  
Donovan rose and deposited Cleo on his armchair, then walked to the bookshelf.
 
There were scratches in the wood where the bird had scrabbled for purchase, and there were peck marks on the spines of the two volumes on either side.
 
Donovan frowned.

Under normal circumstances, even an extremely talented bird would not have been able to slide a book off the shelf and carry it away.
 
It was too heavy, for one thing.
 
It had to have been enchanted, or more than a bird to begin with.
 
He glanced around.

On the floor at his feet two black feathers rested.
 
One had been trampled when he launched himself forward at the fireplace, but the other was clean.
 
Cleo must have come closer to the mark than he'd realized with her first leap.
 
He gave her an appreciative grin, but the cat was busy washing her left foot and paid no attention to him at all.
 
She looked up when he lifted the feather from the floor and let out a soft yowl of disapproval.

“I know, Cleo,” Donovan said, carrying the feather back to his desk and returning to his seat.
 
“I don't like it either, but what can we do?”

Donovan stared at the feather for a moment, and then sat up straighter.
 
He placed it in the center of his desk, where the letter from Johndrow had rested only a few moments before, and set to work.
 
Within moments he'd set the wards and placed his spell.
 
It was a long shot, but some essence of the bird, and its master, should still be lingering either in the room, or the fireplace.

The feather rose, spun lazily in the air, and then pointed at the fireplace.
 
Donovan rose, stepped around the desk, and gazed in the direction the feather pointed.
  
He saw nothing, but stepped forward to the grate and glanced back over his shoulder.
 
The feather jerked once, and then twisted a few degrees to Donovan's right.
 
It pointed at the upper right corner of the fireplace grate.
 
Donovan saw nothing on the metal grate itself, nor had anything dropped to the floor as the bird passed.
 
He frowned.