David Wilson - Vintage soul

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.

He placed his hand on the brick wall beside the fireplace and whispered the incantation that released the security spell. The warmth from the dancing fire increased, and Donovan stepped closer. He didn’t see Cleo, who had leaped up onto the desk chair and sat, paws on the surface of the desk, watching the feather twitch in lazily in the air. Cleo’s tail whipped back and forth in time, and her muscles quivered.

Donovan leaned down. There was something tucked in behind the grate that held the logs in the fireplace. It was dark and flat, like a piece of cloth, or paper. There was just enough room on the side of the fire for him to reach one arm around behind, but he had to be very careful not to get too close to the flames. He knew his hair could catch in an instant, and he wasn’t used to dealing with the open flame.

Just as his groping fingers neared the object behind the fire, Cleo leaped. There was a surprised yowl as the protections Donovan had set on the circle repelled her, sending her crashing to the side, knocking Johndrow’s letter, the pendulum on its stand, and two of the small braziers askew as she scrabbled for purchase on the desktop.

Donovan spun, narrowly missed whipping his hair into the fire, and gasped. When the braziers tipped, the circle fragmented. Released from the circle, but not from the enchantment, the feather shot across the room at dizzying speed. Donovan rolled aside as it passed, narrowly missing his cheek. The feather passed through the fire, burst into flame, and drove into the object behind the grate with such force that it shattered in a flash. Donovan made a grab for the object, but he was too late. It was nothing but a small heap of ash by the time his fingers reached it. He brushed this out without much hope and collected it on a scrap of paper, but it was difficult to tell if the ashes came from burned paper, leather, cloth, or flesh, and he knew at least part of what he’d gathered was the remnant of the feather itself.

“Damn it, Cleo,” he complained, clambering back to his feet. “That might have been important.”

Cleo glared at him from the corner of his desk. She was seated in the exact spot where the small pendulum usually dangled on its stand. She looked indignant, and Donovan, despite his irritation, laughed. He bent down, picked up the pendulum, and examined it carefully. Nothing seemed broken, and once he’d straightened the metal stand a bit, it was as good as new. He shooed Cleo off the desk and returned the instrument to its proper place.

He leaned down to retrieve Johndrow’s letter, remembering what he’d been doing when things had gone south, and before he could stand straight again, he stopped, still as stone. He thought of the missing vampire, Vanessa, and then of the contents of the stolen book. He’d read it only once, and it had been many years in the past, but the minute the pieces fell into place in his mind, he knew he was correct.

“Oh my god,” he said softly. “The Perpetuum Vitae Serum; he’s after Le Duc’s formula.”

He scooped up the letter, scanned its contents again, and then dropped it on his desk. Next he strode back over to the bookshelves and slid a large, leather bound tome from a shelf at shoulder height. He carried it back to his desk, opened it, and began to skim the index quickly.

It didn’t take long to find what he was looking for. It was a reference to Jean-Claude Le Duc’s life. In fact, it was the very reference that had sent Donovan off in search of the journal that had just been stolen. It was short, but there was enough detail to confirm his fears.

“Jean-Claude Le Duc,” it read, “spent his entire life in search of a single spell. Rumor has it that he succeeded in developing a potion that would grant the recipient eternal life, but that he died trying to acquire all the proper ingredients. Among the things he gathered were certain crystal formations, ashes from the grave of a particular type of priest, and several more standard items. The final ingredient proved his undoing, as it apparently involves draining the blood of a vampire of a certain age. Le Duc was killed by vampires in 1832, and was not brought back as one of the undead, as far as any record can be found. His journal contains his studies, but to date no one has attempted this particular magic to our knowledge.”

There was more, but Donovan had read enough. Cleo leaped up to the desk again, more delicately this time, and sat, regarding him.

“This is a bad one, girl,” he said. “It may be the worst yet. I’d better get started, eh?”