When he'd discovered this first entrance, he'd purchased the building closest to it. The wall and the brick were an illusion — the steps that led down to the portals each had their own wards. His opened with a simple mathematical solution contrived of climbing and descending the correct number of stairs in the proper order. Others required more intricate keys and rituals. It was a mystery he'd only begun to unravel, but it had proven very useful. He believed that there had once been keys, possibly formed of crystal, but their location was lost to time
The corridor was ancient and powerful, and he never stepped into it without a twinge of nerves. Whatever power had created the portals and the corridor that joined them had stood for centuries, perhaps longer. The thought of how far they might stretch, and of who — or what- might share that corridor at any given time was sobering. It was also possible for magic — over time — to fade, or warp. He didn't think he wanted to be in the corridor when that happened.
Donovan walked slowly away from the doorway that led to his alley. As he walked, he counted the doorways on his right. He'd found that if he tried to watch the doorways on both sides, it threw off the count in some arcane manner. Fourteen doors down he stopped, turned to his left, and crossed to the portal directly opposite. He opened the latch and stepped onto a short stone stair that led up into the alley outside Club Chaos.
Chapter Three
The sky was dark with clouds. Drizzle misted the air and dripped down the glass windows of shops and diners. Neon signs blinked, flashing their multi-colored messages to shadow people on the streets. Donovan walked to the end of the alley and glanced up and down Hawthorne before ducking back into the shadows beside Club Chaos. There were other entrances, but they wouldn't take him where he needed to go.
There are cities within cities. What we know and believe we know about places and events is based on our observations, and experiences. The alley beside Club Chaos looked like any other alley; it was dark and littered with debris blown in by the wind. One thing set it off. Near the center, there was a phone booth. There was nothing remarkable about it, and unless you really thought about it, even the most logical question might not occur. Why was it there?
There was no reason for a phone to be located in a dark alley. It was unlikely that those passing on the street would see if it they needed it. It was even less likely they would leave the safety of the street lights and rummage in their pockets for money to make a call there in the shadows, particularly in a time when everyone from school children to the elderly had a cell phone.
Donovan glanced over his shoulder toward the street and saw that he was alone. He ducked into the booth, tucked the receiver under his chin, and dialed 360.
The phone booth was the entrance to the many facets of Club Chaos. There were levels upon levels to the place, each serving a different segment of the city's population. Live music played on most levels. There was jazz, reggae, rock and even swing in one of the older sections. Donovan wasn't interested in the night life, or the parties. Not this time, anyway.
When the booth spun, he stepped into a dark room lined with candle-lit tables. A polished wooden bar ran along one wall. There were no bright lights. There were no mirrors. It was a quiet place where sound didn't carry. Donovan closed his eyes for a moment, and then opened them to acclimate his sight.
A lone figure sat at the bar. He was tall and thin with long gray hair that spread out around his head like a nimbus of dirty string. He didn't look up from the tumbler of whiskey in front of him, but Donovan recognized Cord immediately. He crossed the room and took the stool beside him.
'Whiskey,' he said to the bartender, 'on ice with a little water.'
Cord remained silent until Donovan had his drink and the bartender retreated. It didn't take long. They called this bar 'The Crossroads,' lying as it did somewhere near the heart of Club Chaos, but they might as well have named it 'Discretion.'
'So,' Donovan said at last, glancing at Cord out of the corner of his eye. 'You said that you had information?'
'You brought money?' Cord asked.
Donovan frowned.
'I never pay before I know what I'm getting. You've dealt with me before.'
Cord slid his gaze sideways. The man's face was angles and slits. His eyes barely seemed to be open, and his mouth was set in a grim line. The informant's skin seemed to be stretched taut over a pointed chin and high cheekbones. There was no way to read his emotions, assuming they existed. He stared at Donovan for a moment in silence, and then turned back to his drink. He spun the tumbler slowly on the damp napkin it rested on and started to talk.
'There are things happening in the Barrio.'
'Martinez?' Donovan asked quickly.
'Not Martinez. Anya Cabrera.'
Donovan frowned.
'Anya has always been active in the Barrio. That's hardly a great secret.'
'She has expanded her operations,' Cord said. He turned to meet Donovan's gaze. 'She has taken up with Los Escorpiones. They now participate in her rituals, and they are spreading their influence, challenging for territory.'
'Voodoo is a very old practice,' Donovan said slowly. 'While I don't claim to understand those who find comfort in it, it's not inherently dangerous, unless there's something more?'
'Oh, there's more,' Cord said.
The man fell silent. Donovan waited a moment for the rest of the information, and then realized they'd reached the turning point. Nothing more would be forthcoming without payment, and the only question remaining was — how much, and would the information be worth the price? He considered what he knew about Anya Cabrera. As long as he could remember she'd held court in one or another of the dark corners of the city. She had a shop that was open by day, selling candles and amulets, hexes and wards. Most of it was pointless and powerless, but she was a shrewd woman. Enough power trickled through her door to keep clients coming and going in a steady stream.
Cord wouldn't have called him if things hadn't changed. Donovan slid his hand into his jacket and drew a fifty from an inner pocket. His jacket was probably his single greatest asset. He'd designed it, adding pockets and hidden slits in the lining over the years. It was armed with small scrolls, scraps of parchment, pendants and charms. He also kept it well stocked with a variety of money in various denominations. Some of it was very old, some of it was from places far away. Most of it was green and folding and worked just fine in Club Chaos. He laid the bill on the bar, but closer to his own drink than to Cord's. He didn't turn to watch the man, nor did he worry that the money would be snatched. He waited, and after a moment Cord began to speak.
'The Loa walk a fine line between this world and their own,' he said. 'They enter when the wards are set and the moment is right. They walk and they talk through the living, and then they depart. That is how it has always been.'
Donovan said nothing. He knew all of this, and knew that Cord was only building to his point.
'Anya Cabrera is summoning the Loa,' Cord said, 'but they are not departing as they should. Some have remained days, possibly weeks. Each time she holds her ritual, the portals remain open longer; the veils have grown thin. She controls them — the living, and the spirits who inhabit them. She plans a war.'
'You have seen this?' Donovan asked.
Cord nodded. 'Last night in Santini Park, there was a battle. You may have heard?'
Donovan nodded. He'd known there was to be trouble — two local gangs — but it hadn't seemed of importance. There were many such groups in the city, and quite a number in the Barrio. Power was a tenuous thing, and always under contention. Donovan kept tabs on such activity, but rarely found a reason to get involved.
'Anya Cabrera was in Santini Park?' Donovan asked, at last.
'Not in person,' Cord said. 'But she was also not far distant, and before the battle, there was a ritual. Some of those who fought were the possessed.'
Donovan thought about this for a moment. When he didn't respond, Cord continued.
